–19

By Mark Buchignani

Ultimately, the vaccine failed.

 

In the U.S., the population grew increasingly restive and sharply divided.  Two factions spontaneously formed.  One believed in strict physical prevention – distancing, layers of masking, quarantine, isolation.  They relentlessly screened and tested, resulting in a disease-free population that once established could live well behind ramparts, entirely divorced from the outside world.

 

A second insisted individualism was paramount.  They threw off their masks, crowded bars and stadiums, and handled illness as the human race always has: the sick rested and recovered – or didn't.  People buried their dead.  Life and civilization went on.

 

Absolute disclosure v. Absolute liberty.  Faith in science v. Faith in God.  Community v. Individuality.

 

Spontaneously formed.  The government, under crushing pressure to solve the problem, twice relented, issuing two massive land grants: "Here, show us your solution."  In the American Southwest a pair of nations were created: Honesty and Freedom, each offering assurance and optimism.  People joined in droves.  Against endless and unrelenting waves of the disease, the only remaining weapon was hope.

 

—19 presents two first-person accounts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Buchignani
• Release date: May 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223554295

Mark Buchignani

An avid reader of literary fiction, fantasy, and science fiction, Mark Buchignani has more ‘favorite’ authors than he can count, among them George R. Stewart, John Wain, Martin Amis, John Steinbeck, Margaret Atwood, Nicholson Baker, Richard Flanagan… The tip of the iceberg.  Novels of my own began spilling out in 2005, resulting in, among others, MTee’s Lament, a twist on a post-apocalyptic tale.  Many more narratives followed.  Some are published here; others languish behind “fair use” entanglements. My stuff tends toward societal commentary, presented via normal people who find themselves in unexpected, offbeat, or abnormal circumstances – circumstances replete with threatened or actual upheaval.  The choices these folks make move the action forward and expose brokenness in the culture and in the actors themselves. I’m also a huge Tolkien fan and have written volume one of a loosely-planned five-book set: The Recitation of Ooon.  Though in the same genre as Lord the Rings, Ooon is definitely not Middle Earth, and there are no Hobbits.  Just people trying to find their way while engulfed in a magical upheaval driven by a clash between followers of the ancient ways and those seeking a new, less-fettered life.  The narrator is a thousand-year-old man, trying to see forward, while looking back, as his existence comes to a pre-destined end. And I have devoured everything Theodore Sturgeon and quite a bit of old school SF.  Though I have yet to draft anything within this genre, ideas continually percolate.

Book preview

Preface

The epidemic began in China, but none knew of or would admit to its actual source.  No matter.  From there, our fast-moving, interconnected civilization shuttled it worldwide.  Illness quickly became pandemic.  Governments attempted swift reaction or paraded ignorance.  The former was marginally more successful than the latter, though the virus itself was in control, evolving and spreading to every corner.  When researchers in Antarctica had become infected, global dominion was complete.

Human beings had other ideas.  At the peak of the singularly infectious and deadly Vέο variant, two mutually unaware factions petitioned the governments of Arizona, Nevada, and California, not respectively, but simultaneously, for land to establish themselves.  Under healthier, more common circumstances these requests would have been denied out of hand, but the three-headed monster of economic collapse, overburdened medical organizations, and threatened (and actual) violence, had instilled What if?  What if these people were pioneers, could offer options, offer hope, and might reestablish a modicum of normalcy, signaling a restoration of sanity and business-as-usual?

The three governors consulted under the auspices of unremarkable state-to-state dialogue, which quickly became You too?  Within the hour, in unison, concluding What have we got to lose? they approved the pair of land grants.  Both petitioners would receive a parcel, ten square miles to start, then, if successful, dozens, hundreds, thousands more.  The larger sizes were made possible due to abandoned remote towns: Maybe they could rehabilitate them.  The initial allotments included a water source, some mountains, an arable swath, a range of forest, and much desert acreage.

