Drums of War: A Broken Patriot Novel
Date: 2017-04-03 00:00:00+00:00
Description: Ripped straight from the headlines! A country in chaos. A government obsessed with power. A series of coordinated attacks on the largest cities in America. Bradley Adams, a former Army veteran, and prepper, is swept up in a web of lies following a politically motivated work place shooting. When martial law is declared, his life descends into a series of nightmares from which there may be no escape. This is the story of a man dedicated to defending his family, his home, and his country. "Timothy W. Long injects a stark degree of realism into everything he writes. His horror is more horrific, hi
Publisher: CreateSpace Publishing

Drums of War

A Broken Patriot Novel

Timothy W. Long

Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

March to War

Afterword

Impact Earth sample

Prologue

Victor

About the Author

Also by Timothy W. Long

“DRUMS OF WAR A BROKEN PATRIOT NOVEL”

By Timothy W. Long

Copyright 2017. Timothy W. Long

All Rights Reserved

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotations embodied within critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

Introduction

A country in chaos. A government obsessed with power. A series of coordinated attacks on the largest cities in America.

Bradley Adams, a former Army veteran, and prepper, is swept up in a web of lies following a politically motivated work place shooting. When martial law is declared, his life descends into a series of nightmares from which there may be no escape.

This is the story of a man dedicated to defending his family, his home, and his country.

* * *

Sign up for the authors New Release mailing list and get a free Timothy W. Long reading library.

Click here to get started: www.timothywlong.com

* * *

Included with Drums of War is a small sample of Tim’s sci-fi thriller Impact Earth. It can be found after the end of the book.

“I hate war as only a soldier who has lived it can, only as one who has seen its brutality, its stupidity.

DWIGHT D. EISENHOWER,

January 10, 1946

Chapter One

It’s been another wild week for the white house. President Henderson has faced an unprecedented amount of negativity from the press and now it’s spilling over into the congressional house. Democrats have put up staunch defenses regarding any executive actions or bills he has tried to pass.

In what is being called a civil win for liberals, the executive action to limit protesters from taking to the streets has been blocked by a federal judge in New Hampshire. Judge Forestal said in a statement. “The liberties that are protected by the first amendment shall not be infringed upon and that includes the right to protest.”

President Henderson has vowed that he will work to pass his agenda no matter what it takes if it means ensuring the safety of the American people.”

Thursday morning started out like any other, with an overloaded trouble ticket queue, a pissed off customer, and a severe lack of caffeine.

Bradley Adams day only got worse from there.

Little Jenny had been up most of the night with a cough and the sniffles, and he and Monica had taken turns tending to her. Bradley only managed about three hours of sleep. After he hit his snooze button for the fourth time, he had managed to wake up with less than half an hour before his shift started.

His mad rush left little time to grab a cup of coffee, shave, or even shower. If he weren’t already on his boss’s shit list, Bradley would have simply called in. Instead, he had hurried out the door, forgetting his id badge, and to retrieve his conceal and carry, a Smith and Wesson M&P 9 Shield, from the basement. He had intended to tuck it into his laptop bag before his wife got up. It was probably an offense that would get him fired, and his ass kicked by Monica, but Bradley felt like it was worth it, considering how badly things had degenerated in the country over the last few weeks.

Then the Bronco had given him trouble, acting like it was also planning to have a bad day as well. In his rush to get on the road, he had flooded the carburetor. After cranking over the ignition a half dozen times, the engine had finally fired up.

He really needed to focus, and get back to work, but with the office buzzing about the unrest in Chicago, he had trouble concentrating on his job.

More often than not, he found himself on FOX news, reading the ticker at the top of the page as well as news articles and opinion pieces. How was anyone supposed to get any damn work done with all the crazy stuff going on in the US over the last month?

His desk was covered in computer parts: hard drives, a power supply that was missing its cover, a broken motherboard, and a strip of RAM that was scorched. One of them had been extracted from a computer on the seventh floor because it kept throwing errors. Piece of crap was made in China, and Bradley was surprised it still worked. Although the accountant, Ed Reels wouldn’t admit it, his computer internals had been messed with. AlgerTech was low on money, and they had to cut back on the IT budget. That meant when a part went bad, it had to be salvaged. Ordering new stuff was out of the question.

Ed Reels had probably tried to upgrade his memory on his own but didn’t know the first thing about what speed or configuration to purchase. He claimed someone else must have broken the memory modules seat. Then he’d forced the old memory chip back in, and it had started smoking a few seconds later. The fire, such that it was, hadn’t been more than the biting smell of toasted silicone, something that Bradley suspected would be stuck in his nasal cavity for a good long time.

Ed was an asshole, there was no way around it. He had been one of the most vocal anti-President Henderson employees in the office. Ed had even put a cutout of the president’s face on a five inch dart board, but he’d driven a knife into the center. Something that pissed off Bradley every time he saw it.

Ed Reels had been a jerk from the moment Bradley arrived to look at the broken PC.

“Look who it is,” Ed had said. “The face of the right.”

“I don’t want to talk politics,” Bradley said.

“Of course not. It’s not like we have issues. Everything is just hunky dory in Rightville. You guys got your man, and now the country is in the dumpster. Henderson needs to be impeached immediately,” Ed taunted.

Ed was a portly man with thick rimmed black glasses, and his forehead was always covered in a sheen of sweat. His clothes smelled like they hadn’t been washed in a month. Bradley had heard rumors that Ed’s spouse had left him for a younger man, but Ed still wore his wedding ring and kept his wife’s picture on the desk. She had a sweet smile and hair in tight curls that hung around her face.

“Whatever, Ed. I just need to crack open your case. Why don’t you go get some coffee,” Bradley gritted his teeth.

“Don’t even think about looking at what’s on my hard drive. I keep important company finances, and you’re not the right pay grade, know what I mean there, Brad? Wouldn’t want all of those big numbers confusing you.”

Bradley shot him a tight smile and held down the lighted button on the front of the Dell until it powered off.

“Don’t! Oh man. That’s not cool. I don’t know if I saved.” Ed had panicked.

“Your computer’s been locked up for half an hour, Ed. You didn't save your work? I would think that a smart accountant like you would back your work up every five minutes.”

“Damn, damn, damn!”

“Calm down, Ed.”

“I’m going to make sure you lose your job if a single file wasn't saved. I swear to God.” Ed rose to his feet, a blood vessel pulsing over his left temple.

“Like I said, Ed. Why don't you go get some coffee, or better yet, a glass of water. You look stressed.”

Some of the other accountants prairie-dogged over their cubicle walls. A tall skinny guy, Bradley was pretty sure his name was Garry, put his glasses on as he rose. His lips were tightly closed but they quirked up in a half-smile.

Garry was probably hoping for an incident, and ready to egg on the combatants.

“Yeah, Ed. Take a chill pill,” Garry said, his voice sonorous like he was narrating a PBS documentary.

Bradley wished he felt calm. He’d like to punch Ed right in the face. But if he lost his cool, then he really would be looking at the unemployment line, and with unemployment at a ten year high, he wasn't likely to find a new job any time soon.

He loved almost everything about brash President Henderson, but his promise of job growth had been stagnant. The issue wasn't his bills to increase job growth, it was his constant battles with democrats in the house. They wouldn’t let him get a single thing done without an all out war in the media.

“Is Ed losing his mind again?” an attractive woman asked.

She had long blonde curls and looked like she should be in a fashion magazine rather than in an accountant’s office. Her name was Jessica Carpenter, and almost every man in the office was guilty of checking her out because she loved to strut around in short skirts.

Bradley was a happily married man, and he kept his eyes in their sockets.

“He's having another great day, yep. Got his big boy undies in a twist again,” Garry shot back.

“Screw you both.” Ed halted in his tracks and turned.

“You’re not my type,” Garry said.

“Not gonna happen,” Jessica said. “You probably have a micro-thingy anyway.”

“You can’t talk to me like that. I’ll tell HR,” Ed shot back.

“Tell them. I’ll tell them how you tried to take a picture down my shirt. You think I didn’t notice, but I did, Ed. I saw you.”

“That’s preposterous! I’d never do something like that. You think I’m some kind of pervert?” Ed yelled.

Other faces popped up from cubicle walls to take in the action.

“Just a perv, not some kind of perv,” Garry offered with a laugh.

“You’re so clean, right? Don’t you have someone to suck somewhere?” Ed’s face turned livid and bright red.

“Oh. Good one, Eddy. I may have one to suck later. I’ll text you the location if you want to watch,” Garry said.

A couple of women at the end of the row laughed.

Ed stalked past them, eyes burning into both, until he took a left toward the elevators.

“He really do that?” Bradley asked Jessica.

“He did. He’s always staring at me. Watching my legs when I walk by. Creeps me out,” she said.

“Every man in the office stares at you,” Garry had rolled his eyes.

“Except you, Garry. I don’t have the right equipment.”

“No, ma’am, you do not,” Garry winked.

Bradley wisely kept his mouth shut.

He cracked open Ed’s case and pulled both memory chips. He wanted to avoid any further confrontation so he pocketed them, and then headed back downstairs to find a matching pair of modules. Bradley planned to get them as soon as possible, and leave Ed to stew in his own crap.

Bradley was happy he wasn’t in this department. The men and women were vicious.

* * *

The IT department looked out over a parking lot. Rows of cars stretched to the street. If he squinted his eyes, he was able to make out his silver, 1996 four-wheel drive Ford Bronco. He wished he was in it now and going home.

AlgerTech shared the building with an internet marketing company and a radio station that played classical music. They piped the feed directly into the elevators, making it hard to stay awake whenever he had to travel more than a few flights.

The IT department’s walls were white. Just white. There was a big screen television that used to rotate channels on a daily basis. The company had the attitude that a minor distraction was good for productivity. It wasn’t like anyone had time to sit around and stare at the TV all day anyway. There was always work to be done. Computers to load, printers to fix, and network passwords to reset. His trouble ticket queue was so full he wouldn’t be caught up until tomorrow morning.

Once Paul had taken over, the new supervisor had demanded they leave the television off. He didn’t agree with the companies reasoning to have it on. Since it was his IT department now, no one argued. Paul was fast to write people up, and if you got three of those, it was adios, amigo.

There was a mission statement printed on a poster, corporate stuff Bradley had been asked to read and agree to. It was printed in an annoying large white font on a serene background of a waterfall.

The rest of the walls were dull and devoid of art. In his own cubicle, he kept pictures of his kids and wife in a picture frame and often stared at them when a customer was being difficult on the phone. There was one of Junior in a baseball outfit, his son held a bat, and he had a big goofy grin plastered on his face. The picture was five years old but it made Bradley smile.

On little Jenny’s picture, she held an Easter basket from when she was three, and in the other hand, a large pastel egg. The egg hadn’t survived the trip home, but Bradley’s memories had.

He also had a small American flag pinned to a cubicle wall, and a wooden sign that said Proud American in red white and blue.

One of the techs, a guy named Vinay, was the most flamboyant of the bunch of IT nerds. His walls were covered in magazine cutouts of fast cars and Bollywood actors. Bradley liked Vinay. The man was slightly older than him, had a thick Pakistani accent, but he also had a killer sense of humor. Or he had, until President Henderson had come down hard on immigration.

Bradley had once asked Vinay if he was worried about the mass deportations.

“I don’t know, man. It seems so far away from us. I have a green card, you know, but sometimes it feels like that might even be temporary,” Vinay had said.

“I don’t think Henderson is going to go that far,” Bradley said. “He’s just doing what’s right for America.”

“Tell that to the Native American’s who used to live here. But not if you’re going to get some to come and scalp me,” Vinay chuckled.

Bradley’s phone rang. He lifted his headset and placed it over his head, then hit the answer button.

“Bradley Adams speaking.”

“Brad. Can you come home?” Monica asked.

“Honey? What’s wrong?” Bradley didn’t allow his voice to rise in panic.

“Everything is wrong, honey. It’s the news, they’re saying the fighting is spreading. The kids and I would feel safe if you came home,” Monica said. “I’ll make you meatloaf and mashed potatoes.”

“I appreciate the bribe, baby, but I have to finish my shift. I can’t take another early day for a few weeks. Jenny’s doctor appointment last week cost me.”

“Just tell that asshole to give you a break. Like his life is so wonderful,” Monica said. “I’m worried about Bradley Jr. He’s been so weird, and he said he would be home late after school. I said no way, no way he was going to walk home with all of this happening.”

“He’s a teenager, baby. He just needs to blow off steam with his friends,” Brad said.

Junior was a good kid but he had ideological choices that didn’t mesh with the rest of the family. When other kids rebelled by turning to cigarettes, pot, or alcohol, Junior sneaked out to rallies in town. He had even joined a group of liberal-minded kids his age who seemed to think they were going to be able to change the world. Kirk was the worst of them. His father was a drunk, and his mother was dead. Kirk did whatever he wanted to with barely any adult guidance.

“It’s more than that and you know it. You have to talk to him,” Monica said. Her voice cut out for a second as something buzzed loudly in the background.

“Grinding coffee beans?”

“I’m so tired, babe. I tossed and turned all night and I need some caffeine. I didn’t want you to go to work today. Just please come home. Tell Paul to kiss your butt.”

“I can’t tell my boss off,” Bradley lowered his voice. “I need this job. We need this. I can’t let us down again.”

“You didn’t let us down, and you never have. When jobs go bad, there’s nothing you can do about it, but you always come back. You’ve had to get other jobs, and this won’t be any different. We can talk about it later, I just want you home,” Monica said, voice rising. “I’m so worried. The news, Brad, it’s all over the news. There was a mass shooting in New York and another one in Jacksonville a few minutes ago”

“I’m a long way from cities,”

“But there’s a big protest in Chicago today, the biggest yet,” Monica said.

“I’m a long way from Chicago, too.”

“You are. But what if it keeps spreading?”

Bradley refreshed his web browser to find the headlines in bright red.

“Shit,” he muttered.

“I don’t like that kind of language,” Monica said.

“I’ll put a quarter in the swear jar later,” he said.

“Bradley, are you wasting valuable company resources on the phone and the web?” A sharp voice asked.

No point in hiding it. He turned his head to find Paul McLaren standing directly behind him. Bradley’s stomach sank.

Paul was only a couple of years out of school, but he had risen rapidly in the company because he was a complete kiss ass. During Paul’s first year with the IT department, he had been an okay guy. Shared jokes and sent out the occasional funny email or internet MEME. But his attitude had changed when one of the other guys and he had nearly got fired for slacking off all of the time. He quit drinking, and started to read books about succeeding in business.

After that, Paul had started to come in clean shaven and tended to wear slacks and pressed button down shirts and liked to cozy up to upper management. Then he started going to lunch with the department manager. Within a few months, the two were like best friends. It wasn’t long before Paul was made a lead over the help desk.

Bradley would give anyone a chance no matter what position they were in. All he wanted was for that person to earn his respect. Paul turned out to be the kind who demanded respect.

“It’s my wife, Paul. She’s worried about the stuff in Chicago,” he pled his case.

“That’s a long way from here. Get off the phone and get back to work or I’m going to write you up. This is your last warning,” Paul said.

Bradley gripped the edge of his desk until his knuckles tightened.

“Tell Paul to go screw his buddy, Rob. Those two are homosexuals if I’ve ever seen them,” Monica said.

“I have to go, honey. I’ll be home as soon as possible,” Bradley said and clicked off.

Paul stared at Bradley for several seconds.

“Sorry, it won’t happen again,” Bradley said. His hand shook from gripping the edge of his desk.

“See that it doesn’t,” Paul said. He had a condescending way of speaking that grated on Bradly’s last nerve.

Bradley nodded, hoping Paul would go crawl back into his office and watch cat videos or porn.

“You needed something?” Bradley asked, hoping Paul would just leave him alone with his bruised ego.

“Yeah, almost forgot. Ed Reels in accounting threw a big baby fit this morning. He left and swore he was done working here. Go grab his computer,” Paul said.

“He left? I was up there when the rest of the accountants were picking on him,” Bradley said and rose. “I took a memory chip out of his computer because it got fried. I have a replacement ready to go. Took it from Janice in accounting’s old computer.”

“No one liked that guy. He’s kind of a dick,” Paul said. “Hustle up. We have more tickets in the queue and Vinay seems to have disappeared on his lunch break. I need you back here ASAP so no smoke breaks, got it, compadre?”

You’re a dick, compadre. Bradley didn’t dare say out loud, but rose to his feet.

He was a few inches taller and had about thirty pounds on Paul. He didn’t like to appear intimidating, but there must have been something in Bradley’s body language that made Paul back up.

Paul swallowed and took another step back.

“Sure. I’ll be right back after I install this in his computer,” Bradley picked up the memory chip and showed it to Paul.

“Yeah, okay,” Paul said.

Bradley stepped out of his cubicle and maneuvered up the hallway toward the stairs. He would take those instead of the elevator. Walking briskly up a dozen flights of stairs was the perfect way to blow off steam.

His decision probably saved his life.

Chapter Two

Chris Miller, according to his current identification card, but whose real name was Roger Stephenson, met his drop in front of a coffee shop near Avalon park. He wore a light Chicago White Sox jacket, a ball cap, and dark shades. He packed a Heckler and Koch VP9, an extra magazine, and his backup was a Glock 26 Gen 3, tucked inside an ankle holster.

The streets were sparse with traffic as he wove his way along the sidewalk, eyes plastered to the sidewalk.

He smelled the place before he saw it. The boutique shop roasted their own coffee beans, and the smell permeated the air. He had never developed a taste for coffee. But he did enjoy the smell of ground coffee, or in this case, freshly roasted beans.

When he had been in Iraq, the other guys called coffee shops green beans, of which there was a surprising amount. If he had to drink the stuff, he preferred it Turkish style. Instant crystals, dissolved in hot water and thick as syrup thanks to all the sugar.

He stopped a block away, next to a Hummer H2, and leaned over to tie his shoe but his eyes never left the front of the store. He stood up, adjusted his jacket, and then crossed the street.

His contact was named Lawson. A hard ass who he’d worked with on a couple of missions. He didn’t like Lawson because the man got off on torturing people. He had been the sort of man who was brought in for special cases. Stuff that wasn’t talked about, it was covered up, and most Americans were led to believe that water boarding was how information was extracted.

If they only knew about the work he’d witnessed. Sleep deprivation combined with being tied into painful positions for hours at a time. Rubber hoses, acid poured on exposed skin before being neutralized, electric leads applied to genitals and, of course, a whip with metal bits worked into the braids. Lawson was the kind of guy who delighted in some truly horrific treatment of high value terrorists.

All Chris Miller knew at this point was that he would receive his orders, meet with a team, and execute whatever Lawson handed over. From there, he was free to move on for the time being, at least until a new mission popped up.

He approached the coffee stand and went inside. Lawson had two drinks in hand and approached Chris.

“Yo,” Lawson said.

Carl Lawson was a big man. He had closely cropped black hair a pepper gray soul patch under his bottom lip, and a three-pronged scar that creased his forehead. Rumor was, Lawson was such a bad ass, he’d stopped a bullet with his head in Qatar. Chris knew the truth. Lawson had been hit with an iron bar while hunting down a group of illegals in Dallas. His mission had failed, and he’d been stuck in the hospital for a week, while they tried to figure out if he would be able to think straight again. As far as Chris was concerned, that had never happened.

“Thanks for the drink,” Chris said and accepted the cup.

They walked out of the door and paused in front of the building.

“No fucking problem, brother. Got you some foo foo shit with lots of sugar and cream,” Lawson smirked.

“Cut the crap, Lawson. What’s the job?”

“Something special. Real special. You do good and it’s your ticket out for good,” Lawson said.

“About damn time,” Chris said.

“What’s wrong? I remember you being the guy who’d take out any target. Just give the word, and Stephenson’d handle it.”

“Miller,” Chris said.

“What the fuck ever, Miller, just do what you’re supposed to.”

“I always do. I don’t need someone like you to judge my work,” Chris said.

“God’ll do that, yeah? Just don’t screw this up,” Lawson said and turned away.

“Hey. You have something for me?” Chris said.

“Bottoms up, motherfucker,” Lawson said as he walked away.

Chris walked in the opposite direction. When he was a sufficient distance away from the coffee store, he fingered the bottom of the cup and found a bump.

Chris flagged down a cab and handed the man twenty bucks to take him four blocks away. By the time he had arrived, Chris had removed the tape from the bottom of the cup, folded it in half, and slipped it into his pocket. When the cab dropped him off, he tossed the cup and whatever shit was inside.

He got out and took a bus a mile away, then walked a few blocks. The brown row house had white lace curtains hanging in the front windows and a three feet tall metal angel in the yard.

He had arranged for the Air BnB with a bogus credit card and ID. Once he had arrived, last night, Chris had swept the house for cameras or audio recording equipment.

Chris entered the guest bedroom and took the piece of tape and unfolded it to find an SD card. Chris removed his black backpack from under the bed, then took out his secure android device. He powered the phone down, removed the SIM card, and slid the battery cover off. Then he inserted the new SIM card and restarted.

When it had booted up, he entered a long password, and then opened the card. On it was a hidden text file. Once on the screen, the file contained three columns of numbers. He removed a paperback copy of Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 and began the task of decoding the message. The first number was the page. The second number was the sentence, and the third was the word.

He scratched out the message on a pad of paper, then sat back and read it. Then he read it again.

Chris let out a long, low whistle.

He removed the SIM card and took it and the note to the kitchen. Using a lighter, he torched the paper in the sink and put the SD card on top. When it had burned out, he ran the water, washed it down the sink, and then ran the garbage disposal for a long minute.

Chris returned to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. He took long relaxing breaths in through his nose for four seconds, held them for two, and then breathed out through his mouth for four.

Chris took out his backpack again and slung it over his shoulder.

This was going to send ripples through the entire country. A heinous act was about to occur, and he was going to be one of the perpetrators.

Chapter Three

Senate bill S. 542 went to the house today and was approved by sixty seven percent. The controversial bill strips immigrants with muslim backgrounds from entering the country. It also makes it legal for anyone who is in the country as a legal immigrant to be detained, and possibly deported, if an investigation reveals the person had spoken out against the United States even if it’s on social media.

Opponents of the bill have called it a heinous stripping of rights that violates the constitution. The president has said that the bill will make our borders safe.

Over twenty thousand jobs have been opened for customs and immigration enforcement to hire additional staff. They will range from public health officers, law enforcement, to border patrol agents.

