The Last Rebel: Survivor Read online

  He was not, of course, defenseless in case a wild animal came at him. He had wanted to steal a shotgun or any number of other weapons that the Rejects had stockpiled, but if he was caught with one he would have been questioned exhaustively, and if they suspected anything they would invite him to sit on a stake. The Rejects didn’t trouble themselves with the finer points, like proof and corroboration. They just killed you and moved on.

  The yip-yipping sound stopped, and Rosen listened a little more, then clapped his hands, this to alert any bear in the area that he was coming through. You didn’t want to surprise a bear, he had heard, particularly a sow with cubs. And if you came across a cub you’d better move out of the area quickly. Mama was sure to be nearby.

  Of course, the Rejects might not have found out who he was. That was in his head. But chances were, that they would, and if he didn’t act on that he knew that he would have no way to talk his way out. They would take him and before he knew it he would be killed in a very special way.

  There was no question that if they found out who he was they would come after him. No question at all. And not just anyone. Part of the compound was earmarked as a prison, and despite the severe penalties for trying to escape, a number of people had tried it and then were pursued by the escape unit. So far as Rosen knew, no one had escaped yet.

  He had to get out and tell the world what was going on. He wouldn’t win a Pulitzer, he’d win a Nobel. He actually did think he would win a Pulitzer. This story was huge.

  Ahead, he heard a sound and slowed, then stopped. It was a creek, a brook, or maybe a river. He thought it was a creek, the water running but not too intensely. Hey, he thought, I’m turning into a fucking naturalist.

  He started to trot toward it and then he saw that it was a creek, a thin ribbon of silver, illuminated by moonlight, running through the forest. He knew how he would get across. He sped up and leaped. The creek or whatever they called it was about six feet wide. He made it across with three feet to spare. Fear had made him a world-class broad jumper.

  He was glad he had kept moving. No matter how hot the day, Wyoming nights were cool or cold. He was sweating. He had not had time to get the best gear to travel in—he would have preferred shorts—but he had to get out of there fast. The work pants and shirt were not the ideal things to be wearing when you wanted to move fast through the forest. And the pack on his back didn’t help either.

  Occasionally, he would come across a path and follow it and if he saw that it curved he would be particularly careful to clap his hands. At one point, about five minutes after he had jumped the stream, Rosen saw something in the distance, maybe a hundred yards away, that stopped him dead. It looked like there was a large, even huge animal standing in the woods.

  But how big could it be? he thought. There weren’t any elephants in the woods of Wyoming, and this animal was big enough to be an elephant. He took a few steps closer, where he got a better angle and saw that it was a HumVee, the kind of vehicle that was popularized in the Iraq wars.

  Rosen stopped, not knowing what to do next. Maybe, he thought, the Rejects had gotten wise to him and found a road and circled around to head him off. No way. Also, he never saw any of them with a HumVee. Only those black jeeps and SUVs.

  He gripped the .45 hard. He might as well face it now. He could start to run, but they would catch him. He’d better try to shoot his way out now. Maybe he would win. Maybe he would be able to commandeer the vehicle. He knew one thing. If they were going to get him, he’d be sure to keep one bullet—for himself. No way would be go through whatever it was they would put him through.

  Then, another idea. Maybe he should just take off back the way he came, cut across the desert section. He had his trusty compass, he could keep going east, at least.

  No, he’d keep going. Maybe it wasn’t them, maybe it was, but they didn’t have a clue it was him. . . . Maybe he could slip by.

  As stealthily as he could, he threaded his way through the forest, each step bringing him closer to the vehicle. Then he saw a tent. A tent. It couldn’t be the Rejects’. Why would they set up a tent? They wouldn’t. It was someone else. Of course there was no telling if they were hostile or not. The Rejects weren’t the only bad guys in the forest.

  One good thing about the Rejects. They were required to wear the gray uniforms and stupid little caps to ID themselves. And it was bright enough for him to see what color whoever it was was wearing—or wasn’t.