The first dispute arose with joint awareness, during the governors’ description of the original two parcels and their shared border.  This touched off a flurry of demarcation and an eruption of bickering about who had received the better land, which has since died down, as the communities have learned to co-exist, but does flare now and again, particularly in competition for resources.  No shots have been fired.  No injuries have been reported.  Words alone.

That refreshing, non-belligerent aspect drew us to these disparate-yet-not narratives.  This book represents a snapshot of the individual societies, each committed to a specific culture, each convinced of its superiority.

Our deepest thanks to Haisley Johnson, Andie Marie Davis, and Bill Turner for their exceptional work.  Without them and their willingness to pursue these stories to meaningful conclusions, —19 would not have become reality.

—Publisher

Introduction

After the fourth wave had swept through, the fifth overwhelmed the country.  The two colonies spontaneously, visibly, flourished: Honesty and Freedom.

The former declared openness.  They built a high stone-and-steel wall, inside which the primary and only tenet was truth and the most consequential verity was the unsuitable (the currently ill, whether actually or hereditarily or congenitally) were excluded or expelled.  Those remaining were required to accept mandatory inoculation against all preventable diseases.  That qualification adhered to the expectation of candor – no lying, prevarication, fudging, bending, or warping.  Solely truth, naked truth.  No, Honesty was not a nudist colony, rather one of no secrets.  Behind that high wall people pledged to be entirely frank, and for that commitment the whole returned unconditional support – nourishment, activity, vocation, belonging.  And folks hauled away their own trash and waited tables for their comrades.  Work was done for the common good.

The latter spurned attempting containment, perhaps in a biblical fashion: God’s will be done.  They cordoned off their chunk of land, settled on it, and did – whatever felt right.  Some died, others lived, none wore a mask, and not many were vaccinated.  This group celebrated life as it was meant to be: an unfettered Christian existence, complete with mega churches and excesses and capitalism and every man for himself.  Woman too.

This is the backdrop for the two first-person reports which follow.

Haisley Johnson

1: Admissions

Honesty

by Andie Marie Davis

I am average height for a woman, comparatively attractive, with a blast of dark brown hair, largish hazel eyes, set in a cute face (or so I am told), and a requisite body.  I have sustained a few bumps and bruises in my life, a divorce in particular, resulting in years of tearfall, but I have survived, mostly through immersion in work – investigative journalism.  When Haisley contacted me, the opportunity grabbed me by the heart and yanked.  I couldn’t help but accompany.

… which a week later brought about my presence in a lengthy curated line (Single file.  You step out, you start over.)  In the mid-morning sun, a large stone wall loomed at a great distance, partially obscured by sandy gusts, which pinpricked my bare arms and face. I wore jeans, a durable tank top, and rugged boots.  It was warm, not hot.  November in the American Southwest – or had we stepped across the border into Mexico?  These days, who knew.  Governments had more urgent worries, and the desert was unconcerned with geopolitical lines.  I stood, my back gradually stiffening for lack of movement.  After that first inching hour, my skin mentioned I hadn’t brought enough sunscreen.

No, this was not the main entrance to Honesty, one of the two established cultures in the region.  This was the queue before the outbuilding designed to perform initial evaluations during which the Board of Governors (and related functionaries) assessed suitability.  A positive eval would get me on the waiting list for admission.  As we crept forward, I struck up conversation with Marco (ahead of me), who was slender with black hair.  He wore faded but heavy long sleeves, pants, and boots.  And Gloria (behind), who was older and slightly heavy.  She was equally-well covered, her eyes obscured by oversized sunglasses.  They both seemed more thoroughly informed than I, given their clothing and the extra outerwear they carried.

Through my doubled mask, which had already rendered my philtrum and chin clammy, to Marco, I said, Excuse me, do you know if the line always moves this slowly?

He carefully pivoted in place to face me.  He wore a black mask and a plastic face shield.  Yes.  I waited all day yesterday and got almost to the front, but they moved me back to the end, because I went out of line to urinate.  They said to return in the morning.

What were you supposed to do?

They said I should’ve asked for permission.  They have outhouses, but you can’t see them, because of the dust.

Thanks for telling me.

