World War Iii Blues

By Donahue J.F.

Is it possible for one man to save a country with just the words he had written? What if this man were actually a prophet and his songs had meaning far beyond that which he had originally intended? Bob Dylan finds himself exploring these questions after an unexpected disaster has left much of the United States underwater and bitter political philosophies have forced the survivors into a Civil War. He is now one of these survivors and the Legend discovers that he may possess the only secret that can truly bring peace and reunite America.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493149759

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Copyright © 2014 by J.F. Donahue.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 01/28/2014

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CONTENTS

Prologue: Shenandoah

Chapter One: The Times They Are A-Changin’

Chapter Two: A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall

Chapter Three: Blowin’ In The Wind

Chapter Four: Masters Of War

Chapter Five: Mr. Tambourine Man

Chapter Six: One Too Many Mornings

Chapter Seven: Shooting Star

Chapter Eight: Sad-Eyed Lady Of The Lowlands

Chapter Nine: New Morning

Chapter Ten: Shelter From The Storm

Chapter Eleven: Crash On The Levee (Down In The Flood)

Chapter Twelve: No Time To Think

Chapter Thirteen: Knocking On Heaven’s Door

Chapter Fourteen: Bob Dylan’s Dream

Chapter Fifteen: Slow Train

Chapter Sixteen: Like A Rolling Stone

Mr. D,

Since my youth, you have inspired me. I have had this story in my head for a long time and it would not have been possible without your talent, ability, wisdom, and myth. I hope you enjoy it. After all, it is not only about you. It is also for you.

Of Bob Dylan

There are those who do not imitate,

Who cannot imitate

But then there are those who emulate

At times, to expand further the light

Of an original glow.

Knowing that to imitate the living

Is mockery

And to imitate the dead

Is robbery

There are those

Who are beings complete unto themselves

Whole, undaunted,-a source

As leaves of grass, as stars

As mountains, alike, alike, alike,

Yet unalike

Each is complete and contained

And as each unalike star shines

Each ray of light is forever gone

To leave way for a new ray

And a new ray, as from a fountain

Complete unto itself, full, flowing

So are some souls like stars

And their words, works and songs

Like strong, quick flashes of light

From a brilliant, erupting cone.

So where are your mountains

To match some men?

This man can rhyme the tick of time

The edge of pain, the what of sane

And comprehend the good in men, the bad in men

Can feel the hate of fight, the love of right

And the creep of blight at the speed of light

The pain of dawn, the gone of gone

The end of friend, the end of end

By math of trend

What grip to hold what he is told

How long to hold, how strong to hold

How much to hold of what is told.

And Know

The yield of rend; the break of bend

The scar of mend

I’m proud to say that I know it,

Here-in is a hell of a poet.

And lots of other things

And lots of other things.

—Johnny Cash

1969

PROLOGUE

Shenandoah

T he traveler watched the man through the trees. His dog sat beside him in silence. They listened to him sing.

Oh Shenandoah,

I long to hear you,

Away you rolling river.

Oh Shenandoah,

I long to hear you,

Away, I’m bound away,

Across the wide Missouri.

Oh Shenandoah,

I love your daughter,

Away, you rolling river.

For her I’d cross,

Your roaming waters,

Away, I’m bound away,

Across the wide Missouri.

He had once known the song and the feeling it gave the Traveler as he sang was eerie. Come forth my friends, I have food and drink for both man and beast, the red-skinned man said into the trees. I have been waiting for you.

The Traveler sat before him and listened as the man continued his mysterious harmony in the shadow of the fire.

Oh Shenandoah,

I long to hear you,

And hear your rolling river.

Oh Shenandoah,

I long to hear you,

Away, we’re bound away,

Across the wide Missouri.

Missouri, she’s a mighty river,

Away you rolling river.

The red-skins’ camp, lies on its borders,

Away, we’re bound away,

Across the wide, Missouri.

The Traveler unlatched his guitar case, threw the instrument over his shoulder and began to play along with his golden harmonica. The strangers sang.

The white man loved,

The Indian maiden,

Away you rolling river.

With notions his canoe was laden,

Away, I’m bound away,

Across the wide, Missouri.

O, Shenandoah,

I love your daughter,

Away you rolling river.

