Free State Of Dodge Read online

  Free State Of Dodge

  Free State Of Dodge

  ◆◆◆

  Javan Bonds

  Copyright © 2016 Javan Bonds

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 9781517046859

  ISBN-10: 1517046858

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015921241

  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

  North Charleston, South Carolina

  This book is dedicated to Mama—the grammar Nazi.

  Disclaimer

  THIS IS A work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblances to persons, living or dead; business establishments; events; or locales are entirely coincidental.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue : July 5

  CHAPTER 1: July 5

  CHAPTER 2: July 5

  CHAPTER 3: July 5

  CHAPTER 4: July 5

  CHAPTER 5: July 5

  CHAPTER 6: July 5

  CHAPTER 7: July 5

  CHAPTER 8: July 5

  CHAPTER 9: July 5

  CHAPTER 10: July 5 & 6

  CHAPTER 11: July 6

  CHAPTER 12: July 15

  CHAPTER 13: July 15

  CHAPTER 14: July 15

  CHAPTER 15: July 16

  CHAPTER 16: July 16

  CHAPTER 17: July 17

  CHAPTER 18: July 17

  CHAPTER 19: July 17

  CHAPTER 20: July 17

  CHAPTER 21: July 17

  CHAPTER 22: July 17 & 18

  CHAPTER 23: July 23

  CHAPTER 24: July 24

  CHAPTER 25: July 25

  CHAPTER 26: July 25

  CHAPTER 27: July 25

  CHAPTER 28: July 25

  CHAPTER 29: July 25 & 26

  CHAPTER 30: July 26

  CHAPTER 31: July 26

  CHAPTER 32: July 26

  CHAPTER 33: July 26

  CHAPTER 34: July 26

  CHAPTER 35: July 26

  CHAPTER 36: July 26

  CHAPTER 37: July 26

  Epilogue : July 26

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  July 5

  HEINRICH ROBERTSON SHRUGGED on his three-piece suit, complete with American flag lapel pin. On the rack it had appeared at least one size too large, but over the body armor it fit snugly. Since he was six feet tall, the full costume gave the illusion that he was a heavyweight compared to his lanky 164 pounds. Heinrich combed his blond hair flat against his head and laid the comb down on the hotel dresser beside the newspaper. The article he had been reading detailed the final passage of the infamous national lead-bullet ban, the lives of innocent animals that had been saved, the time given to turn bullets in, how turning them in was a patriotic duty of all Americans, and the number of “Federal Firearms Credits” received for each bullet. He knew that it was all bullshit. The government had controlled the national media for decades, and the Jews at the FCC censored everything they said. But they wouldn’t be able to censor what was coming.

  “I see you, Heini,” called Josef as he rapped his knuckles on the door. He had that stupid smirk on his face, the same smirk everyone had when they called Heinrich by that loathsome nickname that had haunted him since childhood. Josef had been a brother-in-arms in the Missouri Free Militia and more than an older brother to him for years, but it infuriated Heinrich when anyone called him that. As he turned from the dresser to face Josef with a distasteful stare, Josef headed closer to inspect his suit. Even though they were wearing similar suits and were about the same height, the differences in the two (Heinrich’s light-blond hair, dark-blue eyes, and full face compared to Josef’s thin black hair, brown eyes, and bony, vampirishly gaunt features) were striking.

  Rockwell “Rock” Robertson had already finished adorning his outfit and was looking over the speech he planned to give to Congress. Today he would convince them that white America would not bow down to the Negroid the Jews had put in office. They would not lay down their Second Amendment rights so the UN-led New World Order could swallow them up. Yes, the MFM would be remembered for taking the first step against the oppression of the socialist federal government.

  Helga, seemingly ready for anything through their twenty-one years of marriage and who had already dressed in a light-blue business suit, knocked on the open door and told him everyone was ready. He carefully folded the paper containing the speech and slid it into the breast pocket of his suit. Rock; Helga; their only son, Heinrich; and the like-minded militia member Josef were going to take their grievances to the top.

  Rock and his wife walked down the hall side by side. He gently placed an arm over his wife’s shoulder; it would appear awkward to someone else’s eyes, with her being six inches shorter than his six three. They met their two compatriots at the table by the door, and, without a word, Rockwell reached under the table and placed the four briefcases on the table one at a time. Each popped open a case and checked the submachine gun and pistol waiting in the foam cutouts. It had seemed almost too easy to smuggle the firearms into DC, but once they had, all the four had to do was rent a suite of hotel rooms and be seen on Capitol Hill for a few days.

  The four marched out the door in single file; Josef turned and placed a “Do Not Disturb” hanger on the doorknob, as he was the last one out. Rock walked quickly to the elevator and pressed the “down” button, and the door slid open. They stepped into the empty elevator and descended toward the ground floor. On the way down, they stared at the floor, not wanting their emotions to escape them, one moment smiling at the prospect of winning the conflict for American freedom, the next moment almost crying because they secretly knew they wouldn’t be here after today. One second stricken with terror at the thought of coming death, then jubilant, knowing they wouldn’t be the only ones. One instant despairing at…

  With a ding the elevator doors opened, and they were on the ground. They walked out of the sliding doors with briefcases in hand and strolled down the sidewalk as nonuniformly as possible.

