FEMA America, The Great Country That Was

By James W. Nelson

Sure, you've heard about bad things happening in the country, and the world, but it doesn't happen right here. Right? And anyway, they always fix things so nothing really bad ever happens...right? There's that generic 'they', but has anyone ever figured out who exactly 'they' is?
So, every night you go to bed and don't worry cause everything is alright.
The next morning you rise, prepare breakfast, get ready for work and expect this day to be like every other day. But it's not. Something changed last night.
You are met at the door by men in non-American uniforms. You get pushed into a windowless van with no explanation except to do what you are told.
What the hell is happening?
****
Martina Louise Evans, 34, was ready for work that Monday morning, and, as usual, was ready with fifteen minutes to spare. She had a couple bites of toast left and a good sip of cranberry/raspberry juice, but nothing she couldn't handle while computing. So, like every other day she opened her laptop in her bedroom and brought up 'YourLife', the social network for almost everybody. There, nearly every day, the very first thing, a fresh post waited from 'Christopher Robin'.
Who is that guy? So mysterious. So—evidently—intelligent. And dreamy? She wondered about that too, every time she saw the profile picture of just a silhouette. So who are you, Christopher Robin? Are you a handsome and kind man, an uggo? Are you a monster? Are you even a man?—please don't be a woman!
The doorbell.
Who on earth? Nobody ever came to her door this early in the day, and her few friends in Grand Vista knew she worked—a salesperson? Somebody pushing a petition? She began to feel a bit irritated, that some stranger would feel free to bother her.
She ignored it, then giggled a little under her breath, talking to that guy as if he's real—but of course he's real! He's something, she just didn't know what.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James W. Nelson
• Release date: Oct 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463143421

James W. Nelson

James W. Nelson was born in a farmhouse in eastern North Dakota in 1944. Some doctors made house calls back in those days. He was living in that same house on the land originally homesteaded by his great grandfather, when a savage tornado hit in 1955 and destroyed everything. But they rebuilt and his family remained on that land until the early nineteen-seventies when diversified farming began changing to industrial agribusiness. James spent four years in the US Navy, worked many jobs and has finally has settled on a few acres of land exactly two and one half miles straight west of the original farmstead, ironically likely the very spot where the 1955 tornado first struck, which sometimes gives him a spooky feeling.He lives among goldfinches, chickadees, nuthatches, blue jays, crows, cottontails, squirrels, deer, mink, badgers, coyotes, wallflowers, spiderworts, sunflowers, goldenrod, big and little bluestem, switchgrass, needle & thread grass, June berries, chokecherries, oaks, willows, boxelders and cottonwoods, in the outback of eastern North Dakota.

Book preview

FEMA

America, the Great Country that Was

by

James W. Nelson

Published by James W. Nelson at Smashwords

Copyright © 2019 James W. Nelson

To all Patriots

Table of Contents

C1 Her World Changed as She Slept

C2 Her Fourteen Women

C3 No Talking!

C4 Concentration Camp

C5 Command Center and Rules

C6 Storm

C7 Clothing Collection

C8 Bootcamp Wakeup

C9 Breakfast

C10 The Next Women

C11 Who is Christopher Robin?

C12 Danek Othman, German Illuminati

C13 Christopher Robin

C14 John Miller, Camp Commander

C15 Rider Smith, ‘Your Life’ Expert

C16 Illuminati History

C17 Rutgar and Lily

C18 The Roar of Woman-talk

C19 Return to Grande Vista

C20 Othman Impatient

C21 The Militia

C22 Raped!

C23 No Sunrise

C24 National Leader Needed

C25 The Other Woman

C26 Time For A Visit

C27 Meeting Hall, Cafeteria, Rooms

C28 The Garden

C29 The Meeting

C30 Martina Explores

C31 Introduction of Native Americans

C32 Offer of Freedom

C33 Michaela

C34 Communication Problems

C35 First Casualty

C36 Christopher, I Love You.

