Happy Utopia Day, Joe McCarthy

Chapter 25

. . . who are now the complete prisoners and under the complete domination of the bureaucratic communistic Frankenstein which they themselves have created.

—Senator Joseph McCarthy

I awake sitting in a bus seat. The bus is moving, and it is dark but for a few dim lights. Derek sits next to me, wearing an orange jumpsuit like mine. The bus is filled with identically dressed degenerate-looking souls.

I run my hands over the baggy jumpsuit. "How'd I get in these?"

"You were a bit groggy, but they managed," Derek says.

I look out the window but can't see anything in the dark. "Where are we going?"

"Been on the road two hours now. On our way to the Canadian border."

"Shit, shit, shit."

"They didn't ask who we were. They just wanted bodies. At least we have a cover, now."

"What difference does it make? They've got us. We're in prison, from what I can see."

Derek laughs. "We're hiding right under their noses."

I shake my head. It hurts. I suppose Derek is right, but I don't want to give him the satisfaction. "The glass is always half full with you."

"Full is always better."

I hold my hands up and spread my fingers. "My PRAD. Damn it. They took my PRAD."

"That thing got you in as much trouble as it helped." "Are you serious? The power in that ring saved us. What will we do now?"

"You'll think of something, Frodo."

Derek is getting on my nerves. "Why the hell are we going to Canada?" I ask him.

"Just to the border. We're going to build a wall, they say." I rub the knot that has formed on the side of my head. "Big guy whacked you pretty good."

"We gotta figure a way out of here."

The bus drives north all night through Idaho and into Mon- tana. In the morning we stop at Sunburst, Montana, about eight miles from the Canadian border.

The border patrol has overtaken the town. Thousands and thousands of orange-jumpsuit-wearing men are being bussed in and out or are milling around the compound under the watch- ful eye of machine-gun-toting SWAT men. We drive through a gate and a double-razor-wire fence. Construction crews work on new barracks. They have erected row upon row of white painted army-style structures that go on for as far as I can see. Derek and I exit the bus and stand in line for a bowl of greasy potato soup. We wait in another line for a duffel bag full of supplies and a bed assignment.

We walk on new sidewalks through manicured grass-seeded dirt and past several buildings before we find our barracks. Inside, we walk between never-ending rows of bunk beds and angry men. It smells of fresh paint and stinks of bad body odor.

We stop at our bunk. Derek throws his duffel bag on top. "I call top bunk."

"I'm top bunk."

"What are you talking about? I just called top bunk." "Look at the number," I say. "I've been assigned the top bunk."

"What difference does it make?"

"It makes a big difference. You can't go breaking the rules in a place like this."

Derek starts climbing; his large body makes the ladder look childlike. "Watch me."

I grab his collar and halt his ascent.