  As they walked, Heinrich thought of the Aryan wife he would never make love to. Helga mourned the grandchildren she would never spoil. Josef was planning for a glorious death in a hail of gunfire. Rock mentally recited his speech. Upon their approach to the Capitol Building, they noticed but didn’t register as significant the fact that all the traffic lights at every intersection were green.

  Before any of them realized it, they were in front of the large, breathtaking Capitol building. As each climbed the well-kept steps one at a time, they realized that the Hill seemed eerily empty.

  The militia members entered the main door and were greeted by a lone black guard stationed near the metal detector which lead out of the entrance room. Having practiced for days, Rock knew exactly how this was going to work. Using the small interference remote in his pocket, the UV 30, which the MFM had bought online, he had been in this room several times this week and practiced—press the button once and watch maintenance work on the cameras until they were satisfied that they were transmitting a live feed again. The “problem” had occurred so many times in the past few days that the “This area under maintenance; please use the other door” sign had remained against the wall by the door, just in case it might be needed again.

  As Rock walked toward the metal detector, the guard spoke. “Hey, Mr. Goldberger, there was a car wreck a few blocks down, so most of the guys is down there helping out. And Congress is voting on something, so nobody else wants to stand around and wait for them to get out of there.”

  What car wreck? That wasn’t part of our plan, but it will work to our benefit. With so few guards around, we might all make it inside. Rock had so many thoughts
running through his head of the new opportunities to take advantage of. In a split second, he decided on the best course and caught Josef’s gaze with his own, silently signaling him to the ready.

  “Was it a bad wreck?” Rock asked as he stepped closer to the guard and extended his hand to shake. “I heard they were voting today.” Just as the guard’s hand reached his, Rock said through a smile, “And that’s why we’re here.” As the guard’s fingers stiffened and their hands were almost clasped, Rock pushed his left hand against his pants pocket until he felt the button on the remote click, and almost simultaneously he clamped his hand around the guard’s wrist. The guard gave a perplexed look, but before he could say anything or even begin to struggle, Josef had jumped the waist-high rail in front of the station and was behind the guard in an instant. Josef covered the guard’s mouth with one hand, placed his other hand on the guard’s head, and, moving the hand covering the man’s mouth back and up, swung his head to the side, snapping his neck with a sickening pop. The whole incident happened in almost less than the blink of an eye, but for the people in the room, it seemed an eternity.

  Josef gripped the guard’s shoulders and guided the limp body into the swiveling office chair below. He tipped the guard’s cap forward over his eyes while Rock grabbed the man’s hands and placed them in his pants pockets. Rock then searched through the papers on the small desk in front of the guard’s body and discovered what he was looking for. He lifted a magazine (which just so happened to be a copy of Time) and placed it on the guard’s lap, opening it somewhere in the middle. With an accidental glance, Rock noticed the title of the article was “A Living Document: Why the Founding Fathers Would Agree with the President’s Gun Regulations.” He almost laughed aloud at this ridiculous notion, at the same time swiveling the guard’s chair to face the opposing wall rather than directly facing the oncoming hallway.

  In the few seconds it took the two to pose the deceased guard as a sleeping government employee, Helga and her son had cracked open one of the main front doors, checked that there was not a soul in sight, and placed the gold stand with the “Under Maintenance” sign outside in front of the door. Then they hurriedly bypassed the metal detector and met up with their compatriots, who were waiting for them halfway down the corridor.

  Once the group was together again, they each fell to one knee in an almost robotic fashion, placed their briefcases on the floor while simultaneously flipping the tabs to open them, reached in for the loaded .22 pistols (with accompanying silencers already attached), placed the pistols in their pockets, closed the briefcases, and stood up, each holding his or her case in his or her left hand. They had practiced this scenario almost every day for months, and this exact series of movements had become muscle memory. They appeared to be a single machine performing their task with precision.

  Rock led the group, stepping lightly and poking his head around each corner, hand in pocket and clamped firmly around the pistol. A few more corners and they would reach the emergency exit for the hall. Without encountering anyone, they finally spotted the door that had been their planned entrance. This was it. There was no turning back now, even though none of them would even think about that.

  As they reached the final corner before their intended stop, Helga quietly ask the question they had all been asking themselves: “Where is everyone?”

  It was almost as if someone or something had cleared this path for them, and they were destined to make history here. The only answer Rock could give was a shrug. He deliberately walked around the final corner without looking. A man in a suit with a business case couldn’t seem that intimidating to anyone in Washington, no matter how large he was. Again, there was no one. He gave a “come on” grunt, signaling to the others that the coast was clear. The three followed their leader a few yards down the hall to a bench opposite the metal door they had been waiting for. This was the last opportunity they would have for a silent moment to themselves. The conspirators set the briefcases to rest on the floor as they sat on the bench or stood close by, feeling through their suits to make sure the armor was in place and taking deep, calming breaths.

