James Rawles - Liberators

“Yes, we need to get Mrs. Townsend to the St. Paul Baptist Church parsonage just over the bridge. From there, we’re looking to make it to Kentucky.”

The deputy may have been young, but he had his senses honed to already know how many people were in the vehicle and a general description of each, so he looked directly at Beatrice Townsend and said, “Ma’am, there have been reports of gunfire from the apartment building behind your church—please be careful.” He then shifted his gaze to Malorie and Joshua and said, “I would avoid any big roads. All routes into Charleston are closed due to the escalated criminal gang violence, making major highways going west pretty congested. I see that you have paper maps, good on ya, since the cellular service has been down most of the day. Keep moving. People are getting relieved of their lives and property if they hang out on the side of the road too long.” The sheriff’s deputy then stood up and tapped the hood of the Jeep and waved them on through the checkpoint, across the Kanawha River and over the bridge.

Malorie slowly let out the clutch. “Do they teach everyone the hood-tap maneuver around here, Mrs. Townsend?”

“It would appear so! The church is not too far up here on your right after you cross the bridge. Will you be on your way, or can you all come inside the parsonage and stay a while?”

Megan spoke up. “We would love to stay, but I’m afraid we will only have time for a bathroom break and then we must be moving on.”

They reached the parsonage, and Joshua stayed with the Jeep while Malorie and Megan followed Mrs. Townsend inside with the boys. At this point, it was becoming less strange for Malorie to carry her sidearm and slung weapon with her wherever she went, but carrying it into someone’s house would likely always be strange.

Megan cycled the boys through the bathroom, and Malorie had a moment to speak with Pastor Townsend about the deteriorating situation in the apartment building next door. Beatrice emerged from her well-stocked pantry with some late-season cabbage and kale. She then asked if she could give the boys some cookies from the batch that she baked before she left to see her grandkids, to which Malorie smiled and answered, “We know better than to tell a grandparent what she can and cannot do with cookies.”

Megan thanked the Townsends and left her sister to be the cool auntie and broker the cookie deal. She then went outside to relieve Joshua. Megan hugged Joshua while reflecting on the day’s events. “It’s already dark, and we only made it as far as Charleston—but given the current situation across the river we are very blessed to even have gotten this far.”

Joshua replied, “Indeed, God has extended His grace to us in getting us here.” Joshua looked her in those stunning blue eyes and said, “Watch your six out here, we’ll be rolling very soon.”

Joshua turned around to walk to the house with the empty water bottles in hand and Megan grabbed his sling across his back, spun him around, and kissed him, saying, “Hurry up in there. By the way, there’s more where that came from.”

Once the Crunch started, Ray McGregor didn’t waste any time leaving Michigan. He just settled up on the cost of the propane that he had used and said his good-byes to his hosts. Long experience with gooseneck trailers made hooking up his nineteen-foot Toy Hauler quick and easy. After testing his trailer lights, he was ready to roll. Even before he got on the highway, he turned on the pickup’s radio. He immediately switched from his usual FM classical music station to WKNW, at 1400 AM. There, he heard a litany of bad news. This was it: the Big One that he and Phil had long talked about. The major whammy. The Great Reset. The end of the world as we know it. Götterdämmerung .

Ray’s border crossing at Sault Ste. Marie International Bridge an hour and a half later was both slow and stressful. The bumper sticker on the RV immediately ahead of him was emblazoned with SAY YA HAY TO THE UP. He had a lot of time to look at it. Longer than he liked, since he was anxious to cross the border. There were thirty or more trucks, campers, and RVs ahead of his, and none of the usual perfunctory “flash and wave-through” transits going on. As he waited in the queue of vehicles ahead, Ray tried repeatedly to call his parents at their ranch in Canada and his sister in Florida, using his TracFone cell phones. None of the calls were going through. The only good news was that the toll for his pickup with a two-axle trailer was still pegged at six dollars, despite the raging inflation.

The border crossing at the international bridge was unusual in that it had a separate lower plaza for trucks, RVs, and anyone towing a trailer. Nearly everyone was stopped and questioned at length, and passports were closely scrutinized. Judging by the large number of vehicles directed to the return loop, it was obvious that the border was effectively closed to anyone except returning Canadians. The RV with Michigan plates ahead of him was allowed to pass, but he noticed that the man had passed a mixed bundle of U.S. and Canadian passports (of two noticeably different shades of blue) to the Border Services officer. Ray surmised that the man was a dual citizen or that he had a Canadian wife.

A series of signs posted by Canada Border Services Agency/Agence des Services Frontaliers du Canada, reading “Border Crossing Ahead,” warned: ALL VEHICLES SUBJECT TO SEARCH and a more friendly: HAVE YOUR PASSPORT READY. When he reached the head of the queue, a young Border Services officer spent a long time looking through the pages of Ray’s passport and scanning it. Ray had been accustomed to border checks taking less than two minutes. The officer quizzed Ray about firearms and Tasers, twice. In recent years, they had begun asking about the amount of cash he was carrying “in excess of one thousand dollars,” but with the recent mass inflation, that question would have seemed laughable to most cross-border travelers.

When the questioning turned to his final destination, the officer seemed more relaxed and conversational. But then he asked a question that took Ray by surprise: “Do you have sufficient printed currency to buy fuel to reach your destination?” Ray promptly answered “Yes,” but he realized how quickly the concept of cash had been inverted at the border, with the advent of the Crunch. Just a few months earlier, the officer would have been suspicious if Ray was carrying several thousand dollars. Now the officer needed assurances that Ray had a large enough wad of cash to see him home without being stranded. (Gas stations had suspended taking any payments with credit cards.)

The officer thumbed through the back of the passport, examining the entry and exit stamps. “It looks like you’ve been spending much more time in the States than you have in Canada, for the past two years.”

Ray nodded, “Yeah. I’ve been researching a book on World War II aviators—doing a lot of interviews. I didn’t bother with a work visa. As you can see, I’ve never exceeded six months for any stay.”

This was the first time that Ray had ever had his vehicle thoroughly searched. Shining his flashlight around the interior of the trailer and seeing the chain saws and woodsplitter, the Border Services officer said, “You said that you were writing a book.”