Chapter 27
Veritas
Thomas made it through the night without waking up screaming. But when it was time to leave his cabin for breakfast, he couldn’t leave the room. It was so similar to what my mom went through when she first got back from re-education camp. We’d need to go to the store for groceries, and Mom couldn’t leave the house because of the panic attacks, so I’d have to go for her. It was a horrible time for both of us. Me—a little kid—needing to go to the store by myself because my mom couldn’t, and her having to deal with the aftermath of shock therapy and brainwashing.
And now, Thomas is going through something similar. My heart aches for him, and I hate the government even more because of it. All of those hate-filled politicians playing god, believing they know better than the rest of us how we should think or act. All the while, they get fat on the people’s dime and big corporate paychecks once they’re out of office.
I force myself to stop cycling through the anti-government mantra that’s running through my brain and focus instead on the tour Ben is giving me. It’s a nice place, this Freetown. Nestled in a valley between the mountains somewhere in Montana.
We drive on the gravel road that encircles the compound. There’s a windshield on the golf cart that blocks most of the wind, but it’s still pretty cold. I pull the zipper of my coat up higher as the cold air hits the skin on my neck.
There’s cabin after cabin similar to the one we’re staying in that line the road at the edge of the forest. We’re on a rise of some sort, or maybe people from around here would call it a foothill. At certain points, I can see down into a little valley to the right, into what Ben tells me is the main part of the compound. There’s a water tower, an amphitheater, a nice park with a pavilion and walking paths in the very middle, as well as three larger structures. The three buildings are all built in the same log-cabin style. Benjamin says that one is a health clinic, there’s a cafeteria and supply building, and the third is filled with conference rooms and offices. All of this borders a beautiful lake with mountains beyond the far shore serving as the backdrop.
Ben finishes his tour speech just as we pull up in front of the cafeteria and supply building.
“. . . and there are about three hundred people living here at any given time. We have room for about four hundred. Let’s go inside, and I’ll introduce you to a few folks.”
I meet a couple of cooks, three cafeteria line servers, and a nice lady named ‘Marge’ who checks people out at a register. It feels liberating to be able to interact with everyone without having to wear a mask or helmet.
They give everyone a card here that’s used for meals and supply purchases. It’s all very organized. Ben gives me two cards, one for me and one for Thomas. I go through the line and make up two to-go trays. Fortunately, after staying with his family for a week, I know what he likes for breakfast. I fill his tray with two pieces of turkey sausage, a generous portion of eggs with gravy on the side, and two pieces of toast with some strawberry jelly.
After loading up my own tray, I grab two orange-juice containers and put it all in a reusable cloth tote Marge gives me at check-out. On the ride back to the cabin, I take the opportunity to ask a few questions of my own.
“So, tell me more about Freetown. How did it get started?”
“Well, about fifteen years ago, the leaders of the freedom movement decided that the changes they were seeking to make in society were going to take a lot longer than first anticipated. With the movement’s commitment to peaceful change and the restrictions the government places on free speech, it made sense to have a safe place where we could gather. So they built this place. It serves as a home base for the movement that’s off the radar. The government knows it’s here, of course, with all the satellite images and such being taken, but they think it’s a model community for sustainable living, not the command center for the freedom movement. And it is, in fact, a sustainable community. We have our own power source—a water-powered generator installed on one of the main feeder streams for the lake, and solar panels on the roofs of most of the houses help supplement that. There’s other stuff that I won’t bore you with, but you get the idea.”
“What were the other reasons?”
“Well, another was to help people like you and Thomas who need a place to stay when their work for the movement gets them into hot water with the government. At any time, we have around twenty or so people here who are wanted by various government agencies for their supposed crimes. Most of them don’t stay here long-term, but it’s a safe place to be while we get them new identities or help sort out the issues, so they don’t have to go to jail.”
“Is that what will happen for us? New identities?”
Ben chuckles. “Well, let’s not jump the gun. I don’t make those decisions.”
“Who does?”
“The council.”
“The council members are here?”
“Not all of them, and not all of the time. It depends. It’s safer—“
“. . . for everyone if you don’t know too much,” I complete in unison.
“So, you’ve heard that before, I guess,” Ben adds.
“Yeah. I know the drill.”
After Ben drops me off at the cabins, I knock on Thomas’ door. He opens it and smiles when he sees me. From the looks of his hair, he’s just taken a shower.
“Breakfast delivery,” I announce.
