17

Greg’s chest had filled with a sickening pressure. His unease was different from that nighttime panic that had returned. This was more like loathing. He stood along a crop field, staring out at the crowd. The people swarming out in the field wore a mix of Americana garb and Teabagger fashions, the flags and eagles on them massive and making their clothes look like drapes cut into outfits. He saw 1776-era three pointed hats, nooses for vengeance, Don’t Tread on Me drawings and a couple muskets. It looked to be one of those faux-populist protests of the Tea Party variety or whatever they were calling themselves now, like a July Fourth picnic colliding with an American Revolution reenactment and channeling the mood of a lynch party. It was a phenomenon that Portlanders feared and mocked and thought only happened in the Midwest or South (and future Cascadians would never have to see, according to his book). Yet here they were, so proudly staking their ground in a brown field in rural Oregon. And why not? Greg thought, appealing to reason to help calm himself. If this place could have a secretive militia movement, according to Agent Torres, then why not this? Portland had them. Portland even had Neo-Nazis. He was only surprised not to see more camouflage gear like the militia wannabes sported on the Internet. But, why exactly here? On this very spot?

It was about a half hour after he’d left Tam’s. Tam had told him this was Callum property. Yet this part was not green. It was all brown and barren more like those dry lands he had seen on the other side of town. This road had surely never carried so many vehicles. Parked TV trucks from both regional and national networks blocked half the way. Greg had steered around the TV trucks, parked, and got out his reporter’s notebook and voice recorder.

He wondered why TV news had bothered to come out here. Any elections were far off, and politicians never visited a place like this unless there appeared a sure reason to benefit.

Greg straightened his posture, chin up, and marched out into the field. TV camera crews stood on the fringes of the crowd, their crews and hosts chatting. He passed them, heading into the crowd. People glared at him with his reporter tools, so he slid his notebook and recorder into his coat pocket. The assholes from the food stamps line were here. He started a moment because more of the open-carry terrorists were here, showing off holstered side arms mostly but a few hunting and assault rifles—and even what looked to be a couple semi-automatics made into fully automatic machine guns, all it took was a conversion kit bought on the Internet. Again this was so surreal that he hadn’t noticed at first. He’d seen just one county sheriff’s car on the edge of the field, and now he questioned whose side they were on. It was paranoid of him, sure, but he had to consider it. Signs bobbed above the heads:

Dam the Feds.

Stop the Flood!

Live Free or Die.

Secession Now!

Secession? Greg recoiled this time, his knees jerking. Secession was against the Cascadian way. He wanted to shout it out. Any reinvention was to be peaceful, not like this. He’d always known that militias and their brood wanted to break away, but he never took it seriously. Now he saw proof of it right here. Now he got one reason why those assholes in the food stamp line had been so fired up—they’d been waiting for this event, chomping and provoking like tailgaters on the eve of a big game.

Just beyond the crowd, a small stage was being set up. Some men mingled behind it, half-hidden behind equipment. A few would-be toughs stood around as if on guard. Casey and Damon were among them and were looking cleaned up.

A TV reporter approached the front edge of the stage, a little man with the happy little round face of a mediocre comedian—he was grinning, waving at the crowd, then aiming his mike like a pistol. It appeared everyone knew who this man was except Greg. The crowd hollered and cheered, swinging and pumping their signs about the dam and the water, but the signs damning the Feds and calling for secession had vanished as if on command. A producer calmed the crowd, the cameraman leaned into his camera, and the TV reporter gave his live remote report. Greg couldn’t hear it from where he was. The reporter spoke low, almost whispering. His face had turned downward, laden with gravitas, nodding with import.

Donny stood farther backstage, behind stacked equipment and a couple tall speakers. Charlie Adler, rather. He wore a cowboy hat and sunglasses, looking to Greg like some country music star waiting to go on. Donny moved in place, doing his version of a jig.

Greg didn’t flinch this time. He moved closer. He had to show himself, let Donny see him.

Donny’s sunglasses locked on Greg from across the way. His jig slowed. He nodded and grinned. Greg nodded back.

Gunnar appeared next to Donny. Gunnar saw what his dad saw. He dared a smile for Greg.

The crowd began in again, this time for real and with furor. All the protest signs were back, Feds this, secession that. Was Donny really this stupid? Greg thought. Was he going to take the stage as Charlie Adler? Expose himself to the world? Endanger their secret? Surely Donny was not that naive. He had lost such naiveté years ago, Greg knew, because Greg had been there on the very day that he had.

At that moment, Wayne Carver appeared backstage. Standing tall. He wore pressed jeans and a baby blue button-down and looked surprisingly respectable this way, like the manager of a family restaurant where people went after church. Wayne began rolling up the sleeves of his respectable button-down. He didn’t so much as nod at Donny. He passed right on by him and strode up onto the stage.