Frank Klus - Azaleas Don't Bloom Here

“Okay, Jack,” Chad said. “Tell me about the helicopter.”

“Most of the people in that neighborhood you parked your vehicles in know about the fence,” Jack said. “Milo lives in the shack behind my house. They think freedom is just over that fence. It isn’t. Never was. Every so often someone goes over the fence. We usually pick him up right away. We got some men over there. Then once every couple of weeks we fly a helicopter out there and load it up with the dead bodies of the—uh, pilgrims—who found that tasting freedom didn’t mean quenching their thirst or putting food in their bellies. Most died of exhaustion and lack of water. Even in winter, when it’s cool and you can eat the snow, you soon got tired. Lack of food saps your energy, the snow’s too cold—you can’t take it anymore.”

“And the few who survive?” Armstrong said. “You just mow them down from the helicopter. Eh?”

“What are you going to do with us?”

“We’re not murderers, but we’re not a bunch of damn fools either. We’re going to tie you up to that fence, that freedom fence. Milo, too. Your relief will untie you.”

After a few minutes, it was time to make their way back through that hated forest. Pamela just stood by the fence, sobbing. Chad walked up to her. “Oh, Chad, are we ever going to make it?”

“Sure!”

Pamela just continued to stare at the scrub, the dirt, and the hills in the distance. “A hundred thousand dollars and we aren’t any better off now than we were.”

The irony wasn’t lost on Armstrong. “It’s an illusion. I’m sick of it. Sick of being misled and lied to. Sick of being hunted down. I’m tired of lawyers picking our pockets and leading us to an illusion. I’m sick of being directed by an idiot who keeps handing people off to the authorities. You know who our biggest enemy is? Ignorance. From now on we’re going to use that lawyer and that senator. We’re going to use them to get some facts—some real information. Then we’re going to use the truth to get across.”

Pamela stood looking up at Chad. He just looked at her with steely eyes. “We’ve come through hell so far only to stare at the face of the devil. Well, I’m going through and I’m taking you and anyone else who wants to come along. Didn’t Odysseus go through hell before he got home?”

The new pilgrims got back to the Lazy Tourist Inn around dawn, and went to their rooms for a long rest. The watch was set. Armstrong was the first to wake up at around nine. He made coffee and then called Phillips.

“Nate, this is Armstrong. I’m back at the motel.”

(Pause). “No. We didn’t get over. We got stopped. Somebody tipped off the authorities. That wasn’t the problem, however. They were amateurs. We overpowered them easily enough. The problem is that there’s nothing on the other side of that fence. Just desert.”

(Pause). “Listen to me!” Foote came in. Chad put the phone down and turned to him. “Phillips said we should just have gone over anyway.”

He picked up the phone again. “Phillips? You there?” There was a pause. “Not only is it just desert, but Old America’s got authorities over there just waiting to bring back any wayfarers. And if any escapees get past them they’re being picked up by U.S. copters—not alive, but dead.”

There was a delay as Armstrong listened to the lawyer. “No, that’s not going to happen.” Then he lowered the phone and talked to Foote. “He wants to get more information from Milo.”

“What?” he yelled.

“Look, Phillips. I’m tired of this nonsense. Grab a legal pad and pen and write this down. First, I want a map of the entire area five miles from the border, to a hundred miles on the other side. Then I want a close-up map of the border—about twenty-five miles north and the same distance south of our present latitude. Are you getting this?”

Phillips indicated he had.

“Now, I want maps from the border area we just discussed, but focused in on every road, side road, alleyway, and horse trail through or either side of the border. Got it?”

(Pause). “Good. I want it this time tomorrow.”

(Pause). “What? No don’t give me shit. You got a hundred grand of our money. You put everything aside and you come to the Lazy Tourist at nine sharp tomorrow morning.”

(Pause). “Huh?”

“Out of the question. You don’t want to make me mad. Do this and bring those maps to me.”

“Fine! Have some flunky bring them to me.”

“All right. Good-bye.”

Armstrong hung up and turned to Foote. “Oh, I got clients to see, and I have to be in court. I tell you, Terry, I’m about ready to break that lawyer’s kneecaps. All I can say is he better have those maps tomorrow, and after all the money he’s taken from us, he better not try to bill us, or so help me…. Terry, go rouse our senator.”

Ev Moore was sound asleep. He didn’t hear the knocking at the door. The knocking became a bit more insistent and still Moore snored away. Foote went back to his room and came back with a dumbbell. Now he made some real noise. Moore shot up wondering if there was an explosion. Then he heard Foote.

“Moore, you up?”

“What?” Moore tried to shake the sleep out.

“Get up, Moore!”

“What is it? Let me sleep,” he said groggily.

“No time. You want freedom, don’t you?”

“Right now, I want sleep.”

“You got five minutes. Come to Room 120, and don’t make me come back for you.”

Fifteen minutes later, Moore knocked on Armstrong’s door.

“Here, Ev. Good strong joe. No sugar and no milk; just caffeine.”

Moore took the coffee. He made a face after tasting it, and then set the coffee down, still feeling groggy. “Have you found another path to the border?”

“No,” Armstrong said. “We need information. You have Washington contacts. You’ve provided Pamela with information before. Now, we need some. I want to know who’s in CSA territory, and where they are. I want to know what we have to fear: Hogs, Squads, RACs, local authorities, etc. I want to know where they are and where they aren’t. I also want a copy of the treaty with CSA and the U.S.; what’s changed, and what kind of sanctions exist. I want to know how we can get around a media blackout. Any questions?”

“I have most of that information for you, and Pamela has a way of communicating with her brother Henry on the other side.”

“Does most of that information consist of civilian authorities like we faced last night?”

“No, only formal authorities.”

“Can you get information on the informal authorities?”

“I doubt it. You’d need a spy for that.”

Armstrong had to think on that. “Okay, Ev, get me whatever you have.”

Moore left.

“He’s probably right,” addressing his concern to Foote and Wrenn. Armstrong sat back in his chair while the other two just waited for his idea so they could execute it. Armstrong looked worried.

Eugene sat down to a sandwich and a bottle of wine. He had turned X News on when someone knocked. He thought it might be Pamela or Armstrong; maybe another meeting or someone with a new idea. When Eugene opened the door, there was Sandy.

“May I come in?”

Eugene was surprised. Sandy hadn’t spoken to him since that terrible day. “Sure, come in. I was just about to have a sandwich. Want one?”

“No, thanks, but I’ll have a glass of wine, if you don’t mind.”

Eugene poured her a glass. “I guess I am surprised to see you. We hadn’t spoken in a while.”

“I’m sorry about that. I try to not think about that day. I want to be my old self, but I think about it all the time. A man can’t know what I felt. You may think you do, but you can’t.”