Liberty City

July, 2017

         No one answers the knock so the stranger kicks in the door.  The smell inside the house nearly turns him away again, but he steels himself and wades in.  He now knows why no one answered.  The stench inside is one of death, and rotting flesh. 

         Grimacing, his churning stomach doing well now to mask the hunger inside, the stranger gives the family room a quick survey.  Pictures of Jesus hang on the wall, the mantles and shelves are cluttered with crucifixes, poems and verses on etched glass.  Around the corner into the dining room and he finds breakfast, months old, rotting and untouched on the table.  In the kitchen he finds the family that occupies the house, four of them, arranged in a little line.  Their hands are behind their backs as if they had been tied.  There are dime-sized holes in the backs of their heads and their faces are gone.

         All too common. 

         He steps gingerly past them and opens the pantry.  He opens his battered backpack and begins dropping in cans of vegetables, soups and anything ready to eat.  A little pink four-pronged key-holder hangs on the wall over the kitchen counter and he snatches off every set of keys and heads out of the house again, toward the treasure he had found on the driveway.  A working car.

         The California sun is creeping over the rooftops of the cul-de-sac.  The air is already warming.  The stranger sheds his leather long-coat and rolls up the long sleeves of his black shirt.  He’s the only living thing on the block, the only one still moving.  Every other car in the street or driveways is riddled with bullet-holes, their windows brown with old blood.  The doors hang open on some; others are stopped in the middle of the street where they died with their owners.  Every house on the block has been shot up and blasted, every resident pulled out screaming by the hair or gunned down in the name of the common good.

         The backpack lands in the back seat, the stranger lands in the driver’s.  Foot on the brake, he begins trying keys in the ignition until he finds one that slides in.  The little GM passenger car chugs for a moment, then jumps to life.  He sits back and lets it warm up for a minute, then slams the door, drops it into gear and begins to roll.

         Some neighborhoods are virtually untouched; evidence of quiet compliance.  Others had been roiling war zones in which patriots had taken up arms.  It’s the same in every city.  Hundreds of miles of urban wasteland interspersed with small pockets of State-sponsored life.  Parks were strewn with trash, not the trash of play and consumption but now the ashes of thousands of ‘Potentially Offensive,’ books, melted jewel cases and CDs, DVDs and twisted, smashed computers that had all burned together.  Surviving pages of Orwell, Tolstoy, Rimbaud and any one of a dozen holy books flutter about on the breeze, their burned edges crumbling away.  Progress, they call it.  Hope, even.  Change.

         The stranger pulls into an intersection and stops the GM, leaning forward to survey the carnage.  The street is choked with mangled cars, burned out busses and trucks and Armored Personnel Carriers.  The ground glitters with broken glass, the sidewalk is black with scorch marks and blood.  Every storefront on the sidewalk is so smashed and blasted that it’s hard to tell what side was where. 

         The stranger drops the car into Park and leaves it running, then steps out.  It’s getting warm outside, but the deathly still in the intersection has a certain chill.  What caught his eye was a police car, well, half of one, really.  The rack of lights across the top was still visible.  He tries to survey it from the outside but the gunfire the car had taken has completely obscured the shatter-proof glass.  He tries the passenger door and gets it to creak open when he puts some weight into it.  Sitting between the seats is the second treasure of the day, hard to come by since the ban.  A black pump shotgun sits in a rack.

         The stranger extrudes the shotgun from the wreck and rolls it in his hands.  It’s a twelve-gage, and sleek, short, and light.  The Benelli logo is new and bold on the right of the receiver.  The Benelli has a sling on it and the stranger slips it over his shoulder.  He digs around in the cab and finds two small boxes of shells; one fifteen-round box of buckshot and one of deer-slugs. 

         He turns to head back to the car and finds he is no longer alone; a shaggy grey and white dog is sitting on the sidewalk behind him, watching with a curious tilt of the head.  The stranger sighs.  He looks around at the shattered street corners.  There’s no one living for miles.  So he shrugs, walks to the GM, and opens the passenger door.

* * *

         The rain drums on the roof of the little government-issue GM and grime runs down the windows in filthy smears.  The stranger has it parked against the sidewalk in a silent neighborhood under the last operating, though flickering, streetlight.  Inside the car he stretches in the driver’s seat, contending now with the confines of the tiny vehicle.  Reaching into the back-pack, the stranger extrudes a tiny LED tea-light and flicks it on, then sets it in his lap in front of a handful of scorched papers.

         “What’ll it be tonight,” he says aloud.  The dog in the passenger seat raises an ear but otherwise continues to lay with his head on his paws.  “I have a little bit of Shakespeare, something with some George Washington in it.  A couple of pieces of a novel, not sure what though.  I think there’s a little bit of Bible, too.”

         He eyes the dog for a moment.

         “You have enough room,” he asks.  “These cars are cramped, I know.  You probably don’t remember this, being a dog, but… these were given out to what the government deemed as disadvantaged groups based on their need.  That pretty much meant all minorities and special interests.  They confiscated all of the cars of the populace based on some emissions law and issued these…  Funny thing, though.  These aren’t any different.  Worse, in fact.  Built by a government puppet for the lowest possible manufacturing price, though taxes still came up a good ten percent.  Most safety measures were bypassed.  Built by hand to save jobs, chucked the robots out the window.” 

         The dog regards him sleepily.

         “My family didn’t get one.  I’m white and I was successful in life, which means my wealth was ripe for passing on.  Government said we could afford to walk.”  He scratches the dog’s dirty head and it licks his hand.

         “Ah, you don’t care,” he says after a moment.  “I can tell by your conversation.  Weird talking out loud, though.  Haven’t had to in days.”

         He shuffles the papers, thumbing through the choices of literature for the night.  He’s read them all a thousand times.

         “My family,” he says, looking back at the dog, “they’re dead. Died in internment.”

         He clears his throat and begins to read from one of the withered pages.

         “It is important, likewise, that the habits of thinking in a free country should inspire caution in those entrusted with its administration, to confine themselves within their respective constitutional spheres; avoiding in the exercise of the powers of one department to encroach upon another. The spirit of encroachment tends to consolidate the powers of all the departments in one, and thus to create, whatever the form of government, a real despotism.”

         He glances at the dog. 

         “George Washington, by the way.  A bit heavy in his wording but a hell of a man.  Actually, I think I’m going to stop there.  I haven’t had anyone to talk to in days.  My throat hurts.”

