Jason Jones in Iowa

Jason pulled into the parking lot, breathing heavily. Blood had soaked his latest bullet wound during the two-hour escape. Jason had never caught sight of his pursuers during the chase. He wasn't quite certain why he'd fled; he might have been able to take the militia reinforcements by surprise, and kill them as he had the others. But his wound was already slowing him, and in any case, once he'd started fleeing, he certainly wasn't going to stop. Occasionally he'd fired a gun blindly behind him, in the hopes that it would drive off the militia. After a long, tiring drive along back roads and through tiny backcountry towns, it finally had. It had been a half-hour since he last heard the sound of the militia's Jeep. Now he'd found the place he'd been looking for: a gun shop.

Jason pushed open the door, limping slightly. He'd learned his lesson after his last batch of stolen guns. The proprietor looked at him quizzically as Jason brought a bag of guns to the counter, but asked no questions. Jason limped back into the Jeep with over $4000 from the transaction; he might have been able to get more from a gun shop that wasn't... well... a hole in the wall, but he really didn't want to draw attention to himself after the events of that morning.

Shortly after noon, Jason arrived at a nearby doctor's clinic. His wounds had gotten worse. The doctor took his time about showing up, and when he did invite Jason in, demanded pretty nearly the entire stack of cash Jason had gotten from the arms sale. Jason didn't have much of a choice. When he emerged, his leg was covered in bandages, and he had a sort of restrictive cast across his middle torso.

The police were waiting outside. They had guns, and they were pointed straight at Jason. One of them bellowed, "Put up your hands and come quietly." Jason, injured as he was, still considered fighting. His blood began to pound. Then a weakness came upon him. He staggered; nearly fell.

It turned out that they only wanted to question him. Where had he gotten those wounds? Where did the weapons come from? They hadn't connected him to the violence up north. Jason pled the Fifth, entirely terrified by his position. He was only fourteen years old.

They drove him to his house, after Jason told them where it was. He stepped out of the back of the police car, tired and hungry, in front of his house. It was just as he'd left it, five days ago; a nice farmhouse, decorated with wooden birds of a thousand hues, out on the Iowa plains.

His mother was waiting for him on the front porch. She said nothing to him until he'd entered the house; then, out of earshot of the police, she yelled, "Less then a week from Quebec to Des Moines? Next time, we're sending you to Manchuria!"

End Arc One.