America Gets Her First Woman President

“…because she’s a woman….”

Election Day, 2016. America missed the bullet, literally. Had HRC won the presidency we probably would be ducking bullets right now. Why? Because America–as I’ve heard President Trump say twice–“will never become a socialist country.” Would HRC have dumped socialism on us? Maybe not immediately but change would have begun very quickly, and she–and her minions–would have gone after our guns very quickly.
When Election Day, 2020, gets here, remember this story. HRC very likely will NOT be a part of it but right now there are at least 10 HRC-wannabes.
Here is a 10,000-word fictional look at what might have happened.
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America Gets Her First Woman President

“…because she’s a woman….”

Copyright 2016 by James W. Nelson

Dedicated to all patriotic Americans who love America

“If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face—forever.”

 “Power is in tearing human minds to pieces and putting them together again in new shapes of your own choosing.”

― George Orwell1984

“One believes things because one has been conditioned to believe them.”

“…most men and women will grow up to love their servitude and will never dream of revolution.”
― Aldous HuxleyBrave New World

America Gets Her First Woman President

****

The phone alarm Ronald hoped he would never hear went off. Like the ancient electric alarm clock, he knew that buzzing would never stop until he stopped it, or, in this case, answered the phone. He rolled to his right, away from his sleeping wife, grabbed the cussed thing, “Yeah? What?”

“They’re kicking doors in, Ronald.”

“What? Who?”

“I don’t know! The men-in-black! The new world order! The government! I don’t fuckin’ know!”

“Alright, Maurice, just try to calm down. Who told you?”

“I am calm—my goddamned contact called me—just like I’m calling you!”

A few profanities were let loose, then, “They’re still in the north part of town…so he said, but I’m gettin’ out right now, and I suggest you do the same.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“Good Christ—do what the fuck you want!”

With that the call ended. So, what now? They lived in the center of good ol suburban apple pie America, miles from any kind of hiding place, and what were they to do when they got to a hiding place? How could they live?

The worst, they were told—well, not told, exactly but highly, highly, suggested—NOT to use cell phones in their communications. But they did anyway. Most got a special untraceable cell phone, but were they really untraceable? Damn good question. So now—if they were traceable—whoever was kicking in doors had the digital signal of how many people? When they had their few meetings, when they discussed the possibility of…this, happening, how many took it seriously?

Not many, he suspected.

And how the hell else were they to communicate? Two-way radios? Yeah, maybe. But long distance? He didn’t know. So many things he should have researched—but Goddamn it, nobody thought this shit would ever happen!

He sensed the even breathing from his dear wife, and wondered, is she sleeping? He didn’t really want to burden her with this news. He wished he could just whisk her and their two children away to somewhere they would always be safe from any bad thing ever happening again.

What a joke. Bad things happen constantly…but worse since the liberal feds have been in power. Eight years and the new president just elected would be worse than the last one. How could that have happened? There had to have been mass cheating—and how could she already be writing executive orders? Had to be her. She said what she would do many times, and obviously has done it with full agreement and encouragement from the sitting president.

January 20, Inauguration Day, was still months away.

But if they’re kicking doors in—saying Maurice knows what he’s talking about—follow your own gut, my boy.

He rolled back and reached to his wife’s shoulder, “Honey….”

She rolled over and faced him immediately, “I heard you talking, Ronald. I’ve been worried ever since that witch got elected.”

“Yeah, just two days ago, I guess she’s not going to waste any time.”

His wife was just inches away. He moved those inches and took her into a hug, “I love you, Mars.” He held her close. Married sixteen years and he had never gotten enough of holding this good woman, “I think we have to leave.”

“Now? Right now?”

He didn’t answer. How could he answer?

She returned the hug fully, “I love you too, Ronald…the children and I will do whatever you say.”

For a full minute he held her, and she held him back…but that forsaken clock kept ticking. He listened for the sound of his door being kicked in. Was it true what Maurice’s contact said? Could it possibly be happening? What his patriot friends and he had talked about and talked about, but never took seriously?

He pushed slightly back from the hug, “Get the kids up, Mars, please, but they aren’t going to like it.”

“I’ve spoken with them, Ronald.” She smiled, “I think they will surprise you.”

Even in the mostly darkness of their bedroom he could see her smile, that smile he never got tired of seeing, I’d like to make love with you right now, Mars, God I would love to. He released a breath, then released his woman and pushed completely away, grasped that damn phone and typed in that one number, the one guy he was required to notify.

Ringing. The sound was worse than the factory where he worked assembling tractors for farmers so they could raise food for the masses of people.

And ringing. And ringing—

Finally, “Yeah! What the fuck?!”

His contact sounded angry. He didn’t blame him, getting woke up in the middle of the night, “Georgie, sorry, man, but my contact just informed me they’re kicking in doors—”

“Fuck! Bullshit! In the middle of the night? What the fuck’s wrong with’em?”

That’s their plan, Georgie. We talked about it in our group—”

“I know, goddamn it, I know! Okay, you’ve called me! I’m hanging up.”

“Okay, man, good luck.”

“Thanks, you too, sorry for yelling at you.”

“No prob, I yelled at my contact too—why the fuck wouldn’t we?”

“Right! Okay, hanging up.” The line went silent.

He glanced at his wife. She was already dressed, in jeans, heading out the bedroom door …yeah, probably would be a while until he saw her beauty inside a dress again, “Honey, shall we go to your parents? At least for now?”

She looked back as if that was the stupidest question ever, “Of course.”

What a good woman, both strong and beautiful—and smart. He didn’t know how he could have found such a can-do woman.

Another moment passed as he dressed. When ready he picked up the cell phone that had woke him, looked at it for the last time, threw the covers on their bed up to the pillows, smoothed the bed slightly, then laid the phone in the middle of the bed, and headed for his son’s room.

 

****

 

At his son’s bedroom door he stopped, and spoke quietly, “Kyle…?”

“Yeah, Dad, come on in.”

Even at fifteen his son had a grasp on things. His twin sister did too, but in a slightly different direction…seemed so, anyway, at times. He opened the door and stepped in.

“I’m almost dressed, Dad.”

“Good. Pack one small suitcase and your backpack, what you can carry in one trip. Clothes, books, mementos, whatever you really want.”

“Just one trip?”

“We’ll see. If more time we will…I don’t know. After you make that trip, please go down to our gun locker. Get all guns, ammo, knives…put everything on the floor between the seats, and the camping equipment, and fishing gear—well, you know what to do. Treat this like any other family outing….” He added a little quieter, “Only this is a bit different.”

“I’ll store the camping equipment on the rear seat and under it.”

“Right, Son, you know what to do. And gas cans. I purchased four one-gallon ones just last week…they’re empty, though.”

“That’s good, Dad, you were thinking ahead.” Kyle sent a smile, “Will you have your gun in the car seat holster?”

“Yes, as you know, that’s considered concealed and I have the license.

“Okay, Dad.”

“Thanks, Son, and please check on your sister. She can help you, and make sure she gets her stuff out to the crossover too, thank God we decided to trade up to a crossover.

He stopped at the door and gazed at his son making preparations. What a great kid. Wow, a beautiful wife and two great kids…of which he better check on the other one.

 

****

 

At her door he stopped, “Esther…?”

“Yeah, Dad, I’m getting ready.”

“Okay, Sweetheart, one small suitcase and your backpack, clothes, books, mementos, whatever you really want, what you can carry in one trip…your brother will help you and you please help him.”

“Just one trip?”

“For now, Sweetie.”

“Okay, Dad.”

He gave a light knock, “Okay.” And time to check on his wife. What she was doing—food, dishes, cookers, silverware, storage bags, cooler, my god, there’s no end to it—would take more than one trip…but first a trip to the garage workshop.

 

****

 

First thing in the garage Ronald opened the back door of their crossover. Not much room there, but it would help, a little. Then he began looking over his tools and the endless other stuff collected over sixteen years of marriage. Sixteen years? My god. His shoulders fell—how the fuck can this be happening?

Both his son and daughter appeared with their suitcases and backpacks.

“Just set them down, kids, and go after the guns, both of you.” He didn’t know why he had cut them short. They had time, didn’t they? Maybe not. He slid the suitcases in, then went after the gas cans. Empty, but at least they had them. Luckily there was room for everything. The suitcases would have to go on top of the cans, though. Maybe a sheet of plastic between them would help—the kids could figure things out once they got going. He did what he could, then went to the kitchen where his darling wife was preparing a hot meal, “Mars, I don’t know if we have time for that.”

“We need nourishment, Ronald, I’ll pack it to go.”

“Of course you will. Didn’t think.”

“Ron….” She pointed to several packed boxes, “Those can all go. We need it all.”

He made three trips, and noticed their guns and ammo were on the floor between the back seats. God, those good kids….

For a few seconds his mind went back and back to the many good things over those years, the good times spent with his wife and children in this wonderful country before the election of 2008. Over half the country saw the election of the first black man to the presidency as a historic milestone. He didn’t—and not because of the man’s skin color—he just didn’t like or trust him. He would never forget the comment by a trusted neighbor, “He’s a Muslim!”

He also would never forget his own thoughts, ‘Good Lord, how can that be?’ He also didn’t believe the man would ever be elected, but he was, then—even more unbelievable—again in 2012—

CRASH!

Lord, it sounded almost like next door. He hurried to the walk-in door and peeked out at darkness except for streetlights. Then he shut off the light and stepped out. A large dark van sat three houses down…and activity….

He hurried inside, “Mars, kids, we have no more time—they’re here!”

Mars nearly instantly appeared with their hot packed meal.

He stepped aside and gestured, “Just get in the crossover, Mars, the kids and I will be right there.” Thirty seconds later he met his children carrying sleeping bags and other camping gear at the head of the stairs.

“Dad, we couldn’t get it all—more ammo on the floor!”

“I’ll get it, Son, you two get in the crossover, and open the driver-side door for me.”

He hurried to the basement. Sitting on the floor, two metal boxes of ammo and three loaded bandoleers of AK magazines. He slipped the bandoleers over his head to his left shoulder, grabbed the two boxes and hurried to the stairs.

“Hurry, Dad, there’s more noise!”