Now Gloria chimed in.  I hear that, she shouted through a flowery face covering.  But at least they warned me, when I tried to go.

You were lucky, Marco replied, a gust scattering his statement.  I wasn’t certain Gloria had heard.

She continued, It’s barbaric.  I waited two days in the first line just to get a spot for this one.  They better have paradise inside, I’ll tell you that.

I added, I never thought it would get this bad.

I sure as hell didn’t neither, she replied.  Marco turned around.  Had he lost his taste for complaining, after being told to endure the line a second time?

Where are you from? I said.

Texas – what used to be Texas.  I don’t know what’s El Paso any more or Juárez.  It’s all gone to hell.  Maybe in here’ll be an improvement.  What about you?

Me?  I’ve moved more than I’d like.  I grew up in Seattle, but when my husband and I split, I relocated to San Francisco for a fresh start.

Sorry, honey.

It is what it is – or was what it was.  It’s done now.

Marco took a step forward.  I advanced as well.  Gloria followed.  The movement ended our brief, shouted conversation.

Hours later, sun setting, back killing me, skin reddened, throat parched, I was enervated.  The three bottles of water I’d brought had gone quickly.  The line monitors did not distribute any.  Gloria had taken to sitting on the ground in the dirt, standing only to move when the line did.  Marco was staunch, determined, erect.  He’d brought plenty of water, having learned from the day before.  He’d applied an exaggerated, almost mocking politeness, when requesting a bathroom break.  I was too tired for such an effort.  The privies were smelly and unclean, but it was that or wet my pants.

The outbuilding came into view, as did the extent of the attached wall, perhaps three hundred yards both left and right, bending away from us to attach to a higher, stronger, stone-and-steel barricade.  To Marco’s back, I said, "Is that Honesty?"

He nodded but didn’t face me.  In that simple motion, I could read his exhaustion.  I myself felt debilitated.  I couldn’t imagine what two endless crawls across the desert had done to him.

In multiple languages, large signs read, No evaluations will be made after dark.  They seemed prepared to entertain new residents from any walk of life.  Somehow, I found that heartening, as if the uncomplicated fairness of it raised my spirits.  Was this the purgatory before the heaven?  We took five steps forward.  The sun set, leaving us in shadow.

Luckily – though fortune had little to do with it: Honesty demanded of its admissions management that everyone allowed into the daily line be processed before closure.  No exceptions.  Luckily, Marco, Gloria, and I were interviewed.  We entered through a steel gate into the compound between the outbuilding and the main perimeter wall.  The air was noticeably cooler.  Still, the surrounding metal and stone emitted hours of absorbed radiation, warming the space.

Directed to one of twenty-six stations (alphabetical by last name), each of us was summarily questioned – age, biological sex, reason for seeking admission (I said, I need a change.  That was undeniably true), concealed weapons, medical history.  This last item was the time-consuming portion.  The interviewers were overtly thorough.  They ran through an immense list of possible afflictions, hereditary or congenital and not, and specifically asked about exposure to the current plague, directly or indirectly (I had not gotten the disease, nor had anybody close to me, though several people from the office had, but we’d been working from home for months by then).  My examiner was concerned with nothing beyond my past and present maladies, except, looking me up and down, he did say, You should wear more sunscreen.  I shrugged.  A short pause.  He called, Next!  Presumably, I’d passed.

Some did not. Their health was insufficient, or they were caught in a fabrication or in an undeniable falsehood.  They were escorted out, often cursing, screaming, or sobbing.  For every applicant, administration had queried all available government officials and an enormous medical database.  They knew the answers to their questions, before asking them.  This was a test of truthfulness.  In the moment, it was invasive and grueling, especially on the heals of the daylong wait in the harsh, sandy winds.  Afterward, I realized the efficacy of the method.  What should the highest qualification for acceptance into a community named Honesty be?

