Joab's Pagiel | Part 3

The genetically modified children were next.

Their names began appearing on lists, passed quietly from hand to hand. No one said it aloud at first, but everyone understood why they were being considered. The modifications had done exactly what they were designed to do.

They were stronger.Denser muscles.Bodies that healed quickly.Immune systems that didn’t falter the way others did.

Most of them were pale, with long, straight hair—unremarkable at a distance. Their DNA resisted decay, wear, and long-term damage. They didn’t get sick often. They didn’t tire easily. They were also, inconveniently, kind.

That part no one knew what to do with.

The truth was that they were never meant to be ordinary civilians. The government had created them as an experimental security force long before Parmenus ever existed in its current form. So when the united front asked the obvious question—why not make them official?—the answer came back faster than expected.

The government would agree.

Joab knew this before anyone told him.

He was one of them.

His body carried more muscle mass than it should have. Strength came easily to him, whether he wanted it or not. When the draft began, he understood the rules without having them explained.

There was no opting out cleanly.

You were selected automatically—by race, by ability, by genetic profile. Refusal wasn’t a single act. It was a process. You had to reject letter after letter, summons after summons, invitation after invitation—twenty times or more—until they finally stopped asking. And even then, your name stayed on the list.

When the proposal reached Adiel, he carried it straight to the government. They didn’t hesitate. Approval came back with language that barely disguised what it was: racial and biological authorization.

That was how bad things had become.

And it still wasn’t enough.

It was Azaliah—Adiel’s wife—who said what no one else wanted to admit. She laid the plan out slowly, methodically, as if arranging pieces on a board:

“Well, the ban on interracial mixing isn’t going to protect Black people,” she said. “So we need to change the layout of the town.”

She didn’t talk about ideals. She talked about positioning:

“We relocate the Black families to the center of the city. The Swiss families stay on the outskirts.”

She paused, then corrected herself, refusing to let the words blur.

“This protects the Black families. If they’re in the center, the KKK can’t reach them easily. The Swiss families form the outer ring. They become the barrier.”

She went further:

“The men stay forward. The women stay behind them. The minorities stay in the middle. The Swiss people take the perimeter.”

No one pretended it was fair.

It was a human shield—organized, intentional, and grim.

But it was also a united front.

If the KKK came, they would hit the outskirts first. They would have to break through layers of resistance before they ever reached the people they wanted most. Time bought survival. Distance bought life.

Silence followed her words.

Not because anyone disagreed—but because everyone understood what agreeing meant.

The town wasn’t rearranging itself for peace anymore.

It was rearranging itself for war.

Adiel agreed, reluctantly. He stood over the map of the town for a long time before nodding once:

“Well… that might work.”

And so the town was redrawn.

Not on paper first—but in practice. Families were told to pack. Wagons shifted direction. Homes were reassigned. Black families were moved inward, block by block, toward the center of the city. White Swiss families were pushed outward, forming a ring along the edges.

It wasn’t called redlining.

But it was.

The idea was simple and brutal: if the KKK came, they would hit the perimeter first. They would meet white faces before Black ones. The distance would slow them down. The time might save lives.

Joab hated it.

He didn’t want to join the united front. He didn’t want to fight. He wanted to leave—with Pagiel.

But Pagiel couldn’t.

There were no official punishments for interracial courting. No fines. No arrests. Instead, couples were quietly pulled aside. Taken into back rooms. Spoken to gently, firmly, repeatedly.

The elders didn’t threaten them. They reasoned with them.

They always said the same thing:

“It’s not the time or the place to do this. We can do this when the racism goes down. Wait for the racism to go down. Wait for the KKK to go away.”

The words were calm. The implication was not.

If they stayed together, their children would be targets.

The united front supported this logic—not out of hatred, but fear. Their reasoning was cold and practical. If the KKK decided to wipe out the minorities, the worst possible outcome would be a town where everyone was mixed—where no one could be spared.

Guns don’t check nuance.

If everyone looked the same, everyone would die.

So they enforced separation—not to punish love, but to guarantee survival. They wanted bodies left behind. Names still spoken. A town that could rebuild instead of vanish.

They wanted survivors.

They wanted the Amish—what remained of them—to endure into the next generation.

When the united front finally took shape, something changed.

At first, the KKK tested it. Probed the edges. Pushed forward expecting collapse.

It didn’t come.

Weeks passed. Then months. The perimeter held. The defenses worked. The KKK stopped advancing so easily. Their attacks stalled. Their numbers thinned.

Before protection, the KKK had been winning.

After protection, they weren’t.

For the first time since the terror began, the town wasn’t just surviving.

It was pushing back.

To Be continued...

The recording of me telling the story myself.