         He cranks back the seat of the little GM and tries to get comfortable. 

         “I think I’ll call you George,” he says.  “You’re a tough little guy, sticking it out after everyone else is done.”  He flicks off the tea-light and pulls the Benelli across his chest, then closes his eyes. 

         “Tomorrow we’re headed for Liberty City.  It’s out in the desert, out near where Barstow used to be.  It’s the last free city in America, George.”

* * *

         The freeways are choked with the scenes of mass mayhem and the stranger weaves the little GM slowly through it.  In the passenger seat George sits licking the last out of a can of beef stew.  The wrecks are all makes of vehicles instead of the little government GMs, indicating to the stranger that these were shot or blown up during the ‘Repatriotization,’ or, as the interned conservatives referred to it, ‘The Purge.’  Thousands that had voted against the current administration or had spoken out against abortion, gun control and the socialization of American banks and industries had been labeled as extremists and fled.  The government reasoned that the exodus indicated an anti-government outlook and was therefore terrorist in nature.  Gunships and tanks had solved this little problem and the Associated Press forgot to report anything.  Unbiased, they call it.  Fair, even.  True.

         Up ahead on the horizon the buildings begin to rise, and amid them on the freeway ahead there are flashing lights.  The stranger slows the car.  Socialist forces are still prevalent around Los Angeles, though for all the control they say they maintain there’s very little here.  The stranger pulls the Benelli out of the back seat and racks it, sending a shell of buckshot into the chamber.  He lays the long gun in the console next to him.

         Closer, it’s evident there’s a blockade but the controlling forces are far from Federal.  They appear to be a uniformed group of some kind but the jurisdiction’s a mystery.  So the stranger slows, eyeing the little stands and shacks and the barbed-wire blockades.  The official flagging him down is heavy-set and Hispanic with a bushy moustache, a light-tan uniform and a Chinese SKS in his hands.  The stranger rolls down the window.  The man rattles a long stream of Spanish with foul, cigar-scented breath and the stranger recoils a little.  He doesn’t speak Spanish. 

         The guard becomes agitated, shouting more incomprehensible syllables and the SKS comes up into the window; the guard charges it.  The stranger grabs for the Benelli but a shout from a second guard halts movement both inside the car and out.  The second guard chatters with the first and the first guard lowers the SKS again.  The second guard then leans into the stranger’s window.  He, too, sports a moustache, but he’s much slimmer.  His uniform is different, olive green, and he wears mirrored sunglasses.  Juarez, his name-tape says.

         “No Spanish,” he asks.

         “No,” the stranger says.

         “You are in the wrong place, my friend,” Juarez laughs.  “He wants your car.”

         “Who,” the stranger asks.

         Juarez jerks a thumb back at the heavy guard. 

         “Hector,” he says.  “He says for you to leave the car and you can go into the city.”

         “Tell him to fuck himself,” the stranger answers.  “Weren’t you issued cars of your own?”

         Juarez grabs at the car door and finds it locked; he pulls a pistol out of his belt and the stranger’s Benelli comes up to jut out of the window and into Juarez’s face.  Instantly, guards are standing everywhere, running out of huts and storefronts with all manner of guns at the ready, all of them charging their weapons. 

         Juarez turns his head to look down at the stranger.  He smiles.

         “Please, sir,” he says.  “We don’t want to damage the car.  They’re worth a lot in Mexico.”

         The stranger glares.  He lowers the shotgun and opens the door.  George lopes out behind him.  The stranger slings the Benelli over a shoulder and pulls this backpack and coat out of the back seat.  He turns away from the car and Hector suddenly rushes him, bringing the frame-stock of the SKS hard into the stranger’s chest.  The blow knocks him back and a second strike from the SKS goes into his gut.  The stranger doubles, gasping for air.  The bag and the shotgun roll off of his shoulders and he hits his knees.  Hector slams the butt of the SKS into his kidney and the stranger collapses on the pavement. 

         The guards around him laugh and shout in Spanish as the stranger struggles to get up.  He looks wildly about for the Benelli, but a heavy boot connects with his mouth and he falls again, tasting blood. 

         Hector spits on the stranger’s back and walks away.  Someone crouches near the stranger’s face and then he hears Juarez’s voice, just loud enough to be heard over the laughter of the guards.

         “For the record, friend, immigrants got the first shipment of cars, and the biggest models made.  Your government’s sympathy turned quite a profit for us.”

         “You tell Hector,” the stranger says, and his voice drips with venom; his blue eyes are dark with hate, “you tell him that if I see him again I’ll kill him.  You tell him I’ll blow his fucking head off.”

         Juarez nods solemnly and behind him Hector goes white.  Juarez nods at the city.

         “You can keep your gun,” he says.  “You’ll need it in there.”

         So the stranger picks himself up and collects his things.  There’s blood streaming from his smashed lips and his nose; he tries to staunch the flow as he begins to walk into the city.

* * *

         The urban landscape begins to really thicken and the man and his dog begin to see signs of life.  The buildings are so tagged he can hardly see any of the original paint.  He walks slowly, still stiff from the fight with Hector.  People in groups on the sidewalks begin to point and talk to one another, and soon he has people pacing him, asking in fractured English what he’s doing here, where he’s going.

         A pickup truck roars past with two in the cab and a third in the bed standing behind a mounted machine gun.  A second or two up the road and the machine gun swings as the gunner hoses a group standing on a corner.  The people around him scatter; the group on the corner collapses in unison and the truck speeds away.  The stranger just keeps walking.

         A few streets into the city and he finds a teeming marketplace, so crowded he can barely move.  Vendors everywhere are shouting for attention, holding their wares in the air and waving like mad. 

         “You,” one shouts at him, “you, Gringo!  Full-auto AKs from Venezuela!  Just three-hundred!”

         The stranger tries to wave him off, but the vendor pushes further. 

         “You like Chinese?  I have full-auto Chinese AKs, I have Dragunovs, Saiga-12s.  Whatever you want!”

         A vendor across the street is holding up military M-4s, and he fires a short burst of full-auto into the air.  He beckons at the stranger and chatters the rifle into the sky again.  Another booth is full of Uzis from god-knows where, MP-5s and boxes of grenades.  There are booths stacked with bricks of marijuana, cocaine and every other drug known to man. 

