Outskirts of New York - 2012
"Lassen Sie mich Ihren Pass sehen," asked the fat, sweaty German border patrol agent of the young American man in the old blue Volkswagen.
James Robertson reluctantly gave the Nazi occupier his passport. It was tough to cross from Pennsylvania to New York these days. New York was one of the few states that had not been nuked in the 60's by Hitler. If only D-Day had succeeded! Things might have been much different, and better, but what could you do now? James knew he couldn't do anything. "Here ya go, buddy."
"Sprechen Sie Deutsch?" The guard looked annoyed.
"Sprechen Sie Englisch?" James retorted, looking equally annoyed.
The guard raised his pistol, "Answer my questions, mein herr."
James blew a wisp of hair from his eyes and acted calm and collected. "Ja.
Ich spreche Deutsch."
The guard put his pistol in his holster. He hurriedly asked James a series of nosy questions in German, "You were born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania in 1995?" He pronounced it as "Viladelvia, Pencelvanieya."
"Ja, mein herr." James tapped his fingers on his dashboard; he got sick of all the questions they asked at the border.
"Mutter's name Ellen Payton, vater's name Jonathan Robertson?"
"Height 6 feet, weight 175 pounds, eyes gray, hair brown, und right-handed?"
James tipped the cap on his head back lazily, "That's me."
The German looked through James's wallet and backpack. "Sehr gut. Now, open your truck, schnell!"
James pushed a button on his steering wheel and the trunk of the Volks popped open. The goon lifted up the carpet flooring and felt for hidden compartments. The guard slammed the trunk shut and scribbled down something on his clipboard. "That all, buddy?" asked James, ready to turn his engine back on.
The guard squinted at him for a moment with his beady eyes. "You seem to be clean, not a Jew or Russian, and a... cooperative...
member of society. Heil!"
James grunted a responsive mandatory hail and turned the ignition on. Engine sputtering, he drove past the fence and into New York. Several Waffen SS soldiers in trench-coats were parked next to the fence with a high-caliber machine gun mounted on a crate. That was for Russian/Jewish/"uncooperative members of society" that tried to run the border guard over to get in, but mainly for people who tried to get out.
Pennsylvania was officially part of the Third Reich, but its control was weak. Who would want bombed-out Pennsylvania? Surely not Germany. That was precisely the reason people went to New York. NYC might be slightly bombed, but you could still get necessary items there that were absent in Pennsylvania.
Later, at a supply depot in NYC...
James grabbed a shopkeeper by the arm, "I want this crate of soup, this box of tools, these boxes of rations, and these clothing articles. How much?"
The shopkeeper was American, "Shoir. That'll be 1000 fuhrers."
James's eye twitche. "What's with the prices, man? That's crazy!"
The shopkeeper shrugged, "Hey, this stuff here is 'spensive to even get in m' stoir! The stuff comes from Europe, is shipped over here, is inspected by a packa freaks called the Gestapo Anti-Propaganda Einheit. That ain't cheap, pal, knowhatamean?" he said in a thick New York accent.
James rolled his eyes at the mention of the Gestapo Anti-Propaganda Unit, "Fine. 1000 it is. Have one of your guys load the stuff in my trunk."
The man nodded. "Jawohl.
Billy, load this stuff for the man, will ya?!"
A teenaged-looking kid, Billy, came, and, with surprising strength, loaded the products rapidly. "Gottcha, boss!"
After the loading was done, James climbed back in his car and headed back to Pennsylvania...
3 days later, in a desolate Pennsylvania family community...
James parked his rusty automobile in front of his house. "Hey, Pop, I'm home!"
The rickety front door creaked open, revealing a man in his forties, "Howdy, son. Did you get us some supplies? Or did the pot-helmeted occupiers kick ya out?"
James opened the car door and adjusted his worn-out jackboots, "Yeah, they're in the trunk. How's the family?"
Pop scratched his head, "Your brother Bobby's down with a cold. Mom and Susan are fine."
James stopped loading for a moment, "Granpa Rick?"
Pop laughed, "Mean as always, heh. The whole clan is fine, last I heard."
James nervously looked at the woods around the house, "Ain't seen any Randalls, have you?" He was referring to the nearby Randall family, with whom the Richardsons had an ongoing feud with. After things got bad after the invasion, family ties replaced state and county ties in most places, hearkening back to the days of the Hatfields and the McCoys. Dozens of family members had been killed in the "Spruce County War." No one was sure who started the feud, but it did not look like it would end anytime soon.
Pop looked nervous, "Old Billy Randall got shot in a fight with Cousin Harry. Wasn't harmed too badly, just walks with a limp now. I wish he'd got it right between the eyes."
"What kinda gun?" James inquired while heaving out the box of tools he had bought.
"Tommy. Those things might be old, but they're nasty as Hades, I'm tellin' ya. It's a miracle Billy ain't a dead man... a little higher aim and blam-o! Randall Swiss cheese."
"Any Nazis give ya a pain in the butt?"
Pop shook his balding, blond-haired head, "Nah, they stay away from here. Philly is the only place they really care about anymore. Shame, if they invaded the families might actually unite against 'em!"
James finished unloading and wiped his face with a rag. "Snowflake's chance in Hell. I'd be more than happy to sign a treaty with the Randalls, but their family members and ours would have a tizzy."
James's father looked shocked, "You better never let Granpa hear you say that. He'd expel you from the family!"
James tapped his cranium, "Ah, but I've killed my share of Randalls. I might have said I'd like a treaty, but I never said I'm not willing to blast 'em with my Garand if we're at war."
"Yeah, I guess so."How's that, Khopesh? I'm thinking Pennsylvania could be more of a "scavenge-or-die" scenario. I dunno, I just wrote this in thirty minutes off the top of my head.