Dunes of brown dirt and sand marched across the naked flatland of south-western Kansas. To the south was the Oklahoma state line. To the north a barren nothingness that marched into perpetuity towards Canada, and beyond. Dark clouds swirled in the north, darkening a bone-white afternoon sky. The harsh chill and befallen the now renewed Great American Desert as the rumbling Model A made its rumbling trip down the forlorn highway from the town of Liberal. The road had been swallowed up by the dunes of uncontrolled dirt. The only markings that laid the course of the road was the regular march of the telephone poles along the road-side.

The Model A Tudor sedan had long lost all its paint to the buffeting and attack of the dust storms. It was a desolated and skeletal car. The exposed metal had begun to turn a dry arid brown like much of the landscape and the windshield was marked and pitted with scratches and cracks left by hail and the harsh grit of the sandstorms. It rumbled and coughed as it went, throwing up dust from the road and even more dust that came up from the long chain it dragged behind it to ground the car from the immense powers o f built up static electricity.

Riding in the car, swaying and bobbing sat four men, each covered head-to-foot in heavy clothes, masks, and scratched well worn goggles as they sputtered down the long road. At their feet sawn-off shotguns, rifles, and handguns lay across the dirty floor boards as they made a straight line through the near-desert landscape.

“Hey hoss, we gotta 'nother duster comin' along.” cried the man in the passenger side seat. His voice carried a heavy Texan drawl that dripped heavy and slow like molasses. But it was embittered by venom and vitriol. It had a nearly combustible role in the tongue, like gasoline.

“We'll make time.” the driver croaked, not even looking north at the storm that was just a distant brush stroke across the horizon.

The sedan was making its way at thirty miles an hour down the road, kicking up as much dust as its narrow wheels could throw and being thrown well over the threshold of safe driving under every circumstance in the dust bowl. But the clarity of the day awarded the driver with no sighting of anyone coming the other way.

“Are ya sure?” the passenger asked after a few minutes, his voice betrayed a heavy concern as he rose a gloved hand reached into a pack at his feet and retrieving a whetted sponge he began to work at putting under his mask.

To the north, the duster was coming closer at shocking, lightning speed. While still far away the crown of the bank of swirling dust clouds could be seen against the infinite sky, spinning tufts of cloud up over it where they lingered heavy in the sky before falling back down in a cascading waterfall of spinning, turning fists of darkened dirt thrown south across all of Kansas and Colorado.

“Damn right I'm sure, now shut up.” the driver demanded in a course voice. It was as dry as the arid air and as abrasive as the winds to come.

Up ahead, a lonely wooden barn stood in an empty wasteland. At its unprotected northern side a large dune had climbed up to the roof, burying half the building in a hill of fine silt. Nearby the wind-blasted skeletal frame of a house stood with a rusted windmill spinning frantically in the hard northern winds.

The driver began to break suddenly to slow to a turn and the shifting of the Model A's weight betrayed the treachery of the lose dust and sand that now covered the road. It shifted with the back end trying to continue the old speed of thirty miles as the front head quickly decelerated. The driver regained control of the sedan and it straightened out in time for it to turn into the farm and the barn doors to creak open like the gate of an old castle. They closed methodically behind as the Model A scooted into the lamp-lit, amber light of the barn.

The driver killed the engine and stepped out as the first winds of the storm came to buffet the barn. There was a low howl as wind found holes between the boards and began singing a low note. Standing in the light of lanterns and one of a small fire with metal rods tucked in the hot embers men stood patted down in similar patched over heavy clothes. Potato and flour sacks cut to patch holes in plaid workman's shirts. Rabbit hides sewn to fix hats, boots, and the elbows and the knees of pants and shirts. They stood solemnly in waiting, with their hands wrapped around in front of them as a red banner hung from the far wall opposite of the door.

The car doors popped open as the rest walked out, carrying their rifles and shot guns as their boots crunched across a floor covered in Russian thistle and more than a few stomped bugs. Sitting in a bare wood chair, strapped down with ropes and a spud sack over his head sat a man in a tattered suit vest. He was breathing heavily and his deep rattling breaths were audible over the moaning whistles of the wind.

“We found 'im tryin' to break fer Missouri.” a man in the back said, “Must'a heard we were after him. But he can't run for shit. Soft men don't move very fast.”

The driver said nothing as he came up to arm's reach of the captured man. The wind was groaning heavier as he leaned over and grabbed the burlap sack and tore it from his head.

The man immediately released a strained gasp as he struggled at his binds. He looked up at his captor with eyes wide with terror. A pair of small cracked glasses rested on a short boy-ish nose. He would have looked too young to be a man if it weren't for the short stubble of his chin and cheeks. He hadn't shaved for a few days, his beard was as thin as his head of hair. Lines in his face betrayed a premature aging.

The driver knelt, coming down to eye-level with his captive. The captive could not see anything of his face, only his sorrowful fearful eyes in the aviator goggles the man wore.

“James McCaffer.” the driver spoke, in a low rattling voice, “How nice to finally meet you.”

“W-who are you?” James asked, stricken by fear.

“A nobody, comrade.” the driver answered him, “But you're a somebody, an important somebody who I hope have answers to our questions or we be swinging you from a rope by a windmill. There ain't no law and order much 'round here 'cept us. Understand?”

James shivered as he store into those empty eyes that was the goggles. “I guess you do.” the driver grumbled in a low voice. “What do you know 'bout the election of '32?”

James leaned his head back, the shiver of fear subsided briefly. He looked perplexed at his interrogator and asked, “W-what?” and moaned.

The driver rose in an instant and a gloved hand came sweeping from the side in a violent back-hand smashing the glasses from the man's small nose. James cried in pain and terror as the driver lowered. “The election of 1932!” he bellowed, “WHAT WENT WRONG?” he demanded in a terribly loud voice. James whimpered as he tried to escape, kicking at the floor. The effort wasn't wholly worthless as the chair backed up slowly, much to the amusement of the men around the barn.

The air darkened as the dust storm arrived. The air was filled with loose particles as dirt and sand found cracked between the boards and drifted in. The lights of the lanterns and the fires were slowly dimmed as the air was filled the black dirt. A dark amber glow filled the room. To James, he could not see his interrogator. To the driver, James was only a silhouette against a dull glow of fire.

“The election of 1932, you were an elector in the collage. You voted for the state of Kansis to elect our last president. What went wrong?” the driver demanded in a stern voice.

“I-I don't know!” James pleaded, his voice was quick to become rough and dry from the air he breathed in. He heaved and coughed, unprotected from the fine silt coming through. Many years ago his mum and pa brought him west to the Great Plains because New York was too dirty. Now he was breathing air worse than New York, and he could feel the claustrophobic sickness of his lungs being invaded by the airborne pollution of sand and dirt.

“You're going to have to do better than that!” the driver bellowed, “I have a man, an old ranch-hand. Steady and strong. Iffin' ya not gonna tell us what the fuck happened that day I will have him brand you so many times with a hot iron you will not have one inch of skin left unexposed to burns. You're going to be wincing as you piss and there ain't gonna be any whore anywhere that's not going to shiver at the site of your over-cooked sausage.

“So you're going to add more detail, or we'll roast it out of you.”

“That's all I-I... That's all I know. I don't know what happened that day, I cast my vote when the poll numbers came in and left. I swear to god I voted the way everyone in the state voted! And they all voted to hell with Hoover!

“Please for Christsakes I don't know shit!”

The driver was silent for a long time, then asked, “You're not the only state elector. Who else was there to cast a ballot?” he asked.

“I-I think an old acquaintance of mine was there, an old law-partner from the boom days! Jackson Donaheugh, that's his name. He had a farm-stead on the north-side of the state. That was his retirement plan. I don't know where he went after we stopped practicing together.”

“Where abouts in the north?” the driver asked coldly.

“A-ah shit, I don't know. All those towns are the same fucking thing there. It was all property to him! You can probably find out in the state archives, if they haven't been burned yet.”

“They shouldn't.” the driver crooned, standing to his feet. James coughed against the assault of the dirt and the grime. “Cut him loose and throw him free into the storm. If he lives then it's God's fucking good graces. If not, we're one less jackass to worry about. We're going to Topeka when the sand settles.”

"Governor Merriam?"

The building was tightly packed with people; wearing ties, bow-ties or only a white shirt with sweat-marks underneath the armpits; the poor, rich and massively rich even in this time of catastrophe; almost exclusively white men; all standing in this tightly packed room in the tightly packed building, having ventured outside of the comfort of their own homes to attend this enormously important meeting in the killing heat of the American summer. A meeting that would determine the fate of America.

"Governor Merriam!"

In one of the seats situated to the left of the speakers platform, an older gentleman, bald and a little round around the edges, shook back into reality after having faded away in the summer heat, reacting to the speaker calling out his name. Frank Merriam, governor of California since 1934, raised his hand and shouted out in response.

"Here!"

Then the speaker continued listing up the names of the different governors of all of America's states. But after this day, they would no longer be "America's states", but their own, sovereign states with their own governments, free from the influence of Washington D.C. and President Hoover.

President Herbert Hoover, the least liked American President since...well, ever. He had once been elected because of his admired work in the humanitarian efforts in Belgium and other qualifications. Having actuall political experience was not one. And now the current President of the United States of America was a mere shadow of his former self; he had won the 1932 election when nobody expected it, himself the least, and now he wished he'd never won; his lazzis faire economic policies had brough on the Great Depression, and he had no idea how to fix it; talk of seccesion sprung up all over the country, and he was in no position to once again unify the nation like his predecessors.

And now they were all gathered here, to put an end to the country they all once had proudly served; this was the last day of an united America.

Governor Frank Merriam were one of those men that wanted independence. Not because of a hatred of America, on the contrary! Like so many others at the meeting, they saw this as a last resort to save the American Dream, the American Nation, and the American way of life. It was just not possible under the leadership of the federal government, but perhaps under their own leaderships? For his own case, San Diego would become the new seat of government on the West Coast. And who knew? Perhaps within a few years the problems had been fixed, and an United States of America could once again become reality?

As Frank Merriam signed the Washington D.C. Treaty of 1937, this was the hope that made him smile, That, and the fact that he was now in power to reform, control and hopefully fix the troubles that haunted his new country, the PSA.

As days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, that sliver of hope vanished, as revolutions broke the country further apart and lay the American ideals of Liberty and Freedom to ruins. As the rump states of The Sisters Republics, The Dustbowls States and the CSSA, it was clear that an unified America was merely a dream, and that Frank Merriam and the Pacific States of America stood alone in the rise of extremism in America. He feared that the last bastion of the American Dream would fall just like the rest of America.

Thankfully (or unfortunately, depending on who you asked), the events of the 1934-riots in San Fransisco assured that the PSA would live on, for now, as the last remnant of the old USA.

For now...





Even for the guard on his late night-shift, even for him actually being paid and especially even for him being used to this kind of work, it was way too early for him to be up at this time of day. Philip Jenkins, one of the guards patrolling a small portion of the San Fransisco, swung his baton around and around as he walked down the dock leading out to the water, like so many nights before. Wasn't it bums and homeless people loitering the docks and warehouses, there was bound to be some other kind of trouble.

Reporting a miss-docked boat was just one of those kind of trouble.

As the guard, Philip Jenkins, made it to the very end of the dock, he noticed movement just behind one of the many ships and boats in the harbour. He checked his watch and his journal. Odd, there's isn't anything schedueled to dock here during my shift...The thought transformed into action as he noticed the boat sail directly towards him, at an alarming speed. "...Shit...STOP! San Fransisco Dock Patrol, I order you to stop your vessel!"

His voice didn't carry on through the air, the noise of seagulls, the waves from the boat and other sounds engulfing him as the boat came ever closer. He was tempted to run, and he very damn well should have, but for some reason he didn't; he stood frozen, nailed to the dock as he was sure to be smashed to pieces by the boat.

It didn't crash, it actually stopped.

Philip didn't realize he wasn't dead for a few moments, but as he regathered his wits, he let his flashlight trail over the exterior of the boat. And it was then that he realized, it was far from a mere boat; this was a yacht! And this also meant that it was not just anyone who could own such a craft, they had to be rich, famous, preferably both.

"Ehm...You're not allowed to dock here, I'm afraid!"

"But we have to, we ain't go any more fuel in Her!"

"I'm sorry Sir...Captain, but that's unfortunatetly my problem per say."

By now Philip could see a series of figures appear on the deck of the yacht; presumably the captain, a few servant-looking people, a man in a trench coat and a lady. It was the captain Philip had been talking to, and the argument went back and forth as to whether or not they were allowed to dock. It wasn't that he didn't want them there, being out of fuel did in-fact happen to quite a few sailors these days because of cost. It was because of rules and regulations, and the fact that he wanted to keep his job.

"Oh please darling, just this once, for poor us?" The lady suddenly spoke, coming down into proper eye-sight of Philip and his flashlight. If the yacht hadn't made him raise his eyebrows, the lady certainly did. It was Miriam Hopkins, a very beautiful woman, actress and sociolite. And of course, rich.