         Between a stand where a filthy and hairy man stutters out ‘Heroin,’ to passers by and another one of light machine guns is a little Socialist information booth loaded with Spanish pamphlets on what rights illegals have and how to start their benefits.  There are booths selling United Socialist States of America citizenship, selling Green-cards and false identification.  There’s a whole booth of Social Security cards, real and not.  These are intermingled with stands of Latin foods sizzling away, racks and racks of department store clothes probably pulled from an abandoned store somewhere.  Around the corner there’s a little stage set up and scantily-clad, buxom senoritas parade and paw at passing men.  A Hispanic man dressed like a circus ring-leader assures the stranger that any of these beautiful girls could be his; that is, for a price.

* * *

         Night falls fast in the deep streets and the stranger is sitting against a wall in a quiet alley.  His belly is full of beef stew and George is finishing the can.  He pulls out a rumpled pack of cigarettes.  There are two left and he extrudes one and lights it, dragging in the smoke with a little smile.  It’s like meeting with an old friend.

         “Socialists,” he says to George, who ignores him, “hate smokers.  They passed so many laws.  It was like my body wasn’t even mine anymore.  It’s not even really that they hate smoking; it’s just a risky behavior.  Anything with risk is a reason to get involved, to bring the government to my level and restrict the freedoms I have.  Smoking’s just a vehicle.”

         He drags and exhales and watches George search the can for any left-overs.  One’s not enough for both of them.

         “Funny thing,” the stranger says, scratching George behind the ears.  “Hitler hated smoking too.”  He ashes the cigarette and watches the street for a bit.  There are still American-made cars on the road here, but the little socialist cars zip by in droves. 

         “We need a car, George,” he says.

         George sits back on his haunches and licks his chops.  The stranger scratches the dog’s neck and rubs his head.  The next instant there is a crashing gunshot and the impact takes the stranger hard in the right shoulder and slams him against the wall.  Three shots follow and he hears the crack of projectiles as they rip through the space around him and their hard impacts in the alley wall.  The stranger collapses into the grimy pavement and looks up to see the barrel of an SKS disappearing into a window on the second floor.  Beside him George is convulsing on the ground, the side of his skull smashed open.

         So the stranger’s on his feet and he jabs at the little cross-bolt safety on the Benelli; then he’s running into the alley for the back of the building and the first waves of pain begin to radiate from his shoulder.  He comes to the corner and brings the shotgun up as he rounds it.  At the maintenance entry to the building the door is just swinging closed, and just out of the building a man with an SKS is running away from him.  The Benelli roars in the alley and the flash lights the walls.  Pain explodes in the stranger’s shoulder as the recoil hits him but the buckshot pitches the assassin into the ground and the rifle clatters off into the dark.

         The agony rolls off of the stranger and he leans against the alley wall, catching his breath.  Gritting his teeth, he racks the shotgun again; the spent shell clatters off into the black.  Lining the Benelli’s sights on the writhing attacker, the stranger advances.

         “Hector,” he says; clenching his jaw as he says it to keep from showing the tremor that was overtaking him.

         It’s Hector on the ground before him, rolling in pooling blood.  His face is screwed up in pain.  When he rolls to his stomach again the stranger sees the tear through his cheap denim jacket.  The buckshot had nearly ripped him in half. 

         They both know that Hector will die.

         “My car,” the stranger says.  Waves of pain are crashing over every nerve in his body; he’s having trouble standing straight. 

         Hector’s shaking hands produce a set of keys.  The stranger takes them.  Blood is running out of his sleeve onto his right hand.  He steps back, puts the shotgun in Hector’s face and pulls the trigger.  The next shell holds a deer slug and the impact scatters the guard’s head all over the alley; the last image of Hector’s face in the muzzle blast is burned onto the stranger’s retinas.

* * *

         The wound in his shoulder spills blood on the interior of the car.  His hands leave red prints on the door, the steering wheel, the gearshift.  The handprint on the e-brake is slowly drying.  The stranger’s face is tight; he grips the wheel hard.  Fishing in the backpack he pulls out his bottle of vodka and splashes its meager remainders onto his shoulder.  He grits his teeth as the fiery alcohol screams in the wound.  The sun’s coming up over the empty freeway and he’s driving straight into the beaming light.  He flips down the visor, noticing now in the direct light how filthy the windshield is.  His eyes are drifting closed; between the blood-loss and the constant driving he’s fighting sleep.  So he stabs at the car radio and a news broadcast fills the cab.

         “…killing over a hundred people this morning.  The blast destroyed a prominent office building in the down-town area.  Our thoughts go out this morning to the Islamic freedom-fighter who gave his life in the suicide blast to make a statement for peace with American citizens.  Federal authorities have not yet released the name of the freedom-fighter but say that his friends and family described him as a devout man of faith and kind.  The president will honor him tonight with a candle-light vigil.” 

         The stranger doubles as a wave of pain roars through every nerve in his body; oblivious to his plight the radio continues:

         “A historic landmark will be met tonight as the President prepares to sign legislation that will dissolve all state governments, tying all executive power to the Federal Government.  The president made these remarks this morning:

         “‘This marks the final step in our glorious transformation into a society that values the lives of all people, into a society where there are no rich; there are no poor, there are no concerns about tomorrow.  This marks the day in which every member of society has a job, every member of society has healthcare, and every pantry is full!’”

         The GM slides between burned out cars, between cars filled far past capacity with illegals armed to the teeth.  Auto-fire erupts somewhere ahead of him and a commuter pulls over, the engine awash in black oil smoke.  As the stranger passes the stricken car the commuter is standing on the side of the road, his hands in the air while the raiders go through his wallet.

         “Attacks by undocumented migrant workers are on the rise in the southern states,” the radio says, “and all citizens are encouraged to comply fully with all demands they make.  Remember that they are socially disadvantaged and need our care in order to survive.  Remember that violence is illegal

         “And now, please join me as in every morning for the mandatory singing of our new national anthem.  You are required to stand with your feet at a forty-five degree angle, arms straight at your sides, and face East toward our nation’s capitol.”

         The song begins, and it is not the song the stranger knows.  It’s the USSA anthem, and he knows the words all too well.  Every morning, at the rising of the red USSA flag, all that had been interned in the Repatriotization camps were required to sing it ‘loud and proud,’ as their jailers had said.

The stranger hits the power button on the radio.

