January, 1936

"We are the children of Spartacus. We will always rise as one against the oppressor, and we will prevail, no matter if they show their brutality through slaughter of good, working American proletarians."

"But what is more, we are also the children of John Brown, who gave his freedom and his life to fight for the freedom of his black brothers and sisters! And there is quite a predicament for our comrades in the southern US. The AFUP's reactionary hounds patrol the streets, hand in hand with the Ku Klux Klan."

"There is a black nation within the United States! There is a Latin American nation within the United States! Where are they centered if not in the South, where they're oppressed and exploited not just as proletarians, but for their race."

"Just as the Steel Belt is the revolutionary center of the north, the Black Belt is the revolutionary center of the south. We fight for all proletarians. The banks in the north are made of marble, and the fields in the south grow cotton, but the workers of America, black or white, are made of Steel."

"Black or White, we all look forwards to the Red!"

• William Z. Foster, speaking to a meeting of cadres of the CSA's paramilitaries on the Black Belt Thesis.

George was, it turned out, lucky after all. Sure, he had a reputation for being unlucky, he always dropped his tools, he could never find his punchcard without five minutes of searching, he had a bad habit to slip on spills that everyone swore to god weren't there before, but, you know, he kept his job even as the steel mill went on the downturn, and many of his friends were forced out.

George had a bit of a knack for the steel mill, it turned out. He supposed it made sense; his dad had been something of a blacksmith out in the farming town where he'd grown up, and he picked it up along the way. Certainly, certainly; making I-beams is different from fixing up a horseshoe, but it all just came natural enough for George.

So, is he happy?

George often looks himself in the mirror when he wakes up. He doesn't quite know anymore. He's not unhappy, but every day fills him with a growing premonition that it's not going to get better. Every day fills him with more dread for the future.

"I'm telling you Larry, it's not right. None of this seems right." He says, as he sits in O'Flanagans this Friday.

"1925 and the dust bowl are just the worst. It's already passed. It'll be over soon." Larry shrugs and sips his beer.

"Really? You honestly think so?"

"I do."

For a minute, George is silent as the bustle of the pub goes on around them.

"What the hell kind of deluded shit are you up to?"

"Oh, you know what, George? Fuck off!" Larry slams down his drink. "If you're so fucking worried about America right now, go be a fucking syndie, you already vote for them every election, don't you? Well, if that's not enough to ease your mind, you can just go march into their offices and join the party! I come here every Friday with you to relax, and if I'm honest this isn't good for me or you for every Friday to be spent discussing your stomachaches about our country!"

George sits in silence as Larry calms down, shakes his head, and pays for his drink. "Well, see you on Monday. What a waste of time, honestly..."

As George walks home, the wind blows across his face. Somewhere in the city, there's a rally going on. He can see the lights and the red flags. He can hear the Internationale being sung at full throat. He thinks about it. About what he's read about the Commune of France, about what Jack Reed has said, and about the sinking feeling in his chest that nothing will get better if he doesn't fight for it.

That Saturday, he'd join the SPA. That Saturday, he'd, furthermore, become a Red Guard, and within the month, for the first time in his adult life, he'd use a rifle. He'd wear a red bandana around his neck and feel the cool winter breeze in his hair.

And for the first time in his adult life, he truly felt hope. But The Hell That Is Hope was yet to come.

The Socialist Party of America is preparing for the campaign trail, baby. The West is Red. The Sun is Rising. From America, emerges John "Jack" Reed.