The first nine flights had gotten increasingly hard. He felt winded, but in a good way. Bradley worked out when he could spare the time. It wasn’t that he was interested in being some kind of body builder. It was more of something that had been ingrained in him since he was a kid. A sound mind was first. A sound body was a close second.

Bradley only had one floor left when he heard the first unmistakable pop. Then three more.

Bradley ducked and pressed himself against the wall. Another pop and a woman screamed. His eyes followed the long line of the stairs. He could be down them in seconds. His heartbeat increased and his vision narrowed.

* * *

The woman had been caught in the crossfire. They had been pursuing a jihadi named Ahmed Salim and his merry band of assholes. Bradley was on point and had spotted the man duck into a building. He had to drop when bullets rattled across the building he was using for cover.

Jones leaned around him and popped off a few rounds.

Then an MRAP rolled onto the scene and was practically blown sideways by an IED. They’d be okay, the truck designed for that kind of punishment.

His squad scrambled to find cover when someone opened fire from a rooftop fifty yards away. The MRAP returned fire and suppressed the target.

Bradley used the fire as cover and moved fast. His legs pumped as he reached a smoking red car that had been bombed all to hell a few hours ago. A mangy dog with a bushy tail ran across his line of sight and disappeared in an alley.

The jihadi knocked open the window and the barrel of an AK appeared. Then the car took almost a dozen rounds that stitched their way across the metal. Bradley kissed the ground and prayed a 7.62 didn’t find his head.

Koch flashed a hand signal. Bradley shook his head no. Koch shrugged and motioned for the rest of the squad to use the building as cover and flank the man in the house.

Bradley lifted his rifle over the hood of the car and fired in the general direction of the shooter.

“Frag out!” Jones yelled.

Bradley kissed the dirt again. He sucked in breath after breath, knowing he was in danger of hyperventilating. He willed his heart to stop racing but adrenaline had other ideas. The ground wavered, and he tasted dirt and piss. Bradley lifted his head and sprayed out a huge sneeze that made his head spin.

The explosion blew the door off the wall.

Bradley popped up and ran full speed for an overturned cart. He dove behind it as the AK’s barrel reappeared. Bullets smacked into the ground but none managed to find him.

Koch must have gotten his men into position by then because all hell broke loose.

“Drop it, drop it!” Koch screamed. Another door kicked in. Feet pounding on a wooden floor.

Someone screamed and gunshots sounded.

Bradley pushed himself to his feet and trained his weapon on the doorway. The jihadi exited at high speed, and Bradley dropped him with one shot.

His heart raced so fast he thought it was going to burst through his chest, but he’d completed the mission and the jihadi was down. Praise God.

The AK sounded again but was cut off. Another scream, one more shot, and then the house was silent.

“All clear,” Koch called from inside the house.

The door opened and Koch’s face appeared under his tan helmet.

Bradley lowered his weapon and let it swing down on its two-point sling. He stepped out of cover and approached the house.

“You got one,” Koch said as he poked the target Bradley downed.

“Yeah?” Bradley said.

“Wait a minute,” Koch said.

He crouched next to the corpse.

Bradley approached and studied the first man he had killed. Then the world spun around him and threatened to swallow him up.

It was a woman dressed in black.

“Shit happens out here. We got your back, brother.” Koch said and stood up.

“I didn’t—”

“It happens. Caught in the crossfire. Look on the bright side, one less breeder in this hell hole,” Koch said and went to issue orders to the rest of the squad.

She was serene in death. Lips parted, one eye open, the other would have been but there was a wound there where his 5.56 round had punched through her head. Blood pooled in the dirt.

The swirling intensified. He thought he was going to pass out. Faint. Die.

* * *

Another scream and a pop. Bradley’s heartbeat galloped like a racehorse. His vision narrowed again until he only saw the metal stair rail.

Something thumped against the door. He turned to make a run for it.

The door opened and someone fell inside the stairwell. He flinched, but then realized it was Jessica. Her face was covered in blood and her white blouse was red as well.

She reached out and found the wall.

Bradley snapped out of it and rose. His left knee popped, but he ignored the sharp pain as Jessica fell toward him. He caught her and lowered her gently to the ground.

“It’s okay. Okay. Not that bad. I don’t even feel it. Charlie will be so worried. Tell him at the hospital I…” then she stopped talking and her eyes stared at the ceiling.

“Jessica?” Bradley shook her. “Jessica? I’ll get help. Hold on.”

But she wasn’t breathing.

He wedged himself against the door so the shooter couldn’t follow her. He could try shooting through it, though. Hopefully he had missed Jessica’s escape and moved on.

“Stay with me,” Bradley slapped her cheek with gentle blows.

A puddle of blood collected beneath her, just like the woman in Afghanistan. He fought the sinking feeling, the white haze, and let muscle memory take over. Bradley tilted her head back so she had an unrestricted airway. He planted his palm between her breasts and placed his other hand on top. Fifteen compressions, then he pressed his lips to hers and blew while holding her nose.

“No. Please no,” a hysterical man yelled.

Two pops and then a groan. One more pop and the guy didn't make another sound.

Bradley ripped Jessica’s shirt open to find the wound. He could use part of the fabric to stanch the flow of blood. Then he stopped and sat back.

She had a pucker just left of her sternum and bright red seeped from the gunshot. He looked up and caught her eyes. They were open and vacant.

Bradley sat back and lifted his hands to find they were stained with her blood.

The elevator next to the stairwell dinged. The sound of the doors sliding open. Then they slid shut, and it was quiet.

Bradley knew he should run, but he needed to render aid. Cowards ran, and he'd met a few of those when he was in the Army.

He stated at Jessica. She could be a pain in the ass at times, but she didn't deserve this. No one did.

Bradley leaned over and straightened her shirt, pushing it closed over her exposed black bra. Blood no longer flowed from the wound because her heart had stopped beating. It pooled under her though. She had been hit with a large caliber round, and it had passed through her body.

Someone moaned for help from the other side of the door.

Bradley’s stomach flip-flopped. He couldn’t wait any longer. He rose to his feet and turned to face the door. He pressed his ear to the cold metal and listened, but he was met with silence.

He placed his hand on the handle. The blood made his grip slick as he turned the knob.

The door slid open quietly. He peeked, and then ducked back. When no bullets found his head, he opened the door an inch and, with one wide eye pressed to the opening, took in the scene.

A body lay on the ground next to the row of cubicles. Five or six shell casings laid scattered on the floor. A foot stuck out of another cubicle.

He dropped to a crouch and entered the room as silently as he could. If the shooter was still here, he didn’t want to give away his entry.

Turned out there was no need for him to be quiet.

Bradley sucked in a breath when he stepped onto the eighth floor. His hands shook and his vision once again narrowed.

Garry may have been the moaning man. It was hard to tell now because no one moved. As he crept along the cubicles, he found nothing but bodies. Some had sought shelter under their desks, others behind filing cabinets. They had been shot in their work spaces and most finished off with a round to the head.

Bradley pushed his fingers against Garry’s neck but didn’t find a pulse. He counted six bodies. Some were people he had known, worked with for half a year. Others were the sort who barely said a word to him. Albert Cross had been a friendly guy in his sixties who had shared Bradley’s love of the Chicago Bears. He and Albert had struck up a work friendship that involved sending football stats to each other during the last season.

Albert was face down. He had a bullet hole in his hand, three in his back, and his head had been partially blown open. Blood and pink matter seeped from the wound.

“Hollow points,” Bradley muttered. Nothing else left wounds like that. “Jesus save us.”

Then he ran.

* * *

The only safe place he knew of in the building was his cubicle. His mind reeled as he took the stairs two at a time. Get his bag. His stuff. Get the hell out of this hell hole. He needed to run. Just run until he couldn’t run anymore. Bradley would never characterize himself as a coward, but the war in Afghanistan had changed him in ways he didn’t understand. Monica had urged him to see someone, a specialist who dealt with PTSD, but he had never made an appointment. There were men who had suffered much worse than him.

But the overwhelming feeling of dread and horror clouded his mind. The narrow focus of his vision kept intruding. He was lightheaded and understood on some level it was because he was taking short and sharp breaths. His heart raced in his chest and made him feel queasy.

He hit the second floor and did something stupid.

Bradley flung the door open, took a left, and headed straight for the IT department. The door was open, and he dashed into the work area. That’s when a pop sounded. Someone screamed and a man yelled for mercy.

He came to a halt as he nearly barreled into someone who had his back to the entryway.

Bradley came up short and gasped.

Ed Reels stood there. He had on black body armor, which molded itself to his portly frame, and what appeared to be a black Molle combat vest filled with magazines. Another gun rode high on his right hip in a molded holster. He had a combat helmet on his head with straps hanging along his ears. He held one gun in his right hand, which he worked. An empty magazine hit the ground and fast as a whip, Ed slapped a fresh magazine home and triggered the slide release in what appeared to be a well-practiced move.

Bradley got a look at the guns and was pretty sure they were Glocks. Then he got an even better look as Ed turned and met Bradley’s eyes.

Paul lay on the ground clutching his midsection. He groaned and, when he saw Bradley, he whispered for help.

“Looky what the cat dragged in, and just the fucker I was looking for. Such a smart guy, right? Such a smart guy,” Ed said.

His face was livid, eyes wide, cheeks covered in a spray of blood that had even splattered his lips and teeth.

The gun. That was all Bradley saw. It rose, a looming hole that carried his death. Some part of Bradley’s mind realized the barrel was large and he guessed it fired .45 rounds. That would explain the wounds. If they were indeed hollow points, he was surprised Paul was still alive.

“Ed, no! Think about what you’re doing!” Bradley yelled as he lifted his hands so they were level with his head.

Ed moved toward Bradley until mere feet separated them. “What I’m doing? What I’m doing? You assholes don’t deserve to live in this fucked up world. Bunch of kiss asses for a president who hates you. Do you know how bad it is out there now? You don’t because it’s all being suppressed. Doesn’t matter anyway. Won’t matter to you anymore.”

Ed’s trigger control was excellent as was his grip. He had practiced it, that much was obvious. This wasn’t simply a workplace shooting brought on by sudden rage. With the gunshot wounds Bradley had witnessed, as well as Ed’s military inspired garb, he had to have had this in the works for a long time. All of these thoughts swirled in his head. His heart already labored, kicked into overdrive. Adrenaline pumped through his veins. His vision widened as he considered the fact that he was about to die.

“You’re right, Ed. You’re right,” Bradley tried.

“I know I’m right. No, you’re right, like in Rightsville. You guys all love that. Doesn’t matter now. Bye, Bradley.”

Instincts kicked in.

Bradley swept his hand perpendicular to his face and slapped Ed’s wrist. Then he locked his fingers and pulled as he moved in. His left hand shot up and grabbed the slide of the gun as it went off. The sound was deafening in the space. The slide ripped along his palm, sending searing pain up his arm.

But Ed was a big guy and barreled into Bradley until they both struggled for the gun. Bradley used his right knee and drove it into Ed’s hip. He’d been going for a ball shot but he was working in a panicked state. Ed pushed as he struggled to get his gun back, but there was no way Bradley was going to let go.

His left hand screamed in pain where the slide had hammered against it.

Bradley whipped his leg around until his right foot was behind Ed, then he pushed with his hands holding onto Ed’s wrist. The move should have taken Ed off his feet, but they both ended up going down.

Ed went crazy. He thrashed his legs, striking Bradley over and over as they rolled. Ed’s breath was a rancid mix of old coffee and plain bad breath.

With Ed having weight on Bradley, it was a struggle just to maintain his grip on the gun. It fired again and the bullet whizzed past his head and struck the wall. The sound was an ear-splitting blast that made his head ring.

Bradley wretched the gun sharply until Ed screamed. He pushed again and something snapped, probably Ed’s finger that was locked against the trigger guard.

Ed smacked Bradley in the face so hard he saw stars. He nearly lost his grip on the gun but managed to hang on. He pulled again, and this time it came free.

He rolled off Ed, and then came up in an unsteady crouch, gun at his side.

“Screw you!” Ed screamed. “Screw all of you!”

Bradley lifted the gun and put two left of center mass, then he shifted and put one in Ed’s right eye. Then he fired again as Ed’s face took on a blank look. This time the round punched into Ed’s chin and blew him off his feet.

Ed flopped to the ground and his legs kicked. His bowels let loose with a rip and the smell of shit suffused the room.

Bradley fell on his butt, gun extended. He pointed it at Ed and mentally dared the man to move again. He didn’t even realize his finger squeezed until the gun bucked and the bullet struck Ed in the chest. Maybe he had been wearing body armor, maybe it was just part of his Molle combat vest. Didn’t matter because Ed was dead, man. Dead and gone from this world, and Bradley had killed him.

Bradley pushed with his feet until he scooted to the wall. He pressed his back there and held the gun trained on Ed. His face ached from where Ed had gotten in a punch. He panicked and ran his hands over his body. The gun had gone off several times, maybe he was shot and didn’t even know it. The right side of his head ached from the concussion of the gun, and his hearing was gone in that ear, replaced with the pealing of bells.

But his hands didn’t find any wounds. When he pulled them away from his body, they were still stained with Jessica’s blood.

He sucked a in breath and fought the overwhelming panic that threatened to engulf him.

But he was alive and the shooter was dead.

As he did his best to focus on his breathing and bring himself down, his vision once again narrowed to a pinpoint tunnel, so he turned his attention to the gun in his hand. It was a Glock, as he had suspected. a Glock 37 to be exact.

Time passed at a snail’s pace.

He turned the gun in his hands and studied the weapon that had killed at least eight people. Was it that many? He hadn’t checked that many bodies, not that he had to. They had all been killed execution style with shots to the chest and head. Except for Jessica, who had managed to escape immediate death only to die in his arms.

Paul groaned and turned his face so he could meet Bradley’s eyes. The two stared at each other until Paul shuddered and went still.

The sound of whining sirens reached him at some point. He finally lowered the Glock and ejected the magazine. Then he worked the slide and ejected the unfired round. He placed the gun on the carpeted floor next to his leg and waited for the police to arrive.

He didn’t have to wait long.

Chapter Four

Chris Miller hunkered down so he could avoid the neighbor’s line of sight.

The house was thought to be abandoned, but he and Ryan Fudge had found a couple squatting on the home’s second floor. They also found needles and candles. A mattress covered in piss and sweat. There was a sleeping bag on top, but it smelled like it had been dragged through a dung heap. The floor probably had carpet at some point, but now it was just abused sub-flooring that was covered in stains. Someone had used the southeast corner to pee in.

The room had only natural light. The ceiling was sloped and might have been a converted attic. Without electricity, there was no way to turn anything on so they had dragged a small generator up to the space and run a vent out of a side window.

Chris was supposed to have the blackout carpets in place by now, but he’d been held up, ironically, by a massive protest near McKinley park. He had nearly missed the delivery man. Chris had to chase him down when he pulled away from the home.

But the packages were in place, thanks to Lawson, or whoever his boss was.

The woman had squinted her eyes at him when he had entered the upstairs bedroom. The man didn’t move at all except to let loose with a huge snore. He slept on his stomach. One arm hung over the edge of the bed and touched the floor.

Ryan had moved to the other side of the bed and placed his items on the floor. Chris smiled at her and showed her a fifty dollar bill. She pushed the blankets down her revealing a Guns and Roses tank top. She didn’t wear a bra and had ample breasts that spilled out. She might have been attractive at one point, but her skin was sallow and she was clearly malnourished. Needle marks marred her arms.

She pushed the blanket off, and then slid her stained gray sweat pants down to her ankles and kicked them to the floor.

Chris smiled and motioned for her to roll over. She nodded and held out her hand. He placed the fifty there and smiled back at her. She rolled onto her stomach exposing her ass.

Chris leaned over and gently took her wrists. She complied and let him move them behind her back. He moved fast, slipping a pair of plastic cuffs over her hands, he tugged them up and then tightened them with a quick jerk. The zip ties were practically unbreakable, especially by this heroin addict.

“Hey, man, I’m not into that kinky shit,” she protested.

He shook out a thick plastic bag. Across from him, Ryan did the same thing. The man had awoken and stared around with bleary eyes. Ryan took out an Al Mar SERE knife and poked the man in the back of the neck.

“We’re not here to cause trouble. Do what we say and we’ll set you both free in a few minutes,” he said.

The man’s eyes widened as the knife drew blood.

“Please, we don’t have anything. Dope’s all gone,” the man pleaded.

“Just put your hands behind your back. I promise you we’re going to be quick,” Ryan said.

The man complied. Ryan placed zip ties over the man’s wrists and pulled them closed

“Ow, that’s too tight,” the man said.

Ryan picked up the clear plastic bag, and then kneed the man in the back. He slipped it over the guy’s head and pulled it down.

Chris went to do the same with the woman. She fought him, so he sat on her. She thrashed under his weight but he had a good fifty-five pounds on her.

She jerked her head left and right but Chris just moved with her. He got the bag over her head and then pulled it to her neck. He grabbed a larger zip tie out of his back pocket. Her eyes widened, and she screamed. He placed his knee between her shoulder blades and held her down. Chris worked the black plastic strip under her neck and ran it through the eye. He pulled until it wouldn’t go any tighter. She bit at the bag and screamed again so he punched her in the face.

Ryan’s kill hadn’t put up much of a protest.

“I guess that guy believed you,” Chris said.

“Fuck this waste of air. Probably on welfare and food stamps. Besides, I didn’t lie. I’m setting him free.”

The man thrashed beneath Ryan as he realized what was happening.

“It probably won’t take more than a minute for him,” Chris said.

“Should have timed it. I bet she’s gone before he is,” Ryan said.

“Got a fifty here,” Chris Miller nodded toward her hand.

“You’re on,” Ryan nodded.

“Shame she’s wasted her life on this shit,” Chris said. He grabbed one of her bared cheeks and gave it a squeeze. “She’s got a nice butt.”

“I win. Look at this one,” Ryan said.

“Guess so. You can pry it out of her hand.”

The woman shook a couple of times, and then went still. Then her bodily functions let go and the smell of fresh urine and shit filled the room.

Chris pulled the blanket back over them both, and then retrieved a large sheet of plastic and covered the bed. They moved the bodies until the pair were wrapped together, then secured the ends with more plastic wraps.

The mattress was shoved into the corner and quickly forgotten.

* * *

“What time you got?” Ryan asked.

“Quarter to eight,” Chris checked his watch.

The generator hummed away in the corner of the room. They had dragged a small microwave oven up the stairs and plugged it in. Chris heated up a couple of burritos. His was chicken and bean, but it tasted like crap. Ryan didn’t say a word while he devoured his.

“What other kind of food you bring?” Ryan asked as he licked his fingers clean.

“That’s it,” Chris said.

“That sucks.”

“You do SERE?” Chris asked.

“Yeah, at Fort Rucker. How’d you know?”

“Your blade,” Chris said.

Ryan dug out his knife, flipped it once, and handed it to Chris. “SERE Nomad. Ain’t cheap.”

Chris snapped up the blade out and tested the edge against the back of his arm. It parted the hairs from his skin as smooth as a razor. Chris wiped the knife’s blade on his pants, and then folded the knife up and handed it back.

“After this job, maybe I’ll pick one up,” Chris said.

“It’s close to time, right?” Ryan said.

Chris cracked the plastic on the pre-paid cell phone and slid out the device. He removed the SIM card holder and put a fresh one inside. Then he powered up the gadget and waited for it to find service.

Ryan took off his black combat boot and examined the sole. He dislodged a small pebble and tossed it in the corner of the room.

Chris studied the device patiently. The bars lit up and it registered service. He waited another minute and a message popped up. He clicked on it, read it, then installed a small VPN app. He forwarded the message to his private server once he was connected to a server in Finland, then deleted it. He popped the back off and took the battery out, then removed the SIM card. He snapped the phone in half and threw it next to the bodies. Then he got up and put the SIM card in the microwave and set it for one minute.

The card sizzled within seconds and sparks fired inside the oven. When he was satisfied, he opened the door and blew on the partially melted plastic for several seconds. Then he scraped it off the glass and tossed it into the corner as well.

Over the next thirty minutes, the rest of the team arrived and filed up the stairs.

Chris checked his watch and nodded at the men who had assembled.

It was going to be a long, bloody morning.

Chapter Five

… pro Henderson demonstration turned deadly today when opponents of the president clashed in Chicago. The September 18th protest, organized at a national level, with protesters marching in the majority of large American cities, was in direct response to the president’s call for forced expulsion of muslim immigrants legally living in the country.

The protest turned violent when the two groups met and exchanged profanities. Dozens of people were taken to local area hospitals, and seven people were killed. We’ll bring you more as the story develops…

Bradley pulled into his driveway in a daze. His Bronco had seen better days about fifteen years ago. But the thought of buying something newer just wasn’t in the cards. Especially since he had stopped working security and taken an IT job. He knew it would get better, he would get some valuable experience and be able to find a higher paying job.

Today would look great on his resume. Worked at AlgerTech for six months. Reason for leaving? Mass shooting at his last job.

He’d hadn’t been able to call Monica because his cell phone had died. He’d been meaning to charge it all day.

He idled in the driveway for a few minutes and stared at his front porch. The rocking chair had been a gift from his father, handcrafted and treated for inclement weather. When his father passed away, Bradley’s mother had told him it was the last thing his father had made. The old man knew he was dying. Cancer of the liver, but he refused treatment and died six months later. That was how the old man had always lived. No regrets. Live for today, drink for today, and damn the consequences.

They had painted the house in the last summer, hoping they would be able to sell it and move to a smaller place. Then the housing market had crashed and values had plummeted. Now, he and Monica paid for a house that was worth twenty-five thousand dollars less than they had bought it for. There was no way in hell the home would sell now unless they took a massive loss.

Andy Pierson hovered over a waist high hydrangea with clippers in hand. He stood and waved at Bradley.

Andy had lived in his two-story home for over thirty years and had purchased it brand new. His wife had passed away a few months ago due to stomach cancer, and Bradley had spent a few days helping him recover because sometimes people just needed a friend to talk to. Andy wore a pair of dark blue overalls, and his mustache and beard were trimmed, which was a nice change. After Annie had passed, he’d let himself go.

“Hey, Brad.” Andy waved.

“How are the hydrangea’s looking?”

“Good. Got some bugs. Ate up a bunch of leaves so I hit `em with some pesticides. Little bastards won’t be around for much longer.”

“Good to hear. Gotta keep on top of those things,” Bradley said.

Andy dropped his gardening shears and crossed over into Bradleys’ yard.