Marco and Gloria also passed.  Each of us received a ticket of admittance, on which was stamped a date of return.  A handful of seconds elapsed before my dehydrated, sun-addled brain could do the math.  I was to come back in nine months and would then undergo a final examination and, if cleared, be allowed to enter.  A weak smile appeared within my reddened complexion.  A uniformed official gave me a bottle of water and a cored and sliced apple.  She walked me to a bus for the drive to the airport.  Sitting on the juddering vehicle, I was suddenly elated.  These unpretentious kindnesses – water, food, escort, transit – seemed to augur happiness inside those high, stone-and-steel walls.

Freedom

by Bill Turner

Bill Turner here, reporting on Freedom.  I’m an outgoing loner, if there is such a thing, but big and strong enough to give would-be bullies pause.  I can take most of ‘em, unless they gang up, but that hasn’t happened since grade school, so I’m good.  Not married, not ever, but inside a place called Freedom who cares?  Maybe some do.

The admission process was sophisticated.  They acted as if they’d let anyone in, but in reality the waiting list was lo-ong.  They built a fistful of hotel-casinos in that little point of Nevada that stabs down, south of Vegas, west of Bullhead City.  When we all rolled in on a fleet of busses, neon hit us in the face:

Welcome to Freedom

PPE Optional

I wondered for a sec about that choice – PPE instead of Masks.  What were they trying to say?  They meant, I discovered later, that everything was optional.  But I’ll get to that.

Anyway, in that narrow angle of real estate, they must’ve had a couple thousand rooms, the majority filled up with wanna-be Freedomites, but they’d never call them that.  Sticklers, they were, with respect to their language.  Like being pickier than you’d assume about who gets in, they didn’t truck language they felt was disrespectful.  I was playing blackjack at one of the tables, nursing a highball, and making conversation.  I said something like aspiring Freedomites.  The dealer, politely now, very politely, asked me to leave – the table, not the casino.  I stood and walked away.  No need to cause trouble.

I picked out a cocktail waitress, sidled up, and asked what the people here call themselves.  She gave me a look that would’ve scalded a less weathered man, glanced this way and that, stepped close, and whispered: Residents.  We say, ‘residents.’  And she disappeared.  Her voice was so sweet I felt honey dripping off my ear.

Fair enough, I said to myself.

You must be wondering what an outgoing loner is.  The phrase sounds odd to me too.  My parents believed I was set to be the life of the party until the kids of LBJ Elementary started making fun of my name.  That was before my growth spurt hit, when I was still going by Willie.  I wound up a 6-2, 225 ball of muscle named Bill.  But my mom said she saw a change in my nature, even then.  She tied that to the teasing the other kids flung at me.  I did more running and hiding than joshing and grinning.  Now, I got my big laugh and my big size and my big personality, but I don’t spread ‘em around like you might expect.  But that’s what you need on the subject of me (for the time being).

We all stayed in the casinos for as long as it took.  I went easy on the booze, so I kept most of my money.  Not everybody did.  After a day or so, I noticed the faces were changing – new folks replacing old.  When they tapped me on the shoulder, I thought they were gonna get rid of me for that Freedomite line, but, no, they said it was time for my examination.

A test?  What type of test?

The guy, who was every bit my size and more and had on an exceptionally nice suit, flexed his forearms.  I rocked onto the balls of my feet.  I wasn’t gonna be caught off guard.  But he said, "Not a test, sir, your entrance exam for admission."  His tone was dead flat, but not unkind.

Thank you, I said.  Lead the way.

Vince – it was printed on his nametag – went ahead of me to one of what must’ve been a hundred offices along the perimeter of the main floor.  He let me in and stayed outside.  A man and woman, both maybe thirty, were seated at a substantial wooden table and were dressed to the nines, which meant he had on a tux and she very little.  I tried not to stare, but, well, you know.

She said – and was she that waitress in a different getup?  Honey was dripping again – Welcome, Mr. Turner.  My name is Ava.  Please have a seat.  She winked at me.

I winked right back and sat down.

Mr. Tux said, And I’m Frank.  Pleased to make your acquaintance.  We have just a few questions.  He had a no-nonsense face and marine-cut black hair.