  As they closed in on the point of interest, two men came their way. Rock could tell they were maintenance workers by their uniforms (which he recognized from days prior) and the fact that they weren’t wearing gun belts—just tool belts and radios. A radio was just as dangerous as a gun, but the jammer would work on that as well as it had the camera system.

  Without speaking, he moved in their general direction. He heard Josef turn to move with him, the creak of his leather dress shoes letting Rock know he had backup. As the distance between them grew smaller, one of the maintenance men casually asked no one in particular, “George isn’t answering his radio, and the cameras up front are out. Have you guys been by there?”

  “No. But I’m sure everything is fine,” Rock said with a friendly look on his face. By that time Josef had caught up and had slowed his pace to match his senior militia member’s speed. When they were only a few feet from each other, Rock and Josef slowed to almost a stop and casually dropped their hands to their sides while the two government employees generically greeted them. Being well-bred Aryans, the two militia members both reached out their right hands for shaking. As the other two stepped forward and reached out their hands, Rock ran his left hand across his thigh, pressing the button. At the moment of contact, the gunmen reached their free hands over their bodies to pull their pistols from their pockets. The workers didn’t even have time to react before each had two bullet holes in his forehead and they were lying on the ground in lifeless heaps. This time Rock took both radios.

  “Did you turn the cameras off before we put them down?” Josef asked, calm after having murdering two men in cold blood in the past ten minutes.

  Rock nodded in the affirmative.

  “If it’s this easy to get in, maybe we can get out,” Josef said with a hopefulness Rock had never seen in him in the twelve years they had been comrades.

  No, we won’t make it out of that room. Hell, I’ll be surprised if I finish my speech. “Yeah, and maybe we can take some down on the way out,” Rock said through a forced smile, knowing that they would all be dead within an hour.

  The duo picked up their briefcases and jogged to meet the others at the door. As the two approached, they noticed that Helga and Heinrich already had their submachine guns in hand. Rock and Josef opened their cases, grabbed their own submachine guns, and let their cases drop to the floor as they walked.

  “This is what we’ve been waiting for. After today we will be remembered as heroes and the spark that started the New American Revolution. Are you ready?” Rock asked in his most formal voice.

  “Sieg heil!” They all quietly sounded back in unison, throwing their hands up in Hitler salutes.

  “Let’s do it!” Rock shouted as he crashed through the door.

  CHAPTER 1

  July 5

  JACKSON PIKE STEPPED out of the marble shower of his small bathroom and tied a towel around his waist. He raised one hand at a time to roll on some Old Spice solid stick deodorant as he looked at himself in the mirror above the sink. He immediately saw that, like most days, he would not need to shave. Ever since he had been to the theater to see Gods and Generals, he had vowed to grow facial hair akin to that of his namesake. Years later, he had not had much luck in imitating the beard of Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson, but he was proud of the barely significant growth he had acquired. Every male he knew told him shaving would cause hair to grow, but over a decade of it had brought no results. He thought perhaps the Cherokee in his blood kept his face pretty hairless; he had used that excuse in high school when many of his friends had full beards, but his American Indian ancestry was not enough to matter, and his mother’s brother could qualify as a Sasquatch.

  Regardless of familial claims that his great-great-grandmother was full-blooded Cherokee, he could see no sign of it in his face. Though not extremely pale, his skin was not exceptionally dark,
his eyes were hazel, his nose was straight, and his hair was wavy. His hair was somewhere between brown and dark brown, and in some of his younger days, he had grown his hair down to his shoulders (he could take solace that at least the hair on his head was fast growing). He now kept it quite short. He rarely worked out but could admire that he had stayed in very good physical condition years after high-school football—his biceps were muscular, and his belly showed almost no pudge. At the ripe old age of twenty-seven, he was proud he had not become a fat old man like a lot of former high-school football players, and he could rightfully say that at six foot one, he was a pretty decent-looking guy.

  He crossed the short hallway to his bedroom, where his clothes lay waiting for him on his bed. His mother had always said she wanted to “make your house a home” and always had new ideas for decorating, but Jackson never cared for anything more than the necessities; with four rooms in his house (one of them being a large living and dining/ kitchen combo and an office where he kept his computer), he defined his house as a true bachelor pad. Getting ready, he always left the TV volume turned up, so he could hear it as he dressed. The anchor on Fox News was spilling the usual stories of inflation, the plummeting stock market, and the most recent group of gas-thieving vandals. He smiled to himself as they described several small vehicles chasing down and overtaking a gasoline tanker, which brought memories of The Road Warrior to his mind. He pictured the recent Rangers wearing football pads and assless chaps.

  Halfway through buttoning up his flannel shirt, the doorbell began frantically ringing. No one close to him ever rang the doorbell. Who could it be? He pocketed the sheathed hunting knife on his dresser as he walked out of the room, just in case, and pressed the “mute” button on the television remote that rested on the arm of his lone recliner as he walked to the door. The doorbell continuously chimed as he reached for the knob. With one hand on the butt of the knife, he began to turn the knob as he shouted, “Take it easy!”