Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista by Matthew Bracken

it a shot. Watch your back though—if Magón’s gunning for Deleon, he’ll take out anybody near him.”
    “I’ll be careful.  I’ll be back sometime Tuesday.  Let’s meet again, maybe midweek, okay? But not in another store.  How about the old Mount Calvary cemetery?”
    “We’ve used it before,” replied Garabanda, dubious.
    “So what? It’s huge, and I won’t have to pedal five miles to get there. I’ve got enough gas left to drive there, from home.  Say, Alex, about the gas…”
    “Don’t worry about it.  I’ll bring the hose; I’ll fill you up.  Bring some extra Jerry cans in the trunk, and I’ll fill them up too.”
    “Thanks, I appreciate it,” said Carvahal.  “The blue bucks…they don’t go far.  Thank God I own my family home free and clear…  But trying to find gasoline on the open market, it’s tough. Nobody wants to sell gas for blue bucks, not with the price freeze, and the money going down by the hour.  All the gasoline is winding up on the black market, and I can barely afford it. At least you feds can get gas, on the federal bases.”
    “Thank God for that.  I know it’s tough—I can’t even imagine trying to live on the civilian economy.  So I’ll bring you some gasoline, that’s the best I can do for you, my friend.”
    “No my friend, the best you do for me is listen to my stories.  You take the time to listen to an old reporter.”  Carvahal paused, looking briefly at Garabanda, and then turned back to the toy shelf.  “You know, I used to admire a lot about Agustín Deleon.  I still do, in some ways.  I used to be such a star-struck lefty, in my younger days…such a naïve idealist.  Oh, what a fool I was!”  Carvahal smiled weakly, and shrugged.  “You know, the Mountain Lion and I, we go way, way back together.  All the way to Tierra Andalucia, and the courthouse raid.  He’s actually mellowed in many ways. At least he’s not completely crazy!  But the people around him today, oh my God!  It’s like being trapped in a Marxist insane asylum, up in Santa Fe.  They think it’s Barcelona in 1935, or Havana in ‘58! You
    wouldn’t believe it, the lunacy of them!  They’re trapped in a time warp.”
    “They are?” asked Garabanda.  “Or we are? Maybe we are.”
    “Us?  Trapped in a time warp?  My God, maybe we are.  Maybe we all are! But who’s going to stop this merry-go-round? And how the hell do we get off? Where does all this insanity end?”
    “That, my friend, I haven’t figured out. Not yet.”  Supervisory Special Agent Garabanda turned over the Magic 8-Ball.  “Where does this insanity end?” he mused to himself.  
    He read the secret message that floated up into view.
    It said: “ Better Not Tell You Now .”
    ***
    The tin-roofed two-story farmhouse had a screened-in veranda, which extended completely around the first floor.  The private RV campground spread along the bottomland almost a mile away to the west.  The sun was lost in gunmetal overcast across the creek, near setting.  The dozens of trucks and campers were dark blocks silhouetted across the fading horizon.
    A ceiling fan circled quietly above the polished pine dinner table, which was located just outside the kitchen on the side of the house facing the campground.  Brass hurricane lamps suffused the screened-in porch with a soft golden glow.  The dishes had mostly been cleared away after a dinner of steak, salad, and fresh corn.  Four diners remained from the original group, including Caylen Barlow. His family had owned all of the land to the horizon for a century and a half. 
    Barlow sat in his wheelchair and stared intently at Ranya, while sipping bourbon from a heavy glass.  He had a full head of snow-white hair, combed straight back, piercing blue eyes, and a face chapped red and deeply lined from a lifetime spent outside in all seasons.  It was his house, the house he had grown up in, moved away from, and returned to in his later years.