Ava added, We won’t take up too much of your time, but the waitlist for admission is lengthy.  She had hazel eyes, a cascade of reddish-brown hair, and beautiful, perfectly bronzed skin, lots of it.

Fire away, I said.

We grant entry to anyone who isn’t obviously sick, Frank continued, his voice low and relaxed.  "Our motto is, ‘Come On In!’ and we’re proud of it, but it’s slightly misleading.  Freedom is a popular destination, and although we’re expanding – you may have noticed we’ve grown up and around the casinos, which used to occupy the northernmost portion of our property – we cannot immediately accept everyone who seeks to join us."

Makes sense to me, I said, looking at Ava.

She said, Mr. Turner—

Call me Bill.

Very well, she said.  Bill, you appear fit and vigorous.  Have you had any recent illnesses?

No, ma’am.  Healthy as a horse.

Are you a carrier of any infections or viruses you might give to others?

Not so far as I know.

And have you ever contracted any venereal diseases?

That’s a might personal, but, no, ma’am.  Clean as a whistle.

Frank asked, Any hereditary conditions, ones you might pass on to any children you might father?

I looked at her.  "I have no intention to father at this point in my life, but I might be convinced.  I smiled.  But, no, sir.  Nothing of that sort I’m aware of.  Didn’t my doc send you my records?"

He did, Ava replied.  But we wanted to hear it from you.  We also understand you’ve been vaccinated and have kept up on your boosters.  We’re glad to hear this, but we want you to appreciate that for residents these shots are entirely optional.

Cool, I said.

Thank you for your time, Frank added.  They both stood.  I followed suit.  On cue, Vince opened the door.

She said, "Here’s your chip.  It entitles you to join Freedom in approximately ten months, when our latest expansion is ready.  We’ll contact you if there are any unforeseen delays."  She pressed the chip into my hand and kissed my cheek.  By now I was coated in honey, but who cares?  The chip was warm with the heat of her body.  Did she have it in her hand the whole time?  If not, where’d it been hidden?  Not many hiding places on her person.

Sir, please come with me, said Vince, snapping me out of it.

I turned the chip over in my hand.  One side read Freedom, the other A million bucks.  Into Ava’s eyes, I said, See you in ten months.  She smiled.

Vince and I went out.  He led me to a storage room.  The hotel staff had packed up my belongings, made me a double cappuccino for the road, and called a limo.  Vince loaded my luggage into the trunk, opened the door for me, closed it after I was seated, and twice thumped the car roof.  Off I went, sipping strong coffee, my imagination whipping up names for the children Ava and I might make.

2: Histories

Honesty

by Andie Marie Davis

I wrote the piece above regarding that first stage – everyone made to stand single-file in the desert, the grit accumulating in our mouths and eyes, the lack of water, the filthy toilets.  I sent the article to Haisley.  She made a couple changes and created a file of my work.  Over Zoom, she said, We’re not creating a serial.  Our collective output will be a book.

An exposé?

"No, not exactly.  We know of no wrong-doing.  Neither is a cult, neither brainwashes people.  They both simply have an alternative vision of life – and who can blame them?  We’re presenting that, for both Honesty and Freedom."

I understand.  Have you heard from Bill?

No, not yet, but I expect I will soon.  Do you have enough to keep you busy while you wait for admission?

Yes, I think so.

Take care of yourself.

You too.

We clicked off.  I looked at my apartment, the sameness pressing upon me.  After the relatively short re-opening the government attempted, I’d spent the last two years in veritable isolation here, having food delivered, talking or chatting with family and friends online.  The fact is my circle had contracted since virtually-universal lockdown and widespread WFH.  I no longer had casual interactions – no passing exchanges with cable car patrons or other reporters.  No walks to the corner market, no chit-chat at the gas station, my tank filling.  When did I last drive?  Does my car still run?