Not sure what that meant but at 3 a.m. it couldn’t be good. His feet carried him amazingly quickly up the stairs. He got to the crossover, looked at the sober faces of his children, shoved the ammo at them and headed for the overhead door, thanking God he had listened at one of the meetings and took the advice of installing a hand-powered lift. Didn’t need any unexplained noise that an automatic door-opener would make, not right then.

Door open he grabbed a quick look down the street. Mostly quiet but the van was still there, and the house entrance light was now on. He got aboard, started the engine and backed slowly out, then quickly lowered the door. No use advertising that they weren’t home. Three seconds later he was behind the steering wheel and backing toward the street.

“No lights!” Mars exclaimed, “Try not to use your brakes!”

Right!

“They’re dragging our neighbors out of their house, Dad,” Kyle said.

Ronald used every bit of mental power he had not to touch the brakes, and threw the crossover into neutral, and let its momentum roll them to the opposite curb, which stopped them. He then threw it in gear, managed to keep it slow and finally turned left onto the next street, and headed for the first block to make a right.

Thank God. They were on their way.

“Aren’t we going to help them?” Esther asked.

Good god, Mars, you please field that question! It was hard for him not to say those words out loud but he managed. He had also remembered not to put on the blinkers for the left-hand turn, but it was harder to keep his foot off the brake—no fucking red lights! Holy shit! How the fuck could this happen?! They were warned! They knew it was coming…that it could come, and it had.

They made their right turn. He kept remembering not to use the blinkers or brakes, but at last was able to step on it.

Mars finally answered their daughter, “Those were bad men with guns, Esther. We would not have been able to help them—and we didn’t even really know them.”

“But I know their daughter,” Esther cried, “She’s one of my best friends in school—we both got elected to be cheerleaders.”

“Honey, we’ve talked about this,” Mars came back, “We aren’t even sure what’s happening, but I’m sure what’s happening to our neighbors is not good, and our house would have been next. I’m just hoping they didn’t notice us leaving.”

“Kids,” Ronald interrupted, “Get things organized back there so you’re comfortable, and plan to sleep again if you want. You each have a seat to try stretching out on—shit! Did you bring the sleeping bags?”

“Yeah, Dad, Esther and I were carrying them when we met you just now.”

Right, forgot. “Great! You kids are the best!”

Mars reached across the chasm and squeezed his arm, and sent a smile.

How he loved that woman.

“I made oatmeal for us, kids, and toast, and I brought a half gallon jug of juice, but maybe we should wait a while….” She glanced toward, “Ronald…?”

“Yeah, let’s wait a while—Christ! What if it’s not even happening? What if Maurice was just having a bad dream? What if that big black van three houses down wasn’t even there?”

“It was there, Dad,” Kyle said, “I saw it too, and it had big letters on the side, SSA. What do you suppose that stands for?”

Ronald chuckled and shook his head, “Social Security Administration. Lord, they told us! Nearly every bureau has been weaponized! Millions of rounds of ammo! I guess they were right.” He tightened his hand on the steering wheel, then hit it lightly and slumped for a second.

Mars’ hand again crossed the chasm and touched his upper arm, and squeezed lightly. What a calming influence that woman had on him. He reached and grasped her hand, then brought it to his face and kissed the palm, then released, “Esther, how you doing back there, Honey?”

“I’m okay, Daddy.”

“That’s good.” For a few seconds he couldn’t think what to say, but he wanted to say something to his beautiful young daughter, “I’m sorry to be taking you out of school…for this, Sweetie, I know you’ve been working hard and looking forward to cheerleading.”

“It’s okay, Daddy, this is more important.”

Wow, those two kids—and my wife—are the best. With all the divorce and unhappiness in the country, he didn’t know how he could have gotten so lucky.

“And…,” Esther added, “We’ll be coming back someday…won’t we…?”

Kyle answered, “Shut up, Esther.”

But Dad couldn’t let that stand, “Esther, Sweetie…the truth is…I don’t know.”

Time for Mars to step in again.

She did, “Kyle and Esther, we’ll talk about this later.” She turned to Ronald, “Do you think we can eat yet?”

“Yes—please, let’s eat.”

Mars first filled two coffees and placed them in the cup-holders between her and Ronald, then dished up three bowls of oatmeal for her and the kids, then handed a slice of toast to, “Ronald, here, this will make you feel better.”

He took the toast and glanced at her, I hope so, Mars—”

“Oh, Lord.”

“What?” He jerked forward. The whole next block was on fire, several cars and at least one house, and people rioting, maybe hundreds. Halfway across the intersection he jammed on the brakes and started turning—

Crash!

A rock, brick, something had hit the crossover—an explosion, just a half block away. They kept turning—but even more people were ahead. He made the full U-turn and stepped on it—and felt a huge bump! A body, a person, pretty sure he had hit somebody but he didn’t stop, no way he would stop, just floored it back down the same street and kept going two more blocks then turned again.

Three minutes passed as he drove as fast as he dared down the still-quiet street.

The freeway was close, he knew that, but now they were in a strange neighborhood, and something came from his little girl that he didn’t need to hear right then…

“Did we run over somebody back there—”

“Shut up, Esther!” His good son to his rescue.

“We maybe did, Esther,” Mars came in.

“Shouldn’t we have stopped?”

“We couldn’t, Honey, not with all those rioters.”

“But, Mom—”

“No, Esther, we couldn’t stop. That many people would have overwhelmed us. They might even have tipped us over.”

“What’s happening, Mom?”

“Sweetheart.” Ronald reached back, “Give me your hand.”

She did. She grasped her dad’s hand with both of hers.”

“Something bad happened tonight, Sweetheart. I don’t know exactly what yet, but it was bad enough we had to get out of the city—thank God, here’s the freeway.” He entered the entrance ramp and pushed up to fifty mph and held onto his daughter’s hand while merging into very light traffic, then he squeezed her hand, “We’ll talk more when we get to Grandpa and Grandma’s house. Alright, Sweetie?”

“Alright, Daddy.” She released him.

“Kyle, you two begin checking things back there, our guns—we want at least three loaded magazines for each—our camping gear—whatever, and then you can lay the seat down and open the sleeping bags. We should get to Grandpa and Grandma’s by nine this morning—God, I wish we would have gotten a full-size.”

“We’ll be fine in this one, dear,” Mars said.

He glanced at her and again wished they could make love right then, right in front of the kids.

She sent him a knowing smile.

Yes, she knew exactly what had just crossed his mind.

“What happened to my slice of toast?”

“You dropped it during our turn, dear.” She handed it over, “Here, it’s not hurt.”

He took it and made a large bite,” Uhmmm—oh my god that’s good! Thank you, my darling.”

She sent the smile he adored, then, “I’m going to try catch some sleep, Ronald, and when I wake up—about six—I’ll take over driving.” She pushed the seat back and lowered herself as much as she could, then sent her smile again.

He grasped her hand, squeezed it, then faced front. The freeway was nearly empty. Either nobody—or very few—knew, or everybody was already arrested and headed for a FEMA prison camp.

Every conspiracy theory he had ever forced himself to read passed through his head and all at once, because those theories were quickly becoming fact.

Three hours went by.

Amazing. Mars awoke at six a.m. exactly.

A minute later they had changed positions. He made himself comfortable in the passenger seat, wolfed the now-cold oatmeal, glanced briefly and smiled at his wife, then was asleep almost immediately. The last thing he saw was Mars’ return smile, the last thing he thought was soon having to face his dear daughter and trying to explain what the hell was happening to their America.

 

****

 

Ronald awoke as they pulled into Mars’ parents’ rural driveway just a little after nine that morning, “Mars, you and Kyle can head in. We’ll unload later.” He glanced back at Esther, “I’d like a few private moments with my dear daughter, who I love very much.”

“She knows you do, dear,” Mars said, just before she closed the passenger-side door.

“But, Dad,” Esther said, beginning their discussion, “She’s the first woman president—that should be a really, really, big deal!”

“And it is, Honey, and I’m all for a woman president—just not this one—and she’s writing executive orders two months before her inauguration. She simply can’t do that.”

“How do you know she did it?”

“Of course I don’t know who did what.” Ronald knew he had to tread carefully. In the next minutes he could gain full trust from his daughter, or…he might even lose her, “And she cheated, she caused the rigging of many, many, polling places—”

“How do you know that?”

Right, proving anything was going to be impossible, “Smarter people than me, Sweetie, have figured it out. A congressman in Illinois tried to place a vote for himself and the electronic machine registered the name from the other party. He could have just accepted it and walked away, but he didn’t. He got the state to look into it—a bit late, right on election day, but many machines were then checked and several showed the same problem.”

“Just several?

She was going to be difficult. “She did other things too, Honey, and she wants to end the Second Amendment.”

“She just wants good laws, Dad.”

“America has good gun laws, Honey, but many are not enforced thanks to the liberal mindset—they just keep wanting more and more.”

Esther just looked at him.

He had better think fast, “Her foundation too, the one she and her husband created and their daughter worked for and got a huge salary—”

“What about it?” Esther interrupted, “They were trying to help people.”

“Very few, Honey. Mainly they used it for money-laundering and giving favors to questionable contractors and received millions of dollars in contributions from foreign—mostly Islamic, countries—”

“There! You see?!”

“That was the money-laundering part, Honey, and those Islamic countries all got…something… for their money.”

“What did they get?”

“I don’t know, Esther. Maybe, as Secretary of State—which she was at the time—those Islamic countries got favors, like the rapid immigration of their people.”

“Well, Dad, Muslims need a chance too.”

For a few seconds his mind went blank. He wanted to quickly move out of the touchy area about the Muslim people. He, too, considered that way over a billion people were being kept ideologically enslaved by what he considered a false religion.

Finally he thought of a new subject, “Esther, do you know what a liberal is?”

“I dunno—the opposite of you?”

His daughter just used slang language, and maybe even a bit sarcastically. He had never heard her use anything but basically nearly perfect English. Was she signaling that she didn’t exactly like where their conversation was going? He didn’t know, could only hope, “Yes, that’s about right. Me, your mother, and your brother…so why not you? You like shooting.”

“What? Are you calling me a liberal?”

“Well…are you?”

“Come on, Dad, you know better than that.”

“I always thought I did, Sweetie, but, if you feel fondly toward our new lady president—”

“I don’t!

“Okay, honey, and I’m glad you don’t.”

“Hey, breakfast, you two.” Mars wrapped on the window, “What we had on the way here last night was just a teaser.”