         A car pulls up beside him.  He can see the men inside, each of them grinning at him and a forest of gun barrels around them.  So the stranger grabs up the Benelli and racks it once awkwardly with one hand to load a slug.  The raiders in the next car aren’t used to people with the ability to defend themselves; they don’t even point the guns.  They just wave at him to pull over.  The stranger can’t outrun them; these little government cars are limited at fifty-five kilometers per hour to minimize emissions.  So he rolls down the window, lays the Benelli across himself and pulls the trigger.

The enormous slug chunks out a fist-sized hole in the front passenger window, strikes the man behind it in the temple and the whole inside of the cab goes red.  The car veers off into the median and the stranger drops the shotgun to the floor of the car as a jolt of pain sweeps his shoulder.  He’s sweating and nauseous; he takes the next onramp to the Fifteen – North and the ramp takes him over more desolate and dangerous urban jungle.  In the distance, north of the onramp and in his path a new danger raises the hackles on the back of his neck; red flags are flying in San Bernardino.

* * *

         The raiding parties are turning away as the daily commuters are nearing the mountains; the working class are splitting off and exiting the freeway.  Ahead, at the foot of the mountains, there are flashing lights and guard shacks, pacing soldiers and big personnel carriers.  The stranger can see machine guns facing the freeway.  The guards are advancing now, charging M-4s and putting them to their shoulders as they shout for him to stop; he has no chance and he knows it.  So he cranks the wheel hard, pouring smoke from the tires as he begins a tight loop for the opposite direction.  There’s the chatter of auto-fire outside the car and rounds tear through the rear of the compartment.  Powdered glass erupts from the windows; the rear upholstery opens up as rounds lance the seats.  The car gives a powerful jerk as the rear tire is punctured; the little GM spins and tips, rolling over and over as the windows implode and the contents of his bag go everywhere.  The driver’s door flies off and through it the stranger has a half-second to see the freeway guard-rail rushing to meet him before the hard impact nearly shakes the car apart and he’s over it, hurtling toward the ground.  In the air he sees the GM’s hood, he sees doors and side-view mirrors, tires, cans, pages and the beautiful black Benelli spinning end over end, then the car smashes down in the rocks below and everything goes black.

* * *

         The stranger’s eyes open; the light is harsh and he wants to shut them again, but a second sensation overtakes him and he rolls to face the ground and vomits on the rocky soil.  He rolls and collapses again, squeezing his eyes shut to keep the world from spinning.  Around him there’s movement; footfalls and whispers, and then the light on the other side of his eyelids dims and a woman’s voice calls to him.

         “Look at me,” she says.

         So he opens his eyes and finds a dark-skinned girl looking hard at him, her face framed by long locks of ringed black hair.  They’re under the freeway ramp in the shade.  It feels like midday and the sun is harsh.

         “He’s fine,” she says.

         “Feel like shit,” he answers.  His shoulder is throbbing dully but feels different, and when he looks at it he finds his shirt is gone and there are criss-crossing bandages wrapping the gunshot wound and secured on the left side.  He tries to get up but hands come from all around him to restrain him.

         “Don’t move,” she says.

         “You took quite a fall,” a man’s voice says. 

         The stranger looks around him.  Not far from where he’s laying is a mangled hunk of metal, surrounded by broken glass and twisted parts too damaged to recognize. 

         “Is that…” he says.

         A heavy-set Hispanic man squats down next to him.  He’s in stained mechanic‘s coveralls, has long, curly hair and an unkempt goatee. 

         “That’s what you landed in,” he says.  He’s got a black semi-auto pistol in his hands, but it hangs down as if the man simply had nothing else to do with it.

         “You’re lucky to be alive,” says a second man behind him. 

         The stranger gives him a glance.  He, too, is dressed in business casual, but is older with a balding head, grey hair and a white beard.

         “You’re blessed,” the girl says.

         “God’s not done fucking me,” he answers, covering his eyes with his hands.  The black girl looks at him a second longer.

         “You’re blessed,” she repeats.

* * *

         Night begins to fall and the three that found him come back to where he’s laying.

         “We need to move,” the girl says. 

         The two men take him by the arms and pull him to his feet.  Every nerve is on fire; every movement finds new bruises, cuts, new pain.  But he can walk, so he waves them off and begins to make painful steps. 

         “Where are you headed,” he says.

         “Liberty City,” the girl says.  She’s shouldering on a loaded backpack and as he nears him she takes his left arm.  The way she looks at him, the way she holds him, it’s like she thinks he’s a million years old.  Like he’s about to shatter.

         “Been there,” he asks.

         “Not yet,” she says.  “Heard about it in the camps.  I’m Aurora,” she says, extending a hand.

         The stranger shakes it; fire blossoms in his shoulder but he grits his teeth and tries not to show it.

         “Haven’t been there myself,” he says.  “I was in the camps myself down in San Diego with a guy who always used to talk about it.  ‘The last free city,’ he’d always say.  Then some Sozi guard smashed his head in one day with the butt of his M-4 and old Rob was done.”

         Aurora is quiet for a moment.

         “We’ve seen a lot of that,” she says finally.  “On all sides.  So you came all this way from San Diego?”

         “Me and a couple of guys broke out of the San Diego camp after my wife and kids were killed.  I haven’t seen the other guys since.  I had to skirt northwest for a long, long time to skirt Sozi patrols, wound up in Oceanside where I found a car and a dog, made it to LA.  Some bastard named Hector beat me up and took the car, shot the dog, so I killed him, took the car back.  Took some Sozi fire on the road up there,” he pointed over their heads at the dark overpass, “and wound up in your tender care.”

         “They lit you up, man,” the Hispanic man says, turning around to face him.  “We were just sitting there and we hear the car swerving and then, just, bam-bam-bam!”

         The stranger can see his white grin in the dark.

         “I’m John, by the way.  This,” he jerks a thumb at the elderly Caucasian man, “is Steve.”

         Steve waves from where he walks without turning around.

         “So tell me,” Aurora says, “how a white guy made it through LA.”

         “Not unscathed,” the stranger says.  “When Hector kicked my ass I told him that if I saw him again I’d kill him.  I had a shotgun at the time, a nice Benelli pump.  The other border guard said I could keep it ‘cause I’d need it, and with all the illegal guns they’d imported from other shit-countries it’s not like they’d need it anyway.  So I tried to get as far as I could on foot, Hector decided to make sure I wouldn’t get my chance and took a shot first.  He hits me once, he hits the dog in the head.  So I put a round of buckshot in his back and a slug in his face and went and got my car.”