"You see, we've come an awful long way just to get here. The last place we stopped was in Panama, we didn't dare to stop in Mexico as you can easily understand. And don't even ask me how we managed to get all the way from Panama, my captain can tell you all about that. But anyway, we really needed to get here, to San Fransisco and the West Coast, away from the troubles in the East. So pretty please, can't you just let this one slide?"

Philip was stunned, speechless, taking in the whole situation that unfolded before him. This was not what he had expected when he began his shift that night. And he certainly didn't except Miriam Hopkings to personally pull out a bundle of 100 dollar bills and give him a few and a kiss on his cheek. He blushed, but he wasn't sure if it was from the kiss or the amount of money he held in his hand.

"Ehm...sure, anything for friends of San Fransisco such as yourself, Miss Hopkins! Let me call up a few of my colleagues, and we'll help you with your luggage!"

"That would be fantastic, thank you."

______________________________________

This scene would repeat itself many times across the PSA, as many members of the pre-treaty US cultural elite and entertainment world packed up their bags and left the unstable East Coast, at least according to themselves. They set their aim for the sunny West, for Hollywood and cheap real-estate, so that they could continue to be rich and famous in what remained most alike the old America. And luckily for President Frank Merriam, they brought money. Loads of money.

Shit.

Thomas' heart pounded as he ran through the forest, clutching his revolver close to him. His torn suit did him no favors, especially not in the exceptionally cold night. To make matters worse it was a full moon, and rays of moonlight illuminated the entire forest as if God himself had lent the Confederates a searchlight. The last time he had eaten had been two days ago, and after having the dry heaves for all that time he was pretty sure that the water he drank was contaminated. All in all, it was shaping up a pretty shitty night.

The roaring of an engine came from the direction of the road, which he had kept close to due to his total lack of a compass or any other useful navigational tool. A light from the road hit the trees near him, which only made him try to run even faster. For a split second he saw the ray of light illuminate the dust in the air in front of him, then it hit his right eye with blinding power. He ducked, but the car's engine got quieter and the light stayed on him. They'd seen him, all right.

Shit!

"We got 'im!" Yelled a man from the road as a bullet flew through the leaves a foot or so away. Thomas' self-preservation instincts kicked into overdrive and give him a second wind as he picked up his pace. Flashlights reflected off the trees and leaves all around him, as if the light itself was a monster that would consume him the moment it came into contact. His old body wasn't made for the stress of the running, but adrenaline has a way of making you ignore the fact that you're sixty-nine years old.

"Don't let that fucker across the border!" Yelled another man as a hail of gunfire slammed into the trees. Thomas took a moment to thank God that Tommy guns weren't anywhere near accurate. He wasn't quite sure why the man had said what he did, however. One would think that everyone chasing a wanted man would know damn well that they can't let said man cross the border into another country.

Machine gun fire from in front of him told him exactly why the man had yelled.

A bullet hit his leg and he fell face-down into the dirt, a situation even adrenaline couldn't get him out of. Still, though, he tried. His old bones strained to push himself upright, just in time for a boot to meet his torso and drop him to the ground on his back. A man in a gray confederate uniform stood staring back at him, holding a revolver of his own and pointing it right at Thomas' head.

"Thomas Felts..." Said the uniformed man, a smile growing on his face. "Never thought I'd be the one ta' do the honors."

"No, please! That's all in the past!" Pleaded Thomas, a reasonable response to having a gun pointed at your head. "I disbanded the agency!"

"Disbanding the agency don't mean the men you killed get brought back to life, detective. I was a coal miner, I know goddamned well the hell you put us through. You ain't gettin off the hook."

"I-I'll do anything! Please! You don't need to kill me! Just get some handcuffs and-"

"Well my orders were to bring you in alive." Said the man, who then fired his revolver. The bullet went straight into Thomas' brain, bringing the old man's life to an end. "Shame that I missed your leg."

---

The red flag of the Confederacy fluttered over the building that housed the Confederate Council. At least, that's how it would look in the newspaper article about the meeting being held within. In reality, it just wasn't a very windy day and the flag was hanging down in a gloomy sort of fashion. And that, of course, just simply wouldn't do for the picture that would accompany the grandiose announcement that would grace the breakfast tables of people all across the Confederacy come next morning.

"Mr. Ford!" Screamed a man in the gray military uniform of the state, which would have hearkened back to that of the original Confederacy if not for the glaringly large hammer and sickle that was displayed on its helmet. "You have to look beyond the numbers! We've got plenty more soldiers, but there ain't enough good guns to supply them all!"

"But we do have enough working guns, don't we?" Said Ford, his speech accompanied by multiple hand motions that did little to actually help him convey his message. "It don't matter if it's a hunting rifle that a man's firin', he's still firin' a bullet that's still got the capability to kill someone."

"That's not all, though!" Continued the man in uniform as if nothing had been said. "Their air forces are vastly superior! Our boys have been keeping tabs on those new German planes they've got flying around the border, and they're goddamned monsters! Take a look at this!"

He nodded to a woman in the center of the room, who was sitting by a bulky projector taken from a movie theater. She turned on the device just as someone else in the room flipped off the lights, allowing the image it was displaying on the wall to be seen clearer. Everyone turned to get a look at the grainy photograph of an aircraft.

"This is a German monoplane." Said the man. "Full metal fuselage, enclosed cockpit, and we believe it to be capable of counting a cannon. It's got astounding maneuverability, and likely survivability. We can fight it, but I'm afraid that we just don't have enough planes to take their force on. We need either better planes, or more planes."

"Well that's good, because we can do both." Said Ford. "We've already secured a lend-lease deal with the Soviet Union for some of their fighter aircraft, specifically the I-15 and I-16 models."

"You would send I-15 biplanes against an air force made up entirely of monoplane aircraft? Besides, those are both open cockpit planes! Perhaps that's more planes, but certainly not better ones! How can we be sure that they'll be capable of combating these new fascist planes at all?"

"Because they already have in Spain. Both've been proven to be highly effective. Hell, there's been talk of producing them in Spain as well. We've also got engineers already working on a new prototype, the CW-37 Kitty Hawk. It's set for its first flight in October of next year. We're hoping to remedy the rest of our armament problems by then too, as Director Saltsgaver can tell you."

Saltsgaver stood up from his seat next to Ford. In contrast to both men, he was wearing the simple clothes of a working man. He always did. As he was keen to say, anything fancier put a bitter taste in his mouth.

"I guess that's my cue." He said. "We've been doin' well with the economic expansion. The conversion of the entire Brightleaf complex is complete and pumpin' out armaments, including those shiny new Soviet planes y'all was just discussin'. I oughta' mention that production of BT-7 cavalry tanks has increased substantially. Only problem's that our steel stockpile's startin' to run low."

"Will it last?" Asked Ford.

"Oh, it'll last well enough. But we need ta' get some more mills operational, or at least convert somthin' quick. Otherwise we'll have ta' half construction on some ships. And I'm right certain that haltin' production on ships'll do nothin' good for the Navy."

"Can it be done?"

"We'll need ta'... improvise a bit, but yessir it can. I've got some floorplans in my briefcase right now for the govner's mansion in West Virginia. Place'll make a right fine steel mill."

"Good, you be sure that it gets done. God knows what those Yankees're doin' right now. I'd rather deal with 'em sooner rather'n later. Well then, how're the oil wells down in Texas holdin' up?"

As it happened, the frontpage of the newspaper the next day didn't bear the perfectly doctored photograph of the Council building. Instead, upon the frontpage of every newspaper in every mailbox of every household in the Confederacy was an I-15 Chaika biplane in all of its glory. The headline read "New fighter plane enters production in Durham!"

The sunrises over Tienanmen Square, as the light shines upon the portrait of Sun Yat-sen overlooking the square, as the portrait lies on the center of the Gate of Tienanmen. The urbanized capitol of Beiping, beyond the gates of the Imperial Forbidden City, is the tall housing collectives towering over what was once filled with traditional Chinese architecture buildings on the streets, the traditional architecture mostly gone in favor of those large housing collective blocks to have the mass population of the great capitol squeeze in, though they are not large massive towers like in New York, these towers are often at the most 6-12 story tall, around the city. Though between the towers rely the parks and the traditional temples and landmarks standing in the city, to give it still a feeling of openness and the idea that you have peace within the mass housing complex of Beiping, the wide avenues and street cars fill up the roadways of bicycles and old soviet automobiles help give the image as well. The city beyond the housing towers, palaces, and temples; near the famed Forbidden Palace, is buildings such as the “Beiping Political University”, and the parliamentary building built in a ornate marble Soviet-Art Deco style, with infront a bronze statue of Sun Yat-sen with two flags by him, on one side is the national flag and the otherside; is the Xinhai Revolutionary flag, used in the 1911 revolt.

At 9:30, on this clear sunny Sunday, bells rung; to direct people that a speech by the preisdent within the Forbidden Palace, over the great Gate of Tienanmen was to occur. The massive speech occurred on the gate's large open 'balcony', as the great President Shi Xiaobo, chanting over the great gate to the thousands upon thousands who came from around the near provinces and even those who traveled across to the southern provinces such as Guangdong.

“Comrades, the great unification is far from over!”, As Shi Xiaobo chants to the masses; “Onward to unify China from the comrades in Inner Mongolia, Manchuria, Tibet and Xinjiang; ready for unification, held back by the greedy warlords of the imperialist! China Proper [The Geographic Region], has united under the people, but others remain in shackles in slavery!”

The people, scream of support of the words of President Shi Xiaobo, who has gotten the nickname of, “The Great President”. People chant in support of a unified China under the, “People, Party, and Culture”, as mandated by fliers across major cities to support nationalism and increase propaganda awareness for the government.

“Onward to victory! Those without freedom are restricted to become slaves of the Westerners, who will one day return and attempt to colonize us more!”, as he continues to shout over to the masses watching over him.

His speech, continued till noon at when at 12:00, his speech is over, people begin returning back to their normal routine, and returning to their homes and ready to get ready for Monday, and begin their work week. As those who return to their towers, portraits of President Shi Xiaobo and Sun Yat-sen lie on propaganda billboards and government buildings. With other billboards advertising state-funded plays to promote nationalism and promote state propaganda of the party and government. Such as the ones in the Great People's Theater Hall, near the Forbidden City, showing plays such as, “Dawn of the Red Flower”, and “Revolutionary Star of China”. Though around the streets in imported Soviet police cars, and small 'hidden' spots is the Jinyiwei, which is the secret police to keep the masses inline across the controlled regions. Though life in the capitol may seem, decent compared to other places. It's not all dandy in China as it seems.


Meanwhile, across the landscaping in Sichuan Provience, is the city of Chengdu; around 270 kilometers from Chongking. Chengdu was once a proud city until the depression; the city has been hit hard, people live in poorly made housing, old crumbling 1-2 story homes, with old gates, and temples overlooking the old city; though landmarks like the old Summer Palace of Chengdu, remain in decent condition; the housing and non-landmark buildings show their age, with broken windows, dirt roads with many cart and buggies. This is life in Chengdu. The city's massive population of around 300,000 people; live in tight knitted communities trying to ride out the depression, hoping that eventually life can become better. Though, the elite of the city live in the heart of the city, known as Jinli, which is preserved Ming-Qing Dynasty era streets with brick roads, often restricted from the poor majority population of the city to live in. The gates of Chengdu, remain a symbol of hope that like China, Chengdu can ride out the problems of the world. Life in Chengdu is worse now, than it was before, during the Qing many say. The city is a shadow of its former glory. Though, this is not a one case, many cities across China have this similar fate due to the depression. Often Chengdu, like many major cities see major power outages, and often it's hard to even get fresh food, with food having to be imported from other areas of China who themselves, have barely any to spare. It's tough if you don't live in the important cities like Beiping, Shanghai, Canton, Chang'an, and a few other select cities.

“Mom, I couldn't find food for tonight”, a young man is heard saying in his old home in the outskirts of the heart of Chengdu.

With his mother replying simply, “We'll just, have to result to the fruit trees to feed you, your father, your sister and myself, you're father will be working late; to attempt to gather more pay.” [Payment in these areas of China is extremely poor for the hard labor people put out.]

“I will go pick some of the fruits, it's better than nothing. Though I do miss the taste of meat. When are we going to milk the cow?”, the boy continues to discuss with his mother.

“She will be milked tomorrow, and supply us with at the least, milk. We will have to get clean water from the market near the Jinli Markets.”, his mother replies, “Now go get some fruits, I think we are all starving...” She sighs depressingly, tired of living like this, but she failed to apply for the permits for her family, to be able to move from Chengdu, like many others failed to do.

As her boy gathers fruit, they drink the last of the milk they had, as they wait tomorrow for fresh milk and water. With the little money they have, they continue to survive, the best they could... Chengdu still remains one of the economically stronger than a lot of other minor cities... The night arises, with the factories emitting their smoke across the outskirts, making goods for the army, government, and the peasants.