Thank, God, Mars, I’m glad you showed up right now. “What do you say, Honey, I’d like some of your grandma’s great cooking.”

“Okay, Dad.”

Just don’t say we’ll talk more after breakfast, please!

She didn’t; she just smiled and led the way to the kitchen.

Where a great feast awaited.

“C’mon in and sit, Ronald, and eat,” Clellan, his father-in-law, said, “And then we need to talk. If you kids hadn’t showed up this morning I was gettin’ ready to come after you.”

Ronald started to respond but Clellan raised his hand, “We’ll eat first, then we’ll talk, and I’m plannin’ to include my grandchildren. They need to know what the hell is goin’ on.”

Thank God for the level head of Clellan McGrader. He hadn’t planned to get into a Scottish family but felt thankful that he did.

The breakfast of eggs, biscuits and gravy, hash browns, crispy bacon, whole wheat toast, orange juice, and hearty Midwestern conversation lasted a full forty-five minutes.

Clellan grasping a toothpick and pushing slightly away from the table seemed like a signal that breakfast was finished.

 

****

 

Because everybody helped clear the table and wash the dishes, only twenty minutes passed before they moved to the spacious open area between the kitchen and the living room and sat down in a circle of chairs. A good way to have everybody’s attention, Clellan said, “Yep, it took that woman only one day to write the executive order to hit every gun dealer for what lists they had of gun ownership—and are they even supposed to keep lists? One never knows what those liberals are trying to pull next, and the guy supposedly still in charge was in full compliance with her.”

“A lot of people have been suggesting that, Clel, that the people in charge had no plan for ever leaving the presidency.”

“Oh, he’ll stay in charge alright, Ronald, or she’ll put him in charge of Homeland Security—which is one of the stupidest bureaus ever created! Or maybe place him on the Supreme Court, which absolutely would be the end of America. And it’s just a matter of days before they—the two of’em!—declare martial law, maybe just hours. But, thank God, those people had no idea of the American patriotism out here. Right now patriots all over the country are loading up buses with armed men and women—and kids—with the plan of converging on Washington.”

“A coup?”

“If it comes to that. We have a list of senators and representatives who will have the choice to step down, both sides of the aisle, another list that will just be arrested no matter what, plus ninety percent of the administration appointees, and the Department of Homeland Security is to be disbanded completely.”

“What about the phone call I got this morning? Maurice said they were kicking down doors.”

“Oh they were, and a few patriots did get caught with their pants down, but the government’s plan was leaked—those fools! They really thought that every government official was on their side, that they could do anything they wanted and not get caught—that nobody would tell?!!!

“But we on this side are getting better with our intelligence. It used to take years to catch those cheatin’ lyin’ criminals but we’re getting to the point where we can almost catch them in the act.”

“What about this gun confiscation thing?”

“I admit, we were a little slow on that one, but not much—I should say our link in Washington was slow, but she got the word to us as soon as she could.”

“Clel, what the hell have you been up to? You sound like you’re the leader of a militia.”

“I admit, Ronald, I’ve been quiet.” He glanced toward his wife, “I even kept Ethel there out of the loop, because I reeeeally wasn’t always sure of her politics. Finally she just told me one day, “Clel, I know what the hell you’ve been doing.”

“And then I said,” Ethel added, “That I can help.”

“Yeah, it’s tough to keep secrets from your wife forever.” Ronald glanced at Mars and received a grin.

“But my friends say—”

“Shut up, Esther.”

“Let my granddaughter, speak, Kyle, and you will get your chance too. Go ahead, Sweetie.”

“Well,” Esther began, then looked around at her audience, and stopped at her dad.

“Go ahead and say what you want, Honey,” Ronald said, “We’re listening.”

“My friends say she’s in favor of women’s rights all over the world, and she doesn’t want to take our guns.”

“But she’s doing it, Esther, or trying to.”

“What about her foundation that’s helping people?”

“It’s helping very few, Sweetheart,” Clellan said, “Mostly she and her husband made lots and lots of money from crooked and cooked deals.”

“Yeah, that’s what dad said.” She glanced at Ronald, “But ‘Cooked’ deals?”

“By making sure certain slippery companies got the job for disaster construction or mining, or a whole bunch of other shifty practices, but that’s not why we’re here, Esther, and not why your parents woke you in the middle of the night to go rushin’ off in your car.”

“We have a crossover, Grandpa.”

Clellan broke into a huge smile, then stood, limped slightly, and walked five feet to Esther and gave her a good hug, “You, little girl, are one sweet and smart kid.”

She hugged him back, “Thanks, Grandpa.”

Clellan returned to his chair and addressed, “So, Ronald, did you get out with provisions?”

“Guns, ammo, some food, and camping gear. We didn’t have a lot of time. There was a van parked right down the street, and they were kicking in a neighbor’s door, and we almost ran into a pack of rioters—in fact there was an explosion right as we made our U-turn.”

“Did the van have insignia?”

“Social Security for Christ’s sake—Kyle saw it—what the hell is that?”

“There are now more armed men in the bureaus than we have in the Marine Corps.” Clellan gave a light chuckle, “They have seven bullets for each American, and a lot of their ammo is hollow-point.”

“So what now, Dad?” Mars asked.

“We have a bus loading right over in Doctrine, tomorrow morning, early.”

“So soon?”

“The buses out west have been loading for twenty-four hours already. I guess those folks saw it coming sooner, or maybe somebody leaked info earlier, or maybe the cowboys out west are just smarter—”

The phone cut in.

“Answer that, please, will you, Ethel? My arthritis is really cuttin in this morning.”

Ethel barely said, “Hello,” before turning and pointing, “Kyle, turn the TV on.”

Kyle hurried to the television and flipped it on…to news that surprised no one.

“…The army is already patrolling the streets of Washington and several other larger eastern cities, plus Denver and Albuquerque…”

“Both blue cities,” Clellan said, “Strange.”

“and for some unknown reason there yet is no activity in the three western states…”

“Yeah,” Clellan said, “those three states—for the most part—will likely go along with the president—presidents—no matter what.” Then he added, more quietly, “I hope it doesn’t lead to civil war.”

“…some of the army leadership is saying their men will not fire on Americans…”

“But their private army will,” Clellan said, “That bus will likely load a lot earlier than morning, so, Ronald, do you plan to be on it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You taking Kyle with?”

“And me!” Esther said.

Both Mars’ hands went to her mouth, but she didn’t say anything.

“What have you fired, Sweetie?” Clellan asked.

“Everything, but my favorite is the AR.”

“Ronald,” Mars said, “I don’t want Esther to go.”

“She’ll be okay, daughter,” Clellan said, “Not likely they’ll fire on school buses—well, with those two minions of Satan running the country maybe they will. The thing is, Mars, we need young people to join in this protest, to let the country know it isn’t just us old-timers.”

“And I want to go, Mom!”

“I know, Sweetie, and I understand…maybe I should go too…in fact, yes, I’m going too.” Mars then looked toward her husband.

Ronald locked eyes with her. He had not expected that and it slightly upset him. Strange, he had no problem with little Esther going into harm’s way, but his dear wife—PROBLEM! But no way would he try to stop her.

Somewhere he had read that a man would want to save his wife over his children. At the time he had not thought much about it—if anything kind of just dismissed it as a non issue he would never have to even think about, and suddenly there it was…and he automatically chose his wife.

The phone rang again.

“Ethel.” Clellan pointed, “Please.”

Ethel answered, listened for maybe thirty seconds, then turned with sad eyes, “They’re loading the bus already today. They want everybody who’s going to be there at two o’clock…I’ll get an early dinner prepared.” She dropped the old rotary phone onto its holder, and said quietly, “I don’t want you going off without eating.”

“Sandwiches too,” Clellan said, “And I can handle that.”

“And chips,” Esther said.

“And pop.” Kyle added.

Clellan grinned toward his grandchildren, “You bet, kids, one pop and two bottles each of water—everybody have a backpack?”

“We chose vests, Clel,” Ronald said, “More accessible.” Right, for food, water…and extra magazines…good Lord, what the hell is happening?

Clellan waved, “Good decision. Well, you folks start getting outfitted and I’ll get your lunches ready.” Then he hobbled off toward the kitchen.

Ronald and his family remained sitting. Kyle and Esther exchanged a quick but seemingly expectant grin, something twins evidently had in their psychological makeup. One always knew what the other was thinking and doing, or about to. Mars kind of just stared straight ahead, and Ronald, he gazed quietly at his family, one at a time, knowing their future very suddenly was quite different from how it had been eight years earlier. But he knew change had been happening long before that. Looking back it now seemed clear that each president—both parties—had made little changes, often with those handy executive orders.

They were promised change from the new president eight years ago, and change they got.

To break the spell of each probably thinking of the future—or maybe not thinking at all—he stood, “Well, guys….”

Three sets of eyes focused on him.

“I guess we better do it.”

 

****

 

Two hours later everybody but Clellan had gathered silently at the end of the sidewalk just outside the dooryard gate. The sound of the garage overhead door rising took their attention, but nobody commented. Clellan, who would drive them into Doctrine, backed the minivan out, parked, and shut off the engine.

The family’s car and the crossover would stay at the farm.

Next a round of hugs happened with few words until Ethel got to little Esther, then the tears came, but only from Ethel.

“Grandma, I’ll be okay.” Esther sounded like a grownup, her voice strong as she patted her grandma’s back, “We’ll get to Washington, get this dumb stuff figured out, and we’ll be back before you know it.”

His little girl sounded quite confident, and brave. Ronald wished he felt the same, but he didn’t. He glanced at his wife. Mars returned the glance but did not look happy.

“Everybody ready then?” Clellan, standing by the driver-side door, asked, “It’s about a half hour drive, but we should get there in plenty of time.”

Time? Ronald hadn’t considered that time could make a difference, but maybe it would, “Yes, let’s get loaded. Mars, you please ride in front with your dad.”

Mars gave him a look that he couldn’t quite fathom. He wished…he didn’t know what he wished, just watched his little daughter weighted down with her lunch, water, and armament, labor to climb into the middle of the back seat—what the fuck am I doing? Taking my whole family into harm’s way, and for what?!!!

 

****

 

The trip to Doctrine passed mostly in silence…except for Esther mentioning she had forgotten her camera. Arriving at the high school still about a half block away, they could see two orange buses loading.