         “Cold bastard,” Steve says.

         “I don’t want to hear it,” John laughs.  “This guy,” he says nodding at Steve, “put six .44 rounds in a Sozi’s face when they tried to take us in.”

         “How many did you shoot,” Aurora says with a smirk.

         “Four,” John laghs, “but none of that’s anything compared to ninja-girl back there.”

         “You had an AK, I don’t want to hear it,” she laughs.

         “Semi-auto, completely legal,” he says.  “No, we were holed up in a warehouse in Riverside,” he starts.

         “Us and a lot of other people,” Steve mumbles.

         “And the Sozis bust in to get us.  But none of them say anything, they just start shooting.  So we blast through them, four of us get out.  I’ve got my nine-mil and my AK, which I had to drop, Steve has that big-ass .44 on his hip.  But ninja-girl-”

         “Okinawan martial artist,” she corrects. 

         “Yeah, that’s what I said,” John says.  “So ninja girl pulls a fucking machete out of her bag and goes to fuckin’ town, man!”

         The stranger affords her a glance.

         “But you’re tiny,” he says.

         “Ass-kicking comes in small packages,” she says.  “Bullets are tiny too.”

         So the stranger smirks to himself in the dark.

         “Fair enough,” he says.

         “No more talking,” Steve says.  “Noise and light discipline.  We’re not far from their lines.”

* * *

         Hours later the stranger finally collapses on a rise and cannot walk any more.  Aurora notices first and rushes back to him; John and Steve are not far behind.  Aurora pulls open his shirt and checks the bandages; the wound is seeping. 

         “John,” she says, reaching back to the man.

         John produces a little bottle of Tequila and hands it to her.

         “This is going to hurt,” she says, uncorking the bottle and tipping it toward his shoulder.

         “I know,” he replies, but he still jumps when the burn shrieks into being in his wound.

         "Can you walk,” she asks.

         The stranger shakes his head; he’s exhausted.  So the group relocates into a little dell well off of the path and huddles close; Aurora immediately goes to work cleaning his many cuts and bruises and tending the shoulder.

         “So, what are you, a doctor,” he finally asks, trying to ignore the rough gauze as she changed the wrappings.

         “Paramedic,” she answers.

         “Lucky me,” he says.

         “Yes, lucky you.  This could’ve been really bad; somehow Hector missed everything.  Looks like maybe a broken rib or two, but besides that it’s just a flesh wound.”

         “What landed you in the camps?”

         She glances up at the other two and he takes a moment to study her dark eyes, her full cheeks.  She’s really quite pretty.

         “Healthcare changed everything for me,” she says.  “I used to really believe in what I was doing, I worked so hard to save every life that wound up in my truck.  But when the Sozis took over Healthcare the hospitals were overflowing daily, the ERs just kept filling up.  People with life-threatening injuries and illnesses just sat… they couldn’t get in.  My patients waited days to be seen, sometimes we had to leave them outside, the wards were so crowded.  Then one day I drop off a man who had a wife and kid who had been stabbed in a robbery in his own home, I leave him outside.  I come back tomorrow to work and he’s still there.  Interns check him now and then, change the bandage, check his pulse and talk to him.  I leave at the end of the day and he’s still there.  And the next morning, I come in to work and the man’s there, he’s dead where they told us to leave him and the Coroner’s covering him up.”

         Aurora looks away and the stranger sees a tear rolling down her cheek.

         “That’s when I said forget it,” she said.  “What’s the point in saving anyone when the system’s so fucked up?  They die here or die there and we just go through the motions.”

         “Fuck their healthcare,” Steve says.  “The company I used to work for had a decent healthcare provider, but the government decided that it was too good and ‘luxurious.’  We got hit by massive taxes for our ‘Cadillac’ program.  The company had to go Sozi and get the Government plan.  So I go in for my liver and I wait four hours to get to the counter and she tells me I can’t see a doctor.  I say I need to for my condition.  She asks can it wait.  She tells me I need to be cognizant that there is a much greater need for a doctor’s time than just any old check up and that I should hold off for the greater good.  So I tell her to cram that Sozi shit and get me to a doctor.  She tells me she can’t because it’s ‘K-day.’  I say, what the fuck is K-day?  She says that only people with a last name that starts with K can be seen today.  I have to go home.  So, I schedule for M-day and wait it out. 

         “M-day comes, I go back, wait four hours and when I get in to a doctor they call six of us back.  We have a group appointment for the same thing.  The doctor refers us all to wherever each of us needs to go, but he refers me to go see some panel.  It’s a Quality of Life panel and these four assholes tell me to stop seeking treatment.  They tell me my best years are behind me and to just let it go.  Just go home and die.  Don’t come back, because no matter what they do my quality of life will never be as good as it was.  They even had a pamphlet to help me cope with it.”

         He shakes his head.

         “When your doctor says go home and die, guess that’s what you do.”

         The group falls silent and the stranger lays back.  He closes his eyes and feels himself drifting off.

         “He’s exhausted,” Aurora says to the others.  “He needs to rest.”

         “We don’t have time,” John says.  “Tomorrow morning we have got to make some real progress.”

* * *

         The sun rises hot and early and Aurora’s rousing the stranger.  They eat a quick and cold meal cobbled together with cans of food he’d collected and the ones they’d already had.  Canteens are passed around and the stranger drinks deep while Aurora’s expert hands clean his wounds.  And then they’re pulling him to his feet again and the pain of moving wracks his body; his muscles are stiff and whip-lashed.  He leans heavily on the smaller woman and she holds him up while he gets his footing.

         The air is cooler up here in the mountains, but the going is rough.  Many times John or Steve throw the stranger into a ditch as they dive for cover from the eyes of a passing Socialist patrol.  And many times again he finds himself leaning on Aurora.  The tireless paramedic just smiles; she holds him up and keeps him moving. 

         The sun is setting behind the hills and valleys and the group breaks for another cold dinner.  The stranger lays on his back and lets the others talk; he’s bone tired.  Laying on his back, the stranger watches the sky go pink.  He watches the clouds turn black and the sky take on a deep blue in the East.  This is a beautiful place. 

         If only they weren’t fugitives; if only he wasn’t in so much pain. 

         Dozing off, he lets his eyes drift to Aurora.  She’s leaning forward, intent on the conversation.  Then her eyes catch his.  She lingers on him for a moment, and a hint of a smile crosses her full lips.