I’ll take her across yon rolling water,

Away, I’m bound away,

Across the wide, Missouri.

Farwell my Dearest,

I’m bound to leave you,

Away, you rolling river.

Oh Shenandoah,

I’ll not deceive you,

Away, I’m bound away,

Across the wide Missouri.

When they ended, the red-skin took a twig from the fire, lit a pipe and handed it to the Traveler. Many a’ moon past, my ancestors talked of this time, he told the Traveler. "They lived as they did because it is how we must live now. Songs like The Shenandoah used to remind my people of this. Now that all of the great rivers have become one, it seems that the words of The Shenandoah have become even more significant than what my ancestors believed. Do you understand that, Traveler?"

The Traveler thought he did and told the man so. He also sang the wise old Indian another song he felt was just as significant to his experience and the words went something like this:

One time ago a crazy dream came to me,

I dreamt I was walking in World War Three…

CHAPTER ONE

The Times They Are A-Changin’

T he sun was shining bright and the wind was blowing chill as Bob walked through an open field that for years had sown the country’s corn. There ain’t never been a more glorious morning, he said aloud to himself, or to his dog Jack. He had a ridiculous habit of talking to himself, so having Jack seemed to justify his madness. It had been cool that fall. Not too cold though, comfortable for a roving gambler. Although there probably had been more glorious mornings in the past, he just wanted to forget them.

They approached the cabin slowly. He did not want to draw any attention to himself or the dog should there be someone home, there had never been before. Of the years he had lost count, he only had rare opportunity to speak with anyone. He was not sure what month it was, nobody really knew, but the ground began to stiffen and the leaves had fallen from the trees, leaving them to look like bare skeletons in a field of ruin. Small, scattered patches of snow began to appear high up in the distant landscape; covering the earth’s green children so the legend assumed it was October or November.

Until the day of the disaster, he had been a musician. An American icon really, if you think about it, on what was called a Never Ending Tour of the World with an endless flow of creativity and wisdom to draw from. He now carried little, or as little as he thought possible.

He had an acoustic guitar in a hard case which he rigged up like a backpack so he could carry it long distances and even climb if he had to. The guitar itself was old and decrepit. The make and model were worn and rubbed off as they had been when he found it. Now the twig began displaying problems of its own. The strings were beginning to twang, the tuning pegs had rusted and began to stiffen, even the frets had started to rust and ever so slowly fade away like your first kiss.

He had his harmonica which he called Lucky. I don’t know if its name is Lucky or if it just makes me feel lucky? he would tell Jack. He always carried Lucky in the inside pocket of his leather coat, and the rack to hold it as he played the guitar was securely stuffed beside it. Even Lucky carelessly began to fail him and displayed signs of decaying notes up and down his golden reeds.

He strapped a green army-issued mummy-style sleeping bag to his back, an item that was once kept as an antique. As he explored, he had no use for changes of clothes and so carried none.

Whatever food he could find, he would stuff into a black Eastport travel bag he slung over his right shoulder and kept snug at the hip. He also carried a few other assorted but necessary items: a compass, a canteen, a fishing pole with a collapsible rod… it did not work very well but he could stash it quickly if need be and it could pull fish out of the water. Holstered at his belt near his right hand hung some rope, binoculars, and a large Winchester hunting knife which he used fairly often.

He had a map on which he spent his time drawing and doodling as he walked along, finding his way through the frayed routes and crooked world the United States of America had turned out to be.

His old 12-gauge model 37 pump-action Ithaca shotgun was carefully slung over his left shoulder. Made by the fine folks of the old Ithaca rifle company of Ithaca New York, it was another lost relic. The hidden pocket in his guitar case was custom made to stow the gun at a moment’s notice so he would not scare your basic town folk. The 37, found in the home of a lost soul, had become a much needed sidekick. The magazine was full at the time, with a few extra rounds, and he had no intention of finding more bullets for it. He used it mainly to hunt and had only needed to shoot at a few people a couple of times.

He also carried his prize glass pipe and a small circular tin that he kept his marijuana in. The plant grew wildly throughout the new world and many different varieties could be found almost anywhere he went. A large plastic bag, stuffed full in his boot at all times, housed the finest of the treasure he had found so far. Easier to find than tobacco and easier to smoke, everything a rambler needed, he would tell himself.