I didn’t have much on my plate.  Since Robert and I split up, I’d made my specialty poking and probing, and spying through uncovered keyholes or uncurtained windows, or listening-in and pretending not to.  I made a believable cocktail waitress or restaurant server or sommelier.  The information folks let slip over drinks into my recording phone…

As I tended to, I dug into things I shouldn’t, or spied on the wrong person.  My primary surveillance target was a muscular gangster who went by Lefty Namisto, because he’d damaged his right hand in some prior dust-up and had to switch.  I was waiting for a drink order at the bar when shots gashed the air.  Are they aiming at me and pretending not to?  Am I in a crossfire?  I couldn’t tell and didn’t wait.  I dashed out the back, my heart pummeling my ribs, my head hoping no one had spotted me, my ears straining for sounds of a chase or for sirens.  I heard neither.  I ran.  I hate running in heels.  I tossed them into an alley.  My snazzy black stilettos left to die in a trashy side street – but no time to mourn.  My increasingly cut and bruised feet took me away from there.  Sirens began.  Pursuit did not.

Making various arrests, the FBI subsequently informed me I was a target and required protection, or better yet, distance from the Northwest for a few years.  They requested any and all knowledge I’d gathered.  My editor did not resist.  I handed over my recordings, notes, and research, waited for my feet to heal, then pulled up roots.  Destination: the City by the Bay.

Yes, that’s overly dramatic, but any detection devices Honesty might employ would indicate it was the truth.  I also changed my name, graciously embraced my editor’s offer of reference, and started over.  Haisley overheard the reference.  She contacted me immediately.  The cliché is the rest is history.

That was three years ago.  Now, I had nine months to kill.  Maybe I could find some detail on the community I proposed to join.  Standing in their line the other day was spur-of-the-moment.  I’d been told of the waiting list and of the lengthy process to gain entry, so I rushed and went in cold.  What could Google tell me…?

The Honesty website was no-frills, no bells or whistles: black text on a white background, variation in font sizes alone, no illustrations or photographs, not even a logo.  As I had directly experienced, they had no need to advertise or recruit, so they did not.  This was the entirety of their site:

FOUNDERS

Four of us, a pair of married couples, unhappy with current circumstances, with repeated world-wide sweeps of often-fatal disease to which few adequately responded, and none did so well, conceived of Honesty.  Why that name?  Because the act of honestness is the least a person deserves from another.  To know the thoughts and feelings regarding whatever relationship those souls have is paramount for its survival, growth, and ultimate thriving.  From the opposite perspective, an association of people cannot succeed without openness as the principle building block: if they do not trust, they will not prosper in partnership.  We respect every walk of life, and we go to great lengths to ensure at minimum each individual we admit is completely trustworthy.  That is our cornerstone, one from which we do not waver, and about which we do not tolerate dissent.

MOTTO

Two famous quotes are nearest to our covenant:

In a time of deceit telling the truth is a revolutionary act.

—George Orwell

I'm for truth, no matter who tells it.  I'm for justice, no matter who it is for or against.  I'm a human being, first and foremost, and as such I'm for whoever and whatever benefits humanity as a whole.

—Malcolm X

We four would say this:

Love nothing, no one, ahead of honesty; that ideal is the root from which great lives grow.

—The Founders

ADMISSION

Please do not attempt to contact us about the strenuousness of our admission process.  We are aware it is difficult, the waits are long, and the decisions seem arbitrary.  We assure you, they are not.  Our primary goal is to admit those for whom openness is preeminent; therefore, during the interview we expect such at all times.  Even the slightest omission or falsehood will result in rejection.

Regarding the demands of queueing in the desert, we present a lifestyle and a code of ethics, and occasionally endurance is called for to succeed, to overcome not uncommon hardships.  Honesty is not easy street.  On the contrary, genuine effort goes hand-in-hand with success, with thriving.  As such, we believe an individual who cannot endure should not be admitted, hence the initial physical test.

OTHERS

We are mindful that Freedom is Honesty’s bookend; however, plainspokenness must precede unfettered liberty, else the latter adherents may and will run amok.

