tossing the remains of a dead goat from rider to rider.
****
By 2:20, Phil Carson could see a distant sign by the road, and beside it a tent colored desert tan. The sign was a sheet of plywood, horizontal. It read MISSISSIPPI in hand-painted letters. As he walked closer, he could make out a subscript: “No entry without official permission.” Beyond the sign the road doubled in size, from two lanes to four, with a median strip between the eastbound and westbound lands. A handful of figures moved around the tent as he walked onward, and they paused to study him as he drew near. They were soldiers wearing camouflage uniforms, carrying M-16s. They finally reacted when he was a hundred yards away.
“Hold it right there!” came the shouted command. “ No further! Put your hands up and kneel down.”
The simple checkpoint consisted of a canvas Army tent, with all four sides rolled up, and a porta-john. A green military pickup truck was parked by the tent. This checkpoint was about what Carson had expected. He did as he was ordered, and dropped slowly to his knees.
A pair of soldiers approached to within twenty yards. Both were clean-shaven Caucasians in their twenties, wearing matching camo patrol caps. These were similar to ball caps but flat on top, with a shorter bill. The taller of the two asked, “What were you doing over there? Couldn’t you read the sign? That’s a prohibited zone.” Both carried their rifles across their chests on slings, but they were not wearing body armor.
“I think he’s a looter,” suggested the smaller troop, leveling the barrel of his M-16. “Look at that pack—it’s probably just crammed with loot.”
“What prohibited zone?” asked Carson. “I don’t know anything about a prohibited zone.”
“Are you blind? Can’t you read? This sign says it’s a prohibited zone—you can’t just go strolling on into Alabama.”
Carson looked at the crude four-by-eight plywood sign, and back at the soldiers. “I can’t see what it says on your side. I just see Mississippi, and I guess I’m here asking for official permission, like it says. I don’t know what the sign says on the other side.”
“How’d you get in there, then?” asked the squad leader smugly. “Coastal Alabama’s a prohibited zone. It’s a no-go area. Nobody can cross the state line without a special permit. So how’d you get over there if you didn’t sneak around us?”
At least they were keeping their distance, Carson was grateful for that. They weren’t making him lie face down on the asphalt. “I don’t know, I was just there , that’s all. I’ve never been here before in my life. I’ve never seen your sign before. At least, I don’t remember any of this.”
“You don’t remember ? What is that bullshit? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m not sure what anything means. I woke up back there somewhere. That’s all I know—I don’t remember anything else.”
“Where’s your ID badge?” demanded the squad leader.
“ID badge? I don’t know, am I supposed to have one? I don’t remember anything about ID badges.”
“Oh, bullshit! What’s your name and social security number, then?”
Carson feigned a helplessly bewildered look, alternately staring at each of the young soldiers. “You know, I can’t remember that either!”
“Well, you just can’t remember anything , can you?” stated the shorter soldier.
The squad leader asked, “You’re not from around here, are you?” He had a strong Southern accent.
“Where’s here?” asked Carson, seemingly perplexed.
“Here’s Jackson County, Mississippi, that’s where. So you’re not from Alabama then?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I can’t remember. My head hurts real bad, that’s about all I’m sure of.”
The shorter soldier spoke to his squad leader. “If he came all the way from Florida, he might
****
By 2:20, Phil Carson could see a distant sign by the road, and beside it a tent colored desert tan. The sign was a sheet of plywood, horizontal. It read MISSISSIPPI in hand-painted letters. As he walked closer, he could make out a subscript: “No entry without official permission.” Beyond the sign the road doubled in size, from two lanes to four, with a median strip between the eastbound and westbound lands. A handful of figures moved around the tent as he walked onward, and they paused to study him as he drew near. They were soldiers wearing camouflage uniforms, carrying M-16s. They finally reacted when he was a hundred yards away.
“Hold it right there!” came the shouted command. “ No further! Put your hands up and kneel down.”
The simple checkpoint consisted of a canvas Army tent, with all four sides rolled up, and a porta-john. A green military pickup truck was parked by the tent. This checkpoint was about what Carson had expected. He did as he was ordered, and dropped slowly to his knees.
A pair of soldiers approached to within twenty yards. Both were clean-shaven Caucasians in their twenties, wearing matching camo patrol caps. These were similar to ball caps but flat on top, with a shorter bill. The taller of the two asked, “What were you doing over there? Couldn’t you read the sign? That’s a prohibited zone.” Both carried their rifles across their chests on slings, but they were not wearing body armor.
“I think he’s a looter,” suggested the smaller troop, leveling the barrel of his M-16. “Look at that pack—it’s probably just crammed with loot.”
“What prohibited zone?” asked Carson. “I don’t know anything about a prohibited zone.”
“Are you blind? Can’t you read? This sign says it’s a prohibited zone—you can’t just go strolling on into Alabama.”
Carson looked at the crude four-by-eight plywood sign, and back at the soldiers. “I can’t see what it says on your side. I just see Mississippi, and I guess I’m here asking for official permission, like it says. I don’t know what the sign says on the other side.”
“How’d you get in there, then?” asked the squad leader smugly. “Coastal Alabama’s a prohibited zone. It’s a no-go area. Nobody can cross the state line without a special permit. So how’d you get over there if you didn’t sneak around us?”
At least they were keeping their distance, Carson was grateful for that. They weren’t making him lie face down on the asphalt. “I don’t know, I was just there , that’s all. I’ve never been here before in my life. I’ve never seen your sign before. At least, I don’t remember any of this.”
“You don’t remember ? What is that bullshit? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m not sure what anything means. I woke up back there somewhere. That’s all I know—I don’t remember anything else.”
“Where’s your ID badge?” demanded the squad leader.
“ID badge? I don’t know, am I supposed to have one? I don’t remember anything about ID badges.”
“Oh, bullshit! What’s your name and social security number, then?”
Carson feigned a helplessly bewildered look, alternately staring at each of the young soldiers. “You know, I can’t remember that either!”
“Well, you just can’t remember anything , can you?” stated the shorter soldier.
The squad leader asked, “You’re not from around here, are you?” He had a strong Southern accent.
“Where’s here?” asked Carson, seemingly perplexed.
“Here’s Jackson County, Mississippi, that’s where. So you’re not from Alabama then?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I can’t remember. My head hurts real bad, that’s about all I’m sure of.”
The shorter soldier spoke to his squad leader. “If he came all the way from Florida, he might
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