He wore a black Stetson cowboy hat taken from the head of John Wayne himself, well, at least the John Wayne display at the world famous Smithsonian Institute. He didn’t know if it was actually John Wayne’s hat or just replica suit to fit a mannequin of epic stature.

He also carried the Most Important Thing. He kept it rolled up and hidden within the sound box of his small and innocent-looking guitar. On several occasions, in times of need, he considered smoking it to take further advantage of the cannabis it was printed on. The scroll was old and torn, dried like a late autumn leaf, but it could not and never would be ignored. Bob was ever weary of its presence and he took special care of the item that crinkled inside the instrument.

This looks like the place, he said to Jack, as he watched the cabin from a distance. Jack the dog was white and fluffy, a Bichon Frise with dark starry eyes which Bob thought stared into his soul and talked to him. All I see are dark eyes, he sang to Jack, referencing a song he had once written and sang often. Jack’s fur was dirty from the hard road they had traveled and he began to pant tiredly as they stood watch over what would eventually be their camp.

Stop panting so hard Jack, do you want to give us up before we even get there? he asked his dog. Bob didn’t know why Jack followed him after he left Washington but the dog had stayed by his side and even protected him a few times along the way, so Bob felt as if they had developed a bond over the year or so that they had been together.

Bob found Jack as a puppy roaming the streets of D.C. He took him in and fed him, even tried to let him go, but the dog followed, so he just brought him along. It wasn’t like he had anyone else to talk to and he wasn’t going anywhere specific. He thought maybe he would make his way up to Canada and find out what happened to their country after the flood. The Yukon Territory? Maybe that way, living the kind of life he did would feel more natural to him. Originally Bob thought, if push comes to shove, I can always eat him. But deep down inside his heart, Bob knew that was just a joke and he now considered Jack to be his best friend. He didn’t know why he called him Jack either. It reminded him of another song, a song his friend Robbie once had written. Most things these days reminded him of those songs and he would smile every time he thought of one.

In his prime, Bob was a worldwide phenomenon. He wrote songs that some people considered to be the finest ever written and changed the face of pop culture in the early 1960s. He helped tear down the walls of inequality and personified a generation while in turn, helping popular music make its evolution into rock & roll. It never suited him, but when he came to terms with the fact that he had such a talent, he spent most of his life touring the world and playing his songs in front of million of adoring fans. At one point in his life, everyone in the world knew who he was and he could not escape the feeling that some omnipresent being was watching over him and leading him toward some eventual goal. Like a thundercloud gathering raindrops. Now he was lucky if he saw one person a week and no one cared who he was and that, was secretly the way he liked it. Often he would tell people his name was Jack Frost, or John Wesley Harding, Elston Gunn; all nom-de-plumes, just to throw people off his scent and to avoid painful reminders of the past.

The cabin looked as if it had been abandoned for years as the two adventurers approached. This guy must have been a real Thoreau, Bob said to Jack, getting a closer look at the place. It was stick-built from cedar and showed signs of weathering. A few windows were busted out but it was shelter. It had not been getting that cold at night, in fact, it had not been very cold for years. It was on this day that Bob thought it was the coolest he had felt the air in a long time. The two companions could handle a few broken windows.

Bob opened the door and walked in. A little dusty, he thought aloud. A real fixer-upper, he strolled around the barracks, Ithaca in hand, just in case anyone was trying to hide in the dark, dungeon-like atmosphere. He tore a curtain down from a window to let some light in. This will do for tonight, he said to Jack as he continued to tarry around the small apartment. He raided the pantry and found some canned goods. Green beans, corn, beets, dilled beans. This should do us quite nice for awhile, he said to Jack, satisfied. Cherry pie filling! what do you think the chances are of us finding a pie crust around here, old Jack?

Bob climbed the small staircase and casually checked the one room loft that lay above the main floor. A bed was made up but it was hard to tell whether someone had just made it or if it had lain tranquil like that for years. The room was bright as the rays of the cosmic god shone crisply on his old eyes. He could see the dust floating in the brilliant sun beams and he felt at peace. There was no closet, no place for anyone to hide. He knew he was alone and so did not go any further. On his way back down, he noticed a shelf above the staircase with books on it.