“You look rough. What’s that on your shirt?”

“Long story,” Bradley said. “It’s blood, but not mine. Let’s have a beer tonight or tomorrow, and I’ll tell you a story that will make your balls shrivel up.”

“Yeah? I have a six pack in the fridge. You stop by around seven or eight and we’ll toast something or other. You sure you’re okay?” Andy asked, his eyes roaming over Bradley’s shirt. “You look like you went a few rounds.”

“I’ll be all right. Probably start looking for a new job in the next day or two, though.”

Bradley recognized that he was in a daze. The shooting, the cops, paramedics, the fact that they had sent him home. He went through the motions of chatting with his neighbor just to feel something, no matter how mundane.

“Well, that’s okay. Working with those liberals has to be hard.”

“There are days,” Bradley said.

“Looks like the economy’s about to change. Heard on the tube today that the unemployment rate is dropping. Just takes time for these things to happen,” Andy said.

“I think you’re right. I wish my son would see this. He’s got no common sense sometimes.”

“Yeah? He giving you grief like the rest of this state?”

“He’s fallen in with a crowd at school. He said he wants to go to some of the protests in the city, but I said no. Told him that, when he’s eighteen in seven months, and he has his own car, which means getting a job, he can go wherever he pleases, and that includes college.”

“How’d he like that?” Andy pushed his ball cap up.

“Not much. Just grumped around.”

“Kids are like that. Mine lives in Seattle. I don’t know how he survives that place with all those hipsters, granola eaters, and pot smokers. It’s a wonder they get anything done in that city.”

“I don’t get it either, Andy. I supposed you gotta live somewhere. I couldn’t stand it myself.”

“Did you hear about the incident at the Target yesterday?”

“No, what happened?” Bradley asked

Bradley knew he should go inside, but he had always liked Andy, and they could chat for hours if given the chance. It was good to talk to a friend after his messed up morning. The image of Ed and Jessica, not to mention Garry and the other accountants, lying dead on the floor of his office building haunted him every time his mind drifted. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to drift into a black hole that would take days to get out of.

“You okay?” Andy asked.

“Yeah, just frazzled,” Bradley said.

“Well I’ll give you this bit of gossip and let you go. I heard from Wilbur over at the Burger Shack that a couple of kids got into a fight in the store. Then their parents got into it. Pretty soon, it was a damn melee with people taking up sides and slugging it out. One guy pulled a gun but a cop showed up and threatened to lock everyone up. Then more cops arrived, and they hauled some folks to jail,” Andy said.

“Cubs and Sox fans fighting?” Bradley said.

“Wish it was. You know all those Facebook fights you see over the president? Well, sounds like one spilled out into the real world. Hell of a thing.” Andy sighed.

“Hell of a thing, is right. What’s gotten into people?” Bradley said.

“I don’t know, but your wife’s going to lay into you if you don’t get inside. She’s been standing in the doorway for a few minutes.” Andy nodded toward Bradley’s house.

Bradley turned his head and found she had pushed the screen door open and stood with her hands crossed over her chest.

“I’m coming,” Bradley called to her.

“Thought you forgot where the front door was,” she said.

Bradley rolled his eyes, and Andy shot him a quick and knowing grin.

“Hey, Bradley, know how to fix a broken dish washer?” Andy said under his breath

“Uh, no?”

“Smack her ass and send her back to the kitchen.” Andy grinned from ear to ear.

“That’s a horribly sexist joke, Andy.”

“I know, and you know I love Monica. Just trying to get a smile out of you,” Andy said. “Stop by later. We’ll catch up. Right now, I need to go massacre some more bugs,” Andy said and clapped Bradley on the shoulder.

“See you later,” Bradley said, turned, and made for his house.

* * *

“What are you two talking about?” She said as he made it to the front door, zipping up his jacket so she didn’t see the blood on his shirt.

Bradley had to step over a couple of little Jenny’s toys. She had apparently been setting up a tea party with her dolls He prayed she didn’t drag him into her little girl madness. He would come out later and gather them up if she forgot, which meant, he would be coming back outside.

“Just stuff. I like Andy,” he said. “Most of the time.”

“What inappropriate joke did he tell you this time? I like Andy, but he’s a racist and a homophobe. “

“That he is,” Bradley said and wondered why he gave Andy breaks when he said stuff like that joke about the dishwasher.

“I was so worried when Evelyn died. Such a sweet woman,” she said.

Bradley nodded. “Oh. I forgot something in the car. I’ll be just a minute.”

“Okay. I’m worried about you. We should sit down and talk,” she said.

“Not much to talk about. I’ll be back in a minute, hon,” he said and made for his car.

* * *

When she had closed the door, he gotten back inside the Bronco, sat in the driver’s seat, and reached into the glove box. He took out a bottle in a plain brown bag and studied it for a few seconds.

He really didn’t want to go inside yet. Speaking with Andy had taken his mind off the shooting, but it wouldn’t last long. He didn’t want to do anything except sit there and drink.

Bradley spun the top off a bottle of cheap scotch and tilted it back. It burned like the devil as he swallowed. He was already buzzed, and Monica would give him hell for that. He was surprised she hadn’t said anything when he got home because he had to smell like a drunk.

He hadn’t even realized people were staring when he’d entered the store to buy the bottle. Prices had skyrocketed on sin items like cigarettes and booze, but he’d gladly paid for the luxury today. The clerk, an Indian man named Azid, handed back his change.

“You okay?” The man had asked.

“I am not okay, my friend. I’m anything but okay,” Bradley had said as he’d left.

Bradley took another long swig, and then fought his gag reflex. He was more of a Natty Light kind of guy, but when he was in the Army, his squad leader, Koch had been fond of scotch. So, one night the men had sat around drinking and Koch had put a bottle of some expensive stuff in the pool since he was out of cash. Bradley had won the hand and hauled in about seventy bucks plus the scotch.

Koch had bugged him for an hour before convincing Bradley to sample the liquor and share it.

“You mean to tell me you can’t hold your liquor, Sarge?” Bradley had broken the seal and unscrewed the top.

“That’s real funny,” Koch had said.

“You mean to tell me you gave up your prize for my insurgency?”

“Insurgency?”

“Yeah. Coming in here and kicking your ass,” Bradley said, which brought roars of laughter from his squad mates.

“Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. Now shit or get off the pot, Specialist. I can’t let my baby go to waste on a grunt like you.”

Bradley had delighted in torturing his sergeant. Koch took it in stride and gave back as good as he got. There were unwritten rules about pulling rank during a downtime unless someone was being a dick.

“That the SOP, Sarge? Give up the objective when the cards are down?” Bradley sipped from the bottle.

Then he took a swig and attempted to gargle with it, which was a complete disaster. The liquor was so strong it made him gag, his eyes watered, and he had to lean over and spit the scotch out. Then he gasped for breath while pounding his chest.

“What the hell kind of a grunt are you? Can’t even gargle properly?” Koch shot back. Tears streamed down his face as well, from laughter.

“You gotta swallow after a good gargle, Adams. Not spit it out,” Specialist Erb, a had roared with laughter.

“Damn that burns, Sarge,” Bradley said when he’d recovered.

That had been a good night. The next day his squad had been ambushed. Erb went home missing his leg. Koch had gone home in a coffin.

Bradley put a finger under his eye and found it was wet. He let the tears stream for a few minutes. He straightened up his shirt, wiped his eyes dry, and took one more long drink. Then he went in to explain what had happened to Monica.

* * *

“Baby,” Bradley called from the front door after he opened it. “Promise me you’re not going to freak. I have to tell you what happened first, okay?”

“If you got a speeding ticket, you’re going to have more than some explaining to do,” she yelled from the kitchen.

Bradley stepped inside. Jennifer had setup a doll house in the center of the family room, then put some dolls on top, presumably so they could watch cartoons with her. Probably the same dolls that should be outside enjoying tea. An old copy of People Magazine lay open on the couch, and a book sat on the dark brown coffee table that was stained with drink rings. The news was on their television, a 42” LED he’d picked up during a Black Friday sale two years ago. It was always on. Even when you changed the channel they talked about the riots all night and day.

He looked at the walls and thought about their plans to change the wallpaper. They had been putting a little money aside so they could do further home improvements, and that was the first one they had planned, after the outside paint. The flowery pattern had been acceptable when they had moved in because it could be easily fixed. Turned out, nothing was that simple.

The pattern was a mix of light blues and pinks. Bradley would have been happy with one color and a little wood, or even wood-colored trim. But Monica had been satisfied with the colors of the walls and so had little Jenny. Nothing spoke to a little girl quite like flowery wallpaper.

“Where are you?” Monica called.

Pots clanged and plates rattled.

Bradley studied the couch. It was threadbare but had been good enough to get them through the last twelve years. It was in serious danger of caving in completely where Bradley preferred to sit. Six hours ago, he thought he was never going to see this room again. He had thought he was going to die.

He unzipped his jacket and tossed it on the back of the couch.

“I’m here,” Bradley said.

Jenny dashed into the room and came up short. Normally she jumped into his arms for a sky ride. But today, she stopped and looked at her father. He looked back and nearly lost it.

His vision blurred but this time it was for a different reason. He knelt and put his arms out.

“What happened, Daddy?” Jenny asked.

She had pigtails today, and each one had a hint of purple on the tips. He hoped she hadn’t done that herself. At seven years old, Jenny knew everything about everything there was to know in the entire world and had informed Bradley of this on multiple occasions.

He knelt and opened his arms but she wouldn’t come to him.

“I’m okay, baby. It’s just some paint from work,” Bradley said.

He unbuttoned his shirt and then slid it down his arms. He looked down and found his white T-shirt looked almost as bad. Blood, not his, but from that of several people, still coated his arms. That reminded him to be careful. While he was certain that bloodborne pathogens or diseases couldn’t survive out of the body, but what if he was wrong?

He needed a shower, stat.

Bradley moved as if in a dream. He made for the bedroom and closed the door softly behind him. He got a glimpse of Jenny still standing there, mouth open, watching him. She grabbed one pony tail and twirled it.

* * *

Bradley floated into the bathroom and removed the rest of his clothes. He studied his shirt in the light and determined, just as he had suspected, it was a total loss. All that blood would never come out.

He turned on the water in the shower and waited until the steam rose, then he stepped inside and let the heat beat down on him.

Monica opened the door and barged in. She took one look at him, then his clothes, and screamed.

“It’s okay. Not my blood,” he mumbled over the sound of the running water.

“What happened, Bradley. What in the fuck happened to you!?”

Monica was five foot five and a firecracker. She had auburn hair that bordered on red, and it had been straight for as long as he’d known her. She kept it long so it flowed past her shoulders, which he found sexy as hell. She had a trim figure and walked a few miles with her girlfriends every morning after the kids went to school. She wore glasses, and they started to fog in the bathroom.

“Something happened at work,” Bradley said.

“Something happened at work? Did someone kill a pig and you bathed in its blood?”

Bradley wished that was what had happened. Made sense that this hadn’t even hit the news channels, and she hadn’t heard about it. A shooting in a workplace was small potatoes now compared to the current state of affairs. Just turn on the television and it was non-stop coverage of the president. The riots. The protesters. The destruction of public property. The military being called into several cities over the last few weeks because of civil unrest.

Maybe he should have called her after the police had cut him loose. He had a fifteen minute drive home, but he’d stopped a couple of times so he could stare into space. Then he had stopped and got a bottle of whiskey and thought about Koch.

The lights flickered, and then came back on.

“It’s been doing that all day. Are you going to tell me what happened?”

Bradley shut off the water and stared down at his chest. He had forgotten to use soap and blood still clung to his skin. He grabbed a towel and rubbed his skin. He pressed harder and harder as he scrubbed.

Monica grabbed his arm and tried to stop him.

“I’ll get it off, all of it. Not my blood. Jessica’s blood. Maybe Ed’s. I’m not sure. Maybe Paul. He might make it. They air-lifted him,” Bradley trailed off.

Then he looked Monica in the eye, and that’s when he finally lost it. The tears came first, then the sobs. He pulled her body to his and held onto her like a buoy in a sea storm.

* * *

Bradley didn’t bother to get dressed. He sat on the side of the bed. She took a seat next to him and held his hand. She kept looking him over, touching his arms, legs, back, chest, checking for any kind of damage.

“Ed wasn’t much of a fighter, got me in the jaw but not too hard. My hearing is coming back, it’s slow, but it should be normal in a few days.”

“What happened when the police arrived?” She asked.

“They found me near my cubicle. I was sitting with my back to the wall and the gun was at my side, but I wasn’t touching it. They yelled at me to lay down and kick the gun away. Then people flooded in and one of the accountants, I guess he hid in a closet, said it wasn’t me. They pointed out Ed.

“I told them what happened. They took statements and wrote stuff down. A lady came in who made me repeat it all while she recorded it. All the while, a medic looked me over. They gave me an ice pack for my face,” he said and looked up.

Monica ran her hand over his cheek. “It’s going to bruise.”

“You’re in shock,” he said.

“No, Bradley. You’re in shock. Do you know how I know this? Because you didn’t even call me. What if this had been on the news, and I didn’t know you were okay! Why didn’t you at least call me?”

“My phone died,” Bradley said.

“No other phones at your place of work were operational? I see. That’s great,” Monica said, and then she started to cry.

Bradley put his arm over her shoulder.

“It’s okay,” he offered, but his voice felt like it was coming from far away.

“Come back to me, baby.” Monica whispered near his ear.

“Okay,” he said. “I will. I promise. Just need sleep.”

Bradley got up and moved to his side of the bed. He dug out an expired prescription bottle and popped it open. He shook out a pill into his palm and dry swallowed it.

“Baby, you have to talk to me,” Monica said.

“I will, Monica. I will.” He said, and then crawled beneath the covers.

He pulled the pillow over his head to shut out the light.

Chapter Six

Bradley ran from Ed. The portly man had a full auto assault rifle. He was dressed in IOTV body armor and a hat that had two Coors beers on either side of his head. Straws ran out of the cans and into Ed’s mouth. He fired at Bradley and struck him in the back of the legs. Bradley went down shrieking in pain.

“Gonna give you what for, soldier boy. See if I don’t,” Ed screamed, his mouth and chin covered in blood from where he had bitten Jessica from accounting.

Bradley clawed at the ground and dragged himself away from Ed. But Ed was a demon who wanted to blow Bradley’s head off and eat his heart.

Bradley bolted upright in bed and gasped for breath. He reached for the water bottle he normally kept on the nightstand and guzzled half of it. Monica wasn’t in bed. He looked at the clock and found it was nine AM. He needed to get up, shower, get dressed, and go to work, shit. He was late, and there would be hell to pay.

Why hadn’t Monica woken him up? Was she up with Jenny? Was something wrong?

He swung his feet off the bed, and then the world tilted.

He didn’t have to go to work today because that place had been filled with corpses yesterday. He wouldn’t have to answer to Paul because he had been airlifted to a hospital. If he survived, it would be a genuine miracle. Although Bradly didn’t care much for Paul, he whispered a quick prayer for his recovery.

Bradley laughed, and then that turned into a half-sob. He sucked it up and focused on things he knew. He was home. Monica was safe. Jenny was safe. Junior, he assumed, was in bed dreaming about girls.

Ed. He’d killed Ed. It wasn’t that he hadn’t ever killed someone before, it was the fact that it had happened here. In the Army, they were taught to be cold and calculating when they shot at the enemy. How many times had it been ingrained in him that the same enemy wanted to end his life. Better to take an enemy’s life first.

“You look better,” Monica said.

She stood in the hallway in a nightie that was just shy of reaching mid-thigh and made a cleavage revealing V across her breasts.

“I do?” he said as he stared at her body.

“Yeah. The way you’re checking me out, you’re better,” Monica said.

“I do love to check you out. You’re the most beautiful thing in the world.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Her lips quirked up in a grin, “but I need to talk to you, Brad, please stay with me this time, okay?”

“Yeah, baby. Of course,” he said. Why was she making it sound like he didn’t listen to her?

She took a seat on the bed next to him. She took his hand in hers and put it on her legs.

“Still there?” she asked.

“Of course, I’m still here. Where else would I be?”

“Listen, baby. I looked it up, and I think I know what happened yesterday. You had a very traumatic experience and it took a toll,” she said and ran his hand over her thighs.

“Feels nice and soft,” he said.

“I know. I’m distracting you to keep you here,” she said.

“Good distraction,” he replied.

Ed had tried to kill him.

“It’s called disassociation, and it looks like you want to go there again. I can’t really help unless you let me. Even that might not work. Time might be the only thing that does,” she said.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“Last night, you were like a robot. You had no emotions. You barely looked at me, and you scared Jenny half to death. Did you feel at all like you were floating?” she asked.

He had. That was the best way to describe it. He had felt like he was floating through his routine, but nothing had been routine about last night. He hadn’t even eaten any supper. He’d come home, stood under the hot water, then taken a sleeping pill and slept. The nightmare had been waiting for him, though.

“Yeah, I guess,” he said.

“I’m going to make a few calls as soon as the doctor’s office opens. You need to get in to see someone right away. They might have something you can take to help.”

“Baby, it’s not the first time I’ve seen and done stuff like that. I’ll be fine in a day,” he said. “It’s just hard seeing co-workers gunned down like that.”

“I looked it up. The news might be focused on other things, but the internet is always ready to splash the local stuff. They said he killed eleven people. They named you, Bradley. They called you a hero.”

“I just did what I had to do.”

“Sit here and tell me about it after I get back. I’ll brew up a pot of coffee,” she said.

“I can do that,” Bradley said.

“Oh, I didn’t want to say anything, but have you heard from Junior?” she asked when she reached the doorway.

“No. You mean he’s not at home?”

“He said he might stay at Kirk’s house, but he was supposed to message me. The last time I heard from him was around nine last night.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because you weren’t hearing anything I was saying last night,” she said. “Now wait right there, and I’ll bring you some coffee.”

When she was gone, he dug out his phone and remembered it was dead. He dug around next to the bed and found a charger cable. After a couple of minutes, he was able to turn it on and read on the Android device while the battery replenished.

He checked his messages, but there were none from Junior.

Where are you? he texted his son.

Monica returned with a mug of steaming black coffee. He took it, gratefully, and sipped the rich brew. They might not have a lot of extra money, but they occasionally splurged on the good stuff. This was from a small roasting house in town, and it was just what he needed.

“What else did the police say?” Monica took a seat next to him.

“Not a lot. They reviewed some of the video tape that identified Ed as the shooter. They don’t have any video of me but they took my statement. They asked me to stop by the police station and fill out some papers. Not sure what all that entails,” he said.

“You made a few internet websites. I read about what happened. You don’t have to talk about it right now, but I suggest you see a therapist. I know you have resisted it in the past but, baby, you just went through a traumatic experience, and you need to talk to someone.”

“I’m talking to you right now,” he said.

“No. You can’t talk to your wife about this,”

“We can’t afford it. And I’m probably out of a job. I don’t even want to go back there,” he said.

They had little in savings, not enough to cover more than a week or two out of work. Maybe he could plead with AlgerTech for some kind of settlement, provided they were still in business after today.

His phone dinged. He picked it up and read the message from Junior. I’m at Kirk’s. School was canceled today.

“School was canceled?” He turned to Monica. “Where’s Jenny?”

“I kept her home today. She has the sniffles,” Monica said.

“If school was canceled, I guess it’s just as well.”

“I didn’t hear anything from the school. They usually send an alert,” She retrieved her phone from the living room and walked back into the bedroom, head down as she read the screen.

Why was school canceled? If you’re skipping, I will find out. He messaged back to his son.

“Wow. I guess it is. There was an incident.” Monica trailed off.

“An incident? What kind of incident?”

“Um,” Monica’s green eyes scanned the phone. “Some kind of protest near the school. It’s weird. They say there was a violent altercation, but there’re no other details.”

Bradley lay back in bed with a, “Hmm.” He dug around until he found the television remote and turned on the TV. The old tube was a 28”, and it had been handed down to him by his mother who upgraded a few years ago. He switched to FOX news to find out what was happening. He didn’t really want to think about anything today. He would be content to just lay here and veg for the entire morning.

His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. Then he thought of Ed, Jessica, and the other accountants. Bodies. So many bodies, and all of them executed by a mad man. He didn’t feel one bit of regret about wrestling Ed Reels’ gun away and killing the man. He deserved it.

“We’re live in Orlando where the latest protest against President Henderson’s immigration policy has sparked outrage. Hundreds of police are swarming the scene and arresting protesters. We also have reports of shots fired, but we have no other details at this time,” the voice said. The view of the massive mob below was from a helicopter, and it turned to show just how many people were involved. The streets were completely packed with people carrying signs. Some had fists in the air, and they were clearly chanting or yelling.

Then the view shifted to show another group approaching, and they were not carrying signs. Most were dressed in black and many had ski masks on. They carried clubs, and Bradley was sure he spotted at least one rifle on someone’s back.

The mobs approached each other, then stopped within twenty feet between them. Someone dressed in black threw a bottle. It sailed through the air and people with signs scrambled out of the way. Then more debris and items arched into the air.

Some of the protesters threw down their signs and pointed at the people in black.

“Folks, it appears there is some kind of altercation unfolding here,” the reporter said. Thanks for the update, Skippy, Bradley thought. It was clear as day there was about to be a fight. What had happened to peaceful protests?

The people in back surged forward. Clubs and sticks raised, they clashed with the people who had been carrying signs. Some of them engaged and fought back. Wild swings, haymakers, and kicks.

The two mobs clashed together as more and more people joined the melee.

Monica moved to her side of the bed and sat down to watch with him.

“This is crazy,” she said.

“What’s Jenny doing?”

“Coloring. I got her a new book yesterday. She already ate,” Monica said. “I gave her some children’s cold medicine. She’ll probably sleep half of the day away.”

“Huh,” Bradley said, completely absorbed in the news report.

The scene changed to a street level view. A female reporter with long blonde hair came into focus.

“We’re near the Dupont Circle in Washington D.C. and, as you can see, protesters have clashed. We’re getting reports of injured persons. There was also word of a shooting that left a man wounded, but details are scarce at this time,” the reporter said.

Something flew toward them, and she scampered out of the way. The bottle smashed into the ground and left a trail of fluid.

“What is going on with our country?” Monica said. “Same thing happened in New York and Jacksonville yesterday.”

Bradley, “Hmmed,” again. His mind went to their emergency supplies. He kept an accurate stock and replenished when he needed to if things expired. But they were so far from all of this. It seemed unlikely to spill out into Vicksburg.