“Man!” Clellan exclaimed, “I heard just one bus. There’s more interest in this deal than I thought.”

Nobody commented.

“And they’re loading fast,” Clellan added.

What went though Ronald’s mind, they had to all stay together. But when they got to the closest bus the driver said, “Just three more, please. Sorry, but somebody has to go to the other bus.”

So, hoping to stay together, they all went to the other bus, “I can take just one.” the driver said.

“I’ll go, Daddy,” Esther said, and quickly began to step up.

Mars stopped her, “No,” but didn’t say more.

“It’s okay, Mom. When we get there, and get unloaded, and then get loaded again, we’ll all get back together.”

That’s my girl, was Ronald’s instinctive, instant, thought, but two seconds later he wasn’t so sure.

“Ronnie,” Mars said, “Do something!”

“Mom! It’s okay!” Esther pulled away from her mother and finished climbing into the bus. At the same time came a honk from the other bus.

“We gotta go, folks. Sorry you didn’t all get together, but it’s not like we’re heading into a war zone.”

Ronald hoped that was true. The three returned to the first bus, got loaded, and got to at least sit together. Ronald and Mars in one seat, and Kyle right ahead of them, with a young girl who appeared to be about his age. Kyle looked back and grinned, then the two greeted each other and immediately began chattering, just like regular teenagers.

Hmmm…, a new girlfriend right off the bat. Ronald felt glad for that small amount of normalcy.

“Ronnie, I really didn’t like getting separated from our daughter.”

“Neither did I, Honey.” But absolutely nothing they could do about it, so he didn’t comment further.

Bus #1 began moving. They settled into their seats.

Mars sent a glance toward Ronald, then looked behind them, quite likely hoping to see their daughter, which of course would be impossible, but Mars was a mother. Mothers never gave up on their children.

If anything happened to Esther he doubted Mars would ever forgive him—but what the hell could happen? As the other driver said, they weren’t “…heading into a war zone.”

He hoped not.

 

****

 

They soon reached the interstate and saw three other buses headed east.

“Man,” somebody exclaimed, “The shit is really hitting the fan.”

“About time,” another added, “For nearly eight years we’ve been putting up with all the bullshit that guy could throw at us and we’ve been too scared to be accused of racism to fight back…,” then added, more quietly, “But no longer.”

Two hours went by, mostly in silence. Buses 1 and 2—carrying Ronald and family—followed the other three off the interstate to stop at a service station.

“We’re joining those three other buses and topping off with fuel,” their driver said on the intercom, “Whoever needs a bathroom break, this is your chance. We won’t be stopping again until the lead bus stops. The leaders of this shindig said we should join other buses and travel in caravans—oh, and please return to this bus and give the driver your name again. Make sure he checks you off on the clipboard. We need to keep track of everybody.”

“That means we can’t get back with Esther,” Mars said, “I want you to talk to those guys and tell them we want our daughter back—I don’t know how we allowed our children to even go along!”

“Mom!” Kyle turned and sat partway up, “Esther is okay! If you want I’ll go change places with her.”

“Oh, great, and then we won’t have you with us.”

“Honey, I don’t think these guys will change the rules for us.”

Mars gave him a look, then faced ahead and crossed her arms. Ronald had never seen his wife act quite like this, but then, as a family who did every family thing together, they never had done anything like this.

To change the subject he began trying to hear some of the quiet conversations happening around them….

From a well-armed boy about Kyle’s age, “Do you think anybody will shoot at us, Dad?”

“No, Son, this is still America, where we are allowed the freedom to protest.”

From the well-armed man directly ahead of that dad, “Was freedom, sir. Those two in power right now are capable of anything, and I trust the woman less than the man.”

Kyle turned partway and grinned. Ronald returned a partial. Through side-vision he noticed that Mars did not change, Oh, God, I don’t want to lose my beautiful wife over this.

The man in front of Kyle said, “Hey, did anybody else see that Facebook post where a guy carrying a rifle—actually maybe a sniper rifle—dressed in camo, and the words were something like, “The day that witch gets elected 83 million gun-owners are gonna walk out of their house dressed like this.”

“Wow!” the young boy who had started the series of comments said, “83 million?”

“Yeah, there are at least 83 million gun owners.”

“But not that many are joining us,” another said.

“True, but we’ve been on the road, what, three hours, and already we’ve picked up six more buses.”

From a very large-looking man several seats up, “I’ve heard they plan to use the secret army they’ve been building over the years.”

“Secret army?” the young boy asked.

“Bureaucrats. They now have more armed men in the different bureaus than we have of Marines—plus they’ve got probably thousands of new Muslims, and plus they have seven bullets for each of us.” The man chuckled, then added, “But I’m big. It would probably take seven.”

“Not with hollow points, my friend,” another offered.

Mars grasped Ronald’s arm, “Hollow points? We have never used them, have we, Ronald?”

“No, dear, we have only target-shot. Hollow points are for killing.” He glanced at her, “Hollow points kind of explode and spread out inside you, to pretty much ensure killing you.”

“But I heard their hollow points are only in .22 caliber ammo,” another said.

The large man chuckled again, “If they’re shooting people in the back of the head, .22 caliber is all they need.”

Ronald didn’t look at his wife. He could feel her, and was so sorry this bullshit just had to happen. He slid partway down in his seat, “Honey, I’m going to try getting a little shuteye, okay?”

“Yes, Dear, I’ll wake you…if—when—we get there.”

He didn’t miss the irony—or was it pure sarcasm? He closed his eyes anyway and tried to ignore the world and its tribulations, at least for a little while longer.

 

****

 

Hours went by. Ronald actually slept one of them. The first thing he saw when he woke was his dear wife looking back at the bus following, looking for a sign of their dear daughter.

Impossible, of course, to see her, but Mars would make the attempt. What the hell? Maybe Esther would for a second or two get close to the bus’s front window, and right when Mars was looking…but the following bus was too far back. No way could she see her.

The next thing he saw was the sign ‘Welcome to Pennsylvania.’

Getting closer—

The sound of an explosion behind them seared into his brain, at the same instant the sight of his wife spinning in her seat to look back…so he looked back too…and saw the bus their daughter was riding in still exploding in flames and careening off the highway.

The next sound was his wife screaming, making a sound he had never heard before and finally the one word, “Stoppppppp!!!!”

But they didn’t stop. They couldn’t stop. Two more explosions were heard, far behind and far ahead.

He reached to his wife and pulled her into his arms—but her fists began pounding him and she continued emitting that sound he had never heard before, “Honey….” But her screaming drowned out his voice. He tried to just hold her, to try to keep her from losing her mind.

Seconds later they passed another orange bus in the ditch in full flame.

 

****

 

More hours passed. They had dipped down in Pennsylvania and were getting close to Maryland. During fuel and rest stops they had seen hundreds of the orange school buses passing on the interstate.

Mars had sat silently through it all. At a rest stop Ronald had walked with Mars to the women’s restroom and then asked another woman to stay with her inside. His heart ached for his darling wife, but time just had to pass, and she had to remember she still had her son…and her husband.

After the Maryland state line they reached a glut of buses where they often had to crawl along, and sometimes had to stop. During the slow parts nearly everybody in the bus came back and offered their condolences for the loss of their daughter. Everybody knew. The more understanding women—mothers—usually managed to say something. The men would sometimes reach and touch Mars’ shoulder, and sometimes managed a very soft “I’m sorry,” sometimes only the word ‘sorry’.

Ronald acknowledged them all.

Finally he felt it coming, or sensed it, just a gentle body-jerking to start, just enough to make him turn toward her and extend his arms…and she came, and the tears began, and she clung to him, and between sobs, “Oh, Ronnie, what will we do without her?”

She hadn’t called him ‘Ronnie’ for ages. He didn’t know why and never asked her to explain, but he was glad to hear it right then, “I know, Mars, but she will always be with us in our memory.”

“You are so strong, Ronnie, and Kyle is, and Esther—” The tears came harder.

“And you, Mars, you’re the strongest woman I know—the strongest I’ve ever known.”

The tears soon stopped. He felt her arms stay strong but the rest of her relaxed, and he felt her breathing change, and he knew she was asleep.

Kyle once looked back at his mother, then smiled at his dad, and Kyle’s new proxy girlfriend did.

Thank God. Life goes on.

As he held her securely he began to listen again to what discussion there was, just the voices; he didn’t attempt to see who said what.

“I’ve had no internet or phone service for an hour. Everything is just dead.”

“Do you suppose there’s a coup going on besides what we are doing?”

“This isn’t exactly a coup, is it?”

“Don’t know what else you’d call it.”

“What hit us anyway? Anybody know?”

“According to my CB it was a drone attack.” More quietly, “The word is they knocked out at least fourteen buses.”

“Wonder why they stopped.”

“Well, if all they had for operators were Americans, they probably just refused, just like the army and Marine Corps are refusing…other than patrolling the streets in certain cities. About the only American military really on the move is the National Guard protecting state capitals. They have plenty of buses showing up at them too, but nobody’s shooting, not yet anyway.”

“I wouldn’t blame’em if they ran over the California statehouse. The SOB running that state is worse even then our outgoing president.”

Ronald agreed with that.

“How did that Muslim get elected president, anyway?”

“Because everybody fell in love with him because everybody wanted to vote for the first black man—to prove they weren’t racist!”

“I didn’t—and the libs loved how he could spew and blather bullshit!”

“And everybody fell in love with the first woman to run for president.”

“Yeah! She got elected because she’s a woman!”

“Right, to prove we aren’t sexist.”

“Plus her outfit rigged tons of voting machines!”

Ronald kept holding his sleeping wife and tried to shut out the angry chatter. He agreed with all of it, but…it had all been said hundreds of times, He just wanted America to get back to being the America he was raised in.

They finally reached the exit for Washington DC, and were able to get off, but traffic—mostly  buses, a car here and there, and one semi truck—was soon all but stopped.

Maybe a good thing, for the closer they might get to the Capitol the more likely shooting maybe would happen. He had already lost a child; he didn’t want to lose his son too, or his wife.

Suddenly a radio came on to a disc jockey clowning, “Hey, I got my satellite radio back!”

The disc jockey didn’t last long before a voice came on with a Middle Eastern accent:

“You people on the buses, you are illegal. You are ordered to return to where you came from or you will be fired upon…”

“Good Lord! Have the Muslims taken over?”