As a city, Witchita was by no means a Las Angeles, nor was it a New York. But nesting on the banks of the Arkansas river in the flatland of Kansas it was a veritable mecca. The town had exploded in growth during the land speculation of the 1880's, and again more recently with the first digging of oil and natural gas wells outside of town, bringing industry with it as fuel refineries went up at the city outskirts and aircraft manufacturing came in droves to build and work during the Great War. The total contributions had turned Witchita in a modest, if surprising metropolis in the central American plains with stout modernist high-rises breaking up an otherwise turn-of-the-century city-scape.

A panorama view of the city could be had – in part – from the top floor of the Lassen Hotel. Earl Browder stood at the windows, his hands tucked into the pockets of his suit as he looked down at the city. The sky was clear with only a few wispy puffs of cloud. Somewhere off to the west and a little to the south drifted a large bank of mud-colored cloud. A dust-storm, the president surmised from the shape and color of the distant anomaly. He scratched his chin as he watched it.

Earl Browder stood as a confident sort of figure, with the kind of posture a man of confident leadership has. His face held a stoic, deep since of concentration and a scouring look of judgment. Yet his hard appearances did not betray a hard personality, those who knew him hailed him as fair with a strong business like personality that echoed across his life from his younger days as a business student and as a sales clerk.

He was trim, with a well minded narrow mustache that hung below a stout pyramidal nose. The sides of his head above the ears was shaved close to his temple and created an almost column-like look to the top of his head where a crown of brushed-back hair lay across the top of his head in a swept wave.

The hotel these days was used less as a place for travelers to sweep. With the dissolution of the United States and the revolution in the states Browder presided over the Lassen Hotel was almost in a state of disuse, and a large part of it was taken under by Browder and his communist allies as a central office by which to work out of. The upper floors contained the function of his presidium. He, his members of cabinet, commanding generals, and a few close allies. The top-most floor, and the corner of the building which he stayed became as much an office to Browder as it was at times a home.

Other buildings and offices had been seized and taken over for similar functions. The Orpheum Theater was for instance allocated for congressional meetings of the Communist Congress of the American Mid-west as it was also a center which rallies were held by Browder himself, and other prominent figures of the left-wing government here. There had been no time to go about the grand task of building proper accommodations for government. There was discussion to erect formal institutions for the simple act of having a physical symbol of the movement, while others held out that someday Washington might be soon liberated and the entire congress of American socialists and communists may someday move into and re-purpose the old hallowed halls of the old government.

And while the future was pondered and planned, Browder thought much about the course of the Revolution in America. Was communism in the states to be the Soviet model, or would it be an American model? While Browder had considered himself a friend of the Soviets, seeing a clearly defined area of the US that he could identify as being communist – two actually – illuminated the issue brighter. If revolution in the US could be accomplished, would it be the Soviet model, or would it be building communism on the heritage of US government? If a communist America could be built, would it be in concert to the Soviets or would it be independent of the Soviet mindset; though all the same friendly as recognition of comrades in revolution?

He puffed steadily on a cherrywood colored pipe he had been holding in his hands as he considered these inevitable policy matters as a knock on the door to his room cut his attention from the deeper matters. It was time to re-enter the world of present-day issues. He turned and called out in his soft drawling voice of the American mid-west, hampered only by years of softening the accent to become approachable on the old national theater: “Come on in.”

The door opened, and in stepped in a large man. His head was balding and a face that had once been plump was slowly loosing definition as it became shallow around the chin and cheek, leaving loose handles of flesh on his bones. Allen Fishcher was his name, an old coal miner who had sought to farm the plains to clean his lungs, only to find his farm swallowed by the dust that blew off the ground from the west. And from this, he turned his scarred windswept hands to government in search of purpose. He was for Browder a adviser and as a liaison between he and the farmers of the land.

“Earl, how ya' doing?” he asked in his deep earthy voice. He looked Browder straight in the eyes, despite how tired his face looked, Fishcher's eyes were glowing with vibrancy and commitment. It was the work, Browder surmised, which had filled him with enough purpose in the mornings which had re-lit those lights in his soul and brought the spark out.

“As well as any man in these hard times.” he said, gesturing with his pipe out the window to the dust cloud in the far horizon, “Do you think it'll come over us?” he asked tentatively.

Allen Fishcher stepped to the window and looked out, squinting to see through the afternoon sunlight. He pondered for a moment. “Nah.” he said confidently, “It's going south, it'll sweep Texas before it catches up on winds from the Gulf. I felt it in my bones today, they do not ache like they do when a wind comes from the south, with the promise of rain which does not come. I can only guess the system will go south, perhaps as far as the Rio Grande before turning around. By then most of the dust will have dropped.”

Browder nodded, chomping down on his pipe again. “Speaking of dust storms, how goes your canvassing?” he asked. He had a few months previous tasked Allen to canvas and speak to the people of the Dust Bowl. To probe the situation to find a scope and size of the most afflicted region.

“It's a very big problem.” he admitted, with a troubled sigh. “Over a hundred million acres of rich farmland is stripped naked by winds from Oklahoma to New Mexico, here in Kansas and even Colorado and deep into Texas. A lotta our people are prayin' for rain that I don't think will come.

“A lot of the old ranchers say we doomed ourselves, I wanted to hear it from the Indians but they didn't want to speak with us white-men. I'm still courting them, but they're cynical.”

“Perhaps for good reason.” Browder mused, with an eye on the past.

Allen shrugged, and continued, “I have a report written up, would you like to read it?”

“Later,” Browder said, “Just toss it on the coffee table when you leave. Do you have any recommendations on what should be done out there? You worked the land.”

“I ain't no rancher, so I wouldn't know. Not as much as that old class of working men. This is... this is a science beyond me, Earl. You're going to have to find someone who knows what to look at, touch... Even perhaps hear, taste, and smell. Then he's going to need to know how to talk about it before we have any ideas.”

Browder looked out the window, to that damnable wave of sand in the air in the far distance. It'd be washing over train tracks now, probably the Arkansas will run a little browner in a bit. “How does man stop the wind?” he mused, “How does man return the soil?” he asked.

“If you need me to, I can go and ask around.” Allen said, “Surely someone at the university still has the expertise to have an idea, or knows enough people in the greater community to produce a name.”

“That'll be nice, thank you.” said Browder, with a polite smile. But it felt forced and dry.

Allen Fischer moved to the coffee table, a richly stained Victorian piece set between two wood-trimmed crimson-colored couches. A half-drunk bottle of brandy was already on the table with a few crystal shot-glasses, over top a map of the United States. There was some pieces on the map, loose figurines and baubles scattered on the map like a chess board. Allen spied the notepad covered in scribbled notes alongside the bottle.

“Planning something?” Allen asked. He felt the heaviness drop in his stomach, the kind associated with stressed anxiety.

“A little.” Browder said. There was a certain grimness in his voice like he didn't like the idea either.

“Have you by chance been listening to Trotsky and his musings on this 'permanent revolution' business?” Allen pried.

Earl Browder didn't respond. At least no immediately. Allen was half way up in standing after throwing down his report when he did respond, “He is right, in a way.” Browder asserted, “At least in respect to America, I think. We can't sit here forever. We need to reach for an end goal. I need the first moves. I'll be talking with Clemmfield about it tomorrow.

“It hurts me, Allen. A man who detested the War looking to make it. But the Bolsheviks didn't win Russia in revolution by standing by and let the White Army brood in their corners until they admit they're wrong, and Lenin was right. A certain initiative needs to be taken. By us.” He drew long on his pipe and scratched the back of his head.

“We can fill you in if you're interested in being a part of the discussion. It's tomorrow at twelve. I promised that we'd do it over lunch.”

“Ah, thanks...” Fishcher said, thankful but uneasy and a little glum, “I'll think about it.”

Browder nodded, and continued to stare out the window. He wouldn't get to the report until an hour later.

London, United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland
Prime Minister Watson Joseph read the newspaper about the revolution in Germany between Hitler and Wilhelm II. Their armies marched all over Germany to control the important cities and resources, like the Kiel Canal. The canal is currently under the control of Wilhelm II, but that could change at any moment as Hitler's forces are getting ready to attack. Berlin is controlled by Hitler and the main base of his army. Wilhelm II is located in Hanover for the moment as they are planning some sort of attack.

The Weimar Republic had been gone for four years since Hitler was sworn in as Chancellor and enacted the Enabling Act. However, the Imperials rose up to counter the fascist government. Either way, the aftermath would be disastrous for the British Empire. And with the fall of The United States, countries were becoming careless as they didn't have to worry about America anymore.

His focus on the newspaper changed as he heard a knock on the door. He put down the paper and said that the door was open. The Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs opened the door and walked up to the Prime Minister. “Have you come a decision yet?” he burst out almost immediately before saying hello.

“Are you pressuring me?” Joseph asked.

“The King would like an answer as soon as possible. He's doesn't want to wait any longer.” the Secretary of State clarified.

The Prime Minister stood up and signed heavily as he went to the window nearby and looked at the busy street. Joseph didn't like being pushed or pressured to make any decisions. He'd rather look into the situation, but he had plenty of years to do that. And the answer to simple: Help Wilhelm II to rescue Germany and re-establish the German Empire. Even known the answer wasn't the one that he had hoped, he'd rather have them than Nazi Germany.

“Alright, I support the re-establishment of the German Empire by sending supplies and a couple divisions to Hanover.” he answered the question as he handed the secretary the piece of paper that gave approval.

The Secretary smiled as he grabbed the paper off of the Joseph's hands and walked away. He thanked him as he was walking away to give the paper to the King.

Joseph sat back down on the desk and looked at the paperwork that he had to do for the day. Most of the paperwork was from the establishing relations with the new countries in America. The socialist countries were questionable as the country didn't have good relations with the USSR and China since the revolution in India. These countries could hate the country, but he knew that they still have to try to establish some sort of relations with them. The other countries were more likely to be good friends to the British Empire. Especially the Pacific States of America.

He wrote requests for an embassy and trade in each of the nations and sent them in the mail, where they are being sent to the governments of those countries.

Cape Town, South Africa
“How are we doing with the supplies?” one of the soldiers asked as he was going over the paper works from the military. The order was to improve the navel base in the city for the fleet to stop for fueling or repairs while going around Africa. The fleet has gotten bigger since the First World War and the time to travel around Africa is still the same. So, the military began a series of building and updating naval bases around their colonies to help combat the depression.

“Most of the supplies arrived for the last drop off. The remaining supplies will be here before dawn.” another soldier said as he set down a box full of wires next to other boxes. He walked towards the soldier to wait for more orders.

“Alright, we'll wait then. Until then, we are break.” the soldier said as he walked back to his commander's office. The commander, Christopher Porter, had just existed out of his office as the soldier approached him. Porter was fifty-six years, meaning that he was in the First World War. He doesn't like to share the stories of the front lines during his time in the war. The war turned him into a harsh, strict person.

“Sir.” the soldier saluted to Porter.

“How are the shipments?” Porter asked as he was locking up the door to his office.

“They are fine, sir. Most of the required supplies were in the shipment. The remaining supplies will come in by dawn.” the soldier answered while he held on the paper.

“Good.” the commander said as he walked towards the forlite saloon. He opened the door as the soldier followed him to the car. “What should I do then?” he asked.

“Why don't you do something else than bug me?” Porter suggested to the soldier as he got in the car and started it up. He left the naval base for some reason that was classified to discuss. The soldier walked away and headed to the other soldiers. They were playing blackjack as the soldier saw them nearby one of the docked ships. Some of the sailors had joined in the game.

“Alright, gentlemen. It's time to show off your cards.” one of the sailors declared.

All of the cards were shown off and only one was able to get twenty-one. Cameron Fletcher was the winner of the game as he grabbed some coins and a fresh bottle of rum. The other players were annoyed by the defeat and some left the table as they had nothing worth of value to deal in. Fletcher walked towards the soldier and offered his drink. The soldier smiled at the offer, but he turned it down.

“Whatever.” Fletcher said as he took a drink. He instead gave him some of the coins that he got from the game, but it wasn't worth much.

“Thanks.” he thanked as he put the coins in his pocket before being dragged by him. They both had been in the army for a while and joined because their fathers were in the war and they wanted to honor their service. A lot of casualties happened during the war as the front line was horrible. After the war ended, tons of people were recruited into the military services. Since the Britain was still a colonial empire, most of them received their training and went to one of the colonies. Africa was a common place to send soldiers since unrest has been growing.

Because of the India revolution, the government was worried that more colonies might attempt to rebel against them. That's why soldiers are being sent to the colonies rather than staying in their homeland. They want to protect their resources as long as they can. The guys walked to the military barracks, where other soldiers were as well. Most of them were resting after working in the heat for most of the day. Fletcher walked to his bed and sat on it as the soldier went to his bed next to Fletcher's. He was wiping the sweat off of his forehead as he finished up the rum. The soldier looked at the empty glass. He started to talk, “Are you ready for more lifting tomorrow?”