  But he couldn’t see anyone.

  He crept closer, going from tree to tree, and finally he was only fifteen yards away. He looked at the vehicle and the tent. Where were the people? he thought. Probably inside the tent.

  And why was he so curious who they were and what they were? He should just slip by and get away. He was curious because that’s just the way he was. He was a reporter, and that was the nature of the beast, at least the good ones.

  And then he heard a tiny crunching sound behind him and everything went black.

  NINE

  Rosen became aware that he was awake, lying on his back, and that it was dark—or night. His stomach squeezed. The silhouettes of two people loomed above him and appeared to be looking down at him. He was also aware that the .45 was no longer in his hand. He realized he was on the run, that these were Rejects. That before too long he would be dead. All he could hope for was that it would happen quickly.

  He could make out shapes—and color. No gray. They weren’t Rejects. It was a man and a woman. There was no gun in sight, but he still got the feeling that these were not people to be trifled with.

  “Who are you?” the man asked. It was impossible to see his face. All Rosen knew was that he was tall.

  “Morton Adams.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I was just walking through the woods,” Rosen said, immediately realizing how lame, even stupid, his explanation was.

  “Why?” the man said.

  “I don’t know. I’m just a traveler walking through the woods.”

  “With a loaded .45?”

  “Well, there’s wildlife in the woods.”

  “A .45 isn’t the kind of gun one often uses for that.”

  “Who are you?” Rosen asked. “Are you Rejects?”

  “No. We’re just people traveling north.”

  Maybe he would not die. He had to take a chance. He debated with himself. Maybe they were Rejects in disguise. Maybe they weren’t. If he guessed wrong about these people he could be watching the world go by from his perch on a stake that was anchored in his butt and going deeper at the rate of about an inch an hour.

  “Actually, I’m running away from the Rejects.”

  There was a pause, and the man and woman looked at each other, then down at him.

  “Why?”

  Again, Rosen had a choice to make. He could tell them everything, or just a bit. He was always against full disclosure. When you did that you had no cards left to play.

  “Because I’m a reporter for Rolling Stone magazine. My real name is Morton Rosen. And I was sent out here to do a story on them. I was undercover among them. If they ever found out, I’d be dead.”

  “Are they after you now?”

  “I don’t think so,” Rosen said, “but I got the feeling that my days with them were numbered. That’s why I took off from their camp.”

  “What camp?” the man asked.

  “They call it Compound W.”

  “Where is it?”

  “About forty miles from here. Near Little Piney, Wyoming.”

  There was a pause. Rosen got the feeling that the couple had relaxed. Maybe he had made the right move.

  “My name is Jim LaDoux. This is Beverly Harper. You want something to eat?”

  “You better believe it. I lit out of there so fast I forgot to take food.”

  “Sorry I whacked you,” Jim said, “but I didn’t know who you were and you were approaching our campsite carrying a weapon.”

  “No problem,” Rosen said.
“I understand.”

  Jim grabbed Rosen by the hand and pulled him to his feet. Rosen got the sense that this was one strong dude.

  “Why don’t you wait here with Bev?” LaDoux said. “I got the food in a tree about a hundred yards from here.”

  Rosen nodded. He had learned that when he had researched going UC. He just nodded, but he thought: Morty Rosen, woodsman.

  He and the woman, “Bev,” waited, watching as the man disappeared into the woods. He had glanced at her when he was pulled to his feet, and now he glanced again. Food, he thought, wasn’t the only thing he hadn’t had much of. He had had sex with one of the Reject soldiers, but she was a hard bitch with all the warmth of an entrenching tool and screwed with about the same effect on his body. He could have had sex with any of the young female prisoners any time he wanted, but he wondered how he would write that up. Also, he wondered what it would do to his high-flying morality.

  He smiled inwardly. Wouldn’t the guy be surprised to return and see Rosen on top of his girlfriend going at it the forest floor? He thought not. Rosen had a good sense about people. This was a dude you didn’t want to mess with.

