The Last of the Freemen (3 page)

“Wolf?” Erin asked as they drove away.  “You seem to know that cop pretty well.  And he calls you Wolf?”

“So it would seem.”

“That’s all you’re going to say?”

“Life is complicated.”

She shook her head, frustrated by his dismissal.

“So what do I do now?” she asked, dragging a forelock of hair behind her ear with one hand, while clutching Hughie’s foot with the other.  “I needed that formula.  He could starve.”

“He won't starve.”  Harm took his hat off and scratched his head.  “Finding baby formula won’t be easy, but it can be done.  In the meantime, I know where we can get some milk.”

“You mean from the black market?”

“If that’s what you want to call it.  You could just as well call it the free market.”

“But isn’t that dangerous?”

“What isn't?”

He drove back the way they had entered the city, and as they again passed the decrepit building painted with Cull graffiti, Erin recalled the story he had told scarcely an hour before.

“Was it you who wrote ‘Cull freaks wear pink undies’ over there?”

He glanced at her guardedly in the rear-view mirror.

“You have to vent sometimes,” he said with a shrug.  “Probably, it doesn't make any difference.  But for a couple of days, some people going by here, they got to see that not everyone is afraid.  I can’t stop what's happening, but I can give them the finger.  And hope that others do it, too.”

“You did more than that back there.  I'm still shaking.”

“Yeah, well, we got lucky.  Luck got us through that as much as anything.”

“Are you a former commando or something?”

“No.”

“I mean, Cull warriors are supposed to be invincible.”

“That’s what you people believe, isn’t it?  They’re invincible, except maybe against somebody trained by the government.  It’s nonsense.”  He shook his head despondently.  “You saw for yourself why nobody survives.”

“I suppose I did. It's just hard to believe, even seeing it. I don't want to believe that the police were helping them.  And it doesn’t make sense.  It seems like so much extra effort to use the Culls, when people are already scared.”

“It’s how they operate. The government could slaughter people outright, and make them obey.  But then people wouldn't believe that government, even a corrupt one, is better than nothing.  People would stop supporting it, even if they wouldn't fight it openly.  If enough do that, their system fails.

“So they’ll show the surveillance video on the news, but they’ll edit it so you don’t see anyone fighting back.  And people will see the death and gore and stay terrified, and go along with more martial law, more warrantless house searches. The governor, he’ll make another speech saying how great the gun confiscation was, just imagine what the Culls would do with guns.  And you people, at least too many of you, you’ll go along with it, and keep paying your taxes, and using their shyster money, doing what they tell you to do.  Pay and obey.  You make it so easy for them.”

“Us people?”

He shook his head.  “Never mind.”

“What did you mean by that?”

“You people, like you, or that fella who escaped with us.  Decent folks, maybe, but you accept the system, even when you know it's corrupt.”

She folded her arms and looked askance. “So you're saying I'm the same as an old man who probably never went to college?”

“You’re not that different.  I'll bet you both watch television and believe in government.”

“I have a Master’s degree.”

“Yeah?  In what?”

“Art history.”

“A lot of good it's doing you.”

“That's not fair. I had a good job, an interesting job, until my husband’s politics got me fired.  I was a curator at the Regional Multicultural Museum. Granted, it didn't involve much art history. I dealt mostly with modern cultural artifacts. But I had to find a job somewhere when Hugh dragged me up here, and they were so impressed that I had worked at the Brooklyn Museum -”

“You never wondered,” Harm interrupted, “why the governor’s shock troops can sniff out small-time black marketers and kick their doors in, but somehow they can't find a bunch of bald, tattooed nut-jobs?”

“I try not to think about things that upset me.  Life has enough challenges.”

“Yeah? Well, you have to, now.” His jaw tightened and he ran a hand through his hair.  “There were surveillance cameras all over the place back there. I don’t know how high the resolution, but we have to consider that you might be in danger.  They never allow survivors.”

“What are you saying, exactly? They kill people even after the fact?”

“They do.  When they find them.”

“And you know this for certain?”

“Trust me.”

“Then I'm as good as dead?”

He shook his head. “No. They always want people to think they can do more than they really can. As if they can find anyone who breaks the law. Except for Culls.  It makes for a self-policing population, and it’s nonsense.  But you have to be careful.  Maybe you should stay with Bern for a few days.  I can set up some cameras around your place, and motion sensors, we’ll keep an eye on it, see what happens.”

“Cameras?  Motion sensors?  You can do all that?”

“Yeah.”

She frowned and considered for a moment.