Bradley shot up when the sound of automatic weapons fired sent the television’s speakers buzzing, the noise so loud it overrode them and made the shots sound like static.

Someone fell, and then another person. The camera shifted, and a group of people dressed in black came into view. There was almost a dozen, and they carried assault rifles and multiple magazines. One of the men, who had to be at least two hundred and twenty pounds and built like an NFL player, had words spray painted across the back of his shirt that read: “2nd Amendment or Death!”

More gunfire rippled, and a row of protesters fell. The mob of people panicked and some fled. People screamed as smoke rose from the firing weapons. They shot indiscriminately.

One of the shooters on the end of the gang turned to regard the reporter. Then he lifted the rifle and unleashed a hail of bullets. The reporter looked shocked for a split second, and then dropped without a word. The cameraman lowered his camera and the view shifted to a street shot as he made a run for it. Then more rounds sounded, and the camera feed went to static as it hit the ground. The view resumed a second later, but all it revealed was a hand and feet rushing past the operator.

“This isn’t happening,” Bradley said.

Then he realized Monica was squeezing his hand intensely. He looked her in the eye and found horror.

The live news feed cut back to a shocked couch filled with FOX regulars.

One of the men pressed his earpiece and spoke to the camera. “We’re trying to get confirmation regarding what just happened. I, for one, am horrified.”

“That was terrible. We apologize to our viewers at home,” A woman dressed in a skirt said. “It happened so fast. I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s a first,” Bradley said.

“I can’t watch this anymore,” Monica said and got up and left the bedroom.

Bradley wished he felt the same way. Instead, he flipped through channels, trying to find out what in the hell was happening to his country.

After ten minutes of nothing but bad news, he rose and put on some clothes.

It was time to go downstairs and unpack his gear, just in case.

Chapter Seven

Chris Miller tightened the straps on his upper body armor. The chest guard would protect him from a direct shot, but it left his body exposed.

He checked his Armalite AR-10 Tactical one more time. It had an Aimpoint CompM4s red dot sight that could be utilized with both eyes, providing a wide field of fire. Chris turned the switch to test the red dot, then moved through the other settings, stopping short of going to night vision. The scope was overkill for their mission, but it was something he trusted, and with their benefactor footing the bill, he had ordered up what he would take into a fight.

He wore an SOE split front chest rig that held four Magpuls of .308 ammo, each with a capacity of twenty-five rounds. He liked the vest because the Fastex buckles allowed him to quickly doff the rig.

After a long night of alternating four-hour watch shifts with Ryan, Chris felt like he hadn’t slept a wink.

Daniel Kennington loaded his Remington shotgun, and then strapped a bandolier of rounds over his chest. He shrugged into a black overcoat and checked his sidearm. Looked like a Springfield, or so Chris guessed.

Chris didn’t know the first thing about Kennington. He was a squirrely little guy with thin rimmed glasses, a buzz cut, and a small US flag tattooed on his neck. Chris wasn’t impressed. They were supposed to be unmarked. A tattoo like that made for easy identification. Daniel bitched and moaned the whole time they gathered their gear. He complained about the cold room, the loud generator, the bodies in the corner of the room. Said they were stinking the place up with their body rot even though they had only been dead for an hour.

Ryan Fudge had gone old school, asking for a classic AK-47. He pushed it into a large duffle bag with an assortment of fully loaded magazines filled with 7.62 rounds.

The rest of the squad were, like him, unknown to each other. But they were patriots, one and all, and had agreed to this potentially suicidal mission without reservation. Money had already been deposited in their accounts from a bank in the Cayman Islands. But it had gone through a number of proxies, with routing numbers that had been spoofed. At a cursory glance, the money would appear to have arrived in many deposits over the course of a year.

Chris didn’t really care about the particulars, all he cared about was that it had arrived as promised. If anything happened to him, the money was to be diverted to an account for his niece and nephew so they could have a head start on their schooling when they were eighteen years old.

The last guy in their team was a Hispanic man who didn’t care to talk. He nodded at them as he pulled out his bag of weapons, and then quietly picked through them, loading magazines and placing them in his belt.

Chris wasn’t married, but he saw a woman named Patricia from time to time. It was best to keep things casual. He was out of the country for months at a time, and she was a busy professional who wanted to concentrate on her career. When he was home, they hooked up. When he was gone, they exchanged very few messages.

There was a second squad below, four men, and a woman who handled an M4 like she was born with it in her hands. She had dreads and wore dark eye makeup. Her skin was porcelain white, and he’d caught himself checking her out more than once when that group had arrived. The two groups stayed out of each other’s hair and didn’t bother getting chummy.

Ryan dropped his duffle bag on the floor near the stairs. “Back with the van in a minute.”

“Cool, man. We’ll be here,” Chris said.

“Squad two left a few minutes ago. We’ll go out nice and slow. I’ve been keeping an eye on the street this morning. If anyone notices us, I’ll be a shocked.”

“Yeah, because five guys dressed in black, carrying big black bags is something you see every day. I say we go out at five minute intervals and meet a few blocks from here. Fucking stupid if we get caught now,” Daniel whined.

“No time. Just stick to the mission,” Chris said.

“Okay. Whatever, Commander Stick-Up-His-Ass,” Daniel muttered.

Chris thought he could take the little guy apart, but he knew from experience that size did not always make an opponent weak.

Ryan shot Chris a wink, and then took the stairs two at a time.

Chris took out each magazine and slapped them against his hand so the rounds lined up. Every AR-10 he’d ever fired had trouble picking up rounds from time to time. Might as well help the process along if he could.

He tightened the straps on his SOE rig one more time, and then went downstairs to wait for the van.

* * *

Ryan pulled up exactly five minutes later. Jim Belmore was the first one out the door. He kept his gaze down, overcoat closed, and ball cap over his eyes. He slid into the van and was quickly followed by Daniel. The Hispanic man who didn’t say much was the last out before Chris. The guy had been a little creepy from the beginning. He carried a big Rambo knife at his side and fiddled with the handle when he looked bored.

He had a classic Vietnam era M16 and half a dozen magazines on him. He covered it with a brown trench coat when he went out.

Chris was the last one out the door. They would meet up here afterwards, and then he would make the call. One hour later, they would split up and drift out of the house and back to their lives. That was, assuming they survived. Chris was under no delusions they wouldn’t meet a force of police or worse military who seemed to be increasingly patrolling the streets, even though the National Security Advisor claimed that wasn’t happening.

He slid into the passenger side of the van and closed the door.

Chris nodded at him, and then they pulled away from the curb. It was going to be a twenty minute drive, so he sat back and closed his eyes.

* * *

They pulled over and exited the van. The mob of protesters had been arriving for an hour, if not longer. As far as the eye could see, people carried signs protesting the president. Men and women shouted into megaphones, whipping the crowds into a frenzy.

The march was supposed to begin outside of the UIC pavilion. He hadn’t studied their path because there were supposed to be so many people here. They walked nearly a half mile to put some distance between themselves and their ride. Anyone not back at the allotted time would be left behind.

The counter protest had already setup camp and a clash was imminent. The two groups faced off against each other, but no one had started throwing things yet. Chris had watched enough footage on CNN and FOX to know these people didn’t really know what they were doing out here. They hated stuff, other people hated stuff, the two groups equally hated each other.

“Look at those assholes. Someone brought kids,” Daniel said.

“No kids,” Chris reminded them.

“Yeah, right. Not a patriot out there. Kill `em all and let God sort `em out.” Daniel grinned.

They assembled with the second squad behind the cover of a bus stop. People walked past, but they barely paid attention to the group. Ten strong. The men removed nitrate gloves and slid them over their hands. They shrugged out of their overcoats and slapped on ski masks.

They had been provided with hoodies and sweatshirts that bore a variety of 2nd amendment slogans like Don’t Tread on Me, and Death before I give up my guns. These provided cover for their body armor, but there was no ski mask in the world that would stop a round.

Chris let his AR-10 hang off a three-point sling. The two squads moved out in a wall toward the first group of protesters.

Daniel was the first one who opened fire. Ryan followed suit, and then the Hispanic man.

Chris moved alongside them, but he was on point. He shifted his aim, followed the red dot, and picked off a few targets in the farther group.

The sound of weapon’s fire was deafening. Smoke rose as they shot over and over again. Shells clattered across the pavement. Magazines were ejected and replaced with fresh ones.

The protesters turned into a mob as they fought to flee. They crashed into each other with bloody wounds. Chris’s objective had been clearly laid out for him. He was to wound only if necessary. He was to kill as many as he could.

They advanced as a team with rifles firing indiscriminately. He shifted his gun and moved with the others as they mowed down civilians by the dozen. Daniel had been warned not to aim at the little ones, but he seemed to delight in shooting kids. Chris thought about turning the gun on him and wondered if any of the other guys would even care. More than likely, they would take him out, thinking he intended to kill them all.

Chris fumed but continued with his task. His magazine ran dry so he hit the release and slapped another one home. He released the charging handle and resumed firing.

Screams of pain and wails of terror met them. They moved so close to the protesters they had to step over bodies. The Hispanic man pulled his sidearm and shot a few in the head to make sure they were dead, then went back to firing with his big gun.

A man lay on the ground. He clutched his chest where blood bubbled out of a wound. Chris was going to move over him and keep firing but showed mercy and finished him with a shot to the skull. The man’s head bounced off the hard pavement, blood and pink brain matter exited the wound, and then he was still.

Someone opened fired on them from across the street. Daniel lifted off his feet and fell backward. He groaned and reached for his midsection. The body armor under his bulky sweatshirt probably saved him, and that was a shame. Chris thought about leaving him there but offered his hand instead. The rest of the squad pointed at the area the round had come from. The Hispanic man ducked as more shots rattled from that direction.

Ryan aimed and dropped the guy who had been hiding behind a mailbox, pointing a large caliber handgun at him. Ryan was sharp and it only took one round to blow the guy’s head off.

The protesters had been whipped into a true frenzy as panic had set in. The two death squads had terrified the throng, and now thousands of people ran, creating a stampede that would leave hundreds of casualties.

Chris checked his watch, found he had thirty seconds left, and opened fire again.

* * *

They tossed their weapons as they ran from the AO. Daniel, back on his feet after taking a round that was stopped by his body armor, wheezed, and ran his hand over his chest. They shed their weapons, ammo, gear, and outer garments. In the madness, they had become just a group of people running from the scene. The last thing they removed were the nitrate gloves. Those went into a plastic grocery bag, to be thrown out before they rendezvoused back at the safe house.

A helicopter followed their progress but they used a crowd of people staring at the scene of carnage to their advantage. They wove in, still shedding clothing until they were in pants and T-shirts that were nothing like the inflammatory messages they had worn into the battle.

They split up and negotiated the chaos for twenty minutes, then circled back around and made for the van. The second squad, minus one of their members, piled into their vehicle and roared off.

Chris wondered what had happened to the missing warrior. With the exception of Daniel, they had come out of the melee unscathed.

They piled into the van and remained quiet all the way back to the safe house, which they navigated to via back roads and a lot of backtracking to shake off anyone who may have been tailing them.

Daniel finally broke the silence. “Hell of a thing, killing a man.”

“Or a kid,” Chris muttered.

Daniel massaged his chest and lifted his shirt. A red splotch, which would turn purple in the coming hours, spread just above his waist line.

“Shit happens in the heat of battle,” Daniel said. “A few more inches lower and I’d have been a goner.”

“Yeah. A goner. Hope you enjoyed yourself,” Chris said.

“Got the job done. Sent the message. Whatever. Don’t be such a fucking pansy. You were there with us, a full participant. Don’t see why it matters who we killed.” Daniel sneered.

“Whatever,” Chris muttered.

“Ain’t gonna matter in a week anyway. Gonna be enough misery to make this country finally look at themselves and realize they’ve been living a lie. Less mouths to feed, less voices to bitch about stuff,” Daniel said.

He was right. The country was in for a rude awakening, and this was just the beginning.

Chapter Eight

James Briggs woke up at four AM. He had been anxious for the last few days and sleep had been elusive. His grades were getting worse and worse, and if he didn’t maintain a certain grade point in college, the National Guard wasn’t going to keep paying for his business degree.

He had hoped to go back to sleep, after all, it was a rare day off from his regular job as a welder at Hooper Industries. He sometimes had weekends off, but they were always overworked and undermanned. Plus, it helped line his savings account so he could do nice things for his girlfriend Shannon.

But a recent hacker had gotten into his accounts and stolen $1,200. James wished he could track the guy down and beat the crap out of him. The bank had been helpful, but they had no answer as to when his money would be returned. The hacker had worked out of Malaysia, but James had done some research and found that the SOB was probably from another country, maybe even Russia, and it might take weeks for the bank to finish investigating. So now he had about a hundred bucks to get him through the next week until payday. He wasn’t sure how in the world he was going to cover all of his bills.

He didn’t even know how to tell Shannon. She was thinking about moving in with him, but how was this going to look? He wouldn’t be able to pay his electric bill, hell, his rent if he didn’t go and sell some stuff at the pawn shop. He had an old ring that had been passed down from his great grandfather. It was gaudy, gold, and had a bunch of diamonds embedded in the band. He’s had it appraised at nearly 6K. When his grandmother had given it to him, she had told him he should have the gold melted down and the diamonds reset in an engagement band. He wasn’t sure when he would ask Shannon to marry him. He’d be an idiot not to. She got him, and she was more and more staying at his place. They shared some liberal views, although she tended to have more of a conservative background. Early in their relationship, they had decided not to talk about politics because it would only lead to arguments.

James rolled over and found her sleeping next to him. She didn’t have a lick of clothing on and the covers had been pushed down so he had a glorious view of her breasts. Shannon was gorgeous and way out of his league. She had long ash brown hair that often curled on the ends when there was some humidity. She was a little bit of a fitness nut and liked to jog. This made her figure toned and sexy as hell.

They had met, thanks to a friend, and he’d almost immediately given up. After a drink, he had slipped into his good natured, smart-mouthed self, and she had laughed at a lot of his jokes.

James was only five foot ten and Shannon was two inches shorter. He had assumed she would be into really tall guys, but she had told him she didn’t really like guys that much larger than her. He assumed she was just placating him, but after a few months of dating, he realized she had been serious.

He had grown serious with her as well. If things kept up like this, he would have enough money saved for a knock out engagement ring.

“What are you staring at?” She asked him.

“Just taking you in,” he said.

“Perv. Maybe I should start wearing a parka to bed.”

“That would be a real shame. How would you be able to feel me cuddling you?”

“You have a good point.” She rubbed her blue eyes and blinked rapidly.

They had shared a bottle of wine last night before going to bed and having some heated sex. He had been so looking forward to a repeat, until the call came in. Shit.

“You want to keep me interested, right?” He winked.

“If you’re not interested in me by now, buddy, we need to have a long hard talk,” she said.

“I’m all kinds of interested in you,” he grinned, then leaned over and kissed her.

She grabbed the back of his head and held him there while her tongue darted into his mouth. When they broke apart, he was more than a little aroused.

“That’s a fine how do you do,” he said.

“How about this how do you do?” Shannon asked and pushed the covers off her body.

She cocked one tanned leg up and lowered it to the bed. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

His land line rang.

“What the hell is that?” Shannon said.

“It’s my phone.” James hopped out of bed, stepped over a pile of his clothes from the night before, then nearly tumbled over a full clothes hamper he had put off taking downstairs to wash.

He kept a land line because it was part of his cable deal, but also, it was used in the event the National Guard had to call.

“Hello?

“Specialist Briggs, this is Sergeant Wells. Sorry for the early call but we’re on deck. How soon can you make it to the armory?”

“Seriously?”

“I don’t like it any more than you do, but there’s something big brewing. Be prepared for what could turn into an extended deployment.”

“Did we just go to war with someone?” James couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“I can’t say right now. Just be there ASAP. If can get a hold of Skip Kozlowski, I’d appreciate it if you passed the word. He isn’t answering his phone.”

“I’ll try to get him. He lives a few miles from me.”

“Excellent. See you at the armory, Specialist.”

“Aye, Sergeant,” James said in disbelief, then hung up the phone. He dug out his cell phone to call Koslowski and found he’d missed two calls there as well as a message from Wells.

“I have to go,” he blurted.

“What?”

“I have to go. I got called up, I’m sorry. I’d rather stay in bed all day with you,” he said. “It’s weird. I never expect to get deployed.”

“What the hell? Are you leaving me?” Shannon asked in disbelief.

“I don’t know what’s happening, and I probably won’t until I get to the armory. I hope it’s nothing major,” he said as he moved to his closet.

“Do you have time for a quick shower?” she asked and slid out of bed.

“How quick?” James cocked an eyebrow.

“I guess that depends on you,” Shannon said and strolled into the bathroom. She glanced over her shoulders and shot him a look. “Coming?”

“I don’t know if I have… I mean, I should hurry,” he stammered.

“So, if you’re gone for a while, the last memory of me is going to be my ass?”

“I can think of worse things in the world.” James grinned.

“Just get your own ass in here, and I’ll give you a quick send off.”

James looked between her and his closet where his BDU’s hung. Then he made up his mind and chased her into the bathroom. He grabbed her butt, she giggled, slapped his hand away, started the shower, then turned and pressed herself against his body.

* * *

James rushed through his morning routine. He shaved and brushed his teeth while Shannon sat on the edge of the tub, applying lotion to her body.

“Are you going to be okay locking up my place?” he asked.

“It’s okay. I’ll stop by and check on it if you’re gone for a while.”

“I hope I’m not,” he said and directed his attention to throwing a little gel in his hair. He should have gotten a haircut a few weeks ago, but he figured he had another week until his monthly commitment to spend two days practicing with his regiment.

“I don’t want you to go,” Shannon said.

He turned to her, “I don’t want to go either. All I know for sure is that it’s something local so there’s a good chance it won’t last for very long. I’d be surprised if it lasts more than a few days.”

He hurried to the bedroom and slid into some underwear and a T-shirt, then he retrieved his BDUs from the closet. Shit, he hadn’t cleaned them yet, but he had a clean set in his away bag. He sniffed them and decided they would have to do. With such little notice being given, the staff sergeant would probably overlook it.

“You look so hot when you put that on,” Shannon said.

She stood in the doorway, still naked, hair wet, arms at her side, giving him an unobstructed view of her body. He took a mental snapshot or three.

“You need to put some clothes on or I’m going to be really late,” he said.

“Promises, promises,” she said.

“I’ll message you as soon as I know what the deal is.” He hauled out his just in case bag. He had extra underwear, socks, his clean set of BDUs, a first aid kit, and toiletries ready to go.

He pulled out his apartment keys and took off the one to his front door. That reminded him again that he should have made one for Shannon by now.

“Be careful out there, please. I really care about you,” she said as she accepted the key.

“I love you, too,” he said.

“You do?”

“Of course, I do,” he smiled.

“Well I love you back,” she said and hugged him.

He would remember this moment because it was the last time he saw Shannon for a long time.

Chapter Nine

Shortly after they had purchased the home Bradley had made a couple of updates to the basement. The door had been replaced with a thicker security door, and he had closed up the stairwell entryway so he could affix a metal ingress point.

The second door would stand up to some pretty severe damaged. When locked from below it would keep his family safe in the event of an emergency. He had then punched a hole in the wall, and run piping to a location twenty feet from the house that would work as an exhaust point to expel smoke in case they needed to make a fire.

Bradley had planned to install a small station so he could create a small oven, but those had been put on hold a few years ago as money had gotten tighter. They did not have a bug out location in the woods. As much as he wanted to it was simply too expensive. Now he cursed the fact that they could potentially be stuck here if things continued to go south.

Bradley went downstairs and considered the pile of boxes in the corner. They covered half a dozen locked black plastic bins.

His stomach grumbled, and he decided to put this off for a little bit. The truth was, he wanted to watch a little more of the news, see what all in the hell was happening in the world. After the shocking video this morning, he had trouble concentrating.

He pushed around clumps of scrambled eggs covered in salsa while he eyed the television.

He tried to concentrate but it was hard.

He’d put it off long enough. Bradley deposited his plate in the dishwasher, and then went back downstairs, while Monica kept Jenny busy with some arts and crafts.

There was one feature of the old house they had purchased that Bradley had been the most excited about. The basement. Cool in the summer, it was where he preferred to spend his time when he was reading a good book. It could be 95 degrees outside but it would be a cozy 72 downstairs.

Bradley shifted the cardboard containers around until he had located one in particular. He dragged it to the center of the room and lifted the lid.

A few years ago, Bradley had been heavily into prepping. His job, at the time, had paid a lot more than his current employer. He had kept enough supplies for them to survive anything short of a nuclear strike for two months. He still had a lot of emergency supplies, but not nearly as much as he should.

He removed another bin and placed it next to the first. Bradley tossed that lid aside and looked over the contents. An emergency radio with a hand crank to keep it charged as well as ports for charging electronic devices via USB ports. Hands-free flashlight headbands, ponchos, socks, and a hygiene kit. There were ten boxes of protein bars with a ten year shelf-life.

A couple of boxes of freeze dried food, bleach, a box of Sawyer mini water filtration systems, and in the bottom of the first bin, fifty-five pounds of rice stored in vacuum sealed Mylar bags. There were matching silver packets of beans and wheat, plus there were disinfecting pads so he could clean out the bins and use them for storing water.

He took a large locked box out of the second bin and set it aside. It had a combination lock with Jenny’s birthday as the combo. Bradley turned the dial until it clicked open.

Inside, wrapped in rags, were a pair of handguns. A Smith and Wesson M&P 9 Shield for conceal and carry in a holster that would attach to the waistband of his pants. He had a few hundred rounds in the bottom of the second bin, but he had selected the 9mm because it was one of the most popular bore sizes to own. Ammo would be easier to find.

The other was his prized possession, a gun with a much larger caliber, a Kimber Raptor II in .45 caliber. He took out three extra magazines and set them aside.

“What are you doing down here?” Monica asked from the top of the stairs.

“Taking stock of our supplies in case we need them,” he called back.

Her footsteps told him he would never get the guns put away before she reached the bottom of the steps. It wasn’t worth keeping a secret anymore anyway. With the craziness erupting everywhere, he might as well show her he had their protection in mind.

“What are those?” She asked.

“Couple of guns I kept. Don’t freak out, baby,” he said.

“You kept those?” Monica demanded.

“Yeah. And good thing I did. See all of that crap on TV?”