“It's the last shipment and lifting that we have done for a long time. I am ready to get it done.” Fletcher said as he lay down on the bed. The soldier decided to take a quick nap and told Fletcher, “Shout at me if something happens.”

“I will. Just get some shut-eye.” he said as he was looking at the coins that he won. The soldier quickly fell asleep.

The time, is 12:54 in the afternoon in the heart of Beiping, inside the Presidential Palace, located near the Forbidden City, President Shi Xiaobo, sits in his office on the second floor of the building, as his office's front doors, on each side adorns the national flag; he studies the flags for a few seconds, before a man named, Liu Zenguang; who was head of the "State Department of the Jinyiwei" walks into the office.

"Mr. Shi, the people are attempting a staged protest at Beihai Park on Qionghua Island, the old imperial park, it's about northwest of the Forbidden City, and it is confirmed the protesters likely came from the western provinces, protesting the conditions of their homes and villages, due to the economical conditions", Liu Zenguang says, "What actions do you take? Central Party said to ask you."

"Suppress it, I am authorizing your Jinyiwei", as President Shi replies,"Use all authority of your department to end the protests, just don't go out of the boundaries."

Liu simply replies with, "Yes sir, thank you."

Within about ten minutes, around six old Soviet cars begin racing down Jingshan West St, turning onto Zhishanmen St, that leads directly to the island park; coming out of them are Jinyiwei officers rushing toward the protestors, who were staging the protest by the White Pagoda, who begin encircling the twenty or so protesters with old planks of wood with written on them [of course in Chinese], "Think of the Villagers!", "The Government Can't Ignore Us!"; the Jinyiwei begins swinging their batons near them as a warning to disperse.

One of the officers using a megaphone yell, "You must disperse, This is your last warning!"

The protesters begin pushing any Jinyiwei that attempt to get closer, some even throwing rocks at the officers, leaving them to get more violent. With some swinging the batons at the legs of protesters making protests fall to the ground, before being dragged away; as a Jinyiwei police bus arrived, that protesters who refuse to disperse; are thrown into the be sent into a labor jail a few miles south of the capital city. By this point, the island has been blocked off and closed to the public due to the protesting, though by 3:41, around six protesters remain, and they begin violent lashes, and physically attacking Jinyiwei officers. Leaving to several Jinyiwei officers, in defense to swing their batons at protestors heads and upper torsos, as a way to protect themselves, as they were not permitted to use guns due to the smaller size of the protest, and as a way to prevent it to escalating to full scale violence, which still occurred to those who don't surrender and return home, or be arrested for "disrupted peace", and "attempting to damage the government and the party". Though at last, at 4:04, protestors who were injured, were put in ambulances, and after their treated would be sent to the labor jail.

After what the government now dubs, "The Beihai Incident", they order media to not report on it, and keep it from spreading from outside of the city, and with the island closed off due to the Jinyiwei arriving, it seems it most likely will be forgotten within a matter of days, except for within the labor jails where it won't escape, as once you enter the jail, you almost never escape, alive.

“Would you like any more coffee, sir?” the waitress asked politely. She wore a tight-fitting white dressed, dutifully bleached so that it shone in the incandescent lighting of the diner. Her hair combed back, it was wrapped in a tight bun. She couldn't have been older than sixteen, and her youthful face held back anxious reproach as she looked at the man.

Dirty, and covered in dust the man she addressed at the table was the clear opposite of the diner. Linoleum floors shone clean and mopped in the warm lighting and the autumn sunlight on the white table top.

“Nah, I don't think so ma'am.” the man said in a low crackling voice. He was the diner's opposite, his voice cut around the edges with an abrasive gritty rattle. His skin was baked dark by the sun, deepening his already half-breed Native American complexion. But in the dark rings around his eyes a pair of strong blue eyes looked up at the young girl.

“Alright, thank you.” the youth smiled, nervously. She shuffled away, timidly plodding to the next table quietly, as if her foot steps would somehow rouse the sandy gentlemen at the table into anger. And why wouldn't it? Unbeknownst to her, just the other day he had marched someone out into their death in the middle of a dust storm.

“Hey Duke, whadd'ya think we'll find when those records come through?” asked one of his table mates across from him. Duke, the driver looked over at him, and considered.

He and him were both of two different stocks. Duke, a half-Indian had a certain wide heavy build to his bones that bulged his shoulders and gave him a wide rounded chin. He looked to be the son of a warrior chief of old, and his hands looked able to scalp a man without the help of so much of a knife. But he was also half-Swedish, and the sandy blonde hair that hung down across his forehead and his sharp sapphire blue eyes certainly added considerably European features to his aboriginal looks.

The other, Paul was a skinny sort of German or Dutch man. His thick head of hair seemed never to be clean and as such could one day be a dark brown, oily black, or a rusted red. He was also loosing his hair early, and his forehead was quickly growing taller as his hair fell out. Five years younger than Duke at twenty-six he had ambled into the special government service they were in as almost like a drifter for hire from the ranching days. He'd been looking for work, and presented Duke with the old family revolver he hung openly on his hip, as one of the few people to actually do so. He had a wiry ranch-hand look about him, a greenhorn ranch hand.

“Another breadcrumb.” Duke replied, sliding the half-empty coffee cup back and forth between his hands.

“An' we'll keep peckin' and keep peckin', sooner enough we'll be so full of breadcrumbs we won't move. Most well fed vigilante on the dusty prairies for well over twenty years naw.” smiled a man next to Duke, he starred wistfully across the street to Topeka just outside.

The streets were busy enough, some folk had work enough and Browder and his Congress had tried to get people to work by throwing open the old car factories that had been shuddered after the war. In so far, Duke had only heard of them manufacturing replacement parts for folk trying to keep their Chevrolet and Model A's limping along from day to day. Most of the time, these parts simply forced the cars to turn into Frankenstein machines with the parts built for cars from the long-dead car company that once had used them, loosely adapted to the general idea of a Ford or GM car. Some others he had heard more, went to Topeka as aircraft parts.

Topeka was a modern city in the sense of the word as it applied to the Midwest. It had tall buildings, but none going much higher than ten stories. Mostly offices and apartments. The otherwise drab and dirty exteriors had been painted over in the last few years with encouraging murals that fill people in on the slogans that Wichita ran on.

“Blacks are as good as whites”, “Unions are the cornerstones of the new Democracy!”, “Communism: the new Americanism”. These were accompanied in some way by paintings of men shacking hands across the races, or across unions, or Anarchists with what Duke could only assume were the neat and tidy democratic socialists. Sometimes he couldn't quite grasp it. Yet he hadn't yet found anything for people of his mother's background, the Osage. But he guessed it was implied with the bi-racial symbol of unity of the white man shaking hands with the black.

The man next to Duke was a survivor of the Great War. He bragged he was one of the first Marines to enter France and the first American rifle to shoot a kraut in Europe. His claims couldn't be proven, but what could was that he was one of the many who had left Europe ruined by the war. A grenade had early in the war tore at the left side of his face, deeply scarring his skin and destroying his eye. He was a jovial man, who smiled despite it, and each time he did his grin was crooked and showed teeth at the edge of his lips. He was sensible though, and he made attempts to hide his face. A patch to cover his eye, and a wadded mas of fabric that served as a replacement for the old facial prosthetic he had lost between the war and now.

He was large, even more so than Duke. With a big bulbous nose like a doorknob and deep dark eyes. He had been a Sgt. MacAllster before the war, but now he was simply Buff.

“Well, ah- what I mean is what do you think will be at the end of this?” Paul asked, rephrasing his previous point; or hoping to have. “We'll have to find out something. Duke, you seem to think you know what's up?” he asked, full of energy and vigor.

“All I know is something happened.” he grumbled, “And someone, someones got hella cheated.” he voice dropped thinking about it. Thinking that in Wichita there was a general theory that something had fucked up somewhere and they were sent out in force to figure it out.

They had been ambling about for months, hoping to find answers in where ever. They had charged people in the old state governments who hadn't made the switch, even sent a few to prisons. They had beat and killed their way along. If Duke looked back at the journey so far as a highway, there'd be a couple dark shapes strung up hanging from windmills and telephone poles, beating and swinging in the dry cold and hot winds. 'How much of this was because they were all angry?' he often wondered.

The diner wasn't very full, so there wasn't many people around to catch the drift of the conversation to start asking questions. Though few would ask a man with a Red Bandanna around their necks. Many kept clear. They knew the stories of the armed rogues who dealt with the reactionaries. They were hardly a secret, nor were they very clean.

“You know what I think?” Paul began, “I think it was a German conspiracy!” he proclaimed in a hushed breath, his voice was clearly excited.

Buff gave a loud snorting laugh from his corner of the table and turned his head around to him. “Nah where tha' hell did'ya get that from?” he snorted in his thick molasses Texan accent.

“Oh I don't know, I was just thinking.” Paul answered him, “It's just a theory. And besides, those Fascists are already dug down in New York, what if they had a hand in things earlier and took over the elections? Why else would a Republican like Hoover win?”

“Sounds more lik'a hypothesis t'me.” Buff chuckled grimly, “But keep dreamin' kid.” he smiled. The cloth bandages he used to hid his broken face peeled back a little as he smiled, revealed a crooked toothy mouth at the left-side of his face.

Paul visibly shivered and dropped his face to the plate of half-eaten food in front of him. He seemed to consider it for a minute, then pushed it aside.

The door to the diner opened with the soft chime of a brass bell over the door. Duke looked open to see a group of men as ragged as them enter in. Politely, they tipped their hats to the old woman at the register and walked over to where they were at. One was holding a notepad in his hands.

“Comrades.” the taller of the group said as they came over.

“How was the old archives?” Duke asked them.

“We done got through it good.” the man said, holding up his notebook, “Jackson Donaheugh, lives up in Hill City.”

Duke nodded, looking over at his table mates he groaned, “We'll talk about this outside.”

The new men nodded, and stepped aside as the table emptied.
___________

They had been let out easily enough, the old lady at the register letting them go with a soft quip that, “They'll send a bill to Wichita”. With a polite thanks, Duke let himself out into the streets and the group went around back to an alley where they had parked their cars.

Though still sand-blasted they had cut their chains loose, far from the worse epicenter of the deadly dust-storms, the build up of high-voltage static wasn't an issue. And parked in the long shadows of buildings around them they appeared to be as anyone else's worn down country car. Tough one, a truck, sported the decoration of many coyote pelts nailed to the hood. Their coats were dry and nearly mummified from the sun and sand.

The air smelled like dejected grease.

“Our man it appears retired to a eighty-five square-mile horse ranch north of Hill City, Kansas.” the tall man who had led the expedition into the Kansas state land archives said, “At least that's what I can gather, McKenzie dived into what other records there he could find to help build us a profile, but it appears that after the crash Donaheugh sold as much stock as he had left to try and reimburse himself and dug in at ranch land. We can't tell what he's been doing sense, but by the looks of it he could still be there; he was paying taxes on the land still up until the Revolution.”

“He could have flown the coup.” Duke said, “What makes you confident he's there?” he asked.

“I'm not.” the fellow Red Vigilante said, “I'm just betting. We also found names of his family around the state, if we had to we could split up and talk to any of them on the off-chance he may have left. Figure out if they know of any out of state family or associates.”

Duke nodded, “I like that plan.”

“I thought you would.” the man said.

“Eighty-five miles though,” said Duke with a reproachful sigh, “That's a lot of ground he can use to hide or escape through if he knew we're coming.”

“He might be armed too.” Buff pointed out, adding: “But one man versus even three, the odds won't be in his favor.”

“They sure won't.”

“Then we'll follow it, as always.” Duke said without any further thought, “I want you to look into those family contacts of his too,” he added, nodding to the other vigilante, “do what investigating you can. We'll all head back into Wichita when we're done and compare notes.”

“Sounds good to me.” the other smiled, clapping his hand, “See you on the other side!” he cheered, turning to the coyote-pelt covered truck.

Hsinking, Manchukuo

As the sun sunk below the rocky Manchurian horizon, the city of Hsinking was only beginning to awake. Formerly known as Changchun, the City of the Long Spring had become the capital of the new Manchurian state, sponsored and recognised by the Japanese as the legitimate successor to Qing and the true heirs to China. The loss of Korea and Taiwan in the Second-Sino Japanese War of 1935 had rocked the foundations of the puppet state and only now was the dust beginning to settle.

Japan had been hit hard. But now, she was getting back up and throwing herself into the fray.

The Imperial Palace, built by the Japanese for the newly-crowned Kangde Emperor, had become a symbol of the New Order they wished to establish in Asia and beyond. 43,000 square metres had been designated by the Japanese and at the request of the Emperor Puyi, it'd been built in the style of the Forbidden Palace. But the Emperor, despite his polite attitude towards the Japanese, was a reluctant ruler. The Japanese were foreign to these lands and treated his people with disdain and disgust. Rumours of the atrocities committed by the Kwantung Army had grown since their redeployment to Korea in 1935 and the limited Japanese presence had only escalated dissent.