C37 Freedom for Betrayal

C38 FEMA Concentration Camps

C39 Freedom

C40 Dawoud

C41 Christopher Robin, in Love

C42 True Love—First Time

C43 Back on the Road

C44 Strangers

C45 Getting Rid of the Evidence

C46 Return to Nightmare

Epilogue

The Characters of FEMA

Freemasonry

What FEMA Camps are for

The Kalergi Plan

Books by James W. Nelson

Descriptions of Books

Biography

Contact

Prologue

Sure, you've heard about bad things happening in the country, and the world, but it doesn't happen right here. Right? And anyway, they always fix things so nothing really bad ever happens. Right? There's that generic 'they', but has anyone ever figured out who exactly 'they' is?

So, every night you go to bed and don't worry cause everything is alright.

The next morning you rise, prepare breakfast, get ready for work and expect this day to be like every other day. But it's not. Something changed last night.

You are met at the door by men in non-American uniforms. You get pushed into a windowless van with no explanation except to do what you are told.

What the hell is happening?

1

Her World Changed While She Slept

Martina Louise Evans, 34, was ready for work that Monday morning, and, as usual, was ready with fifteen minutes to spare. She had a couple bites of toast left and a good sip of cranberry/raspberry juice, but nothing she couldn't handle while computing. So, like every other day she opened her laptop in her bedroom and brought up 'YourLife', the social network for almost everybody. There, nearly every day, the very first thing, a fresh post waited from 'Christopher Robin'.

Who is that guy? So mysterious. So—evidently—intelligent. And dreamy? She wondered about that too, every time she saw the profile picture of just a silhouette. So who are you, Christopher Robin? Are you a handsome and kind man, or an uggo? Are you a monster? Are you even a man?—please don't be a woman!

The doorbell.

Who on earth? Nobody ever came to her door this early in the day, and her few friends in Grand Vista knew she worked. So, who? A salesperson? Somebody pushing a petition? She began to feel a bit irritated, that some stranger would feel free to bother her.

She ignored it, then giggled a little under her breath, talking to that guy as if he's real—but of course he's real! He's something, she just didn't know what.

He wasn't a friend she had actually connected with on 'YourLife' and she didn't follow him. Her page was public, and likely the reason he sort of came out of nowhere one day, so his page must be public too. She could have done a tiny amount of research for more privacy but then she might have lost him or missed him entirely. She wasn't sure what had happened, but she did know she didn't want to lose his political posts.

Herself, she didn't consider political at all, wasn't even sure of the meaning of words like conservative and liberal and moderate and stuff like SJW—'Social Justice Warrior' she was pretty sure, meant nothing—period! They kind of sounded like people who cared about other people but she wasn't sure. They kind of also sounded like troublemakers. She could have looked online for an explanation, but hadn't, and likely wouldn't, and would go with the 'troublemaker' version.

As for getting 'Christopher Robin' she was pretty sure she should have had to click 'Follow' to guarantee getting his stuff, but she didn't, yet every day he was there with his posts warning America of what was, and what was coming.

At age twelve she went on Facebook, but then it soon seemed like the adults were taking over and her friends pressured her to go on Instagram, which she did for two years but then got tired of that too and discovered 'YourLife', which was very political but she liked it—even though she wasn't political—and 'YourLife' didn't seem to have the controls that the other socials had. It seemed people could say most anything and get away with it. Three friends even came with her and stayed, and agreed that the new site was filling in where school had really fallen short about current events and more so about history.

The most interesting of 'Christopher Robin's' posts was what was 'coming', even though she found it hard to believe but the way he worded his posts also made everything sound believable. The things he said sometimes frightened her, plus she saw no evidence of his assertions in Grand Vista. Nine months since leaving Virginia to travel to Nebraska, and not one of his ravings had she seen any mention of. Shadow government, globalism, Illuminati, new world order—what the heck were any of those things? At least she knew of them—knew such things existed—but understood barely a thing about any of them.