  LaDoux returned within a few minutes carrying a sack with him.

  “I don’t want to risk making a fire,” Jim said, “so how about some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?”

  “Excellent.”

  “How many sandwiches could you eat?” Bev asked, taking the sack from Jim.

  “I could eat the sack,” Rosen said, “but two should do it.”

  Bev made the sandwiches and gave them to him, along with some chocolate cookies, and a bottle of water. Rosen tried not to eat the sandwiches like a wild animal. Plus, he didn’t want to choke to death.

  “Where are you headed?” Rosen asked as they sat down on some big logs near the tent.

  “We don’t know,” Jim said, “just north. Trying to avoid any further contact with Rejects.”

  “Going north is a good idea,” Rosen said. “There are fewer of them up that way, I think.”

  In fact, Rosen knew exactly where concentrations of Rejects were, but he was not about to reveal what he knew.

  “So Rolling Stone is still publishing?” Bev asked.

  “On a limited basis. But our publisher feels it’s important to get the truth out there about the Rejects. His idea is that the truth is the only basis for America to be able to come back.”

  “I agree with that,” Bev said.

  “So do I,” Jim said. Then: “I’d like to hear some more about the Rejects, but you look really beat. Why don’t we wait until the sun comes up?”

  Rosen did not nod or say okay.

  “What’s the matter?” Jim asked.

  “I just don’t want these whacks showing up.”

  “Well, if they don’t know you’re a reporter,” Jim said, “there’s no reason for them to come after you, is there? I mean you could have just disappeared for no apparent reason, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course if they did,” Bev said, “then I could see it.”

  “I can’t think of any way how they could,” he said. “I just sensed it.” And he thought Unless they found my ID, which is highly likely.

  Rosen knew he was lying, but he had perfected this skill as a reporter. He was quite accomplished. Good reporters were. And they would lie—convincingly—to their mothers if it meant getting a good story.

  Jim listened, and though Rosen made his statement forcefully there was an undertow of indecision beneath the surface. But he let it go.

  “Why don’t you sleep in the cab of the HumVee?” Jim said. “That should be fine and it’s plenty big for you. As long as you don’t mind the company of Reb.”

  “Who’s Reb?”

  “My dog.”

  “No, not a problem. As long as he’s friendly.”

  “Very,” Jim said. “Good night.”

  “Okay, Good night,” Morty said. “And thanks for the sandwiches. They tasted like filet mignon.”

  Later, in the tent, Jim and Bev lay down side by side. Bev said: “I get the feeling that’s there’s more here than meets the eye.”

  “You mean he’s not who he said he is?”

  “No. Just like he’s leaving out something.”

  “I got the same feeling,” Jim said. “Well, maybe we can find out tomorrow.”

  Jim gave Bev a long kiss, and it wasn’t long before both of them had fallen back to sleep.

  In the HumVee, Rosen thought about what he should do. Maybe he should wait an hour or so, then take off. There was nothing to prevent him from going.

  Wouldn’t it be nice to take off in the HumVee?

  Yeah, but that wouldn’t be kosher. Rosen had done some questionable things in his life, but that was crossing the line. Just like humping a prisoner would have been.

  He was still pondering what he would do when exhaustion overtook him and he fell into a deep sleep.

  TEN

  Jim, Bev, and Rosen awakened at dawn. Bev volunteered to make breakfast, and after they had finished it—waffles that were no longer frozen and a couple of cups of strong coffee—they sat around for a while on some logs and then Jim looked at Rosen and asked: “So what did you find about the Rejects?”

  “First of all, they have about twenty compounds spread over the Northwest—Utah, Wyoming, Nevada, Colorado. They’re mostly in northern Utah and Wyoming and Colorado. But there are also cells of them in major cities, and they have all intentions of covering America.”

  “What is their goal?” Bev asked.

  “To turn America into a secular country.”

  “Godless?” Jim asked.