“Honey, you said you wouldn’t keep them in the house with the kids.”

“They were safely kept in a locked box. I’d never let the kids near them,” he said.

“It’s not just that. You promised me,” Monica said.

“Can we talk about it later. All this stuff that’s happening, I’m worried,” Bradley said.

His phone buzzed in his back pocket. He hadn’t allowed it enough time to get a full charge but it was good for a few more hours.

“I know you’ve been through a lot. I know, baby. I’m just surprised you hid this from me,” she said.

Bradley looked down at the Kimber and thought about the reasons he had kept it. After yesterday, he would be okay if he never touched a gun before, and yet here he was with one in his hand. But he was concerned, very concerned. After watching the mass shooting on TV, the reporter killed, the cameraman shot as he ran, what was happening?

On the other hand, he was miles from Chicago, and there weren’t any reports of problems there.

The phone buzzed again. He took it out and studied the display. Then he shot to his feet and grabbed Monica’s hand.

“What’s wrong?” She asked.

“It’s Junior. That idiot kid of ours went to Chicago with Kirk to join a protest. He said someone is shooting at the crowd.”

“He said he was at Kirk’s,” Bradley said in frustration. “I’m ground that kid into next year.”

He grabbed Monica’s hand and headed for the stairs. Then he had a thought and dashed back to his bins. Bradley picked out a holster for the Kimber. Then he put the Smith and Wesson on his belt. He picked up three extra magazines for each piece and followed his wife up the stairs.

* * *

They tuned the television to a local station while Bradley dialed his son’s phone. He got a fast busy and hung up. Then he tried again with the same result, so he texted his son.

Where are you? Give me your exact location and keep updating me as you move. If guns go off near you, hide, and stay out of sight.

He turned his attention to the television while he went over his guns. Jenny had fallen asleep and was oblivious to her parents’ crisis.

“Look, look!” Monica cried.

Bradley gasped at what he was seeing. An overhead helicopter had caught the action, and it was being replayed. A well-armed group of people, dressed in street clothes but wearing ski masks, advanced on the protesters and started shooting. People fell, ran, trampled each other. The scene was utter chaos as the attackers emptied magazine after magazine, leaving bodies and pools of blood.

“Jesus.” Bradley gasped.

“Terrorists. It’s just like the president said. We’ve let in too many illegals and they’re shooting at people. How many cities? Oh god, what if Junior is there. What if he’s in the middle of that? What if someone shot him, and I can’t reach him?” Monica grabbed Bradley around the waist and pressed her head to his chest.

“I’m going to get him. I need you to stay with Jenny. Lock everything. Close the blinds and keep the lights to a minimum. You know I put in those security plates in the door frame. No one’s going to bust down the door,” Bradley said.

“What do you mean break in? We’re okay out here, it’s the city that’s in trouble.”

“I don’t know, babe. I got a bad feeling about this. So much violence in one day means it’s coordinated. If martial law is declared, we may be in for a long haul,” Bradley said. “Get that generator out and unpack it. It’s been in the corner of the basement for a while. See if there’s any gas in the garage. You find some, you bring it in. Might be a half gallon from the lawn mower. We’ll need it.”

“Okay. Just get Junior back. I know where the old checklist is. I used to think you were crazy for being so paranoid. Maybe I was wrong,” Monica said. She picked up a box of tissue and pulled one out so she could dab at her eyes.

“Maybe I am crazy, and this will all blow over in a few days. I hope it is.” Bradley took the Smith and Wesson and ejected the mag. He made sure it was full even though it had the weight. Then he put it back in the holster and pulled it free from his belt.

“What are you doing with that?” Monica asked.

“I’m leaving it with you. You remember how we used to go to the range? Keep this on you at all times. If you’re threatened, in the house, don’t hesitate. You pull the trigger. A bad guy wouldn’t think twice and neither should you,” Bradley said and handed her the leather holster.

She took it and set it on the television stand. “You’re scaring me.”

“I don’t want to but this could go bad real fast. Please, do as I asked, just keep that gun on you. Clip it to your waistband or put on a belt. You can put a baggy shirt or hoody on and pull it down to cover the piece.”

“I will, I promise.”

Bradley’s phone buzzed again. He picked it up and read the message. It contained the nearest cross street to Junior, and there was a simple message.

Hurry!

Chapter Ten

Q: Mr. President. You have called the protests a form of anarchy, but pundits believe it is the right of the people to express their dissatisfaction. How do you respond to opponents who say you are wrong?

A: I’ll tell you something. The protests have become a form of crime in the major cities. We have groups of people destroying property. Breaking into stores and looting. It’s anarchy out there. We need to reign it in. It’s imperative that we reign it in. One of the greatest presidents of all time, Abraham Lincoln, famously said: “A house divided against itself cannot stand.” I firmly believe this. I hear the American people. I understand that the national debt, left to me by the previous administration, as well as the skyrocketing unemployment, needs to be fixed. It’s not me, I’m trying my best here. I’m not a politician, remember that. I’m was a banker, and I know about the economy. It’s the democrats who are blocking every effort we put forth to save our great nation, and it has to stop.

Q: With so many cities under siege, would you ever consider marital law?

A: Martial law would be a last resort, but I won’t rule it out.

Q: Do you think Democrats would block you on this?

A: I do think they would. They won’t support our health care initiative which would save the American public a lot of money. They won’t back me when it comes to removing more immigrants from our borders. You can directly blame them for the last two government shut downs. I don’t believe they will support me.

They parked the van a half mile from the safe house and exited the vehicle. They split up and converged on the house. Chris was one of the first to arrive and, as soon as he closed the door, he paused. They had loaded their weapons here but as far as he knew, no one had been stupid enough to fire one inside.

So why did it smell like discharged gun powder?

Daniel arrived next and stomped into the house.

“That was not cool, man,” Chris said.

“What?”

“The kids. We weren’t supposed to target them,” Chris said.

“Big deal.”

Chris had a folding knife in his pocket. He could have it in his hand, whip the blade out, and stab Chris within seconds, and it wouldn’t be the first time. The move was one he had been forced to practice when he was in the CIA. Later, as a paid contractor in Syria, he had employed it as one of his many skills in the art of taking a human life.

“Dick move,” Chris said.

Ryan arrived next along with the rest of the squad. Ryan went to the downstairs window and made sure no one was watching them. The streets were oddly quiet but above, it was a different story. Helicopters swarmed the skies as they made for the scene in Chicago.

“You smell that?” Chris asked Ryan.

“Yeah. What happened here?”

A thump sounded from above. Chris went into a defensive stance legs apart, hands up, body tilted to the side. He reached for his knife and pulled it out in one smooth motion and thumbed the blade. While they had been required to ditch their weapons, which would be untraceable thanks to their use of gloves and the fact that the serial numbers had been filed off, he still carried a backup. The Beretta Nano packed 6+1 9mm rounds in a compact frame and didn’t feature a safety, teardown lever, or slide lock to get in the way if he had to pull it. He had sacrificed ammo for ability, and carried one extra magazine. It was his shit or quit gun.

Tucked into the side of his pants, he hadn’t let on to any of the other’s that he was still packing. The rules had been very clear on this one. They would be met by a representative who would match names to pictures to make sure the proper people had been involved in the operation. Once that was done, they would each go their separate ways and flee to whichever corner of the world each called home at that moment.

“Probably our contact,” Chris said.

But there was something off. The smell and the silence put him on edge.

“Daniel, take a peek upstairs and make sure we’re good. I’ll look around the downstairs. Ryan, keep an eye out front,” he ordered.

“Ain’t nothing out of the ordinary here. Just our contact, or one of the members of the other team up there, but I’ll take a look if it’s so goddamn important to you,” Daniel grumped.

As Daniel took the stairs, Chris looked at Ryan.

“Yeah. I don’t like him either,” Ryan whispered.

The Hispanic man chuckled.

“Oh shit! We got a problem,” Daniel called from upstairs.

The back door opened silently, and two men dressed in black entered. Both bore automatic weapons, Heckler and Koch UMP’s from the look. Chris didn’t freeze even as a gun sounded from above. Something hit the floor, hard, and Chris assumed that was Daniel.

He threw his knife underhand, and hoped it would stick, then he dove to the side while pulling his Beretta Nano. He hit the floor, rolled, and stayed low as the room was sprayed with bullets. Ryan went down, as did the Hispanic man. One of them screamed in pain but it was cut off with another burst of bullets.

The men were out of sight but they were good. One of them reloaded while the other fired into the main room again.

There was something about one of the men who had shot at him. A familiarity in the way he moved. It reminded him of…

Lawson. Son of a bitch.

Chris rolled and fired three rounds at the hallway, making them take to the walls for cover. He came up in a seated position and fired from his midsection. Chris had been trained in CAR, Center Axis and Relock, a few years ago. He lifted the gun so it was level with his eyes, about ten inches away, and fired the last round. It punched into a wall and one of the shooters yelled in surprise or pain.

He ejected his mag with a flick of his wrist and slapped his backup mag home.

“That you, Lawson?” he called, hoping to stall.

“Who else?” Lawson replied and sprayed the room again.

Chris rolled and came up prone next to Ryan’s body, then fired three rounds in the direction the HK had fired from.

“I’m going to kill you,” Chris threatened.

“Not unless I get you first, pal. Don’t worry. I’ll make it quick,” Lawson said.

The HK sprayed the room again, but Chris was already on the move. He leapt over Ryan’s corpse, met the man’s vacant eyes for a split second, and then smashed through the window and rolled on the ill-kept from lawn. He came up in a sitting shooters stance and fired half of his remaining rounds at the house to suppress Lawson.

Someone kicked open an upstairs window and a gun barrel protruded. Chris dove toward the side of the house, out of sight, and ran. Several neighbors came out to investigate the shooting.

“Terrorists in that house!” Chris yelled and ran toward them. “They’re shooting everyone. Call the damn police!”

Gunfire erupted behind him and took down one of the civilians.

A big black guy came out of his brown rambler with a double barrel shotgun and waved it around.

“There, in that house, some kind of terrorist attack!” Chris repeated his claim.

When he rounded the back of the rambler, he broke into a sprint, and then backtracked and used side streets to confuse any pursuit. He had holstered his weapon, and when he finally came upon a strip mall, he made for a liquor store on the corner. He had little with him. His personal, and modified secure cell phone, a gun with a few rounds of ammo and one last magazine, and about six thousand dollars in cash. He turned toward a wall around the back of the store, and quickly divided the money into four more or less even stacks. One went in a back pocket, one in front, and the other two shoved into his shoes.

Task completed, he swung back around the store and entered the door, keeping his head down and eyes on his cell as if checking a message.

“You all right, buddy?” the cashier asked. He was a Pakistani judging by his accent, and dressed in street clothes.

“Yeah. Just went for a run, and I need some water. You have any?”

“Cooler in the back,” he waved.

Chris faded to the refrigerated area and took out two bottles of chilled water. He drained the first one and lingered back there for a few minutes.

“Don’t worry, man. I’ll pay for this,” he said.

“Sure, sure.” The man responded but was too absorbed in his nudie mag to make eye contact.

He kept an eye on the street from the rear of the store. A black van meandered by, front windows tinted. It slowed as it drove along the strip mall, then sped up after reaching the end of the street.

“I forgot my jacket and it’s cold. Got any hoodies for sale by chance?”

“Tourist stuff is on the center aisle,” the cashier said.

Chris found a gray hoodie with “I Heart Chicago” on the front and took it, with the water bottles, to the cashier.

“Give me a pack of smokes, too.”

“Which brand, sir,” the cashier asked.

“I don’t know. How about American Spirit. Got a lighter?”

“It’s not good to smoke after a run,” the man said.

“Run?” he asked. “Right. It’s for my girlfriend. Got that lighter?”

“Sure. Two dollars and seventy-eight cents for the cheapest lighter.”

“Bag it all,” Chris dug out a wad of cash and paid for his purchases. Then he slid the hoodie on, lifted the hood, and went back on the street.

It was going to be a long day.

Chapter Eleven

Bradley stuffed a handful of protein bars and a Coke from the refrigerator into a plastic grocery bag. Then he filled a big commuter mug with water. He snatched up his keys and slid into a leather jacket. He already wore jeans and an old Nirvana T-shirt because he had grabbed the first thing in his drawer.

Bradley attached the Kimber’s holster to his left side so he could draw quickly with his right hand if he ran into trouble. He packed a pair of magazines into a sheath and strapped that to the back of his jeans. He would have liked to leave the gun at home, but if Junior was in real trouble, or he ran into fighting, he wanted to be able to protect himself and his son.

“Please, be careful,” Monica said.

“I will, darling. It’s only a forty minute drive, but I might make better time,” he said.

“What about going to the police station. I thought they wanted you to come by this morning and finish your statement and answer any more questions.”

“They have my cell number. If it’s that important, they’ll call,” Bradley said.

He went to Jenny’s room and found her crashed out on the bed. She still wore her Moana PJs and laid on top of her covers. But she had dragged a Disney blanket onto her body and wrapped herself up tight.

He leaned over and kissed her forehead.

“Hi, Daddy. Are you feeling better?” she asked him.

“I was going to ask you the same thing. How’s the cold treating you? If you turn into a zombie, I think we’ll chain you up in the basement so we can keep you around,” he said.

“I’m not a zombie, and you can’t keep me down there. It’s cold,” she smiled. “Want me to freeze to death?”

“A zombie wouldn’t care about the temperature. She’d find a corner and stand there with her hands out,” he stuck his out and bent his wrists. Then he rolled his eyes back and groaned.

“Oh no,” she humored him. “Not a zombie. I know, I’ll get my princess wand to bash you over the head.”

“How about if you don’t bash anyone over the head. Sound like a deal?”

“Okay, Daddy. Deal. I won’t bash you over the head if you’re a zombie. And you won’t put me in the basement if I’m a zombie.”

The shook hands on it, Jenny wore a goofy smile as they shook hands on the deal.

“I’m going to pick up Junior. I love you, sweetheart.”

“I love you too, Daddy. Would you get some Cheetos?”

“Cheetos? Sure. I’ll try to pick up a bag on my way home.”

“Yay. I love Cheetos.”

Bradley kissed her forehead again. She was hot, probably running a minor fever, but she was in good spirits, so he didn’t worry too much. If Monica said it was a cold, then it was a cold.

He wished he had time to leave a list of things for Monica to do, like drag in some of the wooden boards from the garage, practice reloading the M&P, bring the food up from downstairs and check the expiration dates. Clean out the bins and fill them with water.

But he should be back in a few hours. Then he would have time to help her with chores to prep the house. It might be overkill at this point, but better safe than sorry.

* * *

His phone buzzed again on the way to the door. He had messaged Junior back a few minutes ago and waited for an answer.

Quiet here now. No shots. Lots of police and reporters.

Did you and Kirk change your location?

Yeah. We walked about a mile away to get out of the flow of fire trucks and ambulances.

Keep moving south. I’m on my way. Text me your current location, but update me when you find a safe place.

Junior sent him the cross streets and then, helpfully, a picture of the signs so he could read the numbers beneath the names. He opened his navigation program and fed it the location. The app said it would take almost an hour to reach Junior, so he texted his son back with a revised time frame.

We’ll find somewhere safe. My cell is almost dead. I’ll turn it off and then back on in thirty minutes with an update.

If you can’t get a hold of me. Come back to this address and I’ll find you.

Okay dad. I’m scared. I should never have left home.

We’ll talk about it when you’re home.

“Please, be careful, Brad.” Monica met him at the door.

“I will, I promise. I love you, now lock the door behind me and secure the windows and the back door. They are a couple of security braces in the basement. If you feel like something is happening in the neighborhood, no matter how small, don’t be afraid to get them out,” Bradley said as he took his wife in his arms.

“I will. As soon as you leave, I’ll put them up just so you have peace of mind, okay?”

“Not just for my peace of mind, it’s also for your safety,” he said. He kissed his wife and hugged her tight. He reached behind and grabbed her bottom just for good measure.

“You come home safe tonight, and I’ll let you do that some more,” she teased.

“Yes, ma’am,” Bradley said.

She ‘tsked’ when she ran her hands over the gun and magazines around his waist but he ignored it. She had to understand that he didn’t know what he was walking into. With the mass shooting having occurred an hour ago, there was a chance he wouldn’t even be able to get into Chicago. He would have a straight shot on 90, but that might also be completely packed. He used an app that was very good about finding unobstructed directions even if he had to go out of the way. He would head for 90 and see what the app found.

Bradley started the Bronco and let the engine warm up for a minute. He dug around in his glovebox and located a cigarette charger that would let him use a USB cable to charge his phone. He plugged it in and waited for the battery indicator to light up.

He turned on the radio and scanned until he found a station with some news. He normally listened to a local rock or country station. Sometimes he tuned in for some conservative talk shows but, for the most part, he preferred music in the truck.

“We now have reports of seven cities that have been targeted by the anarchists. Los Angeles, Chicago, New York, Houston, Philadelphia, Phoenix, and Seattle. We don’t have a death toll yet, but it’s expected to be in the dozens in Chicago. Stay tuned for more right after this…”

The radio cut to a plumbing commercial.

Bradley double checked the address his son was located at, then compared it to his navigation app. It had only been a few minutes, but his commute had increased to nearly ninety minutes.

Bradley backed up, then stopped at the end of the driveway as a pair of choppers, hanging low in the sky, thumped past the house. They were definitely military. As they swept past the house, he realized they were Black Hawks.

He let out a long low whistle and checked his rearview mirror. With the street clear, he backed out and headed toward the onramp for I-90.

Chapter Twelve

James tried to call his friend Skip Koslowski over and over again. He messaged him and finally got a response.

I’m on my way. Sorry, phone was off.

Shit, man. They’ve been trying to contact you.

I know. See you there.

He made good time on his way to the armory. He pulled up and the guard post and got behind a long line of cars. They checked IDs and, when he finally had his turn, he was ushered onto the base.

Most of his unit wasn’t there yet, but that was to be expected. Some of the guys and gals lived three or four hours away. It would take most of the morning for them to arrive.

But James couldn’t believe how many men and women reported. It was like the entire division had been called up. What in the hell was going on? He had listened in on the news, but all they talked about was the protest at the UIC pavilion. They were planning to march in support of immigration reform. Had it turned into a mob? While listening to the radio report about the attacks in other cities, he thought for sure it was terrorists.

Skip Koslowski was half-black and had mocha-colored skin. His mother was from Chicago, but his father’s family had immigrated from Poland forty years ago.

He arrived about ten minutes after James. He had his just in case bag slung over his shoulder, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in a few days. His hair was a mess and his BDU’s looked like it had been pulled out of a clothes hamper.

“The fuck is this all about?” Skip asked James.

“I thought you might know. I just got here,” James said.

“I can’t believe they’re calling us up. Do you think we’re being sent to the protest in Chicago?”

“Does the Pope shit in the woods? Where else would we be heading?”

“I don’t know. The call up came before the attacks started. Just weird timing is all.

“Yeah, you got a point there.”

They double-timed it to their designated meet up area where they found the part of their squad. The next hour passed in a daze as more and more of the Guard arrived. James just started to think he was going to die of boredom when the company commander arrived. He returned salutes as he walked the field but didn’t address the company. James and Skip hung out and tried not to look bored. It was almost 1000 hours when they were finally informed of their mission.

The company commander, a hard-faced man with graying hair, took to the podium. He tapped the microphone a couple of times. James had never personally talked to Commander Pritchett. He’d been inspected by him and made eye contact, but it was better to stay off a company commander’s radar as much as possible.

“Ladies and gentlemen. We have a troubling situation in Chicago. I know a lot of you were looking forward to a weekend, but that may not happen any time soon. We have been attacked. People have been hurt, others have been killed. While we don’t yet know the extent of the damage, we are going to be deployed to the area to assist with security. We will render as much assistance as we can. I’m not going to beat around the bush here, there may still be attackers in the city,” he said as he stood on a podium. James looked left and right and almost let out a low whistle. There were so many here.

Voices rose as the company commander delivered the rest of the news.

“More importantly, we are to set up check points with the help of the local police and federal authorities. People are going to be scared. They are going to be looking to us for answers. I wish I had them, but I don’t have any at this time. Until we are on the scene, information is going to be sparse.

“You all have trained for this. You know what to do. I’m expecting each man and woman to do their duty no matter how they feel about it. If given an order, you will follow it. Is that understood?”

“Hooah,” some of the Guard called back, mixed with a few, “Aye’s.”

“There goes my weekend,” Skip bitched.

“I’m supposed to work tomorrow morning, this is some bullshit,” James muttered.

One of the others in his squad, a tall woman named Carter, turned around.

“You guys aren’t watching the news? Check your phones as soon as we’re done here,” she said. “It’s pretty grim.”

“So, it was a terrorist attack?” James asked her.

“What else can it be? I’m seeing reports that a lot of people have been killed, like hundreds,” then she shot them a tight-lipped grimace and wandered off.

“Why did I ever sign up for this? I had a date tonight with a little Korean lady. Met her on Tinder,” Skip said.

“You met her on Tinder, and you didn’t catch something?”

“Nah, man. I play it safe. Besides, she hasn’t ever used the app before. We hit it off over messenger,” Skip said.

James rolled his eyes. “Sounds like love at first text.”

“She’s cool, man. Or she was. She may find a backup now that I’m being deployed. Shit sucks.” Skip sighed.

“Let’s find out where the hell we’re going,” James said.

They left together to locate Sergeant Wells so they could get their transport orders.

While they walked, James took out his iPhone and pushed the power button. A message from Shannon was waiting for him. He clicked it and found a picture of her, wrapped in the sheet from this morning, but barely enough to cover herself. You won’t believe what happens next.

James gulped and quickly closed the picture before Skip could see it and start making comments.

He brought up a local news page on his internet browser, and then stopped walking.

“Terrorist have made attacks in seven major cities,” he said.

Skip snatched the phone out of his hand and read the screen. “Holy shit. So, it’s not just us?”

“Use your own phone,” James grabbed his back.

“Can’t. I dropped it this morning, again. I’m going to have to live vicariously through your device,” Skip said.

James barely heard Skip. He couldn’t believe what he read. He closed his eyes for a few seconds and said a silent prayer.

Fifteen minutes later, they were boarded onto a transport and headed into the city.

Chapter Thirteen

Chris walked along the strip mall and used the cigarette as cover along with his drawn hoodie. He didn’t smoke so he faked it, sucking acrid smoke into his mouth and puffing it back out without inhaling. He walked slowly, like he was one of the many unemployed in the city. Just an ordinary citizen out and about.