"I am still most uncomfortable with such a large, foreign army returning to Hsinking, Prime Minister Jinghui" replied Puyi carefully. "I respect the intentions of the Heavenly Sovereign in the East but the war is over. We don't require Japanese help any longer".

"My Grace" began Jinghui before hesitating. "You must...understand the position we are currently in. As well as the likelihood of a Republican invasion increasing by the day, we have certain responsibilities to uphold". The warlords eyes flickered to the walls and Puyi grimaced. It was widely-thought the walls of the Imperial Palace were bugged and the disappearance of several chamber maids confirmed it in the eyes of the Kangde Emperor.

"Has he arrived yet, Jinghui?" said Puyi quietly, sitting back into his chair and closing his eyes. "He is, my Grace. General/Ambassador Tanigawa arrived two hours ago to Hsinking and wishes to meet with you as soon you'll allow it. He's currently in the outer court, awaiting your response" replied Jinghui, bowing his head.

Puyi flared his nostrils but said nothing. He knew his position and the precarious nature of it. His life was one gunshot away from an "accident" at the hands of Japanese assassins and despite his private objections, he dared not bite the hand that fed him. The Japanese had given him a second chance, one that had been snatched away from him over 25 years before. Yet he felt no loyalty to them.

"Send him in" said Puyi finally.

"Of course, my Grace" said Jinghui, bowing low and stepping out of the room. The few minutes that Puyi had to himself allowed him to think.

The Kwantung Army had pulled out of Manchukuo during the tail-end Second Sino-Japanese War of 1935 to help the war effort in Korea, an ultimately hopeless endeavour that led to the seppuku of its former General. The small contingency they'd left behind had allowed the native Manchurian Imperial Army to grow in power and size and the attempts at reigning in the Manchurians by the Japanese had been gaining traction in recent months.

Then, there was the matter of the alleged biochemical . As far as Puyi had known, it didn't officially exist but the worrying rumours had caught his attention. Subsequent investigations hit dead ends and newspaper reports were censored but the idea that such an organisation even possibly existed was alarming.

General Tanigawa's loud entrance interrupted his train of thought.

"I am most honoured to be in your presence, My Grace" barked the new Japanese Ambassador, bowing and placing his forehead to the ground in respect. Puyi stood up from behind his desk and plastered a smile to his face.

"I look forward to a long and prosperous relationship, Tanigawa-san" said Puyi, switching to stilted Japanese and stepping forward to shake the mans hand. Tanigawa pulled himself to his feet and Puyi finally got a look at the face of his new Japanese "ambassador". He was in full army attire but had allowed a powerful moustache to grow above his top lip, probably to distract the fact he stood at a mere 5 feet tall.

Damned Nip.

Tokyo, Empire of Japan

The rapid reshuffling of the Japanese cabinet had ended almost 8 months ago but Konoe was still struggling to see the benefit of the many military men sat in front of him. Not that he made such objections public. Since the loss of territory to China and the new Republic of Korea, the installation of several powerful figures from the Navy and Army were taking Japan in a new direction. The time to lick wounds and decide on their next move was long over, they had argued. Now it was time to strike back.

"Well, my friends, it seems as though the world has gone mad" began Tojo, Minister of War, to the sound of light chuckling from the cabinet. "With the demise of America, only Europe continues to stand in the way of Japanese and Greater Asian Prosperity. While the Dutch, French and British continue their rape of Asia, western ideals grow with strength in China and India. Rightful Japanese land now lies under the control of communists and republicans. Koreans and Taiwanese have been taken from the Heavenly Sovereigns light and into the darkness of the West. Our honour has been hit especially hard and will continue to be so as long as men live in squalor across Asia, giving the land that the Gods made to the white men. Our first priority should be the requisition of territory that belong to the Asian race. We must fill the power vacuum before someone else does".

There were some light nods of agreement across the table as Tojo continued.

"From Hawaii to India, the scourge of European ideals exists. But this is not the 1800's anymore, friends. Pax Britannica is over. Pax Americanna is over. It is time for the Emperors chosen people to lead Asia and the world to prosperity. And I believe we should begin immediately. In Hawai'i, hundreds of thousands of native Japanese emigrated from their homeland to spread our culture, our language and our race across the sea. And after decades of slavery, it is now the time to set them free. In the Phillipines, centuries of Spanish and decades of American rule have left the Filipinos poor and desolate, a people in chains.

But what of the Koreans and Chinese under Japanese sponsorship? They grew in character, they became a rich and worthy people. So now, friends, I believe is the time for battle. Whether it is with the Chinese in Manchukuo or the Americans in Hawaii, it is imperative that we strike hard and soon".

Tojo nodded to indicate he was finished and sat down. Konoe mulled on his words for a few moments before saying anything.

"We had a report on Hawaii from a few years ago that indicated the Hawaiin population of Japanese men were uncomfortable with the idea of returning under our rule but even more uncomfortable with injustice of American rule. They left this nation to seek their fortunes in Hawaii and were put on large plantations to work for the bare minimum. America no longer exists, gentlemen. Where does this leave the Japanese population abroad?" said Konoe, balancing his head But we must remember - war is a costly business. The outcome should out-weigh the means. What will a war with the multitude of American states do for Japan?"

"It's easily ours to win, Konoe-san. Japan's honour has been damaged in the eyes of the world" replied Anzai, Minister of the Navy. "What the Imperial General Headquarters proposes is a war to invade and occupy Hawaii, under the pretext of freeing the Japanese people from American rule. Post-war, we propose an effort to keep America in its current state of disunity, where it cannot possibly interfere in Japanese operations in the Pacific. I would also like to remind the cabinet of the current Japanese naval strength, which according to our most recent survey, rivals only the British Royal Navy in size and potential power. Plans for such an operation were drawn up several years ago following our investigation into potential dissent among the Hawaiian-Japanese and I believe with a little bit of tweaking, our forces can easily overwhelm the current defences on Hawaii and other Pacific territories".

Konoe hesitated. "I'm not certain the Emperor would support such a war. What benefits can we extract from the Hawaiian archipelago, apart from the obvious tactical ones?" he said, grimacing slightly. "I must agree with Konoe-san" said Ochida, Minister of Foreign Affairs. "An invasion would be extremely costly and may potentially damage Japanese standing with the American states. It could even present a reason to unify the American states against a Japanese invasion".

"That is why acting quickly is paramount. A occupation of Hawaii, supported by a large minority of the populace, can cement Japanese superiority in the Pacific and then we can begin operations in the European colonies" retorted Tojo. "I must say, gentlemen, your apprehension surprises me. Operations such as this will regain lost honour for our Empire and you seem to be almost hesitant in the idea that Japan should once again take its place at the world table".

Konoe sighed deeply and sat back. He was questioning his honour.

"May I remind you, Konoe-san, the Imperial General Headquarters acts only on the advice of the cabinet but is ultimately concerned with the opinion of the Emperor in matters concerning war" continued Tojo with a slight air of smugness. He was right, of course - the Army and Navy could act independently of the government if it chose to. Emperor Hirohito, while nevertheless a supporter of the government, had lost faith in the constant bickering of his ministers since the Second Sino-Japanese War and had been looking to men such as Tojo in recent months for advice.

"Perhaps, Tojo-san but you must remember the actions of the Military reflect widely on the government and people, who will receive the blame for any 'mishaps' during your operations" replied Konoe, his jaw clenched. The two men, sat across the table, stared at each other for a considerable amount of time, each weighing up their options.

"Your concerns are duly noted, Prime Minister" said Tojo finally.

Veracruz, Veracruz

The presidential retreat at Veracruz had been designed with luxury in mind. It looked like a Spanish presidio that had gotten out of hand with decor and extravagance. The white walls were accented with gold, red and white ceramic tiles paved the hallways. A large set of wooden double-doors, curved like an old fortress's, led to a stone patio. It was circular, built around a water fountain that streamed brilliant blue water. A garden flanked the stone, tended by groundskeepers to become almost offensively vibrant green. Ferns, bushes, and other flora accented the walls of the retreat. To top it off, a Mexican flag waved proudly atop a flagpole from the roof. Servants in white suits carried platters of silver bearing glasses for the officials who often took holiday at the scenic villa. The Gulf of Mexico beyond the patio shone in the sunlight, and President Enrique Hernandez never tired of the sea.

The tall, dark-skinned politician had a ruggedly handsome appearance and, although he was closer to his mid-fifties in age, the composure of a much younger man. His black hair, speckled with grey, was conservatively kept and his beard had long since been shaved. Despite the clean-cut appearance, Hernandez's posture never changed from that of a hardworking rancher's: indeed, part of his popularity came from his upbringing as a poor vaquero in Sonora. A man of the people, they called him, dedicated to improving the life of the common man. Sometimes he looked around the palace in Mexico City or the retreat in Veracruz and chuckled at the irony, but he believed himself more than worthy of his luxuries. After all, he had worked hard to get where he was and was working even harder to keep Mexico on its astoundingly miraculous path to power. He had great pride in his nation.

In the bay, a sailboat race had been underway for several hours now. The first Saturday of each month, the sailors in Veracruz's port would launch their sailboats and race for prizes offered by the race administrators. These men were poor, often living in the slums by the port and pooling much of their own money into brightly decorating their crew's boat. Out on the sea they competed for money and pleasure, but were the source of delight to tourists and locals alike. People would line the docks, wives and husbands and their children all cheering for their neighborhood's crew. Dozens of boats would race, the winners returning home for a celebration in their tenement. Hernandez, who had not been to the coast until he was almost thirty and visiting a friend in Guaymas, was instantly in love with the fresh, salty air and the glistening beaches. Everything about it was better than a dusty ranch in the middle of the Sonora desert.

The race was ending, a few of the stragglers coming past the finish line, and President Hernandez rose from his lounging chair and stretched out his arms and legs. He itched behind his neck and turned to the stack of papers on the floor next to him in a cardboard box. Next to that was his humidor, from which he picked a carefully-wrapped cigar and his steel lighter. Inscribed on it was the name Carla, in memory of his wife who had died in an automobile accident in Mexico City almost six years ago. Hernandez never remarried, instead focusing on his political career as a way of coping. She had been a worker in a bookstore in Guaymas when he had moved there, whereupon they courted and entered a marriage that lasted fifteen years. He had loved her, and still did, and hoped that she approved of his work from Heaven. The President lit his cigar and tossed the lighter in his suit vest's pocket, before reaching through to his weekly reports.

Things were normal, the reports claimed. Well, as normal as they could be in a world that had evidently discarded any semblance of normalcy. With the United States gone and wars in Asia and Europe heating up, it seemed like there was nothing going right. It was in Mexico's best interest to lay low for now while it refined its plans. Agricultural exports to many of the former American states were reaching record highs as another wave of drought hit their breadbasket region. Industrial production, too, was being directed to the ever-so-hungry expansionist Japanese across the Pacific. Hernandez noted that he'd have his staff write them a telegram sometime to offer an expansion upon their relationship, as it seemed like they were quite the ally to have. Panama, recently purchased, was settling in quite nicely as the troops conducted a formal change of command. Guatemala's miniature civil war had been stomped out by its authorities - with Hernandez's aid, of course - and the President would soon be sending his final aid package.

It was Hernandez's plan, in fact, to annex Guatemala soon enough. The Mexicans had been using the state as a sort of policy testing ground for years: the government was being groomed by previous Mexican administrations into strengthening relations. At this point, they were economically and politically inseparable. Guatemala had elected socialist politicians in elections that may or may not have been "influenced" by Mexican authorities. Latino brotherhood was preached by radio stations and newspapers. Military aid in the civil war and economic aid immediately before and during helped sway public opinion towards Mexico. But perhaps the greatest tactic of them all was the ambassador's repeated claims that, since the United States had fallen and the Monroe Doctrine was now moot, there would be nobody to protect them against Western imperialists such as the British who had claimed Belize. In fact, it may even be better to come under Mexico's wing as brothers-in-arms. After all, Guatemala was once part of the Mexican Empire.

Hernandez would leave the annexation procedure to his ambassador, Alejandro Morales. The man was, quite frankly, a silver-tongued devil, capable of swaying anyone from a pretty girl at a viñatería - he was an infamous womanizer - to the leader of a Latin American state. They would hold a referendum that would obviously pass, and Guatemala would become the newest Federal District of Mexico. Guatemala would then become entitled to the same progression and developments that blessed Mexico, and would no longer worry about foreign occupation or civil disruption. Political dissent in Mexico had a habit of disappearing if it got too rowdy.

