Omar gave himself Monday off and drove to Vicksburg to pick up Micah Knox, the speaker from the Crusaders National of the Tabernacle of Christ, who was supposed to meet him at the bus station. There was only one white man in the station when Omar arrived, a skinny kid slumped in a plastic waiting room chair with his feet propped on an army surplus duffel bag, and he seemed so unlikely to be a Crusader that Omar’s gaze passed over him twice before the kid stood up, hitched the duffel onto his shoulder, and walked straight up to him.
“Sheriff Paxton.”
His voice was nasal and unpleasantly Yankee. He was thin and very small, coming maybe up to Omar’s clavicle, and thin, with red hair cut short enough to show the odd contours of his skull. He wore a long-sleeved flannel shirt, black jeans, and worn work boots. He looked maybe all of seventeen years old.
“Micah Knox?” Omar shook the kid’s hand. With the duffel and the short haircut, he looked like a teenage soldier on leave.
“Thanks for coming to meet me,” Knox said. His eyes were eerie, with bayou-green pupils entirely surrounded by eye-white.
“Can I help you with that?” indicating the duffel.
“No, I got it. Thanks.”
They walked out of the waiting room into the blazing heat. Omar opened the trunk of his car and let Knox put his duffel inside. The duffel seemed surprisingly heavy. Sweat was already popping out on Knox’s forehead.
“Damn, it’s hot down here,” he said.
“You’re not exactly dressed for the South,” Omar said. Knox looked self-consciously at his long-sleeved flannel shirt.
“I got Aryan tattoos,” Knox said. “I don’t want the niggers to see them. Nothing but niggers on that bus.” Omar unlocked his car doors and he and Knox got inside.
Omar started the car, and for Knox’s benefit turned on the air conditioner full blast. Two young black men, leaning against the shaded wall of the station, looked at them both with expressionless faces. Probably they recognized Omar from television. Knox glared sullenly back at them.
“I hate the way they stare,” he said.
“You had a chance to eat? You want to stop somewhere?”
Knox shifted uneasily in his seat. “I don’t eat much.”
It occurred to Omar that maybe Knox didn’t have any money. “I’m buying,” he said.
“I’m not hungry,” Knox said. “But you go ahead and eat if you want.” Omar drove in silence over the crumbling Vicksburg streets until he got onto I-20 heading west. The freeway vaulted off the Vicksburg bluff and was suddenly over water. Omar looked down at a huge gambling casino dressed up as a nineteenth-century riverboat, with huge flowering stacks and gingerbread balconies, then saw Knox sitting with his hands clamped on the passenger seat, his eyes closed and his face gone pale.
“Something the matter?” Omar asked.
“I hate heights,” Knox said in a strained voice. “Can’t stand bridges.” Omar was amused. When he’d got to the end of the bridge, he told Knox it was safe and Knox opened his eyes and began to breathe again.
“So you’re on a speaking tour or something?” Omar said. “The Grand Wizard didn’t make that clear.”
“Speaking. Recruiting.” He gave Omar a look with his strange eyes. “Fund-raising.”
“Can’t have raised too many funds if you’re traveling by bus.”
Knox shrugged. “I raised money here and there, but I didn’t keep it. I sent it to other Crusader groups.”
“That’s good.”
Knox shifted uneasily in his seat. “You got a bank in Shelltown, or whatever it’s called?”
“Shelburne City. And we’ve got two.”
“I might need to get some more money.” He scratched his head. “Either of the banks owned by Jews?”
“Nope. You can do business in either of ’em.”
“Mm.” Knox pulled his feet up into the seat and crossed his arms on his knees, resting his chin on his forearms. His fingers tapped out strange little rhythms on his flannel-covered biceps.
“I got a good feeling about Shelburne City,” he said. “I think we’re gonna give people something to think about.”
Omar and Knox didn’t talk much on the way to Spottswood Parish. Knox clamped his eyes shut when they crossed the Bayou Bridge, then sat up and grinned. “We’re in Liberated America now!” he said.
“As liberated as it gets,” Omar said.
“This is the only county in America not run by ZOG. You chased ZOG out of Spottswood County.”
“Parish,” Omar corrected automatically. ZOG was Zionist Occupation Government, a term that some of the people used.
They passed a sign with a blue spiral design and the words evacuation route. Knox narrowed his eyes as the sign passed.
“What is that? Is that some kind of nuclear war thing?”
“It’s in case of a big hurricane,” Omar said. “This state is so flat that a big enough storm could put half of us under the Gulf of Mexico.”
Knox looked around. “It’s flat all right.”
“It looks flatter’n it is,” Omar said. “You can’t really tell from looking, but most of the parish is actually higher than the country around. In the big flood of ’27, thousands of people saved their lives by evacuating here.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Knox said. He peered at a strange figure that strolled up the road toward Hardee. He was an elderly black man dressed in worn overalls, with a ragged wide-brimmed hat on his head. He carried a wicker bag over one shoulder, and a stick over the other shoulder with a half-dozen dead birds hanging from it.
“What the hell is that?” Knox demanded.
Omar grinned. “That’s ol’ Cudgel,” Omar said. “He’s from down south in coonass country somewhere, came up here fifteen or eighteen years ago. Lives in a shack up in Wilson’s Woods, has a skiff on the bayou. Lives off what he can catch or trap, fish or birds or animals.”
Knox turned around in his seat, looking at the strange figure loping along the road in his homemade sandals. “Looks like he just came down from the trees,” he said. “He looks like the original Mud Person.”
“Mud people” was a term that some of the groups used for inferior races. The theory was that they weren’t created by God like white folks, they were spawned out of the mud.
“Cudgel’s all right,” Omar said. “Cudgel’s never been any trouble.” Knox gave Omar an intent look. “Ain’t none of ’em all right. I’m from Detroit and I know. They chased us out of Madison Heights, they chased us out of Royal Oak. They’re animals, every one of ’em.” He flung himself back into his seat with a thump. “They should be put to sleep,” he said. “I get upset just thinking about it.”
“Well,” Omar said, “you’re in liberated country now. You can take it easy.”
“Hurricanes,” Knox muttered. “Swamp-niggers. Floods. Jesus H. Shit.” Omar figured that the rest of the day was going to be very long. He was looking forward to getting his guest to the bus station in Monroe next morning. The kid was just too twitchy, too moody. He doubted that Knox had anything new to say about the situation. He wondered why the Grand Wizard had arranged to send him here.
Knox was pleased by the election signs and flags that were still visible in Hardee, and by the way some of Omar’s neighbors waved at him as he drove by. “You got some real support here!” he said, slapping his thighs. “That’s great! It’s great to see this stuff!”
Omar slowed as he approached his house. “I want to check if there’s reporters around,” he said. “I don’t want them following us to the meeting.”