The bindings contained pages filled with the stories of Jack Kerouac and Charles Bukowski, Allen Ginsberg, Cormac McCarthy, Ray Bradbury, Hunter S. Thompson, and J.R.R Tolkien. Ironically enough, Henry David Thoreau’s, Walden, was also present, Stranger in a Strange Land.

Child’s play, he said to himself. Some of these authors he had known and considered himself to be friends with, but none of the things those men coveted to write were used for reading anymore.

He continued his tour and browsed the shelves like some celestial librarian; a bouquiniste of the ancients. In his youth Bob had read everything he could wrap his mind around, from philosophy and politics, to art and drama, science, history and literature: Dostoevsky and Shakespeare; Voltaire, Rousseau, and Montesquieu; Locke, Plato and Machiavelli; the classic authors such as Homer and Twain. He had used Poe as inspiration for his songs and even once played a tune to his poem The Bells. Bob was even in the process of writing part of his memoir, a memoir which he knew the world would never see, so he had eventually ceased to write anything.

At one time in his life, books had meant so much to Bob that he had housed a private library to match the National Archive. It seemed to mean nothing to him now. How smart someone was or how much a person knew was no longer relevant in the world he had come to know. Amidst scattered towns and broken villages, people who had never been told the truth were now being taken advantage of and robbed of their freedoms by ruthless tyrannical thugs lusting for power. Bob hated this, but knew he could do nothing as one man set out against the world.

Records, vinyl record albums, black and dusty sat on the shelves, their acetate reflecting Bob’s past upon him. Elvis, Johnny Cash, John Denver, Jim Croce, Tom Petty. Someone had taken great care of these items to assure their existence.

Jack began scratching at the back door of the establishment that led out to a large covered porch which matched the elaborate features of the cabin perfectly. As Bob opened the door, Jack sprang out and pounced on a baking pan housing some sort of bread which looked to be freshly baked. As Jack devoured the remains of the flour and yeast combination, it was obvious to Bob that someone was indeed living there.

Someone saw us coming and ran out of here, Bob said, and in a hurry. They locked the back door but not the front. They even left us a pie crust. He stood there in silence imagining the possibilities. They won’t be coming back now, he said, lifting the Ithaca to show Jack what he meant. For the time he was just happy to have found a good source of food, for he lived by the motto: eat when you can because you never know when you will be able to eat again.

It was late afternoon by the time Bob established the cabin as a safe house. It wasn’t that he was afraid of people. He had just learned to be careful. Sometimes he would hike into a town where people weren’t carrying guns and shooting at each other, show his face a little bit. If for any reason, just so he could tell that humanity still existed. Since his dealings with the Republicans, his knowledge of the atrocities the Democrats had committed, and his unfortunate meeting with the Communist regime, sometimes, he was not so sure it did exist. That is why he had decided to travel alone and did not trust anyone, but if a town looked friendly enough, he would march in and play a few songs on his guitar accompanied by Lucky to impress the children and townspeople and be on his way.

He thought, maybe someday, somebody might recognize him and request a few songs. But no one ever did. At first he was reluctant to play at all. He had played so many songs in the past they all ran alongside one another in his head and he had a hard time keeping them straight. Before, when he spent most of his time practicing and perfecting his live technique, he never had a problem remembering lyrics or chord changes but something now told him he had better stick to playing only the songs he had written. He had written hundreds of them and even found himself remembering ditties from time to time that he had forgotten about and had not played in years. Some of them had only been sung once, when he had recorded them; all forced out of his mind by the hardships of the road and business. Now, it was that same road that was bringing them all back home.

Sometimes he might even find a lady friend for the night, get some type of sustenance, nutritional or sexual, and pass on. At other times, he seemed to have the worst luck in attracting friends and he now found himself always on the lookout.

It was a different world now. After the disaster there was no government. The politics of the United States and the bitterness between political parties finally spilled over into the streets and a Revolution was at hand. Democrats killed Republicans, Republicans killed Democrats, it was an all-out Civil War, 1860s-style but much more deadly than the one people once read about in books.

Some factions started to push their own political agendas and attracted followers to their evil plots. People were desperate to follow any ideal even if it were a lie. Leaders like Patty McGee, Omar Bastille, and Monte Lobie became very powerful very quickly and were hard to say ‘no’ to