The next report folder was internal, focused on the standard fare benchmarks of progress: crime remained a constant issue in rural areas, where groups of bandits sometimes challenged the newly reformed law enforcement agencies. Most of the time, however, they discovered firsthand that the Wild West had ended and surrendered before too many of them could be killed by a sharpshooter's rifle. Employment, on the rise since the Depression hit the continent, helped put a stop to that: after all, one couldn't exactly find the time to shoot at the policía when they were putting up telegram wires along new railroads for twelve hours a day. The motivation also significantly decreased when their families had food on the table and a roof over their heads. The pay wasn't the best, but they had something. Acts to put Mexicans to work on public works projects like the railroads were hugely successful in reducing poverty.

Hernandez tossed aside the last of the reports after scanning through them. Nothing urgent that had to be dealt with immediately: he would confer with his cabinet when he returned to Mexico City next week. For now, he would smoke cigars by the sea and watch the sun set over the horizon, casting its last pink rays of dusk over the glistening Gulf of Mexico. Inside, he would listen to a futbol match over the radio and perhaps read through another chapter of his novel. Life in Veracruz was peaceful, and being the President of Mexico was good.

Lean sandwiches were laid out on the coffee table in the middle of the suit. A soft afternoon light fell lazily through the windows as electric lights burned softly behind ornate fixtures from the ceiling. A nearby gramophone played soft horn-laden music in the corner by a door. An inviting atmosphere was tenderly coxed out of the suit of the occupied hotel as the setting was set to make for an inviting meeting.

Raissa Browder, Earl's wife moved about gingerly as she set out drinks and snacks for the two men about to eat. Standing tall in the corner Earl stood like a statue, pensively watching the final touches laid out by his homely wife. Her face was worn and tired. And although powdered stress lines were beginning to wear into her cheeks and brow like any other woman in the states here. She held her curly light sandy hair back in a bun. Exchanging glances, the couple looked at each other and nodded affirmatively to each other.

As she put down the last tin dish of treats on the coffee table, careful to not disturb the map in the middle she walked to her husband. “I think we're ready.” she said in a soft voice.

Browder looked, and nodded. He looked across the room to a clock hanging on the wall. It was near time. “Yea.” he said with a dry cracked voice. He made his way to the couches in the middle of the high hotel suite and sat down as a dry knock rapped on the door.

“Let him in.” Earl asked Ms. Browder. She obliged quickly and went to the door with a homely gait. As the door open, she immediately lit up with the charm of any house wife.

Standing in the door way a stout man of just under five-foot four stood. He wore a polite smile on his face and on his head a tattered and beaten cap of the American Legion. He removed his hat out of respect and spoke in a rough grizzled voice, “Pleased t' meet you Ms. Browder.” he said smiling.

Clemmfield, John Clemmfield was an aging man clear over the hill. But he was an old soldier, who though being short in stature next to other men retained a muscular physique and firm voice that hung on like a dry, browning carapace to an old insect. He wore a beard and mustache with broad chops which looked out of place and a generation removed from the contemporary khaki shirt he wore with the red-trimmed epaulets on his shoulders. He was broad, with a pot-belly gut that swung as he walked. A medal of service from the Spanish-American war hung from his breast pocket and glimmered in the lighting.

Discolored hands rung the cap he had removed from his head as he stepped to Browder, with an expecting and calculating look in his bright eyes. “Mr. Browder.” he nodded with respect, “Ya wantin' to see me?” he asked.

“I think the situation was more you wanted to talk to me.” Browder said with a smile, holding out a hand to invite the stout wide man to sit, “After all, job isn't done.”

“No, sure isn't.” Clemmfield beguiled, placing the old dusty cap back onto his balding head as he took a seat.

Earl laughed gently. But he couldn't shake the bit of doubt in his gut. With a heavy voice he turned to his wife and said: “My dear, could you go home and see to the children? I have some private matters to discuss with the commander here.”

“Certainly” Raissa complied knowingly. Curtly bowing out the door. Pausing briefly she turned around and said, “In case you wanted to know, there is a chicken in the oven. If you two men feel you want a better lunch than sandwiches help yourself. It should be ready.”

“That'll be nice Ms. Browder, thank you.” Clemmfield said agreeably.

Ms. Browder smiled nervously, and turning stiffly headed down the hall. The door shuttered shut behind her and the two sat silent for a moment. Clemmfield broke conversation before as he reached for a small sandwich.

“So you decided it should finally happen. When are you taking this to Congress?” he asked, leaning over the table. The map of the former country was laid on the table with its crisp lines and tight type labeling the states and cities that comprised the former United States. On either side plates of coffee and a jug of coffee with cups was laid out.

“When we're done.” Browder said with a sigh, “I've been thinking long and hard about this, and I don't take any kindness from the idea.” he grumbled, holding his hands out on his knees palms up. He wore the face of a resigned man and his expression sank to dourness. “But, the way things are in the country there's no possibility any one will simply agree to merge into a new, uniform nation. Even the confederates, I don't know where we stand with those 'confederates'.” he moaned bitterly, and with sadness, “I don't think anyone does really.”

“Just sort of acknowledging this is the way things are.” Clemmfield admitted. “Whichever the way, we'll prove out way I'm sure. What'll be the agenda?”

“You see, that's why I wanted to bring you in.” Browder said, “I'm not a military man Mr. Clemmfield, I'm a Party and Statesman. I can turn the helm of state but I can't turn the tires of war. I've been looking at the map, trying to figure it out. You've a mind for this sort of thing: so help a fellow out.”

Clemmfield nodded stiffly, looking down at the table. Numbly he placed his hands down on the paper and began walking his fingers about. Reading the upside down writing as he went.

“The only real option for a first campaign would be north, sir.” Clemmfield admitted, “Both sides of us we're penned in from too strong an adversary. We can fight them on a defensive war maybe if it comes to it, we'd certainly get enough time to mobilize. But the opportunity to go either way may as well depend on us massing up north to the Canadian line. Bringing our revolution there.

“From that point, we can make a decision on whether or not we turn the ideas of that Trostky fella either way. But a lotta people will be wantin' to go west. That's for sure. West has always been a big thing.”

“To California?” Browder said, seeking for affirmation.

Clemmfield nodded, “I've been in the fields with the rest of the workin' men here and we were all catchin' the green promises of California before Hoover signed the country over into madness. But things busted down and went to shit before anything could be done. May be the cleanest and most productive food land in the region there, we can put a lot of people back on track there.”

“That'd be what we need.” Browder admitted.

“Certainly, I don't know what you have planned there in that regard. Food I mean. We can limp along well enough on what we got, but it's anger towards the rest of the country that's fueling my men. Don't turn that anger at anger at the revolution or they're liable to leave.

“God knows I let too many of them hang each other from time to time.” Clemmfield admitted with distress.

“I understand how you feel.” Browder said, offering him his comfort, “So you really think we should go north then?”

“If I said otherwise I wouldn't have been an officer!” Clemmfield admitted with a heavy laugh, “Every other direction is more dangerous than the other or suicide. War in general is dangerous, but who learn to live with that fact. Me and the men learn to live with that. We prop ourselves up on ideas. I once heard somewhere a man is immortal so long as he believes in something, that's what we got: something to believe in.

“Browder, we will die for whatever you want in the end. But we ain't pigs going to the slaughter.”

“I understand, I don't want to see that.” Browder nodded. He looked up from the map to Clemmfield. The small man's eyes burned with a passionate and furious energy. It was clear it was whipped up in a passionate hunger.

Clemmfield smiled, “If I have your confidence, I will offer you my own.”

“I'll send it to the Congressional Secretary before sundown.”

“I imagine you would. I'll put the word out for the motors to be whipped up into a fury and all faces turned north.”



The truck, covered everywhere the sun-dried and dirt-blasted coyote pelts barreled south down the highway. The engine grumbled and hummed under the hood as it carried the truck. A Ford 1929 Ford Model Double-A. The pelts that covered the chasis were trophies and reminders strapped down to the body, or tacked and nailed. But they also served as an unintended cover and whenever the wind blew just right and picked up a mummified corner of the wind-dried skin the black paint underneath showed; not as bright and sharp as it once was, but it hadn't be stripped completely naked from driving in the hearty, windy, and dry wasteland that made up the plains to the further west.

And although they were far from those dry arid reaches of plains, the land here was still flat. The road stretched for miles into the horizon without a hill to crest. It rode the Earth straight as an arrow into the heart of oblivion with only bushes and trees in distant patches in the distance to gauge progress by. The land here was green, and farms and ranches were maintained by local communes of farmers and ranchers who worked to raise the crops to support those families still living in the Dustbowl quarters themselves. But even despite all the green, there was a faded layer of gray, red, or a beige-brown from the foreign dirt deposited here by the northerly winds that turned east.

But this land was at least green, and arable still. It straddled the borders where cold dry winds from Central Canada came south to meet the wet hot winds that blew off the Gulf of Mexico some nearly five-hundred seventy miles away. This made for ill-tempered weather, and as the humid southerly air met the dust laden dry air of the north and west the sky was already growing to fill with mild thunder-heads that broke the peaceable emptiness of the blue sky.

The men in the truck looked up unimpressed by the growing storms, and tipped their brown and black ranch hats to the sky above, turning their attentions to the matter at hand, and the issue of traveling south. They were on their way to Lola, on the way to the closest breadcrumb that they suspected would lead them all over high-hell. They suspected there would be no reward in it, but it was the best they got and could do as the mission spread out.

“Reckon she do when we find her?” asked McKenzie, a gaunt awkwardly built man. Of typical Irish stock, his hair was a burnt ginger and his skin hardly ever tanned enough. In the place of a sun tanned skin, freckles covered his cheek and face in wild random places from forehead to chin, where they hid underneath a sorely thin stubbly beard.

The sun flashed briefly off of his wide coke-bottle glasses and he looked at each of the three men in the car with him from the rear passenger side with wide eyes. A bookworm by practice, he was irritably probing and awkward around fire-arms; he knew them well enough however to not point them the wrong way, but he never aimed good enough.

No one answered his question immediately and the same silence that had long filled the cramped cab reigned for just a bit longer. And while the truck fit an extra row of seats, it was perhaps because the Ford was a hackjob, sawed apart and stitched back together with extra parts. These vehicles were not uncommon as they passed a wrecker of a Hudson super-six passing them on the highway from the other-direction, the entire rear end cut out and replaced with a rickety wagon bed laden down with empty chicken cages.

The man in the seat in front of him shifted. The tall skinny man who had the day before given his report to Duke, their informal commander on this mission. His hat brushed the roof of the car as he turned and shifted to look out the window.

“Dunno.” he said, “What did you even read about this woman?”

“Well, she gots kids.” McKenzie blurted out.

“Then she's not going to raise hell.” the tall man answered him, Alms Chambers. “She won't want her kids in the way.”

“She may not want that, but woman are still hella fighters.” laughed the man in the driver's seat. A larger man going on into his forties with a deep sun-basked face and a thick beard of oil black. His voice was heavy and almost Santa like. His ears wide and hung out like that of an elephant's, giving him a face that was a cross between one and a big red gorilla.

“I would hate to show you my ma, Neville.” the figure next to McKinzie said. Also big, he was a boarish man with small beady eyes and a heavy mustache that looked like it was from a photo of a man from the California gold rush. “She woulds shot you sooner than you could get out of your seat. Pa too, both of 'em were cold parents.”

“Well it couldn't have been that bad!” Neville pleaded falsely, smiling a little in his words, “You lived!”

The boarish man laughed, it was a dry rattling laugh that shook in his throat like rocks, “Yea, right. I think I must have gone to bed too often and woke up with a beating headache from a rolling pin all too often.

“McKinzie, what you think about that? What'd your 'books' say?” the boarish man said again, teasing, turning to his partner in the narrow back seats.

McKinzie looked up at him for a moment, lost. He thought for a second and returned his answer, “Gee, I dunno.” he admitted. He cackled.

“Al, I think they would have said you had parental problems.” Alms said flatly, “Or that'd be what the old insane-asylum doctors would've said before frying your brains with an electrode.”

“Oh, and you would know that, how?” Al asked, perhaps a bit stung by the remark.

Alms turned from the front passenger seat and gave Al a low had look, “I was a guard at one for a few years after the war, what do you think?” he said in a low voice, “Seen doctors do all sorts of things with patients. Seen all sorts of patients. Left when I saw enough.”

“And some woman tried t' bite yer tit off.” Neville said smartly, “But not like you could any, wouldn't you say?” he laughed as Alms smacked him in the arm.

“Shut up about that now, ok? I regret I ever said anything about that.”

“Sure ya do.” grinned Neville, “Sure. Just tell us again the next time you feel like telling us and I'll try to find us some corn whiskey. Looks like we got plenty in this country.” he pointed out, nodding to the fields of corn just barely discolored from gray soil that hadn't yet washed off.

“Isn't whiskey still supposedly banned?” McKinzie asked.

“Who th' hell knows.” Neville answered him, “Seems we can do a lot, or seems Wichita allows us to get away with a lot. But they say we shouldn't, but some boys still just like to hang others.”

“We can hardly get involved.” Alms reminded, a little depressed, “We got better fish to fry anyways.”