“I don't mean to be nosy. You and Bern have really saved us.  But I'd like to know what I'm getting into, and what kind of people you are.”  She watched him in the rear view mirror for some reaction, but he remained reticent.

“I saw that Bern had a gun,” she continued.  “I mean, guns are totally illegal now.  Guns, surveillance cameras, and you seem to know a lot about the black market.  You two are engaged in some kind of illegal activity, aren't you?”

He made brief eye contact in the mirror and looked away.  “Yeah, I suppose we are.  It's called freedom.”

As they came within a few miles of her home, Harm turned off the paved road and onto a small dirt lane; after going somewhat more than a mile through heavily wooded terrain - driving slowly over deep ruts and embedded rocks - they began to encounter small farms, all carved out of rough hillsides, with simple clapboard farmhouses that seemed a throwback to an earlier time. Bearded men in black trousers and vests, wearing broad-rimmed felt hats, could be seen here and there plowing or harrowing with horse-drawn equipment.

“I didn't know these people were here, so close to us,” Erin said.

“They keep a low profile.”

“Are these people Amish, or Mennonites?”

“Neither.  They have full beards, you see?  I mean, with mustaches.  They’re Müntzerites, followers of Thomas Müntzer, the Protestant rebel who lived five hundred years ago.  They haven’t rebelled since then, though, maybe because most of them were massacred the last time they tried.”

Her eyes grew wide with alarm.  “Aren't these the people who’ve been abusing their children?”

“You still believe what you hear on the news?”

“Well then, what?  Why would anyone make up such a thing?”

“It's a long story.”

“Out in Ohio, they’ve even shot some Child Protection workers dead.”

“Good for them.”

Her mouth fell open and she shook her head in disbelief; after a few moments he explained himself.

“They were coming to steal their children. And these folks, unlike those other sects, they’re not pacifists. They believe in self-defense.”

“But they said the social workers were just coming to check on their kids.”

“By what right? Haven't you heard what’s been happening?  Mostly to families of anyone critical of the government.  They’re labeled extremists, or mentally ill, declared unfit homes, and have their kids taken away.  One family at a time, they’re destroying threats to their system. It's the same as they did to the American Indians.  Destroy who you can’t herd.”

“These people are critical of the government? I would expect them to be apolitical.”

“They are, but governments generally don't trust anyone who lives outside the system.  Self-reliance is always seen as a threat. But what really got these folks in the crosshairs, out in Ohio, was a little moneymaking idea they had.

“See, it's getting harder all the time for small farms to survive. Property taxes keep going up, estate taxes too, food prices are kept too low by all the price controls, and now these government food exchanges, with their fines and paperwork requirements, they’re just wiping family farms out.

“So that's why you see these folks selling pies and cookies at the side of the road.  They need money.  The Müntzerites in Ohio, they had the idea to teach farming to people who want to get back to the land. And they were bringing in a good flow of cash, and free labor. And of course, it was attracting people from the freedom movement. That caught the government’s attention.”

“Even with all that being the case, how can you know for sure there's no abuse going on?”

“Do you know what the allegations are?”

“Not exactly.”

“They say they're indoctrinating their kids with hate, because they refuse to teach their five year olds the mechanics of intercourse, natural and otherwise, as required by the national curriculum.  Screw up your kids, or have them taken away.”

She sighed and stroked Hughie’s head.

“And you don’t think there’s any way to stop it lawfully?”

“There is, if you mean the law of nature. That means killing anyone who tries to snatch your kids. And that’s what they did.  But if you mean the laws of the system, forget it.  They only benefit the system.”

“Like the old saying, you can’t fight city hall.”

“There’s no point fighting on their terms, if you can avoid it.  Better to just ignore them.  No one needs degenerates telling them how to live.”

They rounded a bend and Harm stopped the car briefly, letting a Müntzerite boy cross with a small herd of black pied cows. Shortly past the bend he turned onto a long driveway, moving slowly as chickens and geese scurried from their path, and stopped between a small, one-and-a-half story farmhouse on one side – which, like the others in the area, had rough-hewn clapboards and a shake shingle roof - and on the other, a large, modern barn with a concrete foundation and ribbed steel roof.  A barrel-chested man in his forties wearing traditional attire, the sleeves of his unbleached linen shirt rolled up to his elbows, came out of the barn; a six-year old boy remained behind and peered curiously out the door. He approached the car with a smile at first, but upon seeing Erin, and the grave look on Harm’s face, frowned with concern.

