seven

At the Trois Rivieres truck stop on Route 112 in southern Quebec, outside of Sherbrooke, Brewster Flagg got off a Trailways bus, small leather bag in hand, shivering with cold as he stood in the paved parking area. Row upon row of idling tractor-trailer trucks stood still, diesel exhaust burbling up in the air. He had been at plenty of similar stops back in Georgia, Alabama, and Texas during the day, but damn, it was so freakin’ cold up here. He started trudging towards the nearest row of trucks. He was hungry and needed to use a bathroom, but first above all, he had to find the right truck. It had been a long journey from Georgia to Indiana to Detroit, and then from Detroit to Windsor in Ontario, riding one dirty and smelly bus after another. The long hours on the road, dozing in the uncomfortable seats, finally coming to this place that fed the truckers and fueled the trucks that kept this socialist economy bumbling along.

Brewster couldn’t help it. He yawned. A very long series of days, only made worthwhile because he knew in the deepest part of his heart that he was on a vital mission. For the past few years, ever since that Kenyan got into the White House and Brewster had lost his trucking job in Texas—thanks to NAFTA and letting those wetback truckers come in and steal bread from his mouth and the mouths of so many others—he had fought the socialists and traitors that had taken his country away. At first he had joined the Tea Party and had gone to rallies and had heckled the occasional thick Congressman who had the stones to appear at an open house, but what had that accomplished? True answer: not a hell of a lot. Sure, the Republicans had done better in defeating Democrats, but as he later found out talking with some of his Tea Party buds, they had merely exchanged one group of paid-off clowns with another group of paid-off clowns. And both sets of clowns were under the thumbs of those who had money, who had connections, who thought everything except D.C. and L.A. was flyover country. If you were in D.C. or L.A. or New York, you got the bailouts and the aid. If you were anywhere else, well, you got screwed, day after day, week after week.

So he had decided to go the direct action route, and had gone dark for a while, popping up here and there to rob a couple of banks, fire some rounds into the windows of abortion clinics, and firebomb three Congressional home district offices across the South. It had felt good, actually doing shit instead of talking about it, but after a border protection tour in Arizona ended up a bloody mess, he had gotten drummed out of his local Tea Party chapter.

Pussies.

Brewster stopped. Almost out of breath. There it was—a light green Peterbilt tractor-trailer truck, with a half-sized shipping container that had been freshly repainted. Brewster went to the near rear tire, lifted his hand up on the tread, felt a set of keys there, pulled them down. He juggled them for a moment in his hand. Enjoyed the sensation. It had been a long time since had driven a truck, back when he worked for his cousin Troy Flagg at Long Line Trucking, outside of Irving. Then the place went under and unemployment ran out, and he had been at loose ends ever since, until …

Until that unexpected phone call a couple of weeks ago from Troy, wanting to know if he’d be up for a little driving. A little driving that might be dangerous. A little driving that might end up doing a world of good.

At first he had been reluctant, until Troy had told him where he was calling from: Waco, Texas. He had gone there as a pilgrimage to where nearly a hundred folks had been incinerated by the government, the government that was supposedly there to protect them. And Troy had reminded Brewster what date was coming up: April 19th, a day with a lot of meaning among the right people.

He opened the cab door, pulled himself in, and tossed his leather bag to one side. Within a few moments, the Peterbilt diesel engine roared into life. Brewster was no longer hungry, tired, or thirsty.
He didn’t even have to take a piss. He thought of April 19th, the day the first shots were fired at Concord and Lexington. The same day that the Branch Davidian compound was destroyed in Waco. The same day that the federal building in Oklahoma City was bombed.

April 19th was just a few days away, and what was in that trailer back there would overwhelm the memories of those previous dates.

“McVeigh was a fag,” he muttered, as he maneuvered out of the parking lot.