“Shit! That’s been the plan all along.”

“This is bullshit. There’s gotta be a thousand buses in town, maybe two or three thousand, and they think we will just turn around and give up?”

“Yeah, and even if we could turn around we sure as hell aren’t going to!”

Mars came awake with a start, “Ronald, what’s happening?”

His pet name was gone again; he felt sad about that, “We’ve been warned to turn around and go home—”

“Well, we aren’t going to,” she said strongly, “Those mutherfuckers murdered my baby—we are not going home until we get what we came for, which is those people all arrested and put in jail, and then Guantanamo!”

Both Kyle and his new girlfriend turned around, grinning, “Way to go, Mom!”

Yes, that’s what they wanted, what all red-blooded American patriots wanted….

The bus began moving. Cheers erupted. And Mars took her husband into a powerful hug and gave him a kiss to end all kisses. Ronald wanted to say something but was just glad to have his darling wife back.

 

****

 

Chances were most of Ronald’s fellow Indianans had not been to Washington before so were taking in the sights, what there was. The traffic didn’t thin much but did keep moving.

Finally they saw the Capitol dome in the distance.

“There it is,” Kyle said.

It was then too that men with guns began appearing on the sidewalks, many of them, and not in uniform, just…men with guns, and not just guns but what looked like the best of military weapons.

“Bureaucrats,” somebody said.

“Muslims too,” another said, “That bunch on the corner look for certain to be Middle Eastern.”

“Boy,” came still another, “What I wouldn’t give to see the 101st dropping in about now.”

The next two blocks continued the show-of-force from the present administration, but as they got closer to the Capitol they began thinning out and armed men and women in American military uniforms began appearing, and a jeep from off a side street appeared and turned onto the sidewalk toward the Capitol.

“Jesus-God,” somebody exclaimed, “Those two were five-star generals!”

“Yeah! Both the Army and Marine Corps—They’re finally stepping up!”

The man with the radio turned it up, “Listen up, guys, there’s a different speaker, and he’s definitely American!”

“…continuing our list of demands, we want a return of respect for our military and police, we want an end to foreign aid to countries who hate America, we want the Department of Education dissolved and education returned to state control, we want the Department of Homeland Security dissolved and the Muslim secretary of same arrested and tried for treason, and at the end, the most important—no more immigration for Muslims. They come to our country of freedom, do not assimilate, bring their own culture and demands with them. All 100 Muslim organizations—including CAIR and the Muslim Brotherhood are to be dissolved and the officials deported—Every Muslim already here is to be interviewed. If they hate our Constitution and love and want sharia law they should be deported…”

The radio continued but Ronald quit listening. Somehow they had gotten close enough to the Capitol grounds that they could see what was happening, and the comments began flying.

“Holy Balls, they’ve got’em both in handcuffs! The woman is actually limping—I knew her health was bad.”

“Yeah, and she wanted to take America down with her!”

“With Marine security—wow! Wow! And WOW!”

“Yeah, but their hands are cuffed in front of’em—I hope they got thrown to the ground first!”

“And here comes both vice presidents—they’re cuffed too!—And their Muslim handlers!”

“Shit! Look at’em come! Must be half the Congress! And they’re surrounded by military police!”

“Well? Half of’em deserve to be arrested.”

“So who will be taking charge?”

“The Speaker is next in line.”

“Nope, there he is too—in cuffs! Fucking dirtbag!”

“So who, then?”

“We will probably see some general, or admiral, take charge, for a while at least.”

“Yeah! Should be a long while—till we get our America back on her feet!”

The comments continued to fly. Ronald turned to his beautiful wife, “We did it, Mars.”

“Yes, we did, Ronnie, but at what cost?”

“We, and others, paid dearly, but Esther was willing. There’s something I haven’t told you, dear, because it had never became an issue.”

“What’s that?” Mars’ eyes showed she was interested.

“Just one time Esther and I talked—at least a whole half hour.”

“What about?”

“The military. She asked me all about my own service. I didn’t say anything to encourage her, but I never would have discouraged her….” Then he waited, hoping for a positive response.

After a bit, “I wouldn’t have either, Ronnie. I guess I even think our beautiful daughter would have been okay with giving her life to help save our wonderful country.” A couple quick breaths happened then and her eyes filled with tears as she leaned into her husband’s arms.

Ronald held her closely, “I like it when you call me ‘Ronnie’, dear, you used to always.”

“Did I?” She leaned back and wiped her tears.

“Yes. You did, and you called me ‘Ronnie’ just a little while ago, a few seconds ago, and yesterday too.”

She just looked at him, not smiling but not bad either…maybe somewhat dumbfounded.

“I guess you call me ‘Ronnie’ during emotional moments.”

That caused a smile, “I guess,” and brought them together for yet another hug.

They both relaxed then and continued watching the parade of arrested Washington no-longer-power-brokers.

“It happened so fast,” Mars said.

“I think the military has been ready for a long time,” Ronald said, “And they knew they had to act fast, or there soon would have been an unstoppable shooting civil war.”

–0–

“There is a sacredness in tears….They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition and of unspeakable love.” ― Washington Irving

****

The Characters

Ronald, POV Husband (mid-forties)
Mars, wife (early-forties)
Kyle and Esther, twins (15)
Clellan and Ethel McGrader (parents of Mars)
Maurice (Ronald’s caller)
Georgie (Ronald’s contact)
Doctrine, Indiana (Mars’ parents’ home)

Other books by James W. Nelson

New World Order Rising Book 1 (52,200 words) (The Abduction) Carter Banks, 47, recruits his childhood friend (ex-army special ops) to help track the abductors of his daughter, Chantal, 24, and granddaughter, Dodie, 6, and gets a hair-raising short course on the true goals of the Illuminati, composed of elite politicians, CEOs, and generals, in their quest to eliminate 85% of the world’s population and create a one-world government: The New World Order.

 New World Order Rising Book 2 (56,000 words) (The New Civil War) Carter and his load of young girls rescued from the Satanist Illuminati (while avoiding the black-uniformed police) takes two weeks getting home from Kansas, to his sister’s farm, discovers she is militia leader of southeastern North Dakota, and learns North Dakota is the front line of resistance, among a group of states west of Interstate 29. Seven-year-old Jocelyn by proxy takes the place of the missing six-year-old Dodie, and brings new life to the heartbroken Carter and Chantal.

 New World Order Rising Book 3 (66, 500 words) (The Next Generation Fights on)
Ten years pass. Seventeen-year-old Jocelyn is now staunch at Carter’s side as his aid and lieutenant. Sixteen-year-old Dodie escapes her abductors, fights her way across the Mediterranean, the Atlantic, occupied eastern America, returns to North Dakota to reclaim her birthright, joins in the fight, and is not too pleased about Jocelyn’s position with her mom and grandpa.

New World Order Rising Book 4 (47,000 words) (United Nations Arriving) (Islam Joins the Fight)
Seventeen-year-old Jocelyn has become leader of the North Dakota Militia. Her dear adopted Grandpa Carter was killed in the last battle. Chantal, her adopted mother, is very pregnant, and gives the job of leadership to Jocelyn.
Sixteen-year-old Dodie is staunch at her new adopted sister’s side, helps in the rescue of Muslim sex slaves and ends up the adopted mother of Bessie, 7, and Delight, 9.
The questionably-efficient UN Blue Helmets and crack brigades of Arabic Muslims have joined the battle.

New World Order Rising Book 5 (40,000 words) (“…to save the world…”) (BOOK 6 “WILL” END THE SERIES.) The war does not end. The battles rage on with no end in sight, but, hopefully, Book 6 will suggest there is hope. In that vein, please read this story with the realization that this—in all its darkness—could happen.

New World Order Rising Book 6 (59,000 words) (SERIES END)
“The Second Amendment alive and well…in the 5-state coalition of Free America”
Dodie’s leadership is just hours old when students from the University of North Dakota arrive looking for a safe place. Commander Giles Pershing and his SEAL team arrive ready to join the militia and take the fight to Fargo, which has been a launch pad for the Illuminati’s super soldiers, the UN’s Blue Helmets, and most dangerous of all, Arabic Muslims.
What’s left of America’s trustworthy leadership has watched the militias hold the line. Hence they sent the SEAL team to help. The National Guard of the five states will now have their stand-down orders reversed and Free America will have its own army patrolling their porous borders.
So, the series ends. Does that mean the war is soon over?
Sorry, no, but change has begun.

Biography 

James W. Nelson was born in a little farmhouse on the prairie in eastern North Dakota in 1944. Some doctors made house calls back in those days. He remembers kerosene lamps, bathing in a large galvanized tub, and their phone number was a long ring followed by four short ones, and everybody in the neighborhood could rubberneck. (Imagine that today!)
James has been telling stories most of his life. Some of his first memories happened during recess in a one-room country schoolhouse near Walcott, ND. His little friends, eyes wide, would gather round and listen to his every hastily-imagined word.  It was a beginning.  Fascinated by the world beginning to open, he remembers listening to the teacher read to all twelve kids in the eight grades.
He was living in that same house on the land originally homesteaded by his great grandfather, when a savage tornado hit in 1955 and destroyed everything. They rebuilt and his family remained until the early nineteen-seventies when diversified farming began changing to industrial agribusiness (not necessarily a good thing.) He spent four years in the US Navy during the Vietnam War (USS Carbonero and USS Archerfish, both submarines.)
After the navy he worked many jobs and finally has settled on a few acres exactly two and one half miles straight west of  the original farmstead, ironically likely the very spot where the 1955 tornado first struck, which sometimes gives him a spooky feeling.

A little more Biography:

He lives among goldfinches, chickadees, nuthatches, blue jays, crows, cottontails, squirrels, deer, mink, badgers, coyotes, wallflowers, spiderworts, sunflowers, goldenrod, big and little bluestem, switchgrass, needle & thread grass, June berries, chokecherries, oaks, willows, boxelders and cottonwoods, in the outback of eastern North Dakota.