Aside from this single stark page, I found… nothing.  No Wikipedia article, no search results at all, beyond the website.  I tried different combinations – honesty organization, honesty compound, honesty reviews – but these yielded only unrelated links.  Such an enduring lack is difficult to achieve, with everyone and her sister having a metaphorical mouth and an inexpensive and ubiquitous delivery vehicle.  Yet, they had succeeded in creating that lack.  Impressive.  Once I get inside, I mused, maybe I can uncover their IT department.  They must have a highly-skilled group of people.

And that was three weeks spent – thirty-three more to go.  I could try my hand at writing a novel or screenplay.  I set about creating a monograph of my relationship with Robert, what had been good, what had gone wrong.  I didn’t get very far and reached no conclusions other than the two of us together would have done better to emphasize that which the society I hoped to infiltrate espoused.  At least we didn’t have any children.  Investigative reporting, the prying and nosing, would’ve been impossible with kids to care for.

This set me on a life-evaluation jag that both consumed a month and resulted in binge reading.  The George Orwell classics and the latter novels by Margaret Atwood seemed appropriate.

When the nine months had finally elapsed, I’d spent the prior week and a half watching end-to-end old movies and eating delivered take-out.  I might have been depressed, but I wouldn’t allow myself to accept that.  Besides, my spirits leapt when Haisley’s face appeared on Zoom.  She said, Nine months today.  How’ve you been holding up?  You don’t – are your clothes in the laundry?

I had taken to being nude inside the apartment.  Why not?  A quick robing would serve for collecting delivered supplies.  I said, Sorry, yes, I’m between loads.  We discussed the next stage: formal admittance, the potential for monitored communications, how we would handle that.  Clicking off, I noted a text received ninety-four minutes ago and a plane ticket in my email.  While newly-stoked enthusiasm drove a flurry of packing, I considered my apology to Haisley.  An inauspicious beginning.

Freedom

by Bill Turner

A million bucks I said to myself, holed up back at my place, almost a year to whittle away.  I pulled the chip from my pocket.  Is that how I’m supposed to feel because they’re going to let me in?  Or is that how I will feel when I get inside?  Or is this poker chip really worth a million?  Do they have their own currency, and is this how they inaugurate everyone?  That would buy some big-time independence.  But a thousand thousands don’t go as far as they used to…

My phone made a cash register cha-ching sound.  I looked.  A text from Haisley.  She wanted to chat.  I fired up Zoom.

Hey, Haisley, how’s tricks?

Afternoon, Bill.  I’m fine, thank you.  Thanks for the article.  I’m glad your trip was a success.

That’s what it looked like to me, but I’m not sure what comes next.  I’m wondering if that poker chip is real cash.  That’d be a great if it is.

A puzzle for you to solve, once you’re admitted.

Yep.

May I review our plan and our goals?

Ready when you are.

"Thank you.  I spoke with Andie two days ago.  Honesty said she’d be allowed inside in nine months.  I see Freedom has given you an estimate of ten.  That supports what I’ve heard about lengthy waiting periods."

Seems pretty popular, that’s for sure.  It’s hard to blame a person for being curious and wanting something different – or better – than what they have now.  The wall of casinos blocked the view of the surrounding terrain – they must’ve had a fence – but they seemed pretty focused on their name as a way of life.  Is that what the million bucks is for?  I haven’t had the chance to do any research yet, but with time to kill, I’ll see what I can find out.

"Good idea.  Also: as I explained to Andie, we’re not compiling an exposé on either group, since there isn’t much to expose, as far as I can tell.  We’re writing a book.  You and Andie are our eyes and ears in relaying the stories of both Honesty and Freedom.  People want to know the inside story of each.  What we’ve heard thus far is complaining about this or that from disgruntled ex-members, but those reports are rare.  So, yes, a bit of initial research would be an excellent place to start."

I’m on it, boss.

Thank you.  Please inform me of any warning bells you uncover.  In the meantime, I’ll be searching for ex-residents to get their stories first-hand.  Surprisingly little is in the press about either culture, and I’ve found nothing online as yet.  Makes me wonder if they are exerting pressure to have material taken down.

We would’ve heard about it, if that was going on.