A large black SUV slowed. Was Lawson in it? Chris would like to have a chat with him, preferably one that ended with the barrel of his 9mm in Lawson’s mouth before pulling the trigger.

Chris didn’t stop moving, he meandered along the sidewalk and forced himself not to look back. He didn’t have any facial hair that could help identify him and, at the distance, unless they had 3D workups of his face, they wouldn’t be able to identify him from seventy-five feet away. He puffed the cigarette. It was nearly to the filter so he tossed it on the street where it rolled under an Orange Toyota RAV4, then kept on walking.

The SUV sped up and was gone in seconds.

Chris crossed a major intersection, still putting distance between himself and the safe house that had been shot to shit. He wasn’t surprised that sirens weren’t whining nearby. With so many dead, dying, and injured in Chicago, the police would be strained to setup check points and assist with casualties. There was probably a manhunt already underway, and Chris was under no delusions that enough witnesses, when interviewed, would help put the pieces together, and they would find the safe house. For now, he felt relatively safe from the local authorities.

All they would recover from the home were bodies. Every piece of equipment used in the assault had been tossed aside. They’d left the nitrate gloves in various public trash cans, but they would soon join a mountain of evidence. All of the pieces would come together, but Chris had a feeling it wouldn’t matter by tomorrow.

A pair of dark vehicles sped by, but one of them slowed. He ducked between a bank and a drug store and walked along it. They didn’t follow, but he was a sitting duck out in the open. He had left the two dark cars at cross roads but there was a good chance they would finally catch him in the open and near enough to identify him.

He found his answer a minute later.

Chris had to cross the street, but he decided to risk it and jay walk. Sirens howled in the distance and a pair of Black Hawk choppers raced toward the city.

He looked around but the black cars must have turned at the intersection. He entered The Pink Panda strip club and stopped to show his ID. It was fake, but it passed the bouncers cursory glance. The big black guy looked like he was hung over as hell. His eyes were yellow, and he smelled like a brewery.

“You got a VIP room?” Chris asked.

“In the back, but it doesn’t open for another hour,” the bouncer said.

“Any way I can get you to open it early? I’d like to chill. Too many margaritas if you know what I mean,” Chris pled his case. Then he took out his wad of cash and showed the bouncer a hundred.

“Yeah, man. We can accommodate you,” the bouncer said and slid the hundred into his jean pockets.

“Cool. Cool. I’ll get a drink at the bar while you open up the back, and thanks, man.”

“Whatever. My head’s killing me, too. So don’t be an asshole with the girls and I won’t have to ruin my amazing morning.”

“You got it,” Chris said.

He headed for the bathroom and washed his hands. Then he splashed warm soapy water on his face and rinsed. Paper towels revealed he had black on his face from all of the expended gunpowder. Once he was convinced he would pass a cursory examination, he went to the bar, took a seat, then ordered a beer. He turned in the swivel chair and kept an eye on the entryway. Chris looked for a clock but couldn’t find one.

Some shitty 80s metal song played over the speakers. Two men sat close together near the stage and nursed drinks. Neither one of them paid Chris the least bit of attention. A woman came out and danced for them, then offered her hip one of the men to place a few singles in the waist band of her panties.

“You got the time?” he asked the bartender.

“Quarter to twelve,” he said.

Chris paid for his drink but kept his eyes on the doorway.

The song changed but it was another 80s hair metal band, and two women replaced the brunette on the stage. The blonde was dressed in turquoise sequins, and the woman with black hair and tattoos on her arms and neck wore a piece of pink lingerie and matching stockings. They danced seductively, but he barely glanced their way.

After he’d guessed five minutes had gone by, the bouncer entered the room and whistled in Chris’s direction. Chris turned to look and the bouncer pointed at the back room.

Chris took his beer and palmed another hundred dollar bill. He picked the blonde and showed her the money and motioned. She followed him into the VIP room.

He would spend an hour with her, and then hit the street again.

“What’s your name, handsome?” She asked.

“You guessed it. Handsome,” he said.

“You’re joking. That’s not your name.”

“It’s my name. What’s yours?”

“Becca, but if you want to use a different name I’m okay with that. You know the rules, right?”

“No touching. Sure,” he said.

“Pretty much. Hey, what’s going on in town? We heard a bunch of sirens out there,” Becca said.

She led him into the room. He let his eyes follow her ass that had a tiny g-string stuck between her cheeks. For a hundred bucks, he might as well enjoy the view.

“Not sure. Probably protesters,” Chris said.

The room was dark and lights rotated on the ceiling casting star shapes on the furniture. He set his beer on a table next to a large felt-lined chair. He pushed the chair five degrees to the left and took a seat.

“How long do you want me for?” Becca asked him.

“How much will this get me?” He dug out his cash and added a fifty to the hundred.

“An hour, but if you can last that long, I’ll be impressed,” she said.

Becca slipped her sequin top off to reveal perky breasts. She shoved them in his face. Chris smiled, but his eyes didn’t leave the direction of the doorway.

Then Becca lowered her self onto his lap and rubbed her butt against his crotch.

It was going to be a long hour.

* * *

Chris had dismissed the stripper a few minutes ago. He was thoroughly unaroused. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the attention, it was that he had people out on the street trying to kill him. He didn’t feel remorse for the slaughter he had just participated in. He had always been good at that sort of thing. America had need of men like Chris Miller. A killer. A man who you sent in to rile up insurgencies. He’d participated in worse. Once he got used to killing, pushed his conscience aside, and stepped up for the big paychecks, it became almost routine.

A therapist would have had a field day with him. Was he a sociopath? Undoubtedly. Was he psychotic? Maybe a little bit. He also had a brain that was cool with operating in a gray area.

His off and on girlfriend said he was a cold bastard, but she liked him anyway, probably because they only hooked up. At least she liked having sex with him. So, when he was in town she was normally one of the first calls he made. But he wouldn’t be returning to his little apartment anytime soon, probably never for that matter.

He needed to go buy another burner phone and get on a VPN connection so he could check his bank account. His personal device was only for emergencies, but also to store information. Lawson should have known he had a device. If anything happened to him, it could fall into the wrong hands.

From the moment he’d accepted the job, to this morning, when Lawson, of all people, had shown up, he should have known this wasn’t a good job for his extended future.

He needed the phone. It was his backup and ticket out of the US if he were ever caught. If he didn’t login and reset the custom Unix script on a server in the Caymans on a weekly basis, he had rigged in time bombs that could leak information. Some of it was a bluff, but there were enough noted facts about operations he’d done for the government, scattered all over his personal device and the server.

He nodded at the bouncer as he left the strip club. The man barely registered Chris.

Chris put his hoodie up and walked another block. Then he crossed over a busy intersection that had at least a half-mile of traffic backed up. He made his way to a gas station, and then looked up and down the avenue. He needed a ride, but there was no way in hell he’d find one now. Even if he could find an Uber, he might be waiting an hour or two for it to arrive.

His stomach growled. He looked around again and spotted a Subway across the street.

Chris looked both ways and crossed, but he had to jump back when a large green truck thundered up the road. It veered onto the sidewalk and knocked over trashcans and a couple of mail boxes. The beast of a truck was followed by dozens more. Cars struggled to get out of the way.

Chris grimaced. He had a feeling that his team’s actions today were part of a coordinated attack. It didn’t matter why. He was paid up, and then he had nearly been killed by a hit squad. Chris wished he could have had a few hours with one of the guys who tried to kill him. He’d get some answers.

Chris cleared the street and strode into the Subway.

Chapter Fourteen

Bradley ran into the first roadblock less than ten miles from town. He had tried to change to a music station but couldn’t listen for more than a few minutes before going back to the news casters.

The news from Chicago was grim. So grim, he was afraid the entire city would be shut down by the time he got there.

“We are still waiting for the number of casualties. The identities of the assailants are still unknown at this time, but a manhunt is underway. The shooters wore black ski masks, and that’s all we know at this time. A police officer who was on the scene had this to say: ‘They looked just like the rest of the protesters except for the masks. It happened so fast and it was viscous. The men fired on the unarmed crowd, reloaded their weapons, and then resumed firing. It was like a death squad in a third world country.’ As soon as we have more information we will bring it to you here on 710 AM. Now, here’s Mary the with the weather.”

Bradley came to a stop. The car ahead of him had been doing at least ten miles over the speed limit, but it had to slam on its brakes and slide off to the side of the road. Bradley was looking ahead and barely caught the move in time or else he would have smashed into the red pickup the car ahead of him had swerved to avoid.

There was an exit a quarter of a mile ahead. Cars started diverting that way but the left lane drivers had seen the opening and signal lights flashed so they could get over.

The next twenty minutes was an agonizing crawl as car after car cut in line ahead of him. He tried to speed up and keep his bumper kissing the car ahead of him, but it was a lost cause. After an eternity, a couple of vehicles veered into the shoulder lane and sped toward the exit.

“Screw it,” Bradley muttered.

He roared into the shoulder lane and sped up to hit the exit. A car shot out in front of him and he laid on the horn.

Bradley checked his cell phone as he took the exit, but Junior hadn’t messaged him yet. He prayed his son had found a safe place to hide out. Idiot, going to Chicago to join a protest. Why couldn’t he see what was happening in the country?

Bradley understood, though. He had been a kid once and thought the world worked in a very different way. But then he had grown up, joined the military and it had become clear that he didn’t really know a damn thing.

The world had changed over the last ten years. Where he could easily find work before, the last administration seemed to have little regard for the middle class. He knew what it felt like to be marginalized, pushed aside. Even when he worked security, he always felt like he was on job away from being put out on the street.

“What the hell is this?” Bradley muttered as he caught sight of the large vehicles roaring up the shoulder. Cars moved aside, or tried to, on the packed freeway it was hard to maneuver. But the military trucks came in a long stream. There was an older, abandoned gray Honda Accord on the side of the road. The lead military truck, a transport, pulled up behind it and slowed. Then it surged forward and pushed the car off the road and into a ditch. It moved ahead and the others followed.

“How’d the damn Guard get here so fast?” he said.

* * *

The roads were a mess but he was only a few miles away. Between the military trucks, the ambulance, and fire trucks, he spent more pulled to the side of the road than actually on the road.

His thoughts drifted to the events of yesterday. The shooting at work. Bradley killing a co-worker. The image of Ed’s surprised face when a bullet entered it wouldn’t depart. He focused on the military trucks and thought of his time in the Army. But that brought up the specter of the woman he had accidentally killed. Lord Jesus. He was never going to be able to escape those images.

Ed had been picked on in accounting, but there was no reason for him to go all Rambo. The man had been crazy.

A pair of MRAPS thundered past looking completely out of place in Chicago. Those vehicles were designed to carry troops and protect them against gun fire and IEDs. What in the world did they need protection from here?

His phone buzzed, and Bradley read the message.

Found a place to hide out.

Send me the location and cross streets.

The next message contained the address.

We’re in a Subway.

Traffic is stopped. I’ll be there as soon as possible.

Thanks, Dad. Turning off my phone again.

Okay. You see trouble, you run in the opposite direction.

The next time he came to a halt, he picked up his phone and called Monica.

“Did you get him yet?” She asked without preamble.

“Not yet. I’m stuck. Looks like the National Guard is taking over the streets.”

“What?”

“It’s a convoy heading into the heart of downtown Chicago. I’ve never seen anything like it. I don’t know how in the hell they got here so fast,” he said.

“That’s weird. Maybe they were prepped for the protests just in case things went bad,” Monica said.

She said something else but the reception broke up.

“What, baby? You’re breaking up.”

“I said, how long until you have Junior?”

“At this rate, I don’t know. I got off the freeway but it’s still a few miles. I’m thinking about getting out of the car and walking. Probably save some time,” Bradley said.

“If you think it will be faster, I say do it.”

“Hey, how much money do we have in the bank?” Bradley asked.

“About nine hundred in savings and a little less in checking.” Monica said.

“Okay. I’m going to hit a couple of ATMs and see how much I can pull out. Didn’t want you to freak. If you can, transfer five hundred into checking.”

“What? What do you need that much money for?”

“Because we may need it. I can’t stress this enough, Monica. I have a very bad feeling about what is going on here. I wouldn’t be surprised if the president declared martial law.”

“Can he do that?”

“He sure as hell can. This Guard call up is frightening. It’s almost like they knew something was going to go down,” Bradley said with a sigh.

“I don’t think taking our money out is safe, babe. We need that. You’re probably out of a job, and we’re going to have to do something to make ends meet. You could sell your guns.”

“Not now, Monica. Do you trust me?” Bradley asked.

“Of course, I trust you,” Monica said. “We’ve been together for a long time, and you’re a smart man. If you think we need all of this protection, then I’m not going to argue anymore.”

“Thank you, Mon. It means a lot. I rather be safe than sorry. And if we don’t need the money, we can put it back in the bank in a week. We’ll keep it in the fireproof safe in the bedroom.”

“Okay, Bradley,” she said. “Hey, I need to run. Jenn is calling for me. It’s time for her to take some more cold medicine.”

“I love you, babe.” He said.

“Love you, too. Hurry home, and don’t forget to call me the minute you have Junior with you.”

Bradley regretted that he had sold their gold. He had built up a small fortune in gold eagles over the years, but they had needed to cash them in while he had been out of work. One by one, they had eaten away at the small bag he’d collected. It had been his ‘just in case’ supply. If the banks ever crashed, he wanted to be able to pay for goods. Now they were all gone, and he had his doubts that if the system did indeed crash his cash would buy little unless it was at exorbitant prices.

Bradley hung up, and then waited for another fifteen minutes. The traffic finally started moving again but it was slow. They would barely get up to ten miles an hour before stopping again. He finally made it to a side street and pulled over. The parking was sparse, but he managed to squeeze into a spot that was probably for a smaller vehicle.

Then he checked his holster, magazines, and got out of the Bronco.

He pulled his phone out and switched to walking on the navigation system and put one foot in front of the other.

* * *

It was almost one and he’d made it a good mile. His tennis shoes were in lousy shape, but it was either wear them or his work shoes. They weren’t nearly as comfortable, and he hadn’t had time to clean them of the blood that had splattered them at work the day before.

He walked past a bus station and stopped to rest for a minute. He wasn’t tired, he was more interested in the latest news.

He opened his web browser and experienced a slow page load. He found a local news site and waited for the spinning dial to resolve. Weird, considering he was in a large town. He had Verizon, and they were pretty good even when he was out of town. It was probably due to everyone in the city either trying to make a phone call or read twitter. Crap. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? Bradley wasn’t exactly a social media junkie. He kept a Facebook page so he was up today on what the family was doing. More often than not, though, for the last year, he had avoided it because it had become a political drama site.

Everyone he knew seemed to have an opinion on President Henderson. Some hated him with an intensity that bored on the absurd. Other’s loved him and hung on his every word.

He switched to Twitter and brought up the trending topics. Sure enough, the attacks were right at the top. He scanned a few and his eyes grew larger. He had heard of attacks in other cities from Monica, but what he read made him sick to his stomach. His anxiety was already at an all-time high because he hadn’t had time to delve into the shooting yesterday. He did a cursory scan for that and it wasn’t even on Twitter.

He paged back and read that the largest attack had been in New York. Not only had protesters been shot, but someone had detonated a huge bomb that had partially destroyed several buildings.

He switched to FOX news in his browser, but once again the connection was slow. He looked up and down the street. There was a bank he didn’t deal with, but he’d pay a fee if he was able to take out money.

He tromped up the parking lot and rounded a corner only to find a line. At least a dozen people waited.

“Huh,” he muttered.

One of the men in line, a guy wearing a black leather jacket who had slicked back black hair, turned.

“Believe this shit?” the man said.

“I don’t bank here. Just wanted to hit the ATM.”

“You and everyone in the city. Looks like we only have a few hours before everything goes dark,” the man said.

A woman ahead of him put her hands on her hips and sighed loudly.

“Dark?”

“Yeah, man. President’s about to declare martial law. Believe that shit?” the man said for the second time. Must have a limited vocabulary of curse words. Clearly, he hadn’t served in the Army where the language was all F words and cursing with every sentence.

“Martial Law? Where did you hear that, and can the government do that?”

“We’re under attack, brother. But the prez loves signing executive orders. He’s lining up this one. Haven’t you been watching the television?”

“Not really. Had a long day and night,” Bradley said.

“Well you better get some money out while you can, and then go board up the place. It’s about to get crazy up in Chi-town,” the man said.

“Have a nice day.” Bradley nodded.

“No one’s gonna have a nice day in a few hours. Prepare for complete lock down. Looks like you’re packing from the way your jacket’s hanging. Better not let them catch you with a gun once the law goes into effect,” the man said.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Bradley said.

He turned and walked away. He had to get to Junior and get him home before he was trapped in the city.

* * *

Bradley’s navigation started going wonky a few minutes later. He checked his battery level and found it at 75%. Surely the government wouldn’t impose some kind of communications block. But what did he really know?

There were a lot of people on the streets as he got closer to the city. They were going into stores and trying to get on public transportation. Traffic was absolute gridlock. He passed car after car with anxious faces peering out of windows. Moms and dads looked frustrated. Kids looked bored. Couples bickered. One of the cars blasted heavy metal music so loud it shook the street.

Bradley stopped and checked his phone again. It finally updated and told him to keep walking up this street and to hang a left at the intersection.

He was close. Another five minutes and he would be there.

That’s when he heard gunshots.

Chapter Fifteen

James Briggs couldn’t believe the chatter in the MTV. He sat next to Skip Kowalski and surfed on his phone but kept his ears on the conversation, no, the rumors. There was PFC Quick who always had a dark look about him. He didn’t care for the military even though it was National Guard. He also didn’t care about his wife, who he referred to as the raging bitch from hell’s kitchen. He liked his kids, though. At least he pretended to.

Cooper was a guy James didn’t know much about. He was new in their unit and had kept to himself during weekend drills. Most of the guys and gals were pretty grumpy on Saturday. By Sunday, they were all excited to go home and most were in jovial moods. That’s just how it went. You didn’t look forward to your duty weekend each month, but when it came, there was a camaraderie that was hard to put a finger on.

The two weeks a year that were a real drag. He had to arrange to take off work, and that led to a lot of bitching from supervisors. They knew the score when he was hired. They also knew he was in school to become an accountant. When he finished, there was no way he would stay there.

“I heard it was ISIS, man. Those fuckers have been plotting this kind of attack for years,” Cooper said.

Ashley Sanders was one of three females in his unit. She was a tough girl who could outrun some of the guys on an obstacle course. Her mom was Hispanic, but her dad was a white guy from Texas. She had a slight drawl that Chicago had tried to steal away.

“It’s the protesters. They get paid by that one guy, I forgot his name,” Sanders said.

The truck bounced up and down at the hint of a pot hole. James had been shocked when they had been required to pick up their guns before deploying. He clutched the M4 and wondered if he would be required to use it.

“Paid protesters? They get benefits?” Skip said.

“Yeah, is the pay better than the Guard? I only have a year left, career change,” James chimed in.

“You guys laugh it up. We don’t know what we’re heading into,” Cooper said. She sat back, and then regretted it as they hit a genuine pot hole and her back slammed into the bench, and she nearly dropped her M4.

“Don’t mess around, Cooper. Shoot me in the face, and I will come back and fucking haunt you,” Skip said.

“Your face has been haunting me since I met you. Sometimes I wake up screaming in the middle of the night,” Cooper said.

“I have that effect on women,” Skip said.

“Yeah, because you look like someone hit you with a fucking pizza and left all the toppings.”

Skip frowned and shot her the finger. She cocked her head, fake grinned, and returned the gesture.

“Get a room, you two,” Sergeant Wells said.

“Hey, any update on the situation, Sarge?” Skip asked the Sergeant.

“I don’t have any more info than when we left. But there’s something else coming down the wire. Something big,” he said.

“Bigger than an ISIS attack?” Skip asked.

“Right now, we don’t know if it was terrorists. Could be home grown terror. The rumor it was anarchists.”

That was just great. They’d been rushed out here, with barely a full load out, and their mission was still unclear. Were they supposed to hang out and fight if more attacks happened? Were they just here to help the police sort things out? A show of force?

“So, what’s the big thing, Sarge?” Skip asked.

“More info when we arrive. Hang tight,” Seargent Wells said.

The convoy of military vehicles joined another even larger line of green and brown trucks that moved into the city. The police had already started setting up road blocks, and they only had to stop a few times while the path was cleared.

Half an hour later, they came to a stop near the UIC pavilion.

They grew silent as they came within range of the area of operations. James had never seen so many ambulances in his life. Every fire truck in the city must have joined the mass. Police were everywhere, and there were already some Guard on the streets as well. They carried a range of weapons from shotguns to assault rifles. A truck came to a stop at an intersection, and men and women in BDU’s poured out.

The wind cut inside the back of the MTV, and James was sure he could taste gunpowder. Probably just a trick of his imagination, but it gave him a chill.

Then he got a look at what looked like a war zone. People clumped in groups and were tended by medics. The middle of the street, though, bore human figures draped in white cloth. Some were soaked with blood while others, unmoving, were strangely unblemished. James counted to twenty and stopped. It was too shocking to see so many bodies on the ground.

Ambulances were being loaded, and sirens screamed. People moved out of the way while some reached out and touched the vehicles as they pulled away.

The UIC pavilion occupied the Northwestern corner of the University of Illinois. College students gathered near the site, standing in clumps, and presumably tweeting everything they saw. People cried and held onto each other. A force of Guard had already formed a wall to keep civilians from the scene.

A clump of reporters stood to the side and tried to fight through the mass of police and National Guard, but they were held back.

James and his squad deployed from the back of the truck and hit the ground. He clutched his M4 in both hands and kept his finger well away from the trigger, leaving it flat across the trigger guard.

Sergeant Wells scanned the area. He turned to the Guardsmen, “Stay on site. I’ll return in two.”

He trotted off and saluted a first lieutenant, then spoke with him.

“How many are there?” Skip said as he scanned the bodies.

“I don’t know. A hundred? More?” James said.

He felt sickened. Whoever had perpetrated this madness would have to be brought to justice. Hell, point him and his squad in the right direction, and they would take care of it. He was so mad, he ground his teeth together.

Staff Sergeant Miller strode toward the men with Wells in tow. They formed up into squads as he approached even though they were short three of their members. Wells returned and met with Miller. They spoke together for a few seconds, then the Staff Sergeant motioned for the squad, “Form up. I got something to say.”