* * *

         They shake him awake again and it’s pitch-black out; it must be midnight, or close to it.  So the boys pull him up and Aurora’s ready to catch him.  John says something like, ‘there you go, partner,’ but now everyone’s crouched, everything’s quiet.

         “Personnel carrier, maybe a hundred yards away,” John says.  Aurora backs off of him while John moves in, a dark object in his hand.  “Good shot at getting some wheels.  Need your trigger finger,” he explains, dropping a pistol and magazine into the stranger’s hands.  “Know how to use one of these?”

         The stranger snorts.  It’s a 1911 Government and he pulls the slide back, slips the mag in and releases the bolt

         “Boys and their guns,” Aurora says, unsheathing the machete. 

         “How many,” the stranger says.

         “We count four, looks like they stopped to take a leak and gas up,” Steve says.  He’s rolling the cylinder back into his .44 and thumbing back the hammer.  Beside him, John loads the nine-mil and sends the bolt forward as well.

         “Everybody ready,” John says. 

         The stranger swallows the pain as he lifts the pistol and the four of  them begin stalking toward the carrier.

         Over the next ridge, the big machine is stopped, the lights on and the motor running.  There’s a handful of troops milling around and the stranger can see the glowing points of cigarettes; he can make out the M-4s safely over their shoulders.  Then Steve stands up and the muzzle-flash of the .44 is blinding, the thunderclap echoes on the canyon walls.  The stranger sights a second with his .45 and lets off two quick crashing shots; John’s nine-mil barks out three shots and the .44 booms again. 

         The three outside are down, and it’s silent for a moment.  Then a stream of bright auto-fire cuts over the knoll; the stranger lifts himself up on one elbow firing the big Government .45.  There’s the unmistakable sound of lead impacting meat and the firing stops.

         The road around the carrier is strewn with the bodies of  the Socialist troops and the four waste no time in combing them for their guns and ammunition.  The one behind the hood that had managed to fire back is whimpering and Aurora silences him with a wet chop of the machete. 

         “This is weird,” John says as they load the back of the carrier.  “Four guys, two guns.  The unarmed guys have a mag of ammo, the armed guys don’t.”

         “Government cutting back,” Steve says, heaving a pack of rations into the cabin.

         “What do you mean,” Aurora says.

         “When nothing in the country makes money anymore because of a command economy,” the stranger says, “the government needs to find ways to save.  Our soldiers are usually the first to pay the price.  So, the one with the rifle shoots.  The one with the mag follows him.  When the one with the rifle goes down, the one with the mag picks it up and shoots.”

         “That’s horrible,” Aurora says.

         “In a socialistic society it’s enough,” Steve says.  “They die for the greater good.”  He nudges the body at his feet with his toe.  “I hate shooting Americans,” he says.

         “These aren’t Americans,” the stranger says.  “No patriot lays down for tyranny.  No American man trades liberty for security.  And obviously,” he nods at the two M-4s taken from the four soldiers, “there’s nothing secure about it.”

* * *

         When the stranger wakes again he finds himself on a horribly bumpy ride in the windowless steel cabin of the armored carrier, his head in Aurora’s lap.  She is absently running her fingers through his hair, looking at the wall of the carrier as if she can see through them.  Then her eyes meet his and she stops touching him immediately, looking guilty.

         “Almost there,” Steve’s voice calls from the front of the carrier.  It must be after the early summer dawn; there’s a pale and dusty light streaming in from the front.  “Get ready.  Looks like a Sozi blockade.”

         John comes back from the front and opens the turret hatch on the ceiling.  He folds down the stowable turret position and climbs to the gun; there’s the  metallic double-clack of a heavy caliber charging and he shouts down, “good to go!”

         The stranger’s hand find’s Aurora’s; he holds it tight as the shooting begins.  First there’s the sound like someone is outside throwing handfuls of rocks against the side of the carrier and then comes the roar of the Browning M2 on the roof.  The huge .50 caliber shells spill into the cabin, still hot and smoking.  Between John’s bursts for fire the stranger can hear the popping and chatter in the distance of rifle and auto-fire, and the incoming rounds clatter and ping on the outside of the carrier.  Then the firing drops off dramatically, and the carrier grinds to a halt.  John comes down from the station and folds up the turret position.

         The cabin’s back doors open and a thin, filthy man with a darkly stained tank-top and a rifle is reaching in. 

         “Let’s go,” he says.  So John’s the first out, and the stranger sits up so Aurora can be next.  She pulls him up and they drop out of the back together.  Next to the carrier Steve is coming around, looking a little worse for wear. 

         The scene around them is a stunning testament to both the resilience and brutality of men at war; Liberty City is little more than a motley collection of maybe thirteen buildings at the edge of nowhere.  It’s surrounded by a breastwork of lumber and barbed wire, every surface has more bullet-holes in it than can be counted.  The old US flag flies on a flagpole in the center of the town, its ends tattered.  The sky is black with thick, oily smoke and streaked with incoming tracer fire.  There are only a few people still in town, and they look haggard.  Every one of them is armed.

         “Let’s get inside,” the man says.  “They’ll start the mortars soon.”

         The leads them to the tallest building in the square and as they enter there’s an explosion farther up the street, throwing a plume of dust skyward.  The denizens of Liberty City don’t even flinch.

         The bottom floor of the building is reminiscent of an old-west tavern, with an open area full of round tables and chairs and a bar with an assortment of chipped, hanging glasses.

         “I’m Stern,” the man says.  He pulls a chair out from a table and motions for them to join him.  “Not many make it through the blockade,” he says.  “Lucky thing, taking a carrier like that.  You’re a bit late, though.  Liberty City’s days are about up.”

         “We saw the blockade coming in,” Steve says. 

         “There’s always been a presence,” Stern says.  “First there were protesters, then the media showed up and started filming them.  Then the police tried to oust us for an unlawful assembly, we sent ‘em packin.  So the National Guard showed up to keep the peace and we kicked their asses too.  You give Skip back there a Mosin-Nagant and he’ll hold a building by himself for a month.”

         A portly bald man with a black moustache is standing behind the bar washing a glass, and he gives a little wave at this.

         “So now the Sozi regulars are here to kick down the doors.”  Stern wipes some of the grime from around his mouth and looks off at the far wall, toward the Socialist blockade.  “They’ve been there for a while now, but they were on the bullhorn talking big this morning.  They’re supposed to attack tomorrow morning.”

         “Are you ready for an attack,” the stranger asks.