If Martina understood anything at all, well, America's days seemed to be soon numbered. Two of 'Christopher Robin's' favorite subjects were the Second Amendment constantly under attack and the number of Muslims in America. The Second Amendment of course had finally been settled with the gun confiscation. There too, what was the big deal? She had never fired a gun, never even held one, had refused letting her brothers teach her even one thing about guns—not that they even ever bugged her about it. Yet she kind of understood how millions of gun owners would feel betrayed. They had lost something that obviously meant a great deal to them—but she couldn't quite compare gun rights with, well, with anything else. It simply meant nothing to her, but she supposed it wouldn't kill her to call home and ask her brothers about it, and how they were taking it, even though some time had passed.

In fact she should do that. Right now. She had time, and glanced at the wall clock. Yes, she still had ten minutes before she absolutely had to leave to get to her customer service cubicle—I hate that job! But it paid her bills. She pushed the computer away, opened her purse, pulled out her cellphone, punched in her parent's number, had her finger on the 'send' button—

Again! The doorbell!

Again, she ignored it, and would call that night after work. She let her mind return to what she was thinking about: the Muslims.

Well, weren't they just immigrants, like every other ethnic group that had ever come to America? Not according to 'Christopher Robin'. According to him they were not an ethnic group at all, and they came from 40-50 different countries—it was a worldwide invasion and got a good start way back in 2014 when they began pouring into Germany. Not just Germany but most Western countries and Africa, with the goal of creating a worldwide caliphate—whatever the heck that was. Sometimes she looked up words, but her dictionary was too old, didn't have the new words. She knew she could look online too, but that word she didn't look up, maybe because she didn't really want to know what it meant.

‘Worldwide caliphate’ didn’t really sound like something she wanted to know about

Sometimes she wished she had friended 'Christopher Robin', so she could ask him questions, but from the very beginning she had told herself, 'no friending anyone with just a silhouette for a profile picture'! And that's all the guy had, that and likely a fake name. Who on earth would name their son 'Christopher Robin'?

Not that she didn't like the Winnie the Pooh bunch. She did. Even as an adult she loved that cartoon, and still occasionally watched one of the two Pooh DVDs she had brought with her.

Dismissing the doorbell, hoping whoever it was would just leave, she clicked on the silhouette profile. Time to see what 'Christopher Robin' was ranting about this Monday morning.

The doorbell rang again. She still had about eight minutes but decided whoever it was would more than take that time up, so she checked out of 'YourLife', and pushed her laptop further onto her bedroom desk—

The doorbell rang again, seemingly more insistently, but of course that was impossible—then whoever it was began knocking.

A visitor that time of day was strange. Her friends all knew she worked and none would disturb her before 7 A.M., so it couldn't be one of her friends. Family? Not likely. Her parents and three siblings remained in Virginia. If they were planning a first visit they would have told her long before then. In fact, after nine months they likely weren't even planning a visit.

So who was it?

The doorbell chimed again, then more knocking beginning to sound like pounding. She took her last bite of jellied toast and sipped the juice—

Whoever was at her door kept pounding, louder than necessary.

She stood.

During the long nine months since moving to Nebraska she had never felt any dread, none, but her stomach suddenly felt—she wasn't sure. Empty, maybe, and getting tight. Involuntarily her hands tightened, and for the first time she felt some discomfort going to the door and opening it, sort of how she felt when she heard about the gun confiscation through her non-friend, 'Christopher Robin'. Not saying she cared about guns. She didn't. More so she despised guns, and could not understand why men—most men, well, many men, anyway—like her brothers, who never told her a thing about guns—seemed to love guns. Well, it wasn't like they wouldn't teach her and train her, it just had never came up. And she would have said 'No'!

So when the confiscation happened she sort of began to understand how they maybe felt. She was sorry she hadn't thought of making the call earlier, and really wanted to know how they felt about it, but had held off because she knew they didn't understand her reluctance to even touch their guns let alone allow one or both of them to teach her about them. Now she really wished she had been more understanding, and open, and right that minute she kind of wished she had a gun, for whoever was at her door—pounding—was beginning to, frighten her—

The pounding grew even louder.