“Yea, sure.” he responded, and the cab fell to silence again.

London, United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland
10 Downing Street was the official residence and office of Prime Minister Watson Joseph. He was in his office as he awaited the news from Germany. The rumors of a possible attack on the Kiel Canal are getting more likely as Wilhelm II's troops are setting up defenses around the city of Kiel. The citizens of the city are leaving before Hitler's forces arrive to attack. Joseph was told that the expeditionary force will arrive in the city of Hanover by tomorrow morning. The attack has been planned since the civil war began by Hitler and his generals. If someone has control of them, then they could easily control the entire North Sea. Hitler needs to control the canal in order to make up for the lost sailors and ships that were killed in the last few months.

The Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs entered the room and walked towards the desk of The Prime Minister. He didn't look pleased with telling the news to Joseph, but someone had to. There was a moment of silence before the secretary spoke up, “Wilhelm's forces aren't doing well in defending the canal. Heavy artillery fire is causing chaos for the forces there. We don't know how long they can hold out until some sort of counterattack is organized.”

Joseph sighed in disappointment and turned towards the window as he saw some cars on the street. He spoke in a soft tone, “Did you hear anything about reinforcements coming to help?”

“No, sir. I didn't hear anything about reinforcements.” the secretary answered, “But, I did hear that Hanover might be next to be hit in the matter of days.”

“Hanover?” he questioned the secretary's word, “Are you sure about it?”

“Have I ever lied to you before?” the secretary convinced about the possible attack on Hanover. The Prime Minister turned away from the window and started to look at the paperwork at his desk.

“I hope to God that our expeditionary force don't get caught in middle of an artillery.” he mentioned about the forces to the secretary. The secretary tried to ease him, but his efforts didn't matter in the end as he was told that he should check with the British Embassy in Berlin for more information. The secretary kept back the remarks as he exited the office and went back to work. The Prime Minister sat there for several minutes before going back to work as well.

Hanover, German Imperial Terrority
The Gloster TC.33 was the standard British transport aircraft during the early 1930s and was used in the Indian Revolution. There were several that were going to Hanover to drop off the expeditionary force to aid Wilhelm II. The British government knew that this was the chance that they have to removing the fascist leader, Hitler. It took them several hours to reach Hanover as a sudden storm appeared over the English Channel for about four hours. They were supposed to arrive in Hanover by night time, but the original plan has changed.

Captain Alfredo Cooper, the leader of the British Expeditionary Force, waited for the plane to land. He had a fear of heights in his life and he hated being on an airplane. While he kept lying to himself that he was on the ground, the other guys couldn't wait to help and kick some German ass again. Most of the country's citizens didn't favor an expeditionary force, but they don't understand that the government would rather have Wilhelm back than have Hitler running around the country. Plus, they weren't fans of fascism.

The pilot informed the guys that they were minutes away from one of the airfields in Hanover. The men began to get ready for the rough landing and to meet other German soldiers that were loyal to Wilhelm II. The airplanes were now in the skies of Hanover as they were making their way to the airfield, where they would meet other German soldiers and give them better supplies of weapons and gear.

Since the end of World War I, the German rearmament has started out in secret until the civil war begun. Rearmament was sped up as factories in Germany were making weapons as fast as they could. Britian and other countries helped out with the rearmament for the Wilhelm forces. While the countries that supported fascism were helping out Hitler with rearmament. Since Hitler had more control over land, he had the most factories. It meant that he could produce arms at a faster rate, but he didn't have Hanover. The amount of factories prevented Wilhelm's forces for collapsing quickly. If they were to lose the city to Hitler's force, then they would most likely lose the civil war. It was most likely that Hitler would kill those that played a part in starting the civil war, even if it was a small part. Thousands would be killed if Hitler manages to win, something that the British is hoping that it doesn't happen.

Cooper's plane was one of the first to land on the airfield as his troops started to exit out of the craft. The captain walked out of the plane, thankful that the ride was over with and that he didn't have to go back up for awhile. Several German soldiers greeted the captain and the troops as they were arriving by the dozens. Within the hour, the three thousand troops that make up the British Expeditionary Force would have arrived at Hanover and started to get ready for some sort of counterattack.

Cape Town, South Africa
Christopher Porter took the hour and a half car ride to study the plans on expanding the naval base. The supplies have arrived at the base, but they still needed workers to start on the construction. Because of that, he and several contractors are planning to use Africans. They just need to be cared for and paid in cash daily. If one of them would to die in some sort of accident, then they would just hire another guy to replace him. The car stopped at a building nearby the city limit and the commander exited out of the car. He walked up the steps of the wooden house and opened the door.

He entered to see the contractors speaking to someone in their native tongue. They seemed to be upset over something as the guys kept getting more displeased. Porter entered the house and the contractors got the last word as the person left the room. He walked pass by the commander and left the house. Porter looked at the man and turned towards the contractors, “What was that about?”

“It's nothing you need to worry about.” one of the contractors said in his broken English before talking about the plans for the naval base.

The guy was outside of the house as he got a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and grabbed one of them. Then, he grabbed the lighter and started to light up the cigarette. He breathed in and then out as smoke appeared out of his mouth. He did that as he was walking down the steps of the wooden house. The car was standing there alone with no-one watching it. After the cigarette had lost its 'favor', the guy pressed the cigarette down on the hood of the car. He then flicked the cigarette to the driver's seat as the windows were low enough to allow that.

He started the long walk home as the mysterious figure walked with angry. The guy's fishing business would have to go down in order to expand the naval base, but the guy tried his best to pressure them and he failed. His workers and family won't be happy with the news that their business is going to tear down. But, he wasn't going to give up in the fight to defend his business.

A soft breeze blew through the window while a rotating fan lie dormant on the wooden desk at which James Ford sat, sipping a glass of ice-cold sweet tea as he worked. The southern heat was already bad enough, but in the past couple days the city of Jacksonville had experienced a heat wave of sorts. It had gotten so bad that the Mayor had ordered all the factories without air conditioning closed, and of course ordered more units to get them back open as soon as possible.

The beaches were lined with people, who had decided to use their time off work to attempt to cool off in the Atlantic ocean. After all, nobody had air conditioning at home, excluding the lucky former homeless who had been housed in the mansions of the rich whom had either fled or died during the revolution. The ocean was their best way to cool off, and with just how hot it was, Ford himself wished he could simply don a swimsuit and walk on down to the water.

But instead he was in his office at the capital building, singing papers and making calls. The building had never been outfitted with air conditioning while the USA still existed because of course they hadn't decided to spend money on it. And he wasn't about to put A/C units in his workplace while there were factories that had nothing but fans. All he did was sign papers, which generally doesn't make you sweat as much as manual labor does.

So far, the day had been rather uneventful. He had gotten his usual call at 10:30 in the morning from Virginia, where General Law begged for more tanks, more guns, more planes, and more men. At 11:30 he got his usual call from General Decker in Texas, in which the General demanded that more relief supplies be sent. He had already agreed to allocate as much as he could to the respective forces, but it wasn't enough. It was never enough.

The men at the Mason-Dixon line would always feel outnumbered and outgunned by the fascists, which they likely were since a sizable portion of the Army was stationed in Texas to provide relief to the victims of the nightmarish dust storms that were ravaging the Midwest. And the men in Texas would never have enough food, medical supplies, and temporary housing to ease the pain of the locals. The Confederacy was essentially waging a two-front war, one with the (so far) docile rising tide of fascists to the North and another with the rising tide of nature's fury to the West.

Alas, the more pessimistic estimates projected that drought would soon hit the rest of the Confederacy and the dust storms would follow. Should such a thing happen, of course, the entire country would starve without any source of food. The storms were already causing trouble anyways, with the Confederate fleet finding itself keeping all but its smallest ships docked to preserve fuel in case of a war. For all his tough talk of liberating the northern worker, Ford knew that a war with the Sister States would be impossible unless rain finally came to the Midwest. Or, you know, if angels descended from heaven and returned the soil to its original state.

As he took another sip from his quickly emptying glass of sweet tea, he found himself pondering the problem. It had been brought into the spotlight when the council began to discuss war with the North, and it was something that often kept him up at night. Time and time again, he found only one solution: rain. Yes, there were other methods. The Army, in fact, was already attempting to create a shelterbelt of trees with the goal of slowing erosion. But in the end, only rain would be enough.

If only we could make it rain. He thought, tapping his ballpoint pen on his desk. If only we could just pick up the water in the harbor and drop it on Texas.

He'd already thought about that, actually. But it was just wishful thinking, no air force on Earth could act as a rain substitute.

It's too bad we can't make the clouds rain on command.

The train of thought likely would have continued on without stopping, but he instead intentionally cleared his mind and took another sip to tea in the hopes that he could once again concentrate on the issue of steel production (which of course was connected to infrastructure issues which were connected to economic issues and so on and so on). In doing so, he realized that he had been ignoring another pressing matter. Namely, the fact that he had finished off at least a dozen glasses of various cool drinks in the past few hours without once leaving his desk.

And so he abruptly sat up and walked down the hall to the bathroom.

---

As usual, something hit him in the bathroom. An answer in the form of a question that came to be as he was washing his hands and staring at the mirror, noticing the condensation that covered it. Tiny little water droplets slowly fell down the polished mirror's surface, eventually hitting the counter upon which the sink was placed and adding to the already present water on its surface. Ford knew how condensation formed, most people did, but there was one thing that he didn't know. Or at least, didn't remember.

How's rain formed, anyways?

He wasn't exactly sure whether it was something he should know. After all, it wasn't something people brought up in everyday conversation. If he were to be honest with himself, he wasn't even sure if it was something that was known. It had, to him, always been just a fact of life. "Oh, yeah, rain happens. Why? Momma says it's God crying." He'd never been in a position where he needed to know it either, he was a politician, not a meteorologist.

Well, if we can predict when it will rain, we must know. He thought, as he mindlessly opened the door and walked down to his secretary's office. He knocked four times as he always did, then let himself in after she told him he could. It wasn't as if she ever said no, nor did she ever have a reason to. It was simple courtesy, after all, he would be a bit annoyed if someone just barged into his office without permission.

"Miss Coffman?" He said, looking around the room. She had her desk fan on, and used a rock-a smooth one, probably from the beach or a river-to hold her papers in place. Ford made a note that he ought to gather a few rocks for his own office.

"Ah, Mr. Ford." She replied, setting down her pen and putting the sheet at the bottom of a pile of others on her desk. "What can i do for you?"

The woman sitting at the desk, despite her almost stereotypical "southern belle" appearance was a veteran of the revolution. She had fought with a rifle company in North Carolina, then gone straight back to working as a secretary. As funny as it might have sounded, Ford didn't know what he would do without her. She did her job well, and he was extremely thankful for that fact.

"Ah... well, would you happen to know how rain is formed?"

"Well..." She paused for a moment, thinking. "Aside from the wive's tales?"

"Yes, aside from the wive's tales."

"No. That's odd, it seems like something I ought to know. It can't be that complicated, can it?"

"Well, I'd like you to find out. It's important."

"This has to be connected to Texas in some way, right?"

"Yes."

His idea immediately popped into her head, which prompted her to rest her forehead in her palm.

"Please tell me you aren't trying to figure out if we can-"

"I am."

Oh God bless his little heart. She thought.

"Should I just go ahead and ask that up-front?"

"Sure, go ahead. It's not like we have a need to beat around the bush."

"Alright then, take a look at the papers in my drawer. There's something important there I was just about to bring over to you."

She left the room, leaving Ford to get whatever the secretary was going to bring to him. Part of him wanted to just leave it in the hopes that he could finish in time to relax (preferably at the beach). But she had said it was important, so he couldn't just do that. He went over to the secretary's desk drawer and opened it up, revealing a document right on top that seemed rather ornate. All internal documents were plain, sometimes just having a hammer and sickle on them to denote that they were official government papers. This one had a giant coat of arms right on the front page.

"Huh, European?" Said Ford to himself, picking up the document and inspecting it closer. "The British? What the hell d'they want with us?"

He quite honestly had no idea what to expect. It was, after all, the British. They technically had claims on CSSA land, but unless they had been taken over by a bunch of particularly radical fascists while he wasn't looking they wouldn't ever press colonial claims from before the industrial revolution. Given a guess, he would have assumed it was something about continuing trade agreements or somesuch. Intrigued, he sat down at the secretary's desk and flipped it open.

"They want an embassy, then? Ain't no reason not to give 'em one, not sure what they want with it though."

---

"Hello? Dr. Hoffman?"

The voice was a new one to Earl's ears, and the fact that it was accompanied by a knocking on his office's door told him that it wasn't anyone he or his associates knew. Not well, at least. He wasn't entirely sure why anyone would seek to speak to him, after all, he was just some meteorologist. Nobody cares about meteorology, aside from those that study it and perhaps their direct employers. People listening to the forecast on the radio don't care about the science behind it, just that they know whether or not to finally patch up their raincoats.