Thanks for reading

Author’s notes

In my fiction I do not try to create super-heroes, but rather bring alive common and regular people who try to find love, survive, and react to circumstances as best they can, and, usually, try to do the right thing. The books are more than one genre, from war to sex and violence to romance to humor to horror to fantasy to science fiction to adventure, I write in third-person with viewpoints by men, women, and children.

https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B004GW465S                 Author Page, Amazonnelsonjamesw@hotmail.com                          Email
https://jameswnelsonblog.com/                                        website/blog
http://subron7.hubpages.com/                                         HubPages
https://twitter.com/jameswnelson                                   Twitter

 

National Emergency Declaration

That Emergency Declaration means much more than “just” controlling our southern border…it is the first step in preserving the America we ALL love…at least–hopefully– what “most” of us love.

Just watched a 7-minute video from Fort Hancock, Texas. The sheriff has told the local residents to arm themselves, for the “People” here, are the border guards. A two thousand-mile border is a lot to guard. The Border Patrol needs all the help they can get.

President Trump, just yesterday, February 15, 2019, signed the National Emergency Declaration in order to continue building the border wall to help keep out drug dealers, human traffickers, and illegal aliens—oh, and diseases. The illegals are bringing in many diseases (tuberculosis and small pox to name two) that America had won the war against long ago.

But Social Justice Warriors cry, “These people need help!” That is true, but America CANNOT take care of the entire Third World, no matter how much our many Social Justice Warriors WANT to.

Nancy Pelosi (the top democrat in the House) immediately threatened to go after our Second Amendment. Why? Because she desperately wants the American people disarmed. But why? Because the democrats, the Left, the party of TREASON, liberals, progressives, communists, want ALL the power—they want only their police and military to have guns. Notice the italicized word their instead of the. That’s right. Their police and military would NOT be what we have today. Their police and military would be either entirely different people or today’s police and military would be brainwashed beyond recognition.

Oh, and socialists—that’s right too! That long list that started with democrats should have included socialists. After umpteen failures there are still people who think socialism can work. But they don’t really think that. They are lying and nobody can see their faces turning blue, so the “sheep” buy the democrat lies, especially the millennials who want their college education paid for…by somebody else. Yes, that’s how socialism works.

“Other peoples” money.

A related story, a mass shooting (5 dead, others injured including 5 police officers) in Aurora, Illinois, at a manufacturing company comes at about the same time President Trump signed the declaration. Hmmm…, seems very related. Could the timing of this event mean a false flag? Yes, the shooter is dead, so no questioning for true motive there, which is often the case with mass shootings.

But here’s the thing, the dems/liberals/progressives/communists/Marxists/socialists are fine with people dying and being killed, but they want to do it in the same way Lenin, Stalin, Pol Pot, Etc., did it, by gulag (a system of labor camps maintained in the Soviet Union from 1930 to 1955 in which many people died. A camp in the Gulag system, or any political labor camp.)

Then there’s the 25th Amendment, meant to replace presidents, vice presidents, and other powerful people after certain events. I didn’t read about it (way beyond my understanding just for a short paragraph in this blog post.) But certain un-elected people (for instance, these 3 losers, McCabe, Comy, Rosenstein) in our government want to use it to replace President Trump. Which of course they will never do because Mr. Trump is way too smart for them. And, really, does blockhead McCabe actually rate a CBS 60 Minutes interview? But, of course, we all know that even 60 Minutes has sunk into the new world order Washington D.C. swamp.

In the end we have a choice of who/what we want to rule us. The globalist/elitist new world order, the Islamic-run UN’s Agenda 21/2030, the Kalergi Plan, or we just bow down to the worldwide Muslim invasion. Strange, those four powers all seem to be the same, or for sure related.

bath-close-up-eye-1138155.jpg

Photo by Bennie Lukas Bester from Pexels   (How we will feel if we allow the Left to win.)

Nearly forgot the last option: we can stand and fight and preserve our freedom, and, lest “anybody” forgets–not to look big-headed, but, if America falls…well, THAT is the end.

The Fall to Globalism by Islam

Often I have wondered, “How could America fall to globalism? Or worse, Islam?” (Which would be worse, damn good question.) We have macho race car drivers, rodeo cowboy studs, can-do-anything-farmers driving big tractors, endless huge corporations, a powerful military, and lots of kick-ass women to back up their men.
We have a lot of ego-type power here saying, “Can’t happen here—let’em try it!”
So, how could it possibly happen here?
Folks, it’s happening.
After 9/11 the world came to America’s aid and cried with us, and President Bush came to know the terrorists were hiding in Afghanistan, so sent in the big guns.
President Bush did something else too. He supported the Muslims. He said, “We respect your faith.” “Islam’s teachings are good and peaceful.” What a dunce. The suit and skirt-wearing jihadis fed him only the good parts of the koran and he bought it. Why wouldn’t he? And why wouldn’t he believe them? Who else did he have to ask? Daddy was no help.
(Sorry, George Junior, I still mostly like you.)
(Originally I wrote this [9-20-17.] Since then we have discovered some things about daddy Bush [HW] and that info is not meant for this post.)
He (meaning George Jr. again) said more during a speech to Congress. He looked and sounded so sincere…I tend to believe that he believed what he was saying. I also believe the elite of the new world order had him in its clutches right then. If he was told what to say by important and elite men I think it was easy for him to believe it. In other words, how could a whole faith, a whole religion, be blamed for 9/11?
(That is looking at the world through rose-colored glasses, folks. No, of course not, EVERY common Muslim can not be blamed. It’s the Islamic leadership telling the billion and a half people they hold in ideological slavery what to do–and that is, “Invade the Western nations and change them by any means possible.”)
The first person I heard utter the words “…new world order…” was George’s daddy (HW) the senior President George Bush. At that time it sounded really, really, good—I mean, who wouldn’t want more “order” in the world?
So after 9/11 began the true welcoming of Muslims into our country, most importantly into our schools and our government, right into the White House as advisers on how to defeat the “radical” Islamic terrorists. We now know—at least some of us—that radical is a misnomer. There is no such thing as a radical Muslim just like there is no such thing as a moderate Muslim.
As Turkey’s Erdogan says, “Islam is Islam. There is NO moderation.”
Curtain Wall Buildings Under Blue Cloudy Sky

The people who planned 9/11 probably salivate when they see a building like this; they dream of how bringing this building down would further their agenda.

****

To get back to how America could fall to Islam.
First, know that Muslims do NOT flee their countries looking for a better life. Basically they are ordered by their leadership to invade all countries and make them Islamic. Why? Because Muslims MUST dominate and Muslims consider themselves superior to non-Muslims. In Western Europe, Australia, Canada, America, there are mass amounts of people who refuse to wake up and believe that Muslims don’t just need a hug.  then they would be glad to become regular, decent, citizens. Unfortunately, hugging just won’t do. They are here to invade–not immigrate and peacefully assimilate–but to take over.
It’s one innocent-appearing event at a time. If a law appears, or a rule changes…well, American people tend to question it—but not loudly—and likely will not make their voice heard at all. They will end up accepting the change as not too bad and go on living their life as normal.
(Already in 2019 the new Muslims in Congress want America to include the Islamic holidays, and, believe me, folks, there will be plenty of people who will see no problem with that.)
Yet the change affects them, maybe not directly, but maybe they will notice how that new law or rule affects someone else—but hey! They aren’t a friend, I don’t even know them! So, as long as the change does not affect me “directly” I will just go on as usual.
(Another change our new Muslim reps want is to end money for Homeland Security [or ICE, I forget which] but it doesn’t matter. They won’t get their way on that one. The Islamic holidays…don’t be surprised.)
Then another change hits closer to home. It affects a neighbor who lives just two houses down—but still, I don’t really know them “that” well, either…so I look away.
(Already I have heard one block-headed American wish a Muslim, “Happy Ramadan!” In a newspaper column another blockhead wished her Muslim readers, “Happy Ramadan!”)
So you see, it’s happening, one minor event at a time.
Finally you wake some morning thinking about “another” recent change. You go to work thinking about it—not TRYING to think about it, but THINKING about it all the way. You get to work and everybody is talking about it. But nothing can be done—because it’s DONE. One comment from a fellow employee comes clear, “Well, we just have to do what they want.”
Then, over and over, the new changes and rules arrive, until…
(In 2019, we now have 3 Muslims in the US House of Representatives, plus Muslim Keith Ellison won attorney general of Minnesota…so we’ve begun to see change…while we were sleeping.)

****

It’s not just islam of course, the globalists want their way, badly, and are pushing the Muslims to do their bidding, which the Muslims have readily agreed to because it’s what they want, too, it’s their hijrah, their invasion justified. Unfortunately, for the Muslims, they are just pawns doing the work of pawns.
There will be NO long-lasting caliphate. When the Muslims have the entire so-called civilized West under their control—their caliphate—then the hammer will come down on the Muslims too. (I don’t know how that would happen but certainly the elite realize that the Muslims would soon want their gated communities.)

****

And speaking of the elite, what is it that makes a man/woman who maybe started life being a sweet and charming child to change into a monster dead set on first changing America, then to utterly destroying it and all its ideals?
This is what we common and regular people are facing, folks. We need to learn all we can about Islam and globalism, especially how the two are interconnected, and spread our knowledge to anyone who will listen.

The Light at the End of the Tunnel

Yes, an overused phrase, but very descriptive for a new baby just arriving at the world outside its mother. Does a baby open its eyes just before birth, to actually see that first light? I don’t know, but I suspect an infinitesimal few do. For the sake of this novel I’m going to say at least one baby boy does open his eyes in time. As you get to know him I think you will agree.
Why? Because this baby is unique. He experiences deja vu endlessly during his many new lives. You see, he also reincarnates endlessly. From time immemorial he has been getting killed by the state–executed, that is, as a worst-of-the-worst criminal, and nobody ever figured out why.  Also, of course, nobody knew. And, really, how would they EVER figure it out without intervention by the superior being, our Lord God?
Not until the chaplain at a contemporary prison reads it in an ancient book and then tries to stop the execution of worst-of-the-worst criminal, Les Paul.
What the book said:

“If the state kills a worst-of-the-worst criminal, rather than allowing a natural death, that criminal, man or woman, will reincarnate as not only the same person but more evil than before. He or she will have the same memories, though not fully intact memories, but they will serve well in the new life. A worst-of-the-worst criminal MUST be allowed to die a natural death, which includes being killed by a fellow criminal.”