Yes, she was beginning to feel very, very, uncomfortable, and very close to being really frightened.

She hurried to the door, and wished she had a peek hole. But what good would it do? Whoever was pounding would just break her door down. She unlocked, then grasped the doorknob, and took a shallow breath—what was wrong with her? Whoever was there was getting impatient. That's all it was. She hoped that's all it was.

She turned the knob and pulled the door open. Two darker-skinned men dressed in what looked like uniforms stood there, Ms. Martina Evans? one of the men asked.

Yes. She wished she could have thought of something else to say, but what? And why?

Please come with us. The two men turned opposite directions toward each other and stepped apart, which gave her an opening to walk between them.

What? she felt she deserved to know, Why? What's happened?

We have orders, the one on the right said, and gestured, somewhat brusquely, You must come.

She finally noticed his accent, that he definitely was not American, No—I mean, I was just on my way to work. I don't want to be late—what do you men want? Earlier she had felt just growing discomfort, but that was changing, rather quickly—

The same man reached and grabbed her right wrist, tightly. No way could she break free, and then what? Run? What the heck was happening? He pulled her outside and his partner closed the door.

I have to lock it. She felt funny saying that, as if they would care. She felt she was dreaming—No! A nightmare! This was a nightmare—had to be! With her free hand she pinched her side, hard enough to make her cry out, so, no, she was wide awake. Whatever was happening was for certain happening.

The man pulled her to the street where a large van waited, a van with no windows except for those in front, for the driver and passenger.

The man's partner opened the sliding side door. The man holding her pulled her to the opening, pushed her in—causing her left leg to crash against the frame—and slammed the door.

This can't be happening.

But it was.

2

Her Fourteen Women

When Martina looked up she saw nine or ten other faces looking back at her, all young, like her, late-twenties to mid-thirties. What the heck is going on? she asked nobody in particular.

The front doors slammed, No talking! the driver—the one who had manhandled her said. He started the engine and they moved ahead, not slowly.

What seating available was already taken. Four others of the women sat on the floor. The one nearest her put her hand on her right arm and whispered, Sit up more. You'll feel better and be able to keep yourself under control. This guy drives like a crazy man.

Who are they? she whispered back, What's going on?

The young woman shook her head negatively, Nobody knows.

Martina looked at her leg. She wasn't bleeding but dang close. Still hurt too.

They made two more stops in her neighborhood and pushed two more young women into the rear of the van. She knew neither of them. Strange, for as long as she had lived in Grand Vista, Nebraska, she had made no attempt to meet people who lived nearby. She knew only the other people who worked where she worked, and only those in the immediate cluster of cubicles.

But that's what was expected from customer service employees, stay on the phone, meet your neighbors on your break. It had been that way in Virginia too, but she thought moving to the Midwest, to what she considered backwater Nebraska, that things would be different. They weren't. People simply weren't that friendly anymore, anywhere.

She gazed quietly at the two new girls, much like—she figured—the others had looked at her when she was pushed in. Maybe time to change things, a bit. She glanced quickly forward. The two men had not entered yet, were talking outside, and in their own foreign tongue. Sounded like gibberish to her, whatever gibberish was, but she took that moment to talk to the two new girls, You need to sit up, and find something to hang onto. These guys drive crazy—

Both doors opened. One of the new girls started to talk. Martina quickly put her right index finger to her lips. The girl stopped. Message sent and received. Once they got moving she leaned to the same girl and whispered, They don't want us to talk, but you can whisper.

Who are all of you? What the heck is happening?

She shook her head, Nobody knows.

Strange, the very same thing she had asked and got the same answer. But something was happening, something in the world was for certain happening, and very, very, wrong.

3

No Talking!

About an hour passed. They could feel the van speeding up. Martina felt very cramped, and stretched out her legs much as she could, and accidentally bumped another—and got a look. Not an angry look but a look. She nodded, and wondered how the others were doing. After a few seconds her