You’d think so.  Maybe my portion of this book will be smaller than I envisioned.  No pressure.

No problem.  I’ll do some digging.  It’ll help me get ready for joining up.

Do you have enough to keep you occupied?

We’ll see, but probably.  They seem pretty accessible, with the casinos and all.  And I can keep myself busy, if I need to.  I’ve had to for over a year now.

Very well.  Take care of yourself, Bill.  Call me if you need anything.

Will do.  Thanks for the particulars.

You’re welcome.  Goodbye.

That was that.  I was on my own for the next three and a third seasons.  I googled Freedom.  After the usual definitions and ads, I found a single testimonial: And they let you do whatever you want in there.  It’s great! from a guy whose departure contradicted his statement.  I found no dispatches from folks inside, so he must’ve been back with the rest of us, hunkered down, weathering the storm – or surviving the disease.  Take your pick.

I couldn’t find any information on him or any context for those two statements.  Seemed like they were taken from a longer missive, but damn if I could dig up another word from him, not even his name.  The attribution was One man proclaimed.  And social media produced a big fat zero.

Onward.

The Freedom website was pretty darned flashy, even for advertising, which it definitely was.  Beach scenes, ski resorts, wilderness hikes, speedways, football games – the emphasis was on leisure.  Did anyone work?  Not at first, they didn’t.  A million bucks was exactly what it was.  An initial seed.  Buy a house, a sports car, a mess of bling, or invest the cash and get a job.  When I clicked on the slowly revolving poker chip icon, up came a page explaining in no detail the security measures: Impossible to counterfeit the headline shouted, above an article on the capture and (successful) prosecution of those who'd tried.

But the snapshots sold the place.  Happy, smiling, laughing, sexy people everywhere.  I have to confess, I spent a wedge of time staring at the clothing optional beach photos, but the camera was modestly distant.  You could see lots of skin, but no specifics.  I squinted damn close to the screen, when I thought I’d picked out Ava, but I couldn’t be sure.

Ava.  When I reflected on it, she reminded me of my ex, Jo – at ease in her own skin, comfortable showing off lots of it, fit, pretty, cheerful – though the Ava I’d met seemed more seriously flirty than happily carefree.  I shouldn’t think about any of that.  Focus.

I found a mess of adjacent sites, some with photos of their own, and with stories, testimonials, and history.  The majority were positive.  A few were critical, but the dirt was light and airy: The million bucks runs out too fast.  After I went through it all, they gave me the boot, ha ha!  The scenes make it look like fun and games, but you have to work, or you’ll lose your spot.  Without warning, my best friend was up and gone.  I guess he couldn’t cut it, the responsibility, but I can!  Not much in any of these.  Most seemed concerned about money.  I guess you could make the case that lots of cash makes for lots of breathing space.

Nothing else was the slightest bit negative – no angry headlines, no hate sites, no scathing pages.  Looking through screen after screen of photos, no older folks either.  Maybe a smiling, fit graybeard here and there, but my grandparent’s generation was way underrepresented.  Was that a topic to write about?

No, it wasn’t.  All I had was no pictures of senior citizens.  That didn’t mean there were none, but that they hadn’t been photographed.  Not their target demo?  Who can blame them for preferring youth and energy, if they were trying to build and sell the community?

Going through this info – and more seemed to appear daily – required weeks of focused effort, but then I settled into Wednesday check ins.  What was new?  Surprisingly little.  At times, it was as if the material had been rearranged, exhibiting the same shots, but with different happy people in them.

Now what?  Once I did see a close-enough snap of Ava in a decidedly sexy evening gown, cleavage above, bare legs peeking out below.  A grand opening.  Must be of the latest expansion – that has to be it!  They’re almost done.  I realized the occasional video chat with Mom and Dad hadn’t been wholly sufficient these last several months.  I wanted some – to be blunt, physical contact.  But the next shot was ice water.  She was on Frank’s arm, looking cuddly.  Are they married or what?

And my brainwaves got tangled up, mixing and matching Ava and Jo – I swear they could’ve been cousins