Nobody believes the chaplain, for certain not the warden, so the execution proceeds on schedule. Of course the ancient book disappears as if it never existed. The chaplain is certain it DID exist and is nearly certain he’s right, so certain that he removes his collar, leaves his job, and begins a search for the reincarnated Les Paul.
There is the introduction to a main POV character (1 of 4) but not THE main character. Next we will take a look at this current execution of Les Paul: (POV Les Paul)

“May God have mercy on your soul. Amen.”
He barely mouthed his response, “Sure, whatever-the-fuck-ever.” Through peripheral vision he saw the warden nod. Here it comes. He smiled, and felt the drugs entering him, and felt his world speeding up. Like a jet plane—what a ride!—plastering him against the seat. The buzzing in his head grew louder and faster…
For a few seconds he felt himself rising from the table. He looked back. His unmoving body was there. His eyes were open…where am I…? He felt like he was moving, leaving the prison—Good! I’m going somewhere! But, not, really. He felt himself being squeezed, like, from a tube, except he wasn’t leaving the tube, he was entering, becoming smaller, and smaller, and smaller, and sma…”

Deja vu, we’ve likely all experienced that feeling of having “been here before.” For us regular mortals that “feeling” likely lasts just seconds. Now picture worst-of-the-worst criminal, Les Paul, undergoing deja vu regularly, only he’s seeing himself being executed again and again, by electric chair, drugs, firing squad, over and over, memories that he denies are his–wouldn’t you? Since you’ve never been executed–that you know of–wouldn’t “you” deny such memories are yours?
In the case of Les Paul, whether he believes it or not, his memories of continuing executions by the state are truly his. In the opening scene, while waiting for his execution, he has a deja vu memory of his very first life, his only happy time, his only time with a loving wife and a darling little daughter. But, as always, he shakes his head and denies the memory is his.

****

In case you’re wondering, yes, I’ve experienced deja vu, a recurring memory of a certain street as I traveled through different cities in my sales job. The memory was always of the “other side” of the street. I always started across, jaywalking, but never got there. Finally, after years, I found that exact street in my own hometown city. I actually crossed that street…and nothing happened, except the deja vu stopped. Go figure. I still wonder if crossing that street affected me in some unknown way….

Here is a short look at all the main characters: Main characters in bold, secondary characters underscored.
Les Paul is on death row awaiting execution. (first as adult, then as child, beginning at 14 months until a nine-year-old.)
The chaplain is trying to stop the execution, and not because of a love for mankind.
Mrs. Leslie Markum in nine months will give birth to the reincarnation of evil.
Ms. Nicole Waters is nursing at the hospital where the infant, Les Paul, will be abandoned.
Cassandra is yet divided between her mother and father. (infant to nine-year-old)
Patrolman Sikorsky is hoping to advance to detective.
Riley Stokes, ex-military, will train the chaplain and Nicole to become private investigators.
****
(Little Cassandra [who isn’t even born yet] may not seem like the MAIN-main character, but in my mind, she IS.) So please bear with me until you get to know this little girl.
****
When Cassandra is born her mother will live long enough to name her. On the same day her father will die in Afghanistan.
Cassandra starts her life alone. In foster care she will fall through crack after crack. Nobody wants to adopt this darling girl child. Lacking love, she discovers her crying brings her nothing. She stops crying.
As she grows she does not come to love, anything, and does not come to trust…anyone.
On October 18, this little girl will be born. Halfway across the country another baby will be born on the same day, just another child who will find no love. Les Paul will find no love because he is the reincarnation of a long string of evil killers.
****
Six months after his execution Les Paul is swimming in a warm pool of amniotic fluid. Through instinct his hands realize he wants more room. He uses his twin brother’s own umbilical cord to strangle him, then kicks that useless presence toward that light at the end of the tunnel.

Book cover represents Les Paul in his mother’s womb hanging onto the umbilical cord he used to murder his twin brother.
****
The chaplain and Nicole join forces and train at a desert survival school. Their goal to track down the newly-born Les Paul—now rampaging through foster home after foster home—and prove that this child, now nine-years-old, is truly the reincarnation of Les Paul, worst of -the-worst criminal.
(When the chapain and Nurse Waters are onstage at same time it isn’t always clear who has the viewpoint, nor does it need to be. [They are a team now])

****

A list of viewpoints from the main characters plus 3 minor characters:

Les Paul:–He glanced at the guard, “Hey, man…,” and sent his now-starched-on smirk, “You stoppin’ for a brew after?”
Standing, the guard remained about twenty feet away, too far for Les Paul to read his name tag. Didn’t matter anyway, he had no desire to make new friends. Course he didn’t have any old friends either. Nobody to see him off. No family. Nobody.
Les Paul as a child:–Just fourteen months old and already on his fourth foster family.

Warden Miles:—-The warden stood still for another moment, then walked to the door, stood for about thirty more seconds, then opened, “Chaplain, I was just coming to meet you.”

The Chaplain:—-He still believed in God—that was he now believed in a god—a superior intelligent being, just was no longer sure of the personal god there anytime, anywhere, for anyone.

Nurse Nicole Waters:–…gasped when the small hand went into her top and actually tried to get to her breast.
Nurse Waters’ (Nicole) viewpoint with 9-year-old Cassandra:
–“The young girl looked up and scowled, “My name’s Cassandra!”
Yes, the rapport was absolutely gone.
“All right, sorry, Cassandra. You started to tell me—“
“I did tell you—the biggest boy reaped me!” Her mouth set, she turned back to her drawing. “The other big boy would’ve too—he wanted to do the littlest girl!—but the parents came home!”
Nicole, sadly, looked at the chaplain and opened her hands. They had the information they came for, so there was no reason to stay longer. They started for the door.
“And they’ll keep doing it!” Cassandra said in a voice not even recognizable. She also didn’t look up.
They both stopped and stared at the young girl who now was old far beyond her years.
“They hurt those other girls—I know it! Even that smallest little shit wanted to!” The girl, her friendly face absolutely gone, glanced toward them, then right back to her notepaper—which she then tore to shreds, “And that boy the same age as me, I know he wanted to! But the big boys wouldn’t let him!”

Casandra as infant:–And the volunteers did a good job, but it seemed the same one never held Cassandra more than once. Every time she felt warm arms around her and opened her eyes she did not recognize the person.
Casandra as a 9-yr-old:–Her eyes felt strange, like maybe tears wanted to come—She knew about tears; she knew what they were, but she was pretty sure there were none in her.

Mrs. Markum (with Les Paul, the infant):–“It’s okay, honey,” his mother said, “Here, maybe I’ll just switch you to my other breast.” She began to move him…she began to try to move him, “Honey, you have to let go…oh—ow!”
“The child was evil, Evan. It was born evil. It will grow up evil, and will do terrible things.”
Evan Markum:–“He already has done terrible things, my darling.” But I’ll never tell you what.

A SUPERNATURAL THRILLER

The Left

Where are all the Leftists coming from? Have they never read a newspaper, a book, did they even go to school? I’ve tried to explain Leftism to a few people, but they get that “deer in the headlights” look. They seem to have no clue what Leftism is, or socialism, or communism/Marxism. Did the Leftism leadership pick certain cities to become sanctuaries for illegals and then also add some drug to the city water that would turn people Left? Or does the idea of free stuff just set people off, not just college kids but EVERYBODY?

There has to be a reason for the number of Leftist people.  Have they just gone to the Left? Have they been hiding for years and years and suddenly feel safe to come out of the Leftist Closet thanks to the new power of the Left, like winning the House of Representatives?

Really, there has to be some explanation. Of course the hippies of the 60s/70s are now professors brainwashing our children and 80% of ALL media is controlled by just SIX monstrous corporations. We once depended on local media to read, listen to and learn from. Today they all spout the same drivel. Top universities to local kindergartens, all used to be for learning. Today too many professors and teachers preach Islam, Common Core and socialist/communist/Marxist principles. Heroes and heroines of entertainment…but why go there? I’m disappointed in most men and women that used to be heroes and heroines. But of course they were just acting.

Past generals and presidents warned us—or tried to—but the information was too new. Why would we think far away events could ever affect us and change our goodness of the 1950s? Okay, the 1950s weren’t perfect, but at least we didn’t have to worry about losing our good nation. That is the decade of my early growth. I liked my life, but change was already in the air. Then came the 1960s. Even I as a teenager could see change happening, but still too far away. California and Berkeley were far from North Dakota. To me those places didn’t even seem real.

At seventeen I wanted…something, change I guess, even though at that time in my life I wonder if I had even ever heard of that word: change, least not in the form used today. I wanted the farm to always be there—of course—even though I didn’t expect to be a farmer, so I joined the navy. The 1960s kept on and I got out after four years, and then came the 1970s, 1980s, 1990s, change, Change, CHANGE, but I still didn’t see it.

My good home was in the center of North America—couldn’t be safer—so I continued NOT seeing the changes, for certain not dreading them….

Basically I remained asleep until Obama’s first run for the presidency. I didn’t vote for him but when he won I supported him in the sense that, well, “…he IS the president, guys,” but when he got re-elected—OMG!!!!

Sandy Hill. Our first False Flag that I’m aware of. Did any children actually die? I sometimes wonder. Anyway, I DO believe Sandy Hill was a false flag, a new and major beginning for the gun-grabbers.

So finally we made it to the new millennium, the 2000s, which anybody over 70 has been waiting for since the early 1960s, which was my first notice of that far away date when everything was supposed to change for the better. And much has, but since 2008 we and America have been going backwards. But not according to the Left. I said 2008, but that change has been happening long, long, before 2008.

Today, 2019, the Left has come out in force.

Our nation is divided like never before. Islam is encroaching on ALL our culture (America doesn’t really have a culture but a blend of hundreds of cultures all brought to America by thousands/millions of immigrants.) But America DOES have traditions celebrated by all the people…except the Muslims of Islam. Some Muslims DO celebrate, at least they want Americans to THINK they are, but very likely they are practicing taquiyya (Muslims are required to lie to the infidels in order to push ahead Islam’s final agenda.

Which is TAKEOVER, of the entire world. What their fake prophet, Mohammed, began over 1400 years ago in Mecca and Medina in what is now Saudi Arabia, has spread over the entire Middle East, much of Africa, Indonesia, and into Asia. China, Japan, South Korea are balking. Russia and former member-nations of the Soviet Union were encroached upon long ago. Europe, Australia, Canada, America, all have been invaded. Latin America we—at least I—don’t hear much about, but I have no doubt Islam is working its evil in those nations too.

