William Johnstone - Out of the Ashes

“I’m not qualified to speak on the unhappiness part of your question. I’m sure there must be some unhappiness here. But I can guarantee you there is no hunger or poverty. We’ve corrected that—totally.”

The newspeople had just left an area—America—where people were still dying from the sickness caused by the bombings: cancer-related illnesses from radiation sickness; where people were starving and out of work; where gangs of thugs still roamed parts of the nation; where the sights of devastation were still very much in evidence. Now, for Bridge Oliver to tell them that here, in the Tri-states, there was no poverty, no hunger… that was ludicrous.

“Oh, come now, man!” Clayton’s tone was full of disbelief. “That is simply not possible.”

“Perhaps not in your society, but it certainly did happen here. You’ll be free to roam the country, talk to people. The only hungry people you’ll find in Tri-states will be those people who might be on a diet.”

“Well, would you be so kind as to tell us just how you people managed that?”

“By ripping down any slum or shack area and building new housing, and not permitting a building to deteriorate. We have very tough housing codes, and they are enforced….”

“I can just imagine how,” Barney muttered, his face reddening at the laughter around him.

“…We have no unemployment—there are jobs going begging right now. We’re opening factories, little by little, but the process of screening takes time; it’s long and slow. As I’ve tried to explain, it takes a very special person to live in our society. We won’t tolerate freeloaders, of any kind. We have no unions here, and will not permit any to come in. They are not necessary in this society. You’ll see what I mean as you travel about. Our economy matches our growth, and wages are in line with it. Wages are paid commensurate to a person’s ability to do a job, and a person’s sex has nothing to do with it. It’s equal pay right down the line. There is a minimum wage for certain types of work, but I defy you—any of you—to find a sweatshop anywhere in the Tri-states. The people won’t stand for it.”

“That doctrine is somehow vaguely familiar,” a reporter said.

“If you’re thinking socialism or communism, put it out of your mind; you haven’t got your head screwed on straight. I’d like to hear you name any communist country—ever—where the entire population was armed—to the teeth! No, none of you can. Believe me, if the people living here ever decide they don’t like the government, they’ve damned sure got the firepower to change it. But they won’t. Because, as I’ve told you, we like it this way.

“Now in terms of wealth, it would be very difficult for a person to become a millionaire—not impossible, but difficult. Taxes get pretty steep after a certain income level. But if a person is poor, it’s that person’s own fault, and he or she can blame no one else. But, it’s as I said; we don’t have any poor people.”

“And no rich people.”

“That is correct.”

“Number of churches here,” a woman observed. “Is attendance mandatory?”

“No!” Bridge laughed. “Where in the world are you people getting these off-the-wall questions?”

“But you people do place a lot of emphasis on religion,” Judith said. “Right?”

Bridge shrugged. “Some do, some don’t. Hell, people! Prostitution is legal here.”

The newspeople all looked at each other, not believing what they had just heard.

“Well,” Clayton Charles said, “I’d certainly like to get into that.”

The bus rocked with laughter.

“I didn’t mean it that way!” the chief correspondent said, his face crimson.

Judith shook her head. “I’m… still very confused about this area. I just witnessed a young lady—a teenager—beat up a grown man with nothing but her hands for weapons, and you people obviously thought it perfectly all right for her to do so. It’s obvious you are teaching your young that violence—in some forms, and incidents, I suppose—is acceptable. Yet, I have only to look out the window to see that your society is religious. You people claim to have completely obliterated hunger, poverty, and slums…. That’s the height of compassion. Yet capital punishment—so we’ve been told—is the law of the land. Tri-states seems to be, at least to me, a marvelous combination of good and evil.”

“We agree on the definition of one word, but not on the other,” Bridge replied. He found himself, for some reason, liking this reporter; he believed she would report fairly. “Here in our society, we have, I believe, returned to the values of our forefathers—in part. Much more emphasis is placed on the rights of a law-abiding citizen than on the punks who commit the crimes.

“There is honor here that you don’t have in your states—that you haven’t had in your central government for decades. You people still want it both ways, and it won’t work; I’m amazed that you can’t see that. We believe our system will always be worlds apart from yours. We set it up that way.”

“Then where does that leave Tri-states and the rest of America?” he was asked.

“In a position of separate but workable coexistence.”

“But that violates the entire concept of United States .”

Bridge glanced at the bus driver, the man who would soon be moving into the area. The driver smiled and shook his head.

He understands, Bridge thought. Even if the others don’t. “I suppose it does,” Bridge said. “But that is not our problem. And it’s yours only if you make it a problem.”

He sat down and turned his back to the reporters.

The town of Vista lay quiet and peaceful under a warm early summer sun. People tended gardens and mowed lawns. Kids played along the sidewalks and yards, their laughter and behavior reminiscent of an age long past. No horns honked, no mufflers roared, no huge trucks rumbled about. Trucks, unless they were moving vans, were forbidden to enter residential areas. The only exception was pickups. Unless it was an emergency, horns did not honk in Tri-states. Straight pipes, glass packs, and other such adolescent silliness were banned. There were lots of sidewalks—all of them new—to walk upon, and there were bike paths for the pedalers. Speed limits were low, and they were rigidly enforced.

A contentment hung in the air; a satisfaction that could almost be felt, as if everyone here had finally found a personal place under the sun and was oh, so happy with it. A mood of safety, tranquility, and peace surrounded the area.

To the newspeople, that was unsettling.

The buses and vans parked in front of a split-level home on the outskirts of town. In the two-car garage, there stood a pickup truck and a late-model (the last year automobiles were made), small station wagon. Parked in the drive was a standard military Jeep with a whip antenna on the rear and a waterproof scabbard on the right front side. The flap was open, exposing the stock of a .45-caliber Thompson SMG.

“You people are certainly careless with weapons,” a reporter remarked.

“Why?” Bridge looked at him.

He pointed to the Thompson. “Someone could steal that.”

Bridge shrugged. “Everyone in this state, male and female, over the age of sixteen has an automatic weapon and five hundred rounds of ammunition assigned to them, also a sidearm with fifty rounds of ammunition, three grenades, and a jump knife. Why would anyone want to steal an old Thompson?”

“Well, goddamn it!” The reporter lost his temper. He quickly checked it. “There are children, you know.” Being from a large city—that no longer existed—the reporter’s knowledge of firearms was limited to pointing his finger and making “bang-bang” noises.