         Stern just snorts.

         “Mister,” he says, “we’ve been kickin’ them back for a long time, but there’s just not much left in our ammo stores.  We’re beat to hell.  Our foods about gone, water’s low, the only thing we do have plenty of is that damned moonshine Skip brews to break up the monotony.  No, friend, we’ve about had it.  I say if you’re not willing to die, get out the way you came.”

         “The way I see it,” the stranger says, “is you’ve got four new people who believe enough in America to stand with you at the end.”

         Stern looks to each of them, thinking.  Finally, he says, “well, then good to have you.  Long as you think you know what you’re doing.”

* * *

         “I used to be a history teacher, and I owned a handful of old guns from World War One and Two.  It was really just because I loved the feel of real history in my hands.  I got to hear and see what the old soldiers did when they handled them.” 

         The stranger pauses for a moment to glance out of the tavern window at the desert night, at the hundreds of stars in the sky without all the city lights outshining them.  The inside of the tavern is alight with dozens of candles.  The few citizens of Liberty City have gathered here, but few are talking.  The night has a kind of eerie calm; the feel of a whole town of people waiting to die.

         “When they released the Homeland Security report about conservative extremists I was branded a potential terrorist for my little pile of old guns; they said I was stockpiling for an uprising.  Not all at once, of course.  First I showed up on a watch list.  I couldn’t fly.  I wasn’t allowed to buy ammo for plinking.  I had guys in suits showing up in my classroom and listening to what I taught.  My son’s teachers started asking him if his dad was planning anything or liked to build bombs.  Then the healthcare shit passed and one night I’m face down in my bedroom carpet next to my wife and children with a government Beretta in the back of my neck while some FBI Gestapo fucker walks out with my M1 Garand and my K31 because guns are such a health risk.”

         The stranger takes a sip of Skip’s moonshine.  It’s just awful, like drinking jet fuel, and it burns like hell on the way down.  “We were the first on our block to be interned,” he says.

         His audience is as about as diverse a group as any could have.  Next to pretty and black Aurora is a beefy metal-head who calls himself Zero.  He sports an enormous green Mohawk, nose, lip, eyebrow, ear and chin piercings, black cargo pants hanging with chains, spiked bracelets on his wrists and a spiked collar around his neck.  His black tank top does little to hide the massive tattoos that seem to be grisly band logos.  He’s holding a self-rolled cigarette that smells terrible, and as he exhales the smoke he says, “that’s fucked up, man.”

         Next to Zero is old Steve, and next to him is a man named Dexter.  He wears a ragged suit and cracked glasses, and he’s the only one in Liberty City carrying a book instead of a gun.

         “Well, I believe it was Mao Tse Tung  who said that political power come from the barrel of a gun,” Dexter says.

         “It’s why the Socialists on Capitol Hill have always been so keen to take them.  Forget health, forget safety, it’s about the power of the people,” Steve says.  “Big government wants to stay big.”

         “Yeah, well,” Zero says, getting up.  “I’ll show you your fucking gun laws.”  He heads for the corner and returns a moment later with what looks like an enormous jumble of tubing.  In the light, the form takes shape, to the astonishment of the newcomers.

         “This is a British Bren.  Stupid fucking politicians don’t know shit about guns.  You ban them, fine, but there’s always other ways.  I got parts from here, parts from there.  Just built the motherfucker.  What they don’t realize is that anyone can do it.  Which means the criminals do it all the time.  The people who want them will get them, that’s good people and bad.  So what the Sozis should’ve done is stay out of our shit and let us defend ourselves.”

         “That looks like a machine gun,” Aurora says.

         “It is a fucking machine gun,” Zero says.  “One of the best.”

         “That calls into question the necessity of such a device,” Dexter says. 

         “Fuck necessity,” Zero says.  “Give the people what they want.  Think someone’s going to fuck with my house if they think I’ve got a machine gun?  Anyways, it’s just fucking cool.”

         “I’ve never minded restrictions on certain weapons,” the stranger says.  I don’t see the need to shoot a burglar a hundred times with rifle rounds.  But I’m all for someone being able to own what they want.  I tell you, it would’ve been nice to have someone in our cul-de-sac who owned a Bren when they started rounding us up.”  He nods at Zero.  “What put you in the camps?”

         “Never made it to the camps, man.”  Zero sits down and sets the Bren in front of him.  “I was a fuckin’ nihilist, you know?  Like, I don’t believe shit.  But my neighbors were a bunch of real Jesus freaks, always inviting my wicked ass to church.  Well, like, they can turn the other cheek all the want but when the fuckin’ Sozis came to get ’em I wasn’t going to let ’em go out like that, not good fuckin’ people like them.  So me and the Bren came out swingin’.  Afterward my neighbors went one way, I went the other.”

         “The one I’m wondering about is Dexter, there,” Steve says.  “You look out of place here.”

         “I rather am,” Dexter says, spitting Zero with a stare.  “Surrounded by uncouth brigands.  I was a professor of philosophy.  I am actually a Marxist, always have been.  One of the things I loved about America was the freedom to believe what I wished, and no one called it into question.  When that freedom died for much of the populace I swore that I would not be involved, and despite my aversion to violence, I would fight to restore such a freedom as once was.”

         “A patriot,” Steve says.  “All walks, friends.”

         The stranger isn’t listening anymore.  He’s watching the candlelight dance in Aurora’s brown eyes.

         “What happened to your wife,” she asks.

         The stranger breathes deep.  He glances down at the dusty floor planks.  The people around him go silent, all watching him, waiting.  So he looks back up at Aurora.

         “She was always the optimist,” he says.  “Always looking for the bright side.  I tried…” he looks away from her piercing gaze.  “I tried so hard to tell her that there was no bright side this time, that they were there to stamp out our very ideals, everything we believed in.  She just… she wouldn’t hear it.  She made sure we prayed together every night, as a family, she made sure her friends were.  When they brought in Rob and he turned out to be a former preacher she tried to organize a protestant church in our camp… well, you can imagine how that went.  I tried to tell her, Rob tried to tell her…”

         He looks into Aurora’s big eyes again.

         “She told the Head Sozi in the camp one day that America was still a Democracy and that the majority of  the people in the camp wanted worship services arranged.  The Sozi tells her that services would be offensive to those that didn’t want to attend.  For the greater good, there could be no worship.  But she just keeps pushing it.  So finally the Head Sozi just kinda nods to this guard…”

         Aurora’s eyes are streaming now, and he can’t look at her anymore.  In his mind it’s playing out again, the chill March morning, her body splayed in the mud.