This post is about the Left, which has fully opened its arms to the Muslims, so the two entities are now joined at the hip.

2020 is rapidly coming. The democrats are rushing presidential candidates into the mix, being led by California with Kamala Harris, who is against everything that makes America GREAT and wonderful. Other evil Californians include Diane Feinstein, Maxine Waters, Adam Schiff, and never forget the Golden state’s darling, Nancy Pelosi.

From the east we have Elizabeth Warren and Cory Booker. Certainly there are others, but—for now at least—these are the leading Leftists.

Enough for now. In the Leftist World there is plenty more to talk about and warn people of. It’s just too bad that the many good democrats—the ones who foolishly continue voting for democrats—simply because they always have, or their parents did—whatever their reason—do not know that by default they too are all members of the Left, that group trying their damnedest to DESTROY America.

Here is a photo of just ONE of the things we will lose if we allow the Left to win.
I would call this freedom and love exemplified.

affection-animal-blond-hair-1498932

 

New World Order Rising Book 3

Ten years have passed. The war goes on. The 5-state coalition of citizen militias hold the line. Book 2 saw Aunt Dani, Militia member, Rory, and an unnamed Militia member, all get killed. In war people get killed, we can hope not too many of the good people, but they do anyway. Book 3 will see two more character deaths. No need to name them now.
In my war, Vietnam, over 50,000 young men and women were killed. A quick check online lists 58,220. I just called Vietnam “my” war. It was only in the sense that I was in the navy at the time and my submarine on patrol sailed close enough so that I could see land, tropical jungle and a waterfall. I wondered how a war–or anything bad–could be happening in such a beautiful place.
Five close friends/neighbors/relatives did go to war there, one Marine, the rest Army. One was killed. One later committed suicide after he got home. The other three, likely, were forever changed. Another friend went to the Air Force and worked (highly classified) in Thailand, helping plan bombing runs on the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Another friend also went to the Navy (he and I have not discussed what we saw or did.) A brother-in-law joined the navy at the end of WWII. Some time after my discharge a nephew also joined the Navy. Another nephew joined the National Guard about then. An uncle served in Korea. I guess I could go on and on, but won’t. We all have veterans for friends and family.
In my books it hurts me to create a character, fall in love with her/him, and then have to “kill” her/him in order to move the story along. In one of my earlier books “The Bellwether” my dad read, and said to me “Why’d you kill Jacqueline?” He didn’t like it. But, “I had to, Dad.” (I didn’t explain to him “why” I had to. At the time I was so new to writing that I didn’t KNOW “why.”) My dad read several of my early books. We lost him in 1996. I think about him every day, and miss him every day. He and I were friends—”buddies” as he said once. So many good memories of him. I don’t mean to leave my mother out. I miss her too, but my relationship with her was not the same.
Eventually in this 6-book series I will kill my favorite character. I never write (or rarely even think about writing) unless I’m sitting at the computer. One day while driving the scene just came to me where I killed my favorite character. I actually cried. Tears actually flowed. I didn’t write anything down while driving, but the moment I got home I did, and the tears flowed again, and again, and again while editing. I must have fallen in love with my creation. I’m alone in the world so I can believe that. Sorry I can’t/won’t name the character here, but as you go along I think it will become clear who my favorite is.
About editing one’s writing. After finishing a novel or short story—whatever—I will edit until I find no mistakes, which can mean 10-15 times, up to 10,000 words for a short story, and 234,000 words for such as “The Bellwether.” I’ve worked with other beginning authors who say, “But can’t you edit too much?” My answer, “I edit until I find no mistakes.” By that I mean, misspellings, missing commas, periods, just little things, and believe me, readers will see your mistakes. I think these other young authors mistake editing for re-writing, in which I agree: one can re-write to death. In reading these other writers’ works their “uncorrected” mistakes stand out like very sore thumbs. When I see that too many times our relationship ends. If they won’t fix their work then I can’t help them.
Sorry, been getting off track.
In Book 3 ten years have passed.
Six-book series available at Amazon, $2.99 digital, $15.00 paperback. Click on the cover for a free-read right here.

Carter, 57, is now Militia Leader under his daughter, Chantal, 37. Jocelyn is now a warrior, a graceful, strong, and sinuous seventeen-year-old, joined at the hip with Carter as his lieutenant, aide, and protector, always battle-ready. Dodie is now a vibrant and beautiful sixteen-year-old, nearly a perfect picture of her mother, Chantal, and—as we will see—also, a warrior. She escapes her abductors and fights her way across the Mediterranean, the Atlantic, Occupied America, and gets home to witness a mass wedding (including her mother marrying a stranger) and see that Jocelyn has taken her place with her mother and grandpa.
Think of it–you have just fought your way across several thousand miles of unfriendly country, paying for your passage the only way possible, the only way a young girl with no money CAN. You get home–what you have dreamed of for ten long years–and see someone else in YOUR place!
So what would you do? Dodie doesn’t even think about it. She attacks!
****
After ten years of battles with mostly the cyborg-like super soldiers, we will soon see that the super soldiers are no longer so cyborgish-like, except the ones fresh out of hibernation.
At the end of this Book 3 the militia battles an overwhelming force of United Nations soldiers and forces the militia into their ONE retreat.

New World Order Rising Book 2

 

Little six-year-old Dodie is gone and barely mentioned in Book 2. Carter and daughter, Chantal, are both devastated, but a little seven-year-old girl, Jocelyn, has joined them. She captures Carter’s heart immediately, and with no malice intended begins replacing Dodie.
The cover of Book 2 shows a young girl appearing to be trying to escape what likely is a pedophile. The girl on the cover represents Jocelyn who has lived with the Illuminati all the life she remembers. Carter is certain the young girl needs counseling but of course he feels wholly inadequate to counsel her himself…until one day Jocelyn asks him to sleep by her (because others have) which, he didn’t, but, later, took her on horseback into the pasture where he got her to speak and describe how the pedophilic, Satanic, Illuminati, treated her.
New World Order Rising” has become a 6-book series, Book 2 subtitled “The New Civil War.”
Available at Amazon: digital $2.99, paperback $15.00.
Click on the digital cover for a several chapter free read.

After rescuing Chantal and leaving the Satanist Illuminati sacrifice camp, first stop is Beth Friday’s house in Maston, Kansas, for cleaning up, collecting supplies, more armament, and re-grouping, then setting out for the 1500-mile return-trip to Carter’s sister’s farm in east central North Dakota. In every town they will see the black-uniformed police dragging civilians from their homes and National Guard officers carrying clipboards likely listing gun-owners.
Luckily, Carter, with his load of seven women (4 young girls, plus Beth, Noni, daughter, Chantal) plus little Jocelyn, gets stopped only twice, but the black uniforms are everywhere. Carter has been gone from North Dakota like a week and is having trouble comprehending so much change could take place so quickly.
But that’s how it could happen, folks. We don’t like to think of our government turning on us, but if HRC had gotten elected…well, my book could be coming true right now. Governments have been turning on their people from the beginning of time. Recently think Nazi Germany, Communist Soviet Union, Pol Pot’s Cambodia, Castro’s Cuba, Venezuela disappearing before our eyes, much of Western Europe, Canada, Australia, due to the worldwide Muslim invasion…the list goes on. All it takes is a tyrant taking control, like Obama, Trudeau, der fuhrer Merkel–Yes, the list goes on.
True God-fearing Americans will never allow the DNC viewpoint to take over our good country (even though we DID allow it for eight years under Obama.) We can thank God HRC was NOT elected, but the Illuminati, the shadow government, the Deep State—all the elements of the left—still have plenty of power.
(Not too long before the election in 2016 I wrote a 10,000-word short story, “America Gets Her First Woman President.” Should have gotten it published a year before the election rather than just days, for it didn’t get much attention, but DID get good reviews. I also put it out as free at a writing website, and OMG did I get screamed at by one reader…so I guess I got HIS attention.)
Available at Amazon: $0.99, just 10,000 words, too short for a paperback.

For the sake of fiction and my book, after the mass shooting that took place at the end of Book 1, the left got its way, the registration of all guns began happening and the confiscation began immediately. But still they moved too slowly, evidently didn’t realize or accept the deep red color of the states in the hinterland, which closed their borders quickly thanks to the many militias that had been forming—openly—for years.
After another week of travel, when Carter gets home he will find his baby sister has become a militia leader in North Dakota, part of a five-state coalition including South Dakota, Montana, Wyoming, Idaho, and parts of Nebraska, Utah, and even blue Colorado. His sister’s farm soon basically becomes the frontline. The bigger cities of eastern North Dakota—way too close to blue Minnesota—fall nearly immediately, which means Interstate 29 becomes the MAIN frontline between the good and evil forces.
The main enemy is the cyborg-like super soldiers and the black-uniformed police (same/same entities.) Where did so many come from so quickly? Speculation includes artificially-created cyborgs, other-worldly aliens, under-worldly demons, Etc., none of which are true. Think of how long the Illuminati have been planning world takeover. Some say all the way back to Babylon. Could be. Nobody knows for sure. Now think of the many missing children, not just in OUR time but in all time. Harley Maxwell gives a pretty good rendition of how the children–all the way to young adulthood–are trained in Book 1, but what to do with them until they’re needed? Over hundreds of years these Satanist Illuminati have managed to capture a good many so-called missing children. So, again, what to do with them? Can’t just have’em sittin’ around gettin’ fat, or worse, deciding to rebel.
Answer: drug-induced Hibernation, only for longer than one winter. With today’s drugs (including at least the last 50 years) who knows what can be attained? What about earlier, before the many drugs of today? So the Illuminati had to experiment. They had the money and hired the very best and smartest people. Remember, native peoples had been around long before the world began getting “civilized,” so the native people experimented also to get what they wanted. So when Illuminati money appeared even the native people could be corrupted.
Also, folks, please remember, this is fiction, which needs a bit of leeway.
In Book 2 our militia will have their first two battles with the cyborg-like super soldiers. In the second battle Carter will be seriously wounded with a super soldier heading his way, but little 7-year-old Jocelyn (who he taught to shoot the day before) will grab Carter’s small ankle pistol and save his life.
At some point the so-called evil forces will become the Blue Helmets of the Islamic-run United Nations (see Book 3, the next blog post) and Muslims (see Book 4, the following post) both of which will—unknowingly—become just expendable pawns for the new world order elitists.