PART 1
By
Al Duncan
April 3, 2013
NewsWithViews.com
Excerpt from The Master Plan
“The truth is they just don’t care about human life.”
I couldn’t feel any pain as I slowly regained consciousness. Due to the total darkness and the moans and groans around me, I wondered whether I was all right. I felt like I was recovering from the effects of a powerful drug.
Gradually, my senses came to life as the smell of stale body odor roused me. Although I couldn’t see, the sound of tires on the pavement and the bumping movements led me to believe I was riding in some type of huge truck. The heat was almost unbearable and the stench from vomit, urine and feces was noxious. I had no idea how long I had been riding, from where I had come, nor where I was going. However, it wasn’t long before the truck pulled to a grinding stop.
Suddenly, a door at the rear opened. A flood of blinding sunlight filled the compartment causing gasps and cries from the men around me. Uniformed guards shouted commands instructing us to unload, as they set a ramp for us to exit. Everyone struggled to their feet and stumbled toward the rear of the truck. The sight and smell were so unbearable that the guards wore masks. Judging by our present condition, it appeared we had been riding for a couple of days.
While descending the ramp, I filled my lungs with deep breaths of fresh air. The guards marched the group of us across a highway, while a steady flow of trucks continued to arrive. The trucks stood side by side, forming a long row, with each truck being unloaded in a similar fashion. Beyond the trucks, empty terrain stretched to distant hills and mountains. Across the highway stood a high, chain-link fence topped with barbed wire that surrounded a yard. In the near corner was a large gate. Beyond the fence, barren land stretched to a tree line about a half mile away.
The hot, penetrating sun sapped moisture and much needed strength from my weakened and dehydrated body. There wasn’t any shade in the yard to protect us from the sun’s direct rays, and the heat was scathing.
As cattle being herded into a stockyard, the guards herded the group of us through the gate and into the yard already packed with men. We pressed closer together as the guards ordered us to join the others.
Muscular, scruffy-looking men in t-shirts, coveralls and tennis shoes pushed their way through the crowd demanding that we, “Shut up, and keep movin’!” I noticed that the uniformed guards called these men goons. I also noticed that the men filling the yard were of all nationalities, but no one appeared older than forty years of age.
To avoid bumping the men in front of me, I slowed my pace before entering the gate. Suddenly I felt a sharp blow to my back. It was a powerful blow delivered by one of the goons. I turned instinctively, ready to defend myself, but as I was about to retaliate, one of the guards warned me, “These goons would just as soon kill you as look at you; so you’d best keep on movin’!” There was a strange, distant look of viciousness in the eyes of the goon who struck me. Heeding the guard’s advice, I complied by picking up my pace in step with the rest of the men being unloaded from the truck I had been riding in.
We headed toward the opening of a beige, two-story stucco building. On the top of the building was a billboard displaying in bold letters: FEMA CAMP 1100, 1:40 p.m., August 13, 2014, 103 degrees. The inside of the building resembled a gymnasium with concrete floors, gray walls and the smell of disinfectant mingled with body odor. Although the building provided shelter from the direct sun, without air conditioning it afforded only minimal relief from its heat.
Farther along the wall, to the right, was an open shower area that extended the three hundred-foot length of the building. In compliance with the guards’ orders, about one hundred of us removed our clothes and tossed them into one of the laundry carts that formed a row in front of the showers. One of the guards shouted, “Water”, and it instantly spurted out of the showerheads positioned along the wall. No sooner had we lathered our bodies with soap when orders echoed throughout the enclosure to “Hurry up and get for the next group of men! Showers go off in two minutes.” Frantically, we all tried to rinse the soap from our bodies before the water was turned off.
After drying, I wrapped the towel around my waist the same as everyone else. The guards ordered us to follow the group of men before us. We slowly made our way to a long row of tables covered with bottles of water. Farther down, the table was covered with a white cloth that held syringes, cotton swabs and what appeared to be small bottles of vaccine. A number of men dressed in white smocks stood in front of the tables to make sure everyone was vaccinated, as the guards ordered us to continue following the men in front of us. Sweating from the heat and the bodies around me, I gradually worked my way to the second floor with the rest of the men in our group.
At the top of the stairs, men were issuing clothing from an open doorway. They asked our clothing and shoe size, and then wrote it down on pads. After locating our sizes, they returned and handed each of us clean, but well-used underwear, socks, a pair of boots and an orange jumpsuit.
