From the Journals of Jonathan Hemingway (Part Three)
June 12th, 2071
Those of you who will read this may get the impression that life here in northern Montana is relatively serene, even idyllic, but don't get me wrong.
We have our good times, and for a while (a very long time ago), a lot of us even thought that we could build something worthwhile out of what was left of America. And for years, it looked like we could. Sure, the friction's between the different groups I told you about, which led to a lot of bloodshed… but somehow we citizens figured that in the end, it would all work out, we'd kind of settle into some kind of uneasy, but workable truce. Talk about being naive.
What we've come to, as I write this, is an almost constant state of conflict, which the Govs, Dems and Corps call everything from rioting, to insurrection, to anarchy, but what the rest of us know is one last desperate attempt to reclaim what is left of the American way of life, to have some legacy to leave our children. As I write this, and why I write this, is that right now, in this time and place, no one can be sure that this country, or its people, will survive the year, let alone the future.
I'll try and explain, on the assumption that some of you, or maybe all of you, who read this will have no idea of how we came to this condition, what happened to America. Or should we survive, it may well be the Dems who get to rewrite history. And if that happens, it will be journals like this, written by average folk like yours truly, that will have to serve to keep alive what's left of history and truth.
Well, for quite some time, despite the almost unimaginable loss of the majority of the population, and the growing differences and conflict between those of us who remained, most of us actually began to make new lives for ourselves.
In 26', I married Sandy Ormand, who I had known from high school. Sandy's husband Bill, a college professor, who wanted nothing to do with the Dems, was shot to death by some drunk from Butte, who wanted to jointly marry Sandy. Way I heard it, he was quite wealthy before the Event; his father owned a string of auto dealerships, and he'd offered Bill and Sandy a pile of money, and some new trucks, both of which had little value, if he could buy into their family.
Bill let him know in no uncertain terms that the answer was and would be no; and that seemed to be the end of it. Next day though, this fella comes back and shoots Bill dead, right in front of Sandy. Then, without a word, he drives away, and no one ever saw him again.
Well, two years later, I married Sandy, and in 29' Jonathan Jr. was born, followed in 32' by William, Bill we call him, and in 34', by Jane.
The farm grew, prospered really, and although we traded with our neighbors, truth be told, we pretty much provided for ourselves everything we needed.
In the early forties, about fifty of us got together and built a brewery. Most of us had been making homemade beer and wine for years, but a group it might be worth creating a product we could trade to surrounding towns. That's how Prospect Lager came to be, and I should say, we make some damn good beer. Never did wind up trading it for anything, and after a time, the brewery became a community project; kind of a public water fountain that flowed beer instead of water.
Life became pretty routine, kind of pleasant even.
In 57', Jane was married in a Catholic church ceremony, to three young men she knew from school. I, of course was vehemately opposed to this arrangement, and there was a period of six or eight months when Jane and I wouldn't even stay in the same room, let alone speak. Eventually, Sandy's better judgment prevailed, as it always did, and Jane and I came to terms.
The four of them actually have done quite well; given me five grandchildren, and now, what little chance we have to survive, may well rest with people like Jane and her family.
2053, the worst year of my life, marked what may have been the turning point, at least here in Montana. Many around here still call everything before 53' the old life, and since then, well, we really don't have a name for it.
In June of that year, we began to get word over some of the local radio stations, that a band of Govs and Dems was coming north, probably from Utah, looking for women, and most likely a town they could confiscate and settle.
These kinds of stories were nothing new, and as I said earlier, occasionally some semi-organized rabble would try to bully and threaten their way into Prospect; and they'd always leave with their tail between their legs.
Little did we figure how wrong we were this time.
By the time we woke up and realized that this was no ordinary group of ne'er-do-wells, we were hearing reports that the town of Bells Creek, about 60 miles south, had been completely overrun and decimated by about 200 Govs.
We had less than a day and a half until June 19th, the day they arrived.
When they came we were ready them, but not nearly prepared for the all out devastation and carnage they brought with them.
They marched straight down Main Street; almost three hundred of them, led by six refurbished army tanks and four armored personnel carriers.
We numbered about a hundred, mostly armed with rifles and shotguns, hidden on rooftops and in alleyways.
Judging from their past history, we expected that they would make unreasonable demands, followed by several days of negotiations, and in the end, they would leave, taking a few truckloads of supplies, and the few woman who would willingly go.
Instead, the tanks, with no warning, opened fire on every building on the street.
We, of course, returned fire, but were no match for the automatic weapons mounted on the personnel carriers. Within fifteen minutes we were running for our lives.
Sensing sudden and complete victory, the Govs settled in and occupied downtown Prospect, leaving the wounded to die in the streets. Those of us who could, got word to anyone who could carry a rifle to meet at seven o'clock that night at the old Stanton Mill, about four miles outside of town.
We spent the next three hours bitterly arguing the merits of running versus fighting, that age old reflex of fight versus flight, and in the end the town was about equally divided,
It was Sandy who finally stood up and said that as for her, she would rather die in Prospect than spend her life running from the Govs, or worse yet, being forced into a communal marriage with the rabble that now occupied our town.
Sandy's speech, brief as it was, made sense and won over most of the woman in town, who in short order convinced those men who still needed convincing.
As I remember, we spent the next several hours trying to devise some strategy that would give us even a slim chance of surviving the next day.
Along about midnight, or one a.m. (my recollection's not so good these days) several townsfolk, those who were facing the town, started yelling and pointing. What we saw was a red glow on the horizon, right above where Prospect should be.
The accounts vary, of course, but next morning when we entered the town and tried to make sense of what had happened, what we were able to know for sure, and piece together from the survivors was this:
During the night, about a dozen of Prospect's young men (my youngest son Bill among them) came up with their own plan and left the rest of us to our arguments.
They drove over to Stillwell Fuel oil supply and commandeered three tanker trucks, loaded with gasoline.
From there they drove to Prospect, right down Main Street with every valve and hose on all three of those trucks wide open, spraying everything in their path -- tanks, personnel carriers, and Govs -- and coving them with gasoline.
By the time they reached the end of Main Street, the govs had killed just about all of them, my Bill included. But not before one of the trucks overturned and one crashed broadside into a tank, exploding in the process. Their intent had been to ignite the gasoline, but the gunfire and explosions did it for them.
Every man in every tank and personnel carrier was cremated within minutes, and most of the Govs and Dems were burned to death where they slept.
To this day there is a plaque in the Square with Bill's name on it, all that's left of the promise of my not yet twenty-one year old son.
Sandy died in November of that year, from some virus or other, but we all knew it was really from a broken heart. She never stopped blaming herself for Bill's death; she felt that if we had run, Bill would still be alive. Maybe she was right, but I don't think so.
Well, I've gotten way off track. I started to tell you about what I see as the real beginning of the end, and like usual, I got sidetracked. What happened, happened about six years ago. One day we heard on the news that Reno, Nevada had been incinerated in a nuclear explosion.
We all assumed that a hidden weapon, locked beneath the ground for fifty years, had somehow detonated, with tragic results. It wasn't until six months later that rumors began to circulate that a group of Dems working from some old textbooks and recently discovered army schematics, had tried to build a bomb from the pieces of several missile warheads found at an air force base in the Nevada desert…
It's almost midnight now, so I'll try tomorrow to relate how this one incident led to the state we find ourselves in today.
Yours,
Jonathan
