Out of the Ashes

Larry Spain, reporter for another network, pointed to a steel tower, much like those used by the forest service, except that this one was lower. The tower sat inside the Tri-states line, across the bridge.

“Low for a fire observation tower,” he said.

“Look again,” a friend told him. “That one's got .50-caliber machine guns to put out the blaze. Jesus! These people aren't kidding.”

They said nothing as they all looked at the tower. The muzzle of the heavy-caliber machine gun was plainly visible. Silently, the men and women climbed back aboard their vans and buses. A moment later they were the first outside reporters to visit the Tri-states (legally) since the states’ inception. One reporter would later write: “The soldier in the tower never made a hostile move; never pointed the muzzle at us. But it was like looking at the Berlin wall for the first time.”

The vehicles pulled off the road and onto a huge blacktop parking area. Set deep in the area was a long, low concrete building, painted white. On the front and both sides of the building, in block letters several feet tall, painted in flame red, were the words: ENTERING OR LEAVING—CHECKPOINT—ALL VEHICLES STOP.

“I think they mean it,” someone said.

“Very definitely,” another said.

“Unequivocally,” Judith replied.

“Explicitly,” another reporter concurred with a smile.

“Knock it off.” Clayton Charles ended the bantering.

The bus driver turned to the press people before they could enter the building and spoke to the entire group. “I want to tell you people something,” he said. “I have friends in the Tri-states; I've been checked and cleared and am moving in here next month.... So listen to me. It might save you a broken jaw or a busted mouth, or worse.

“Whatever impression you might have of the people who live in the Tri-states—put it out of your mind, for it's probably wrong. Even though they are doctors, dentists, farmers, shopkeepers, whatever, I'm betting you're thinking they are a pack of savages or crazy terrorists. If you do, you're wrong. They are just people who won't tolerate trouble—of any kind. You'd better remember that.

“Don't go sticking your nose in their business uninvited. The laws are different here; you're liable to get punched out. I hope all of you are going into this assignment with an open mind—I really do. ‘Cause if you get cute with these folks, they'll hurt you. Even the kids are rough.”

A lone male reporter stood in the back of the crowd and solemnly applauded the driver's speech. “How eloquently put,” he said.

The driver looked at him; then slowly shook his head in disgust, as did many of the press people. Barney had the reputation of being rude, arrogant, obnoxious, and a double-dyed smart-ass.

“Barney,” Judith said. “I know we work for the same network, and are supposed to be colleagues, and all that, but when we get inside, stay the hell away from me, O.K.?”

Barney smiled and bowed.

The reception center was large and cool and comfortable, furnished with a variety of chairs and couches. Racks of literature about Tri-states, its people, its economy, and its laws filled half of one wall. A table with doughnuts and two coffee urns sat in the center of the room; soft drinks were set to the right of the table. Between two closed doors was a four-foot-high desk, fifteen feet long, closed from floor to top. Behind the desk, two young women stood, one of them Tina Raines. The girls were dressed identically; jeans and light blue shirts.

“Good morning,” Tina said to the crowd. “Welcome to the Tri-states. My name is Tina, this is Judy. Help yourself to coffee and doughnuts—they're free—or a soft drink.”

Barney leaned on the counter, his gaze on Tina's breasts. She looked older than her seventeen years. Barney smiled at her.

“Anything else free around here?” he asked, all his famous obnoxiousness coming through.

The words had just left his mouth when the door to an office whipped open and a uniformed army Rebel stepped out, master sergeant stripes on the sleeves of his tiger-stripes. He was short, muscular, hard-looking, and deeply tanned. He wore a .45 automatic, holstered, on his right side.

“Tina?” he said. “Who said that?”

Tina pointed to Barney. “That one.”

“Oh, hell!” Judith whispered.

“Quite,” Clayton concurred.

The Rebel walked up to Barney and stopped a foot from him. Barney looked shaken, his color similar to old whipped cream. The filming lights had been on, and no one had noticed when a camera operator began rolling, recording the event.

“I'm Sergeant Roisseau,” the Rebel informed the reporter. “It would behoove you, in the future, to keep off-color remarks to yourself. You have been warned; this is a one-mistake state, and you've made yours.”

“I ... ah ... was only making a little joke,” Barney said. “I meant nothing by it.” The blood rushed to his face, betraying the truth.

“Your face says you're a liar,” Roisseau said calmly.