  “That’s the idea,” Rosen said. “And anyone caught practicing religion will be summarily executed.”

  “Sounds like the way the English treated the Irish in the 1800s,” Jim said.

  “What do you mean?” Bev asked.

  “Well, stories came down to me from my grandparents—I’m Irish on my mother’s side—of how if you were caught, by the British, in the mid 1800s going to Mass or attending school you would be executed.”

  “Why?” Rosen asked.

  “I think the English felt that going to church would somehow bind the people together into a dangerous group, and certainly an educated person was more dangerous to the English than one who wasn’t so educated. Ideas can move mountains, right?”

  “Hey,” Rosen said, “I like that. Ideas can move mountains.”

  “I can see that,” Bev said. “Absolutely.”

  “Who’s their leader?” Jim asked. “Must be a fanatic.”

  “And then some. Fruitcake, wacko, and nutcase all rolled into one. But a brilliant nutcase. His name is Alex Szabo. He’s in the same league with Saddam Hussein, Hitler, Stalin, people of those ilk. He’s what they call, as the doctor who did a report on him for the Stone said, a ‘psychopath, a personality disorder, especially one manifested in aggressively antisocial behavior.’”

  “You said a doctor did a report?” Bev asked.

  “Yeah,” Rosen said, “my editor—and I—wanted to get a sense of who the players were before we played the game. Intel like that can save your life.”

  “What else did you find out?”

  “You want to read the report? I have it with me.”

  “How did you get away with that?” Jim asked.

  “I kept ninety-nine percent of the stuff I needed in a plastic container outside the base camp.”

  “No, how did you obtain the report?”

  “One night I was able to get into Szabo’s private office and into his personal crap. The report was there.”

  “I’d definitely like to see it,” Jim said.

  “Me too,” Bev said.

  Rosen went away, and a short while later returned with a bunch of papers, which he unfolded and handed to Jim.

  “The name of the doctor has been removed. He never wanted Szabo to know that he wrote a report like this. I remember him telling me with a smile that
was not such a smile that he didn’t want to be one of the people on which Szabo manifested his aggressively antisocial behavior.”

  “But obviously he found out.”

  “He surely did,” Rosen said.

  Jim read, Bev looking over his shoulder.

  To: Jon Wagner

  Publisher

  The Rolling Stone magazine

  Subject: the personality of Alex Szabo

  Dear Mr. Wagner:

  I have examined all of the available court, prison, and other papers connected with Alex Szabo, as well as having conducted a few interviews with him while I was staff psychiatrist at Marion Maximum-Security Prison in Marion, Indiana, and this is my conclusions about the man.

  Mr. Szabo, who is now head of a paramilitary group that is getting larger and larger in the United States, is an extraordinarily hostile and dangerous person, and when dealing with him there is always the danger that he will abruptly explode in violence. Indeed, while he was in prison he lifted weights constantly, apparently building himself up to a strength that would allow him to better manifest his violence on those who would conceivably cross his path.

  As in the vast majority of cases like this, Mr. Szabo’s personality was formed when he was a little boy. When he was one year old, his father deserted his mother, leaving her in appalling fiscal straits, and apparently she was unable to make ends meet and rather quickly married Raymond Harel, a man who worked in the steel mills of Gary, Indiana, and who quickly got into the habit of being cruel to young Alex in a variety of ways. While there was no evidence of sexual abuse, there was extreme mental and physical abuse; I think the mental abuse was even more potent on the young boy’s personality than the physical aspect, which usually consisted of Alex being beaten with a strap or broom handle.

  To give you one example of the mental anguish, there was a brutal incident involving a chicken. Instead of a dog, Alex had a pet chicken that he loved, and one day when he came to dinner his father announced that they were having his pet chicken for dinner, that he had killed it and his mother was cooking it, and his father demanded that he eat it as well, something he did, crying through the entire experience. His father’s rationale was that Alex must be strong to survive, able to withstand anything.