“Herr Hautsch!”
he called as Harm rolled down the window. 
“Was ist los?”

“Herr Fromm.
Ich müß Milch kaufen
.  My English neighbor here has to feed her baby.”

“Baby?” The man peered into the back seat and stroked his thick, chestnut beard. “Please, come inside!”

They exited the car; the late morning sun had grown pleasantly warm, and the cool air smelled of manure.  Erin struggled to grab the diaper bag while she held Hughie on her arm; Harm hastened over to take it.

“Karolina! Wir haben Gäste!”
the man called as they approached the house. The front door was off-center to the right; he held it open for them and removed his hat.

The door opened directly onto the kitchen, where a sturdy table stood in front of a ten-plate cast iron stove. A woman of about forty, wearing a plain blue dress and white bonnet, was kneading dough; a blond three-year old girl sat in the chair next to her, trying to do the same with a smaller lump.

“Grüß Gott,”
the woman said without looking up.

“English, Karolina,” said her husband, “Herr Hautsch’s neighbor is English.”

The woman gave Erin a quizzical glance and smiled when she saw Hughie.

“Welcome, then,” she said. “You look hungry.  Sit yourself.”

“How could you tell?” Erin said, relieved. “Actually, I haven't eaten in a couple of days.”

“You should have told me,” Harm said embarrassedly.

“I’ve had other things on my mind.”

“I’ll get milk for the baby,” Fromm said. “How much would you like?”

“A full crate, as long as we’re here, if you can spare it,” Harm said.  “She can freeze the extra.”

“
Gewiss
,” Fromm answered, and hurried out the back door.

The woman went to a cupboard, fetched a plate and a ball of farmer’s cheese wrapped in muslin, and placed them in front of Erin; she then cut off a slice of bread from a loaf at the center of the table, and added it to the plate.

“Thank you so much,” Erin said, and began to eat ravenously.

“You're welcome.” The woman returned to the table with a pitcher of water and a glass.  “How old is he?”

“Seven months,” Erin said awkwardly as she chewed.

“He’s small.  Like you.”

“I suppose.”

“You English, you don't -” the woman paused as she considered her words, “you don't give your babies your own milk?”

“Well,” Erin said, pausing to swallow, “actually, I did at first. That was my plan.  But it stopped flowing when my husband was killed. The doctor said emotional stress can do that.”

“Yes, it can. I’m sorry you lost your husband.”

“It’s been hard.  At least I’ve got good neighbors.  We’d be starving otherwise.”

The woman seemed vexed at the mention of her neighbors; Erin glanced at Harm, who stood by the doorway with his head held low and his hat clenched in his hands, and realized he was being ignored.

A few minutes passed without anyone speaking; the only sounds were of Erin eating and dough being slammed on the table. At last Fromm returned with a steel wire crate, inside of which were six full milk bottles; he set it on the floor next to Harm, then looked at Erin and Hughie with a shake of his head.

“So this is what they do to you people.  There’s no need for anyone to go hungry. The land provides. God provides. But the wicked take it away.”

“Vielen Dank,”
Harm said as he took a palm-sized bar of silver from his pocket and placed it in Fromm’s hand.

“Too much!” Fromm exclaimed, gazing at the bar in astonishment.

“You take the risk, you earned it,” Harm said.  “Hold on to it.  You might need to bribe someone.”

“I still owe you for the ammunition!”

“Keine Sorge,”
Harm reassured.  “We fight the same devil.”

Fromm’s wife was unable to contain her displeasure.

“These men will bring death to us all,” she said loudly to Erin.

“Karolina,” her husband said calmly, “it comes.  We can't stop it.  We can be ready, or not.”

“Stimmt,”
Harm said as he slung the diaper back over his shoulder, then picked up the crate and turned towards Erin.  “We’d best go now.”

“You’re in such a hurry?” Fromm asked.

“Yeah.  We have a lot to do before we leave.”

Fromm nodded and went to hold the door open for them.

“Will you have more ammunition available?” he asked anxiously as Harm stepped outside.

“I’ll see what I can do.  Next week I'll have a better idea.”

“And -” he began as Erin came to the door, “Mrs. - I'm sorry, I haven’t learned your name.”

“Erin.  Erin Gordon.”

“Mrs. Gordon, I’ll bring you more milk next week. You live, it must be, in Herr Hautsch’s old house?”

Erin looked at him in bewilderment, then looked at Harm.

“She does,” Harm said uncomfortably, and hastened to the car.

“Good, then.  I know where to find you. We won't stand for hungry children. God’s peace to you both!”