James joined Skip Kowalski and Cooper.

“Briggs, I’d like to speak with you,” Miller said.

James wondered if he had already fucked up. Was it his hair? Surely they wouldn’t chew him out for being rushed out here on such short notice.

They stepped a few paces away from the group and Sergeant Miller looked him up and down. Miller was in his thirties and a career man. He often met with the other guys in the squad outside of work and tore it up like he was ten years younger. Everyone liked Miller, but they also recognized his authority without question. He was a man James trusted with his life.

“I’ve heard good things about you, PFC Briggs. I know you just got here six months ago but the rest of the squad trusts you, at least that’s what Sergeant Wells tells me,” Miller said.

He wore thin-rimmed glasses and a brown mustache, but he kept his head shaved. He had lines on his face that made him look older than his years.

“Glad to hear that, Staff sergeant.”

“Well, I didn’t pull you aside to stroke your ego. Specialist Danes won’t be here for hours, maybe not until tomorrow. He was on vacation in Seattle with his family. In the meantime, I’m making you fire squad leader. You have Bravo. You run into any problems, you come to Wells or you come to me.”

James gulped. Him in charge of three or four of his squad mates?

“Thank you, Sergeant,” James said. He didn’t mean to make it sound like a question.

“You’ll do fine. Just use common sense and stay on mission.”

“What is the mission?”

“Well, your mission is to patrol Racine,” the Staff Sergeant pointed at a cross street, “down to West Taylor street. You’ll then come back up South Morgan. It borders the college, and we need to be on the lookout for any suspicious activity. The cops would be better for this sort of thing but they are overwhelmed right now. Plus, word is, they lost some of their own.”

“Christ, Staff Sergeant.”

“Just Staff Sergeant. Don’t give me a messiah complex with all that Christ stuff.” Miller smiled.

James laughed once, then the gravity of what they were here for set in.

“Got it, Sergeant.” He said, and then repeated his orders just for good measure.

“Like I said, you’ll do fine. This is a great way to prove yourself. I’m sure you won’t let me down.”

“I won’t. Thank you for the opportunity,” James said.

“Right, gather your squad and move out.”

Staff Sergeant Miller’s radio buzzed. He pulled out the beat up Kenwood UFC radio and nodded at James before walking off as he spoke into the radio.

“We heard, kiss ass,” Skip said when he rejoined the squad.

“Better keep that attitude in check, soldier. I’ll have you on KP duty,” James warned.

Cooper and Sanders offered up a chuckle.

“Wait, can you do that?” Skip asked.

“Probably not. All right, people, we’re going out on patrol. Keep an eye out for anything suspicious. Cars, trucks, or abandoned vans. If the kids on the college campus ask us what’s going on, we should play it cool. We’re here to help, not intimidate,” James said, hoping he sounded like he knew what he was doing.

“Can I intimidate any hot chicks into a date?” Cooper said.

“You’re so gross.” Sanders punched his arm.

“Ow. Shit, you don’t punch like a girl,” Cooper said.

“Keep it up and I’ll show you where my foot can go,” Sanders threatened.

“Didn’t know you were into the kinky stuff.”

Sanders scowled at Cooper.

They moved out and approached Racine. James kept his eyes moving, looking at cars, hoping none of them were some kind of threat. The people who had perpetrated the attack were still unidentified as far as he knew. The sidewalk was lined with pedestrians, all gawking at the site of the shooting while keeping their faces simultaneously plastered to their smart phones.

They reached the street and James pointed left to indicate which direction they were heading.

“You’re good at this. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were a street guide,” Skip teased.

James was about to come back with a retort when the ground shook. The explosion was deafening, and he went to his knees. When he looked up, he found a mushroom cloud rolling into the air near the pavilion.

Chapter Sixteen

Bradley rounded a corner, found the Subway straight ahead, and breathed a sigh of relief. It was nearly two o’clock. The old Timex had kept him on point and kept him jogging. His legs burned, but he had made it. Now all he had to do was get Junior and Kirk home.

The Subway was next to a liquor store, and he seriously considered stopping in for a couple of airline bottles.

The streets weren’t exactly packed, but there were still a lot of people on the move. He has seen a number of people get out of cars that were stuck in traffic, lock the doors, and then quickly walk towards whatever destination they had in mind. Streets were now blocked at major intersections, allowing a steady stream of military and police vehicles into the heart of Chicago.

A mother held her little girl, who couldn’t have been more than six years old, and urged the child to keep up as they passed Bradley.

“It’s just a little farther, sweetheart. Daddy will be there when we get home, and we’ll have ice cream. Doesn’t that sound good?”

“I’m tired, mommy and my feet hurt. Can’t you carry me some more?”

“I wish I could but I might pass out. Phew, you wouldn’t want to see that, now would you?”

Then they were out of hearing distance.

He crossed the street, walking between stuck cars that were nearly bumper to bumper. He glanced in the windshield and saw a couple arguing.

He ran to the Subway and yanked the door open. He didn’t see Junior so he went back outside and double checked his phone. Was he at the right place? He went back into the restaurant. The person manning the counter looked up and nodded at him.

Bradley did a full turn in the Subway, but there were only a few people. One was an older man sitting in a booth alone. He sipped on a soda and nibbled on a sandwich. The other occupant was a figure dressed in an “I Heart Chicago” hoodie. The guy had his face down as if in deep thought. He pulled a potato chip out of a bag and chewed it.

“Have you seen a couple of teenage boys? They’re supposed to be here,” Bradley said.

A door at the rear of the store opened and out came Kirk and Bradley’s son, Brad Junior. He let out a huge sigh of relief.

“Dad,” his son said and gave him a quick hug.

Bradley put his arms around his son. They weren’t really huggers, but he was so relieved to see Brad Junior, he couldn’t help but put his hands on him.

“Hi, Mr. Adams,” Kirk said.

Bradley didn’t really like Kirk. He appeared to only wash his hair about once a month. It was a brown mop that was stringy and hung over his eyes. Bradley was surprised he didn’t constantly walk into walls with that curtain.

Maybe he was being an old fart. He couldn’t really tell Kirk to leave his son alone. They got along well and had been friends since the fifth grade.

Brad Jr. looked haggard. His glasses were dirty and his hair hadn’t been brushed. Kirk must be rubbing off on him.

“You guys okay?”

“Yeah. It was crazy, dad. Crazy. They came out of nowhere and just started shooting.”

Brad caught the man in the hoodie watching them. His eyes roamed over Bradley. Then he looked down again and concentrated on what must have been the best potato chip in the world from the way he studied it.

“I need to sit down for a minute. Kirk, would you do me a favor and get me a soda?” Bradley took out a couple of bucks and handed them to Kirk.

“Sure, no problem.” Kirk took the money and went to the counter.

“Listen, we don’t have a lot of time. We’re going to high tail it to the car, and then get our butts back home. There’s a lot of trouble brewing. I don’t even want to talk about you skipping school to go to a protest right now. I’m too mad, but mainly, I just want us out of the city.”

“Dad, I can explain.”

“I’m sure you can, but do you know how stupid that was?”

“It’s not stupid to stand up for what you believe in. The president is not taking our country in the right direction, anyone can see that.”

“He’s doing fine. Just fine. And joining a protest doesn’t help matters one damn bit, son. You’re seventeen. You don’t know how things work yet. Talk to me in five years, and you’ll understand a little better.”

“I can be a teenager and still read the news, Dad. The economy is in the toilet. We’ve had millions of immigrants deported over the last year. He’s blowing money on the military like he’s printing it. And he’s such an idiot. Henderson should get a Darwin Award for stupidity. His approval rating stinks. I don’t know why you and Mom love him so much,” Junior said, face filled with conviction.

“Half of that isn’t even true and you know it. None of this changes the fact that you skipped school and went to Chicago without our permission.” Bradley gripped the side of the table because he was so mad. He wanted to reach across and slap some sense into his son. But his father’s way had always been to use a heavy hand with his sons, and he resented the old man until the day he died.

“Dad, I can explain,” Junior offered.

“Save it. Do you know if Kirk’s dad is coming to get him?” Bradley asked, trying to change the subject.

He hadn’t seen Kirk’s father more than a few times, mainly at school functions. Mr. Rosen seemed nice enough, although he drank too much, according to Junior. He was also an occasionally mean drunk, which made Kirk likely to stay at friends’ houses a lot. Over the last year, Kirk had rarely been to Bradley’s house. Junior had told his father that Kirk’s father had been in treatment and had become a better man for it.

A pair of men walked into the subway. They both glanced over their shoulders. One had on a Chicago Cubs ball cap, and the other wore a Levi jean jacket with a bunch of heavy metal band logos stitched across the back. They approached the counter and spoke to the clerk.

“I don’t think he’s coming to get him. His cell phone died, and he wasn’t able to find a charger. We asked a few customers here, but everyone is acting so weird.”

“Fine. He rides with us then. I’ll take him home after you’re safe. Now let’s get out of here,” Bradley said.

“Sure. Let me clean up our table,” Junior collected a couple of empty sandwich wrappers and took them to the trash.

Kirk returned with a drink for Bradley, which he kindly accepted. He slurped half of it down in one long draw. He should have asked for water, but he hadn’t realized how thirsty he was.

The pair at the counter weren’t happy with whatever the guy told them and voices rose in protest. Bradley wanted to get out of the place immediately.

“ATM’s aren’t working. I’ll buy something, just let me get some cash out, okay? Come on, brother. Help us out here,” The guy in the jean jacket said.

Bradley motioned for Junior to join him so they could leave before any trouble started. People were starting to act crazy, and he’d had enough crazy to last a life time over the last two days.

“I can’t, sir. We’re not set up for those kind of transactions. Why don’t you try one of our specialty sandwiches? They’re only five bucks right now,” the clerk offered a smile.

“Why don’t you try sucking my fucking dick,” ball cap said.

The man in the hoodie rose from his seat. He kept his head down and made for the door.

Jean jacket rubbed his hand over his head. “Dude, we just want to get a little money out. Why are you being such a jerk?”

“I need to ask you both to leave. There are customers here, and that kind of language is unacceptable,” the clerk warned. “Don’t make me call the police.”

“The police? Do you even know what’s going on out there, bro? There isn’t a cop within miles of this place,” Jean jacket said. He reached into his pocket.

“Let’s just go,” ball cap said and put his hand on his friend’s arm.

He kept rubbing his arms and, when he turned to look around the restaurant, it was clear he was some kind of junkie. His eyes were hollow, and there were dark around his eye sockets.

Jean jacket was having none of that. He pulled out a huge knife and showed it to the clerk. “Fine, we’ll do it the hard way. Give me everything in the cash register. All of it.”

“Don’t you fucking leave, any of you,” Ball cap spun around and yelled, backing his friend’s move.

The man in the hoodie stopped and lifted his hands in the air.

“Guys. I have some money. Just take it and go, okay? We can all part as friends. How’s that sound?” The large guy said and reached into his pants pocket. He came out with a wad of cash with a hundred dollar bill on top.

Jean jacket stepped in front of Bradley. “How much do you have? Come on, man. The other guy is being smart. You should be a smart guy, too.”

“Nothing. I don’t have a penny on me,” Bradley said.

He shifted one foot back. He could have the Kimber in his hand in a split second, but with Kirk and Junior in the store, it wasn’t worth possibly discharging the gun. What if he panicked and a shot went in the wrong direction?

“Cell phone. Something. Just hand it over and we’re out of your hair,” Jean jacket said.

Now that he and Bradley were close, Bradley got a whiff of the guy. He must have been living on the streets because he smelled like a dumpster.

The guy in the hoodie held the cash out. Jean Jacket moved on him and reached for the cash with his left hand, his right still brandishing the long blade.

Hoodie moved like a whip. His other hand shot out and grabbed Jean Jacket’s wrist. He twisted it to the left, and then down. Jean Jacket didn’t have time to react. He let out a sharp scream as bones snapped, then he was on his back. Hoodie snapped his foot out and trapped the knife holding hand against the floor. Then he ground it hard until the guy released the knife. The large man leaned over and took the blade.

Ball cap’s eyes went wide, so Bradley punched him right in the nose. He straightened his wrist and forearm just before the blow struck. Knuckles crunched into the man’s face and flesh compacted. Something snapped, and the guy fell back. He reached for his face as blood started to flow.

Bradley didn’t put much thought into the finishing move. He simply kicked the assailant in the balls.

The clerk must have had enough. He dashed into a back room and locked the door.

The guy in the hoodie picked up the knife and looked down at the guy on the floor. He flipped the blade into an overhand grip. Then he looked up and met Bradley’s eyes. He glanced between the father and the two kids. Then he squatted next to the man with the broken wrist.

“You need to go back to whatever shit hole you crawled out of and never try something like that again. You got me?” he said.

Jean Jacket nodded but didn’t try to move. “Yeah. I got it. I’m gone, man.”

The man in the hoodie showed the guy the blade. “Don’t make me put this through your neck.”

Then he rose and approached Bradley.

Bradley wasn’t sure what to expect. Was the guy going to go psycho on him as well? He reached to his waist and pushed the side of the jacket open.

“Easy,” the man said. “Name’s Chris. What do you say we get out of here?”

“Sounds good to me,” Bradley said.

But he waited until Chris made the first move and headed for the door. He didn’t want to turn his back on him.

Before he left the building, Bradley stopped at the chip rack and found a bag of Cheetos. He placed one in his jacket pocket, and dug out a couple of bucks. He left the money on the counter.

When Chris exited the building, he tossed the blade, and then waited in the parking lot for Bradley to catch up.

“Dad, holy crap. That was crazy!” Junior exclaimed.

“Yeah, Mr. Adams. You hit that guy right in the nose. He’s still rolling around in pain. Loser.” Kirk grinned.

“Suggest we get out of here,” Chris said.

“I’m probably not going the same way as you. Thanks for getting us out of trouble back there,” Bradley said.

He didn’t know Chris from Adam, but the man had tried to deescalate the situation, even if it meant taking the knife wielding assailant to the ground. Bradley would have been happy just leaving the subway without any drama. Jesus. Two attacks in two days. The world was truly nuts.

“Can I make a suggestion?” Chris said. “Why don’t we stick together for a little bit. I know you’re packing, and so am I. This is just the beginning, and we don’t know what else we may run into.”

“We don’t need any help, but thanks just the same,” Bradley said, wondering how the man knew he had a gun. Maybe he worked at the psychic hotline on the weekends.

“I didn’t mean to listen in, but I overheard you tell your son that you parked a couple of miles from here. I’ll go that way with you, and then we can part as friends. Strength in numbers and all that. Sound good?”

Bradley chewed on that for a second. The military appeared to be closing in on this area and they had little time to get out of town in case martial law was indeed declared. Maybe he should let the man tag along.

“Fine, just don’t do anything funny,” Bradley said.

“What, like a song and dance? We’re just temporary companions,” Chris said. “What are you carrying? I saw it when your jacket parted in there. Looked like a Kimber.”

“You know your guns,” Bradley said.

He started walking, and Junior and Kirk followed. Chris kept pace beside Bradley.

“Fine weapon. I’m a little light today. Beretta Nano,” Chris said.

“That’s also a good gun. I read that it’s a near perfect piece for C and C.”

“It is,” Chris nodded.

Bradley didn’t have to check his navigation app this time. He knew the general direction and set a quick pace. Kirk and Junior chattered behind him about what they had seen. Then made it sound like they were in an action movie. Bradley didn’t see it like that. He hated to resort to violence, but some people genuinely deserved to be on the receiving end.

“You from around here?” Chris asked Bradley.

“Vicksburg. Got stuck in traffic and had to hoof it to retrieve my son.”

“Oh, I’m from that area, too. My car got stolen about an hour ago. I was waiting for the police but they didn’t show up. Then I saw the National Guard and realized they probably weren’t going to ever make it.”

“Stole your car?”

“Yeah. It’s a mad house in some parts of the city. Guy took my keys at gunpoint, and then roared off in my Toyota. I hope I get that car back, I love it.”

“What is wrong with this place today?” Bradley said. “I mean, besides the shooting. It’s like everyone has gone nuts. Is this all it takes?”

“In some places, it takes less than this. I’ve been overseas. You?” Chris asked Bradley.

“Yeah. Army, you?”

“I did some contract work for the government. You know the kind,” Chris said.

Bradley had a feeling he did know the kind. Since the wars in the Middle East had broken out, a lot of men with certain skills had found employment. He was more pleased by the minute that he’d run into Chris. He knew how to handle himself. If he had military experience, that would be a bonus.

Still, having a backup wasn’t a bad idea for now. But he would have to part ways with Chris as soon as they got in sight of the Bronco.

Bradley was about to ask Chris what kind of work, but his words died on his lips as a tremendous explosion sounded in the distance. He turned to see what had happened and found a huge cloud rising over the Chicago skyline a few miles to the northwest.

“That was unexpected,” Chris said. He shielded the sun with his hand and stared at the expanding mushroom cloud.

“Oh, my god. Was that a nuke?” Junior yelled.

“No. It was a big explosion, though,” Chris said.

“What do you mean it was unexpected?” Bradley asked. He couldn’t seem to look away from the rising cloud.

“I just mean that this is a coordinated attack, I guess. If I’m not mistaken, that’s the location where the shootings happened,” Chris said.

“Shootings. Bombs. The country has lost its damn mind,” Bradley said.

“That it has,” Chris nodded.

Bradley picked up the pace until they were practically speed walking. Chris kept up with Bradley, but Kirk and Junior lagged behind. Bradley slowed until they had caught up. He couldn’t stop scanning everyone on the street for threats. Bradley was worried there could be more attacks at any moment.

People scrambled off the streets around them. Couples ran, hand in hand. Parents dragged their kids. Someone’s dog was loose, a big yellow half-lab, half-mutt that barked at the sky and dashed around a house after nearly getting plowed into by a big 4X4 lifted Ford truck that tore ass across an intersection on the way out of town.

Bradley dug out his phone and pressed Monica’s name but, after fifteen seconds of walking, while holding the handset to his head, and scanning their path ahead, the call didn’t pick up. He hung up and tried again. After the second call failed, he messaged her.

Got Junior and Kirk. On my way home.

“Dad. You’re walking really fast,” Kirk said.

“Because we need to get out of here before this city is under martial law,” Bradley said.

“Dad,” Junior said. “Is martial law as bad as it sounds?”

“You didn’t study that in school?” Bradley asked.

“Not really. Kinda,” Junior said.

“They don’t exactly teach stuff like that these days,” Kirk said in a worldly way that didn’t impress Bradley one bit.

“It’s when the government takes control in an emergency. Civil rights are revoked, and the military takes control of a region. They can search and seize anyone and anything,” Bradley said, trying to summarize what he knew.

He didn’t mention that the military would have the right to take away guns and could shoot looters. He also didn’t mention that freedom of movement could be blocked. There would be a curfew, and lord help anyone out during that time.

They rounded a corner and ran into what was becoming a military blockade. Bradley kept on going, assuming they would be able to walk on by them. The men and women looked out of place on the public street, holding guns and scanning everyone in the vicinity.

Bradley looked over his shoulder again and was still able to make out the cloud of smoke that rose into the air.

One of the soldiers took out a cell phone and aimed it in the direction of the explosion. Chris had been walking behind him, but he skipped a step and moved behind Bradley.

“You camera shy?” Bradley asked.

“Just being overly cautious,” Chris said.

Bradley looked down and pretended to shade his eyes from the sun. Maybe Chris knew something he didn’t.

“Where you guys heading?” One of the Guardsmen called out. He was dressed in BDUs and wore a combat helmet. He carried an M4 on a two-point sling, but he wasn’t in a hurry to brandish it.

“Uh, left my Bronco about a mile from here. Heading that way, then going home. It’s scary out here,” Bradley said.

“You said it. Hey, stay safe,” the man said.

Bradley nodded, and their group moved on. Bradley had the desire to turn around and look. He felt like every eye was on him and maybe a gun. It was probably just paranoia.

He would remember that in the weeks to come.

Chapter Seventeen

Chris was pissed. They had said nothing about a bomb, and what had that thing been composed of? You could fill a U-Haul with fertilizer and take down a building. That blast had been three times the size of the one that took out the Alfred P. Murrah Building in Oklahoma City in 1995. He didn’t know if a boat load of Semtex could have had the same effect. An air burst, but that would have had a different effect.

The biggest insult was that they had not been informed. What if the damn thing had gone off during their operation. Not that it mattered, since his contacts had also intended to have him and the teams killed.

This guy Bradley was a real fucking Boy Scout. Saving his kid, plus someone else’s. Getting them back home to mom was his mission. The guy packed a gun and seemed to know how to handle himself, but anyone could do that with a little bit of training. Bradley was clearly ex-military. It was the way he walked that gave it away.

Chris needed to get out of town as soon as possible, and Bradley seemed like the safest bet. He could always try to get Bradley’s gun away from him, force him to hand over his keys. Chris could use his gun, but he was down to one or two rounds at the most. A misfire would be a disaster if Bradley was any good with that Kimber. Plus, Chris didn’t want to experience a .45 round to any part of his body. Unlike movies and television shows, getting shot was one of the most traumatic experiences in the world. You didn’t take a round and get up and keep fighting. Bullets were designed for pure damage, and getting shot in a limb or shoulder could blow shards of bone into muscle tissue. Not to mention the immense pain it caused.

He knew this firsthand because he’d been hit twice, and each time had been a nightmare. One had been in the leg, and he’d nearly bled to death. The second had been in the gut. They’d had to cut him open, extract the bullet and pieces of bullet, and sew up his damaged intestines, leading to a seven day stay in a hospital bed.

The best way he was going to get out of town was with Bradley. He needed to come up with something because he knew that look on Bradley’s face. He was going to give Chris the cold shoulder when they reached the man’s vehicle, or maybe a little before then.

He had mulled over ideas and finally thought of something that would appeal to Bradley’s sense of family.

Once he was out of Chicago, he was going to disappear. The longer he spent out in the open, the more likely he was going to be identified. He had to have been on at least one street camera by now. Once images were processed into the system, the feds cold troll through it with facial recognition because that shit was not confined to TV shows like 24. It was all too real.

Chris would have to work with what he had. Get out of the city of Chicago, and then alter his appearance. Hair color and some simple supplies from a makeup store would do. He could fool the cameras long enough to get him off the grid. Then he would rely on his backup plans. He had money stashed in a number of locations across the United States.

