James Axler – Freedom Lost

“No, this is a different Freedom,” Ryan replied. “Has to be.”

“What’s the Southern fascination with the word freedom anyway? Seems half the places we’ve ended up in the Carolinas has been named ‘Freedom’ this or ‘Freedom’ that,” Dean groused.

“White guilt,” Mildred guessed.

That got J.B.’s attention. “Huh? I don’t get you, Millie.”

Doc was quick to offer his interpretation, delighted at the opportunity in fact, J.B. thought glumly. “The War Between the States was triggered by many pivotal events, John Barrymore, one of which was the thorny subject of slavery. The white overlord and his darker-hued property. Those in power in the South said they needed the slave labor to maintain their fields, and when President Lincoln signed his fateful proclamation, mounting tensions went beyond discussion and boiled over into full-scale conflict. The South seceded from the North, and there was holy hell to pay.”

“Everyone pays the freight in a war, Doc,” the Armorer replied.

“Indeed. After the war, many of the more forward thinkers in the Carolinas, Georgia, Virginia and so on entered into a spell of overkill, and in response to the new freedom of the black man, a freedom that did not fully come until decades later during the famed civil-rights movement, the name Freedom worked its way into many a new Southern building or street. The traditions continued well into the late 1900s, and up to sky dark.”

“Well, that’s one interesting thing about the end of the worldit tends to be a great equalizer,” Mildred quipped with little amusement.

HOURS LATER, after making their way down from the parking deck to the road below, Mildred was feeling much better. She whistled a slightly off-key fragment of a bouncy tune, snapping her fingers in accompaniment. The beaded strands of her plaited hair clacked softly as she moved her head in time to the music.

“What’s that you’re whistling, Millie?” J.B. asked, trying vainly to identify the music. “Sounds familiar, somehow.”

“Before your time, John,” she replied, pausing to breathe deeply of the mountain air. “Way before your time. Came from an old television show. So old, it was in black and whitenot color. The show always started the same. The opening credits would show a father and his barefoot son walk down an old back road to a lake, fishing poles over their shoulders.”

“Kind of like you and me, Dad,” Dean interjected. “Except we haven’t gone fishing in a triple-long time.”

“Don’t interrupt,” Ryan replied to his son. “Mildred’s talking.”

“Show took place in North Carolina, and that’s what I always think of when I think about this area. Back roads and fishing,” Mildred continued. “Damned if this place doesn’t look just like what I remember from the series, even if it is part of Deathlands.”

“Television,” Doc snorted disdainfully. “Mind rot. I regret the loss of the films of the world, but I cannot say the same about what was dubbed ‘the idiot box.’ Too many hours of potential achievement were wasted staring at the daily parade of misfits and dysfunctional families on a never ending barrage of so-called talk shows, programs where the talking consisted of nothing but screaming and accusations over intentional betrayals between men and women of ill repute and worse behavior.”

“I’ll take a little mind rot over senility any day, you old fool,” Mildred said with a chuckle. “Besides, from the sounds of it, you wasted more than a few hours of your own life watching the daily parade of the misfits.”

“At times, dear Doctor, that was all I was allowed to do to pass the time during my incarceration. And I can assure you, my jailers gave no choice of channels.”

Mildred fell silent after that.

THE PARTY OF EIGHT continued to follow the broken pavement of the old Hawthorne Road. Extra care had to be given to watching where they stepped, as the road was pitted with small holes that could easily twist an ankle or cause a fall. At times, the blacktop disappeared entirely to be replaced with a mix of lush, ankle-high green grass and the hardy, small white daisies that seemed to bloom throughout Deathlands. After Mildred had stopped reminiscing, a slight pall seemed to hang over the group. About a mile into their trip, the silence had become almost tangible.