"C'mon in comrade, you don't need to ask permission."

His office's door creaked open and a woman he had never before seen walked in, wearing a very well-kept dress. Definitely someone important, or perhaps someone that got lucky when the government turned the mansions into apartments and gave away the possessions of their former owners. If it was the latter, they were certainly very careful with their clothing. Of course, they might just wear it for important business, but then why would she be wearing it now?

"You're in meteorology, right doctor?"

"Yes, Miss...?"

"Coffman. Samantha Coffman."

"Well, ain't that a coincidence." He said, standing up and shaking the woman's hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Miss Coffman. What can I do for you?"

"I'm here at the request of Premier Ford, there's a matter he wants me to discuss with you."

"What on Earth does the Premier wanna discuss with me? I'm a meteorologist, for pete's sake."

"Well, that's the important part. You know how rain forms, right?"

"Well, of course I do. Atmospheric vapor condenses into water or ice droplets that eventually get too heavy and fall, y'know, like condensation on a mirror but on a larger scale. Ain't that common knowledge?"

"I wouldn't know. Neither I nor Ford knew. It sounds familiar though."

"Well maybe it isn't then."

"I personally think that we didn't know because nobody ever talks about it, it certainly isn't that complicated."

"Okay so I gave you your fun little fact, what're you actually here to talk about?"

"Just that, rain. I'm sure you're aware of the dust storms that are wreaking havoc in Texas."

"Yes..."

"And of the Sister Republics' buildup of forces."

"That one I didn't know about."

"Yeah that's because it's classified. We don't have enough force at the Mason-Dixon line to actually stop a fascist attack, so we haven't been telling anyone about their troop numbers. Don't tell anyone. Well, we've got that giant fleet in Norfolk that doesn't have any fuel to move it. If war breaks out with the Sister Republics right now, then we can't mobilize our Navy. If we can't mobilize our Navy, we'll be blockaded and it'll all just be a repeat of the Civil War. So we need fuel, but to get fuel we need oil, which we can't get because nobody can work when a dust storm can just roll through at any moment."

"I don't see why you're talking to a meteorologist about this."

"Then I'll cut to the chase, is it possible to artificially induce rain?"

"Beats me, there was this man named Charles Hatfield a while back though. Called himself a moisture accelerator. San Diego hired him to end a drought."

"Anything come of it?"

"Yeah, San Diego got flooded. The guy's still out there, unless he's been killed by one of the successor states. No clue where he is though. Honestly, I couldn't tell you if he's anything more than a con man. He could easily just have chosen good days for rain and claimed credit, but the incident in San Diego would have to be one hell of a freak accident. You'd be hard pressed to get to him, though. He lived in Cali. It don't matter anyhow, he'd probably just run away to the North with your money."

"The government ain't gonna hire a con man, Doctor. There's gotta be some way, a scientific way. Not whatever this Hatfield fellow does."

"He just shoves a bunch of stuff into a barrel and leaves it out, nothing much scientific about that. I suppose if you could force the condensation you could pull it off."

"Well, there must be way to do that."

"Maybe, but it isn't something that we know of."

"Necessity is the mother of invention. We need to end the dust bowl and we need to end it before the fascists come for us, that's necessity enough. On behalf of the Premier, I request that you temporarily leave your teaching position here and assist in research on the artificial generation of rain. We can give you any resources and personnel you need."

"Is that a request or an order?"

"Just a request, Dr. Hoffman. I didn't even intend to do much more than report back that it would be impossible."

The doctor stood by his desk for a good long while, stroking a small beard he didn't have. Well, a relatively long while. He didn't need to wait that long to come up with his answer.

"You're chasing a wild goose here." He said, sitting back down at his desk. At the same time, however, he started cleaning out his drawer. "And that sounds a lot more interesting than explaining cold fronts to people who honestly couldn't care less. I'll inform the university that they need to find a new professor."



Unruly and wild grass danced in a soft breeze, illuminated only by the full moon that hung high in the sky of the beautiful little town of Port Gibson. Trees stood tall by the river, in which the starlight was reflected as if in a painting. It was a peaceful night by the river. The way the moonlight fell through the leaves and the way the wind blew just right to provide relief from the mild heat were so perfectly designed that, had anyone been there to experience it, they would find that they would be more than willing to spend an eternity there.

But there was nobody there.

Streetlamps stood by idly as if they were soldiers standing at attention, never daring to cease their duties. Curtains were drawn in the shops that lined the street, their hours having ended long ago. Only one building had lights on, and only then because it was a hotel. The only one in the town, in fact. It was a run down dump of a place, but it was perfectly fine for what it had to do. Its sign hung just barely crooked above the door, as if it was making sure all who visited the place knew exactly what sort of hotel this was. Perhaps some would have sat on the balcony and seen the procession that had marched on through with the reluctant guidance of the streetlamps.

But there were no such people there.

In the square just before the town hall the grass was well kept and illuminated by the flicker light of torches, the orange flames dancing against the backdrop of the sky. Or perhaps they were protesting. Nevertheless, they did their duty well. A great pile of sticks and branches burst into flames in the middle of that square, a bonfire just like those of festivals and celebrations. After mere minutes the flames were extinguished by buckets of water, and the purpose of the bonfire's existence was housed up onto the square's lone magnolia tree.

The tree's leaves rustled in protest and it's branches creaked in sorrow, and if it could have thrashed its branches to punish the throngs that surrounded it then it would have. But alas, it was nothing more than a tree and the tiny little payload was made to hang from it's sturdiest branch. The crowds dispersed, making an awful ruckus as they returned to their homes for the rest of the night satisfied with the work they had done.

And the very next day when morning dawned, in the sun underneath the lone magnolia a little mixed girl hung.

It boiled like hell, even as the year began to dip into its twilight. Having continued passed the dull roaring heat of summer and the year's middle-aged hump the passage of dry time ebbed into late summer. The same winds that bore the fruits of dry dust storms further east came across the dry rocky deserts on New Mexico on a lazy trip across the unencumbered flat lands of the American great plains, which slowly evolved back to that primitive name they were once known by: the great American desert.

But the men in the real deserts thought they knew what a desert was. They knew what it was like to live in a dry arid landscape where sandstorms were enough common place it wasn't outright panic and bore for the men a devastating feeling of apocalyptic doom when the horizon shifted and grew into a roving wall of airborne sand. A light brown curtain that swept across unencumbered terrain when the wind blew too strong, and as it passed leaving behind confused eddies of dancing and spinning pillars of dust and sand.

This was just their way of life. As much as the squeal of the wind-powered mills that pumped silicate-choked water from deep reservoirs under the camp.

In the long shade cast by the flimsy tower built from two-by-fours and sixes gangs of men milled about busily or in idleness in the lowering glare of the sun. The desert of this area of New Mexico slowly turned over from the baked yellow to a soft glowing red as the evening light set in. And with the falling evening sun came a signal that night was approaching and if it was time to work on anything heavy, now would be the time to prepare.

Sounds of grinding and loud swearing echoed in the camp as the assembled men went about their various duties to maintain a sort of military. While the men carried about guns there was a loose formality about it as the impromptu soldiers had armed themselves with heirloom rifles, squirrel guns, and shotgun. But they carried themselves like soldiers all the same and their rifles rested from their backs like any other weapon a private carried on his person in the trenches of Europe.

Over the military compound several flags flew in the arid wind. The red banner of the national commune of Browder's Dust Bowl state flew atop a dry almost petrified flagpole alongside a triad of other smaller and lower flags.

The old flag of the state of Mexico flew next to Browder's flag at their alter at the middle of the camp. Likewise the red flag of international socialism and a fourth with a stylized numeral four stood on either side.

Ever since his arrival, the men of the communes who called themselves a revolutionary army had reached out to the words of Trotsky and his lectures on permanent revolution. It was the means for a cause, and to the many angry poor men who found purpose in the hope of carrying their rifles again to battle the great mission of eternal revolution and bringing liberation to the broader masses was an inspiring message. It brought these people hope for a purpose, and liberation and social revolution helped underline their simply primitive desire for revenge against the bankers and statesmen who before were tearing the land out from under the boots of the former farmers.

But removed from the sounds of toil and work came the cheers and whoops of a crowd in reverie. Even a gang of self-professed revolutionaries must have in some way entertainment.

A punch connected against the exposed bare chest of a sun-baked farmer and the dull thud of the sinews and ribs of his torso crunch loud in the mid-evening heat and beads of sweat splashed off from his bruised skin. He staggered and gagged on a mouth-full of phlegm rising in his mouth. The man staggered. His hair, which had once been blonde but was now dirty and brown hung down around his face as he staggered back clutching the spot his competitor's fist had connected. He seemed to stagger and fight to hold his balance, but grimmacing against the pain he held his pose and lashed out with his own balled up fist, aiming for the shoulder of his competitor.

The other man fighting had been through this before. As with the other he had dispensed with his shirt in the heat and his bare back and hairy chest glistened and dripped with sweat. His skin rung tight with sunburn over his hunched back as he moved his heavy stonecutter's arms up to guard against the quick left hook. The attack was quick, but as it smacked the heavy flesh of his arms it plopped helplessly against them like a lone raindrop. It splashed off and the recoil left the skinny bruised man exposed.

The larger man jabbed forward quickly, and the connection of his fist to the right side of his face and across the side of his head was wet and sickly. He spun deftly and collapsed into the dirt with the grace and balance as a sack of flour. He lay in the settling sand for a moment as everyone applauded and bellowed. The large man rose his hands and smiled.

“Jesus Mac, you didn' kill 'em did'ya?” a man asked jokingly as a pair of stretcher bearers ran over and dragged the beaten contestant from the field of combat unceremoniously.

Mac smiled and shrugged. He was a giant of a man with a round boyish face and a pair of deep set green eyes that shone like a deep sea. Whipping his hand across his brow he looked around at the men of the unit seeking out a new challenger.

While he was large and imposing, that did not exempt him from his own injuries and a few fresh bruises littered his chest and gut. The smaller man had been quick and agile, and Mac simply had to fight to absorb the blows of the little gremlin until he tired enough to be handled. Blood dripped from an open wound above his brow and coated half his face in rich dark blood; he had refused to let it be saw too. Likewise the lobe of one of his wide elephantine ears had been split by a grazing blow and as the excitement of the fight dropped away he was noticing he felt a little numb and a bit more deaf on that side than usual.

He rubbed a bear knuckle into it as he scanned the crowd looking for anyone else who wanted to give the camp Goliath a shot. To be true, he had not been here for more than a month and he had opted himself out to be moved from his old unit to a new one as soon as everyone had gotten afraid to meet him in a contest. It wasn't important, and several others had joined him in the move like water flowing from one pond to another. If he didn't put out any permanently in boxing injuries to pass these later days, then it would be continued on by many others.

But the visible truth was that on the surface this was a New Mexican unit and he was from Colorado. Adventurous guns passed between all sorts of units for any variety of reasons but these men were a minority in volunteers and locals filled these militias and volunteer brigades as much as foreigners who flocked into the area in search of adventure and glory.

Mac continued to look about anxiously for someone to come forward as a distant cowbell rang over the din and summoned the collective's attention elsewhere. They all lifted their heads and looked up into the camp with suddenly hungry and thirsty expression. “Dinner, boys!” someone called out with a barking tone of voice. Springing to their feet there was a scuffling stampede as former fight spectators scrambled up to their feet and staggered off for the main camp.

The only man to be left behind was a similarly broad-built older man, he sat in the half-shade of a nearby locust tree engrossed in writing something on a tablet he propped up against a raised leg. He gave a half-glance in the direction of the bolting men and turned back to his pencil as he wrote his words on the page. Mac walked towards him, reaching down to a rock and picking up his discarded and dusty clothes that lay there. He approached the man by the tree, and stood in the light of the sun so that his large shadow was cast long across him.

Shifting his weight in the dirt at the base of the tree, the sitting man looked up at Mac from underneath the wide-brim of a dirty and almost burned cowboy hat. His face was wide, chin and jaw squared and nearly like a hammer. A mustache the thickness of a caterpillar hung out above his lip and over it, hiding the upper part of his scowling mouth as he leered up at him from behind a pair of spectacles.

“You hold your feet too close together.” the older man said in a dry gravely voice as he lowered his leg and laid the tablet down flat, setting the pencil to rest there, “You're lucky that skinny sissy boy didn't think to swing his legs at you and plant you on the ground. You could've been racked across the head.”

Mac laughed and shrugged, “Didn't do him no fucking good.” he smiled, “Come on Earnest, you want something to eat? I hear the cook as bacon.”

Earnest grumbled something under his breath and turned back to his writing. He reached into the pocket of his khaki shirt and produced a flask and took a mighty drag from the bottle.

“What are you snorting?” Mac asked.

Earnest didn't reply, not immediately. He slipped the flask into his pocket and picked the pencil back up and drummed it against his paper. “Bourbon.” the writer answered with a dry voice.

Mac shrugged, and turned away.