While dressing, we inched our way down a hallway lined with open windows on one side and guards on the other. Bellowing curtains spewed gusts of fresh, but warm air. The hallway intersected with another hallway at the end. Directly ahead, at the far end of the hall was an open door with two lines of men entering a room from both sides. A guard stood on the opposite wall, directing each man through the doorway and into the room, first a man from my line and then a man from the line on the opposite side of the doorway.
The men from the other group appeared healthy, with toned bodies and tans. They also seemed familiar with the routine and were confident about what they were doing. While our jumpsuits were orange, theirs were khaki, and dirty, as though they had been laboring in the fields.
The doorway we were entering was at the corner of a room filled with long rows of flat wooden benches. The first bench started directly inside the door at the left. Young men of various ages, sizes, and nationalities sat side by side talking freely back and forth across the room. Posted on the walls were signs that read: “TALKING ALLOWED.”
At the far end of the room were desks with a chair beside them. Seated behind the desks were the first women I had seen since my arrival. They were shapeless, unkempt women, who obviously didn’t care about their appearance. These women were either talking with one of the men seated beside them or transcribing information that was being given to them. When someone moved into a vacant chair beside one of the desks, we all slid over on the bench to make room for the next man entering from the hallway.
With permission to talk, everyone seemed eager to exercise his ability to speak. Being in a strange place with a room full of strangers, I thought it was best I keep quiet.
A young man sitting in front of me turned around and asked, “Hey, you just got here?”
“I just arrived today,” I answered.
He paused before continuing. “I’ve been here for over a year now. On the last Monday of every quarter, they bring a bunch of us over from the barracks. This is where we pick a companion. We can choose as many as three women. Some guys only pick one woman for the whole three months, but I get tired of the same woman for longer than a month. I’ve had a different pretty face every month since I been here.
“See those hags up front?” he continued. “They check your file to see what kind of females you’re best suited for. They got catalogs with thousands to pick from. If you really like one, and she agrees, they’ll let you keep her for as long as you want.
“The work’s hard, but the food’s good. They give you a nice little place to live, and with a pretty woman to take care of you every day, it ain’t that bad.
“Can you remember anything yet?” he asked.
“My mind’s still foggy,” I answered. “I can’t remember anything that happened before regaining consciousness in the truck on my way here.”
“That happens to everybody. You can remember basic stuff, you just can’t remember things like what you did before you got here, people’s names, and stuff like that. But don’t worry, it’ll all come back in a few days.”
“How much longer do you have to serve before you’re able to leave?” I asked.
“Leave… I ain’t never gettin’ outta here… You either, for that matter!” he added as if he suddenly realized my reason for asking the question. “We’re here for life, dude. I’ve seen a lotta people try to escape but none of ‘em got very far. They were all caught, tortured, and then killed. Those goons’ll kill you in a heartbeat!” he said with a snap of his finger and a distorted expression on his face. “Some say there’s a thing in their head that makes ‘em crazy; some say their brain’s been removed. The guards are the only one’s able to control ‘em.”
I was sure he was mistaken about me never leaving. He had to be here under different circumstances than I was, and I couldn’t imagine doing anything that would cause me to be here for the rest of my life.
“What exactly is this place? I asked.
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“This here’s an old military barracks that’s been turned into a FEMA labor camp and reeducation center. This is where they send anybody that won’t conform to the State. They black bagged me one night comin’ home and I been here ever since.
“There’s somethin’ else you should know, nobody in the labor camps are allowed to live past the age of fifty. So don't be surprised when an old-timer disappears. They call it euthanasia,” he continued. “They say fifty-year-olds can’t keep up the pace with the rest of us laborers. But that ain’t so. And even if it was, they have enough people to work five of these camps. The truth is they just don't care about human life!”
Part II, to be continued next week.
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� 2013 Al Duncan - All Rights Reserved
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“Al Duncan is the author of The Master Plan, which is now being revised. He is also compiling a booklet of about 60 short articles for publication and future availability. Until recently, he wrote a weekly column for a local newspaper, the Lake County Record Bee, distributed by Associated Press. The readers were basically secular and unaware of the New World Order, so his articles were written hoping to educate the reader on this subject. However, Al realizes that NewsWithViews attracts an informed reader, who is seeking to expand his or her understanding of the truths behind the daily events, and how these truths can best help them meet the challenges ahead.
“Al is
the fourth generation of Real Estate Brokers and for the past eight years
he has owned Al Duncan Real Estate, Inc. in Clearlake, California. For
the past seven years he has been on the financial committee, participated
as a Sunday greeter and head usher at Lake County Bible Fellowship in
Lakeport, California.”
E-Mail: alduncan@pacific.net