         “The guard drops her with the butt of his gun, puts a boot on her neck and shoots her in the back of the head.  And walks away.  Like… like she was a bug.  Calm, you know?”

         “Fuck,” Zero whispers.

         “I didn’t see my kids,” the stranger continues.  “They told us they needed to cut down on the population of the camp and that they were going to transfer the children.  Well no one bought that, of course, and we fought them, but eventually they gave up pretending and just started shooting as many as they could.  My kids just vanished… they must’ve carted out a thousand little bodies.”  He spits Aurora with a glare, sudden and vicious.

         “And that’s why I’m not blessed, Aurora, that’s why I refuse to pray.  Because whatever’s up there just continues to put me through the ringer, again and again.  I can’t even keep a dog a full day in this fucked up world without someone blowing its fucking head off.  And here we are finally in the last free city and tomorrow morning some Sozi is going to be whacking the brains out of my skull.  So fuck blessed!”

         He hurls the grimy glass against the wall.  Then he’s up and striding from the room, leaving the others in silence.

* * *

         Liberty City’s showers are still in working order.  The stranger steps into the hotel-style tub and draws the curtain shut behind him.  This is the first time he’s really seen the gunshot wound without shirt or bandages; the area is very bruised, but the wound itself seems to be healing.  Much of the rest of his body is criss-crossed with little cuts and bruises from the crash; walking away from that had been nothing short of a miracle.  Head down, he watches the dried blood run off of him in pink rivulets. 

         There’s movement outside the curtain and he looks up in alarm.  The curtains pull to the side and Aurora is looking at him, tears on her full cheeks.  She’s wearing a dusty white robe, which she promptly sheds; then she’s stepping into the shower with him.  Out of her man-clothes she’s curvaceous, with full hips and rounded breasts; her dusky nipples are against his chest and her lips meet his.  His hands are on her hips, her tongue is in his mouth and she feels so good…

         He puts his hands on her shoulders and backs away from her.

         “Aurora,” he begins.

         “Shut up,” she says, and one of her hands finds him while the other pulls him close as she leans the length of her naked body against him and puts her full lips to his neck. 

         So his arms wrap around her, and for the first time in months lets his heart truly feel.

* * *

         Morning in Liberty City brings sniper, machine gun, and mortar fire.  At nine the firing lets up, and an amplified voice echoes across the desert. 

         “Rebels of the encampment,” says the man’s voice.  “Do you not wish for equality?  Do you not wish for a government that is giving, caring and nurturing?  Give up your arms, give up the fight.  Let the USSA fight for you.  Let us clothe you, let us feed you, let us heal your hurt and sick.  We will find you work and give you a house.  Serve a government that truly serves the common good.  Surrender now, and you will join the thousands of happy citizens currently being Repatriated.”

         “Who wants to respond,” Stern says, holding out a bullhorn.  It’s a minute before any of the stark figures in the little town square move. 

         Finally, the stranger motions to Stern and takes the bullhorn.

         “How do you justify,” he says, “the hostile political takeover of the free market of America?  How do you justify the stifling of free expression?  How do you justify the wholesale murder of political opponents in your death camps, along with their wives and children?”

         For a moment, the quiet from over the walls feels like stunned silence.

         “Please, sir, save your life, and end this pointless bloodshed between Americans.  Surrender now!”

         “We will never surrender to tyranny,” the stranger shouts.  “We will never lay down our arms!  In our blood flows the same spirit that carved this country out of the wild, the same spirit that stood against oppression on Lexington Green!  We say to you now that wherever there is hope, wherever there is a free man breathing, he will oppose you with all of his might.  When he is out of ammunition he will use his hands and the stones under your feet.  We will fight tooth and nail for our freedom, as our ancestors did, because this is the last real slice of our great nation.  We are here with the age-old warning, the warning of our forefathers to the unfeeling king, that you dare not tread on me!”

         A cheer goes up in Liberty City.  The stranger tosses the bullhorn onto the ground.  Behind him, Zero has the Bren slung over his shoulder and the massive gun hangs at his waist.  The metal-head pulls back the charging handle and pushes it forward, cocking the Bren.  Leaning back against a wall, Zero takes a drag off of a home-made cigarette and waits.  In the turret of the parked carrier John is charging the big Browning .50 cal.  Steve is in a doorway thumbing back the hammer on his .44 revolver.  Skip is standing next to the carrier pushing huge Russian rounds into an old bolt-action.  Not far off Stern is explaining to Dexter how an M4 works, trying to walk the professor through the action of the rifle.

         The stranger smiles.  All walks, one common goal: it’s the preservation of liberty that drives them.  So he pulls the M4 off of his shoulder, pulls back the charging handle to lock the bolt back and slides it forward again.  He slips the mag into the rifle and slaps the bolt release on the side.  The rifle gives a little jump as the bolt goes forward and he slips the selector to ‘Semi.’  He puts the rifle over his shoulder again and checks his pockets.  Finding his pack of cigarettes, he fishes out his last one and digs for his lighter.  An arm encircles his waist and he finds Aurora next to him.

         “Can’t even believe this,” he says.  “Saved this last cigarette for an occasion and I think I lost my lighter in the crash.”

         “You shouldn’t smoke anyway,” she says.  “It’ll kill you.”

         The two chuckle and he tosses the cigarette on the ground.  Looking into Aurora’s eyes, he says, “thank you.  For everything.”

         She nods once and her eyes fill with tears.

         “Here they come,” a man shouts near the gate.

         The stranger pulls the M4 off of his shoulder again and Aurora thumbs her machete out of its sheath an inch.  Around them the air fills with gunfire, with shouts and screams, with tracers and flying fragments, explosions, hot brass, with death.

* * *

         And what will they say when they remember Liberty City?  They may recall the haphazard construction, they may refer to the amount of weaponry or the amount of time the thrawn defenders hung on.  But most socialist soldiers will whisper of the man that would not fall.  They will imagine the last one standing, a man so shot up and beaten that it was hard to imagine he had once been human.  They will whisper that the ground was a field of socialist dead, and that when that last defender was out of ammunition he clawed and bit and spat and clubbed until bone was showing in his hands and arms.  They will wonder what freedom is, that men pay so precious a cost to keep it.  And they will not understand.