“Hey, come on in.”
I arrange the trays on the table by the window, and we sit down to eat.
“Wow. This is pretty nice. Thanks for picking this up.”
“Sure. How are you feeling?” I ask.
“Like a complete idiot.”
“What? Why?”
“I can’t believe I’m having panic attacks when I try to leave the room. I feel like such a coward.”
I reach across the table and put my hand on top of his.
“Hey,” I say, and he looks me in the eyes. “You’re one of the bravest people I know. There are a lot of people who would’ve caved in the first few minutes of that torture.”
He smiles back weakly.
“I feel so powerless right now.”
“My mom went through something similar when she got back from re-education camp. She couldn’t walk down the driveway to get the mail or go to the grocery store—anything like that—for about a month. But it wore off. It’ll wear off for you, too.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I am right. Trust me.”
We finish breakfast, and Thomas cleans off the table, separating the paper trays and all the plastic into the recycle bin and putting the rest into the trash. Meanwhile, I tell him what I learned from Ben about Freetown.
We spend the next couple of hours talking and playing some board games we find on the bottom row of the bookshelf. We laugh and just have fun. It’s good to laugh. It almost feels normal.
Ben comes by to pick me up for lunch, and we go through the same routine, with me bringing the food back for both Thomas and myself.
Around dinner time, there’s a knock on the door. It gets dark early, and Thomas has already drawn the curtains across the front window, so we can’t see who it is. He opens the door, and to my surprise, we see Jeremiah standing there.
“Mr. Jeremiah,” Thomas says.
“Just Jeremiah. ‘Mr. Jeremiah’ makes me feel old.”
“Come in,” Thomas says, stepping back to let him inside.
Jeremiah holds up a tote bag. “I thought I could save you a trip to the cafeteria, and maybe we could have dinner together.”
“That’d be great, thanks,” I say.
Thomas pulls the table out, so we all three have enough room to sit, and I scoot over a nearby footstool to serve as a third seat, leaving one of the chairs for Jeremiah. We open up the cartons to find steak, a salad, and baked potatoes with a side of butter. After we’re all seated, I’m about to take my first bite when Jeremiah starts praying, and I stop, my fork in mid-air.
“Father, God. I thank you for this food we’re about to eat. Please bless it to our bodies. And I thank you for my friends who are seated with me around this table. May you bless them, too, and help us all to do your will. Amen.”
There’s no awkwardness on his part when he’s done. He just picks up his utensils and begins cutting off a piece of steak. After fielding a quick glance from Thomas, we both continue as well.
“Thomas, I understand you’ve had some difficulty when you try to leave the cabin?”
Thomas’ brow furrows, and he starts to blush a little.
“Yeah. Every time I start to put my foot over the threshold, I start to hyperventilate, and my vision does this weird thing.”
“You’ve been through a lot. I understand from reading your file that you don’t particularly like change.”
“Wait . . . you have a file on Thomas?” I ask. Jeremiah chuckles and flashes a smile.
“Yes, and I have one on you, too. We have to do our homework on anyone we let come into our little community.”
“As I was saying,” he continues, “I understand you don’t particularly like change. It upsets you. I can appreciate your anxiety. I wanted to come by and personally welcome you and encourage you that I think you’ll find these panic attacks will eventually subside. I remember when I got back from my own experience at re-education camp. For six months, every time I heard a kitchen blender, I would start sweating profusely and get deathly afraid. It sounded so much like the shock therapy machine they used on me in the camp.”
“You were in re-education camp?” Thomas asks.
“Yes, I was. There are many people around here who have been.”
“So, what’s the plan for us?” I ask.
“Straight to the point. I like that quality in a person. For now, you rest. Our contacts will monitor what the authorities are planning concerning you both. We’re not certain Veritas is even on their list yet. Once some time has passed, we’ll have a better idea of where we’re at, and we can discuss some options for you both.
“Once Thomas is able to leave the cabin, there are some wonderful trails you can explore. We have horses you can ride, boats for the lake—I think you’ll enjoy yourselves.”
We talk for several minutes about Freetown, what goes on here, and about some of the natural wonders of the area, where the trails are, and even how to schedule a horseback ride. He tells us we can get riding lessons if we need them, which I definitely will before I go out riding on a trail.
“How did you get into the freedom movement?” Thomas asks.
Jeremiah pushes himself back from the table. “Now, there’s a story. . . .”
