I'm late bringing y'all's attention to this; it's up to #17 already, and I don't know if anyone else has been following the series. The author is Mark Butterworth and he's been posting the chapters at Fran Porretto's place; a new chapter every Tuesday.
http://bastionofliberty.blogspot.com/2013/02/tales-of-new-america-17.htmlYou can catch up on 1-16 at the link, but I'll include a taste of #1 here:
"
Be Careful What You Wish ForThe couple looked to be in their mid-thirties, the woman, perhaps, a little younger, with a three year old boy. It wasn’t their non-descript sedan, nor their ordinary clothes that gave them away to Ryan, the border guard. It was the tell tale nervousness of them both as he took a little longer than usual scrutinizing their papers.
“Please, pull over there to that parking spot,” the young man told the driver, a Mr. Jon Jones. Mr. Jones compressed his lips momentarily, another tell, and did as ordered.
The North Jackpot Highway Inspection Station had a number of large metal warehouses to store winter equipment and highway repair vehicles. There were drive-through buildings for semi trucks, and a small office complex for the inspectors’ lounge, the dispatchers’ rooms, and management offices. There was a militia barracks close by, and a place for interrogation rooms and holding cells.
All of this was in the flat, nearly barren, sagebrush high desert; although North Jackpot, just above Jackpot on the Nevada side, was growing into an actual town.
The parking spot the Jones’ pulled into was in front of the interrogation building. Ryan had himself temporarily relieved so that he could escort the Jones’ into interrogation, and hand them over to the militia captain in charge.
Ryan was twenty, and knew there was something frightening about a young man in uniform taking command of older people. People want to negotiate their way out. How can they bargain with a youth who looks like he can only follow orders and nothing else?
He felt sorry for these people. That horrible sense of “Caught!” while trying not to show it in the hope that it’s all just a minor bureaucratic glitch and they’ll soon be back on the road heaving great sighs of relief.
Not a chance, though. They’re dirty and their life is going to change dramatically in a short while.
“Follow me,” Ryan told them and they apprehensively complied. Then he told them to sit in the waiting room: a sterile, harshly lit place with plastic chairs, dingy, yellow linoleum floor, gray walls, acoustic tile ceiling, a tall metal counter with computer stations for officers to process, ahem, customers.
The Jones’ were good-looking people. Caucasian, both brown haired, relatively trim, but not athletic. Their toddler, a boy, was well behaved. Maybe he was tired, or maybe they’d given him a little cough syrup to make him somnolent. Everybody hates a fussy child, and they draw unwanted attention.
Capt. Walters (it said so on his uniform) came in through another door. He conferred with Ryan, accepted the papers, looked at the Jones’, nodded to Ryan, patted him on the shoulder, and released him back to service at the road station.
“Please come with me,” Walters told the couple. He ushered them through the door he’d come in back to a hallway, and led them into an interrogation room. There was a table bolted to the floor, a glass mirror on one wall, a camera in the corner of the ceiling and chairs for them to sit in. There was a computer for Walters at his end of the table.
Walters picked up a phone from the wall and said, “Sherry, would you come into room three. We have a small child for you.”
He turned to the couple and spoke to the woman. “One of our staff will accompany you to our nursery. There you will leave your son, and we will proceed to discuss your situation.”
They were alarmed with the news of immanent separation from the child. But what could they do?"