Before he did that, though, he wanted to know who had set him up and pay them a visit. He wanted a shot at Lawson, that smug son of a bitch.

Better to do that rather than be found first. They wanted him dead? Well, two could play at that game.

Chapter Eighteen

Bradley hustled the last block with Chris, Junior, and Kirk in tow. He had set a hard pace, which led to bitching from Junior. Chris kept up without comment, and Kirk seemed to just go with the flow. They passed three gas stations, all of which had lines of cars well into the streets.

Bradley tried to call Monica again, and the phone rang, but as soon as she answered, he lost the call again.

“Damn phones,” Bradley muttered.

“It’s the cell towers. They’re overloaded,” Chris said.

“You’re having the same issue?”

“Yeah. Same issue,” Chris said.

“Look, man. I’m gonna to be straight with you. I have a full car headed back to Vicksburg and can’t fit you in,” Bradley said.

“I understand,” Chris nodded. “I was hoping you’d offer me a ride, I can’t deny that. I’m worried about my sister. She’s outside of Vicksburg. You could drop me on the outskirts of town,” Chris said. “The cops aren't going to find my stolen car anytime soon. I'll have to file a report with my insurance in the morning.”

Bradley mulled that over.

Traffic had not gotten any better since he had abandoned his Bronco. Many cars were abandoned, and he found he was blocked in once they got in his vehicle. There was a sidewalk and sloping curve, which he might have been able to use to back up and turn into the opposite lane. But cars on the right were backed up as far as he could see.

Many sat in their vehicles, or in some cases on top of hoods. A family perched on the sidewalk, legs in the street. The mother and father leaned together and talked while the two kids sat on top of the older sedan’s roof and stared toward the explosion in town. A number of cars must have gotten sick of waiting because they were making a steady line of U-turns in the center of the road.

Bradley unlocked his door, and then leaned in and unlocked the passenger side door. This was probably stupid, but Chris had been good during the incident in Subway. Bradley would have just given the men his phone and hoped they left after robbing the place. Chris had other ideas and had acted to protect himself.

Bradley couldn’t wait to get home, lock the doors, finish securing his house, finish inventorying his supplies with Monica's help, and spending time with his family. Yesterday’s shooting at his work was still a bundle of anxiety that ate at him. He tried to push it aside, but even during their walk to the Bronco, he’d found his mind racing. Walking like a zombie at some points, he had been in a daze because the gunshots played out over and over again. Jessica in her bloodstained shirt. Dying next to him while he tried to save her. Accountants lying in their cubes or where they had been gunned down as they had tried to run.

Maybe having some backup wasn’t such a bad idea.

“Okay, Chris. I’ll drop you off, provided we can even get out of town.” Bradley made up his mind.

“I’m very grateful, Bradley. Thank you, sincerely.”

“It’s no big deal.”

They piled into the car and Bradley started the engine. It hummed to life, and then he rolled down his window and considered how in the hell he was going to get out of here.

He put his turn signal on while he stuck his head out the window.

The car next to him, in the right lane, had an occupant in it, but the guy must not have noticed him. Bradley motioned to the guy by waving but he had his head down and glued to his phone screen. Bradley tapped his horn a couple of times. The guy looked up annoyed at the intrusion. Junior was in the seat behind him and rolled his window down as well. He also waved.

The guy looked to his right, and then looked back at Bradley. He shook his head, and then shrugged back at Bradley.

The little Hyundai backed up a few inches, all that he had between him and the large SUV behind him. The SUV must have caught on and also backed up a little bit. Then the Hyundai had enough room and returned sharply. The driver had to wait for a car to drive by in the left lane. Then his path was clear. Bradley nudged into the open space, and then had to slam on his brakes because the SUV tried to pull forward.

“Come on, man,” Bradley said in frustration.

“We got it, Dad.” Junior said.

He and Kirk jumped out of the car before Bradley could stop them. Then Junior waved his hand in the air to get the driver’s attention, and then pointed at Bradley’s Bronco. Bradley nodded and pulled out, yanking the wheel hard to the right. He made it into the space but a number of cars cut him off in the opposite lane. There was a no passing double line on the road so a U-turn was illegal here. But every cop in the city seemed to be at the site of the shooting so he highly doubted he had to worry about anyone coming to give him a ticket.

The light ahead changed to green and the red BMW that had been waiting shot out across the intersection even though he would end up blocking the road. There were only two other cars in line ahead of Bradley, and they moved forward. A red sports car blasted across the cross street and then barreled into the expensive sports car. Metal sounded on metal and pieces flew to clatter on the pavement.

Junior got in the center of the two way street and waved for a car to stop. It honked and roared past.

“Get back in the car, Junior!” Bradley yelled.

His son ignored him and flagged the next car which slowed. The driver nodded and Junior gestured for his dad to make the full U-turn.

“That’s a good kid right there,” Chris said.

“He has his moments. Moments that are going to get him killed if he’s not careful,” Bradley said.

He maneuvered the Bronco onto the pavement across the street, and then backed up a few inches. He cranked the wheel to the right again as Junior and Kirk hopped back in the car.

“Don’t do that again,” Bradley warned.

“Sorry, Dad, but it worked,” Junior said as he strapped on his seat belt.

Kirk smiled at his friend and the two high fived.

“Like I said. Don’t do that again. I’ll do it and you can drive. That way you can tell your mother how I died. Saves me from getting chewed out,” Bradley said.

Kirk snickered.

Bradley ignored him and joined the long line of traffic out of the city.

* * *

It was an hour and a half later. They’d been stuck in one backup after another, and Bradley wanted to scream in frustration. He had to piss so bad his teeth ached. Chris remained silent next to him, staring out of the window and occasionally looking like he had something on his mind. Bradley tried to engage him in small talk a couple of times, but each attempt was met with short answers.

“Sorry, it must be the thing in the city. Got a lot on my mind,” Chris had said at one point.

“And your sister,” Bradley said.

“What? Oh yeah. I hope she’s okay.”

Bradley’s phone finally buzzed as he sat behind a semi. He’d been stuck behind it for so long he had the “How’s my driving?” phone number memorized. Your driving would probably be good if we were actually moving.

He picked up his phone and saw it was Monica.

“Hey. You finally got through,” he answered.

“How long until you get home?” She sounded breathless.

“Hopefully in thirty more minutes or less. What’s going on?” he asked.

“There are people outside. I did what you said. Put those door stops up. Closed the blinds, and turned down the lights. But they aren’t leaving. They keep banging on the door,” she said.

“What the hell?” Bradley said. “Why are they out there? What do they want? How many are there?”

“I don’t know because I won’t open the door. I tried to call the police, but they can’t get anyone out here for an hour. They told me to stay inside and keep the doors and windows locked.”

“Dad?” Junior asked from the back of the car.

“I don’t understand,” Bradley said.

“I don’t either. I got the gun out that you left. I can use it, but I don’t want to,” Monica said.

“Stay inside. I’m not hanging up the phone until we’re there. Tell me what Jenny has been doing,” Bradley said to keep her distracted.

“Just sleeping a lot. I wanted to go get more cold medicine, but then those people showed up,” she said. “What was that?”

“Hon, what’s happening,” Bradley’s voice raised in alarm.

“They threw something at the house,” she said.

“Son of a bitch,” Bradley ground his teeth.

He accelerated at the first chance and wove into the left lane of traffic. A car honked at him, but he ignored it. He shot around another car and had to come to a sliding stop as he pushed his brakes to the floor.

“Go away,” Monica yelled.

“Don’t let them know you’re home,” he urged his wife.

“They already know or they would have left by now. They saw me closing the curtains,” she said.

“Why didn’t you do it when I left like I asked you to?”

“Because it’s such a nice day and the sun heats the house, which saves us money. What happened with Junior and Kirk? Did you see what happened in town?”

“I saw the smoke from the explosion but that’s it. We were too far away to make out anything else.”

Something banged against the house so loudly Bradley could make out the sound over the phone connection.

“Honey,” he said.

“I wish they would go away,” Monica said.

“Stay on the phone. Or do you want to try calling the police again?”

“I can try that,” she said. “Or I can try this.”

The sound of the door opening sent chills over Bradley. They had a metal security door that was heavy duty. Still. He didn’t want her engaging with the people.

“Go away! I’ve called the police.”

“Baby, don’t.”

There was some muffled talk he couldn’t make out.

Junior leaned forward and gripped the sides of the two front seats.

Bradley caught Chris looking in his direction out of the corner of his eye, but Bradley couldn’t read his expression.

“Everything cool?” Kirk whispered to Junior in the backseat.

“Monica. Tell me what’s happening.”

“There’s four people out there. Three men and a woman and they are angry. One of the guys has a baseball bat,” Monica said.

“Close the door right now!”

“He’s not here. Go away. I’m calling the police,” she yelled.

“You said you already called them. Just tell us where to find Bradley Adams and we’re out of here,” Bradley could make out the voice of one of the men.

“Close the door,” Bradley practically screamed.

Traffic picked up again, and he saw another break. He surged forward and cut off another vehicle, but it was like playing bumper cars. He once again had to slam on his brakes or he would have hit a white Cadillac Escalade that had tinted windows.

“I double locked the other door, and I’m putting the brace on now,” Monica said. Then she gasped.

“What?” Bradley said.

“Sounded like the guy with the bat pounded on the door. I’m getting scared,” Monica said.

“Take Jenny and go to the basement. Lock the upstairs door, then wedge the second metal door in place and stay there. We’re only about fifteen minutes away.”

“If I go down there, I’ll probably lose the call,” she said.

“Shit!” Bradley pounded on the steering wheel with his free hand.

“I can barely hear you, what?”

“Monica? Monica?” he said.

Then she was gone. Bradley rode the Escalades ass, and then glanced down at his phone. He hit redial and put the phone to his ear. He waited but it wouldn't dial.

“Want me to try while you concentrate on the road?” Chris asked.

“Yeah. Cool. Hand me the phone when she picks up.”

“What do they want? The people at your house.”

“I’m guessing they're Ed’s family and they want to talk to me. Only they want to talk to me with their fists and a bat.”

“Damn. What did you do to this Ed guy to piss him off?” Chris asked.

“I killed him yesterday,” Bradley said, and then turned his attention back to the cars ahead of him.

Chapter Nineteen

…The president has vowed, that he will no longer tolerate civil disobedience. Towns that allow this sort of behavior will be met with the full force of the American military. Critics have decried the order as unconstitutional, but with the rise of fighting, and in some cases, even deaths, President Henderson said he has no choice.

We will keep you updated as the state of the nation changes. Already, reports are coming in of riots in the cities of Chicago, Pittsburg, and New York…

James Briggs couldn’t get over the feeling that this was just the start, and there would be more attacks coming in the following hours, days, or weeks. He and his squad had patrolled their area several times, but they kept wandering back and drifting toward the site of the explosion.

It was getting dark and he hadn’t been able to find sergeant Wells or Staff sergeant Miller. He wanted to know if he had new orders, something they could do to help out, but they were keeping a lot of the Guard from getting too close.

They came around the corner after skirting the campus, which was practically deserted now. The shooting had been bad enough, but the explosion that had rocked the city and collapsed most of the UIC pavilion, had sent most of the civilians in the area scurrying.

A couple left one of the student housing buildings. Both had backpacks, and they were dressed in thick jackets. The male and female couldn’t have been more than twenty years old. They walked quickly, making for the sidewalk after crossing a green and manicured lawn. When they came within sight of James’ patrol they came to a stop.

“Uh. Are we allowed out?” The man asked.

“Yeah. Where you all heading?” Cooper asked.

“Out of the city. This is too much. All of those dead people,” the woman said.

She was cute and had short blonde hair in a pixie cut. The ends were dyed light blue, and she had multiple ear piercings.

“Yeah, for now,” Cooper said. “But we strongly advise you stay indoors. In fact, you’d be safest in your home.”

“I told you they were going to crack down,” the woman said under her breath.

“It’s safe for now, but he’s right,” James said. “Best to stay inside where it’s safe.”

“You call that safe?” The man said and pointed in the direction of the pavilion, which still smoked.

She leaned over and said something in the man’s ear, then they turned and strode away from the patrol without glancing back. When they reached the intersection, they broke into a run and were gone from sight.

“Shit like that makes me fear for humanity,” Sanders offered. She shifted her M4 in her hands and looked in the direction they had disappeared in.

“They’re just scared,” James said and moved out on their patrol path.

He was surprised how quickly they had accepted him as the temporary fire team leader. He knew it was probably going to be short lived, and now that he was in command of three other people, he wasn’t sure he liked it. What if the shit hit the fan. Would he be smart and able to direct them? Would they even listen?

He had to trust that everyone’s training would kick in, and they would do as he asked without question. Although, if he did do something stupid, hopefully Skip would tell him he was being an idiot.

They entered Racine and walked to the North end of the street until they came in view of the scene once again.

James had seen videos of the twin towers falling during 9/11. He had watched other videos as well that displayed what happened during an explosion, mostly from the Middle East and some European countries. None of that had prepared him for the devastation he saw here. Right here in his new home town! He hadn’t even been here long enough to see much of Chicago, but he had a feeling he was going to see a lot of it very soon.

There had been hundreds of medics, doctors, firemen, all assisting with the clean up before the blast had gone up. They had rightfully converted the pavilion into a medical bay where they treated the injured. Then the entire front of the building had gone up.

James spotted sergeant Wells and waved. Wells motioned him over.

“How did that happen?” James asked.

“This is a fucked up situation. Word is, someone drove an ambulance here, parked it in front of the building, and it blew. It had to be filled with something nasty. Probably like the Oklahoma bombing. They used five thousand pounds of ammonium nitrate fertilizer to pull that off.”

“So, it has to be terrorists,” James said.

“Maybe. They are still saying it’s a fringe anarchist group and ain’t that an oxymoron?” Wells said. “How was your patrol?”

“Good, Sarge. People are scared. We talked to them, tried to keep them calm. Some appreciated it, some left even though we assured them they were safer in their homes.”

“Well that’s all about to change,” Wells said, glancing at his watch.

“It’s sixteen thirty now. In about an hour, the sirens will sound in the city so be prepared. Emergency broadcast will go up about what’s happening. Right now, it’s all coming from reporters on the scene. Lots of concern. Lots of rumors. The president is going to lock it down.”

“So, he’s really doing it?”

“I heard he signed the order half an hour ago,” Wells nodded.

“What are our orders?”

“Hang tight. We’re going to expand our AO. I expect we’ll be back on an MTV and heading to a new section of the city soon. We’ll need to get the roads cleared and start setting up check points.”

“I’ll get my guys ready,” James said.

“They doing okay with you in charge?”

“Seem to. Haven’t heard anyone cuss me out behind my back yet.”

“Good. Well, you’re it for now so stay on mission,” Wells said.

“What is our overall mission now?” James asked.

“You’ll know soon enough,” Wells said ominously. “Carry on.”

James saluted and moved off to tell his team what he had learned.

* * *

They were in the classic state the military loved to keep enlisted in. Hurry up and wait. They assembled with a couple of other squads from the 178th. When they had enough squads for a couple of trucks, they loaded into the back so they could hurry up and wait some more.

James took out his cell phone and found more messages from his girlfriend. He messaged her back and assured her everything was okay. She let him know she had locked up his place and was safe at her apartment now. James was cautious, but he couldn’t help but tell her to turn on the television in the next few minutes.

She messaged him back that it had been on all day.

She worked at a hair salon and it was her day off. They’d planned to spend it binging on Netflix shows before he was called up for duty.

Are you in any danger? They have been talking about the shooting and the explosion all day

Nah. We’re just here as a show of support

So, will you be home soon?

I don’t know

The last message was a little bit of a lie. He suspected that none of them would be home any time soon. Even if they did cut him loose for some reason, it would take forever to get home. They had been dispatching units to all corners of the city to help setup road blocks.

The police had brought in a number of militarized vehicles, and they were no on patrol near the site of the attack. Big black beasts that looked so out of place on the streets of Chicago.

When this is over. Let’s go ahead and do it.

Do it? He included a wide-eyed emoji.

Move in together. We just have to decide. Your place or mine?

Really?

Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and today you told me you love me. So, it’s kind of like a move in certificate.

I had no idea such a certificate existed.

It’s totally real. I just made it up today.

I can’t wait. We’ll figure it out as soon as all of this is over.

Then the sirens sounded and James peeled his eyes off the phone screen.

They blared away like something out of an old World War II movie set in Europe that used to warn civilians to go to bomb shelters. As soon as they stopped howling, James’ phone displayed a message. He read it carefully and let out a low whistle. The others in the truck had reactions ranging from disbelief to, “About damn time.”

BY ORDER OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES. THE CITY OF CHICAGO IS NOW UNDER MARTIAL LAW. THERE IS A STRICT 10:00 PM CURFEW IN EFFECT. PLEASE TUNE TO YOUR LOCAL RADIO OR TELEVISION STATIONS FOR MORE INFORMATION.

He clicked on the message and found it repeated. Then a long block of text appeared.

THERE IS A MANDATORY CURFEW IN EFFECT. WORKERS WILL BE PERMITTED GO TO THEIR JOBS. ALL OTHERS ARE SUBJECT TO DETENTION. LOOTERS WILL MEET WITH POTENTIALLY LETHAL FORCE. OBEY ALL ORDERS FROM MILITARY OR POLICE PERSONNEL. PERSONS FAILING TO OBEY WILL BE SUBJECT TO MILITARY LAW AND MAY BE DETAINED. MORE INFORMATION TO FOLLOW.

“Well shit. There goes your chance of getting anywhere in this city any time soon,” Wells said.

“Why’s that, Sarge?” Sanders asked.

“Because everybody and their dogs are in the process of heading to the nearest stores to clean them out. This city was gridlock before, now it’s only going to get worse,” Wells replied.

Sanders read the message on her phone again.

“Lethal force? Does that mean we have to shoot people?” She asked.

“We’re getting a new SOP. Standby,” Wells said.

Sergeant Wells got a call on his UHF radio. He held it to his ear and listened for a few seconds.

“All right. We’re on the move, folks,” he told the men and women in the back of the transport.

“Where to, Sarge?” Skip Koslowski asked.

“Your mother’s house. I hope she made soup,” Wells said, which elicited a few laughs, allowing some of the tension to drain out of the truck’s occupants.

“Harsh, Sarge,” Skip replied.

“We’re going to be setting up a check point. Engineers should meet us there. All joking aside, our mission is about to change and a lot of civilians aren’t going to like it,” Wells said.

James stared at the recovery efforts still taking place out on the street. He once again tried to count body bags, but as fast as they were being carried off in trucks, he still lost count at fifty.

Chapter Twenty

Bradley screamed around the next block and set his sights on home. He hadn’t even thought about dropping Chris or Kirk off. He’d grown silent as soon as he’d lost the call with Monica. Fifteen minutes later, the EBS had begun broadcasting the news that martial law was now in effect in Chicago. The words coming out of the speakers had been chilling.

Bradley remembered all too well what that looked like in Afghanistan.

If these bastards were still at his house, he might have to use some lethal force. Threats against him were one thing, against his family, he’d fight until his last breath.

He came to a halt at a stop light and was about to go through it when Chris reached over and grabbed his arm.

“I don’t know what’s going down at your place, but you’ve been good to me. What you did yesterday at your workplace, you had to do. Sometimes we don’t have a choice and have to resort to violence. You saved your own life and maybe the lives of many others,” Chris said.

“I didn’t want to do it,” Bradley said.

“Like I said, I get it. Now, when we arrive, keep your cool. I’m going to quietly get out of the car and move to their right flank. I notice you have some shrubs over there. This will give me line of sight. Keep your distance from them. If it comes to blows, I suggest you show that gun. If they don’t stop, fire it in the air. You feel like your life is threaten, well, you know what to do.

“Okay,” Bradley said. “What if they brought guns?”

“Then we take care of it like men,” Chris said coldly. “One more thing. If you have to shoot one of them, I got your back. We don’t want this escalated any further than it already has. But if it comes to shooting, remember the words on the radio. These guys can be played off like they’re looters. Keep that in mind. We have two witnesses in the car,” Chris said.

“Don’t do this, Dad. Just wait for them to leave,” Junior urged.

“I want to go home. I can get out here and walk. Thanks for the ride, Mr. Adams,” Kirk said.

Before Bradley could say a word, the kid slipped out of the Bronco and broke into a run along Main St.

“Dad. Don’t. Please,” Junior said with genuine fear in his voice.

“You stay down. Don’t show your face, and lock the doors when we get out,” Bradley ordered.

Junior let out a little cry of horror and ducked down.

“It’ll be fine, kid. I’ve been in situations like this before. I won’t let anything happen to your father,” Chris offered.

“Appreciate the assist,” Bradley said and punched the gas.

The Bronco surged ahead and covered the block in seconds. He slammed on the brakes and was out of the door as soon as he killed the ignition.

The four waited for him. Three men and a woman. Just as Monica had said, one of the guys carried a baseball bat. An older man stood in front of the other three. He had a long white beard that looked like it hadn’t been trimmed in years. He wore a brown leather bomber jacket that was so bulky it could have concealed several weapons.

The man behind him and to the right carried the baseball bat. The other man looked almost like his twin. He had on a ball cap and was clean shaven. The last of the four was a woman who was petite but round, and she wore a frumpy dress that would have been tossed in the trash after landing in a Goodwill donation bin.

“Get off my property right this damn minute,” Bradley yelled.

“That you, Mr. Killer?”

“I’m not going to discuss it. You have five seconds to clear off my property,” Bradley ordered.

“Are you Bradley Adams?” the man with the bat demanded.

Chris had quietly exited the vehicle and moved along the side of the yard, but he closed to within twenty-five feet of the four and, just as he had promised, provided flanking for Bradley. The guy with the bat kept a nervous eye on Chris.

“You son of a bitch. You killed my son,” the older man said.

“He killed a lot of people, and he was going to kill me. I did what I had to do, and if you ask me, I’m not one damn bit sorry,” Bradley defended himself.

“He didn’t do that. Just like the thing in Chicago. It’s all fake. You’re probably the killer,” the old man spat. “Oh, I heard about you all right. Mr. Conservative. Ed used to talk about you and your ilk.”

“Ed was my husband, and you’re going to pay,” the woman said.

What did she think he was, some kind of Bond villain? Who said ‘You’re going to pay?’

She pushed the man with the bat. He looked at her, then his pop, then at Bradley. He must have made up his mind because he moved toward Bradley with the bat slung low in one hand.

Bradley reached and pulled in one smooth motion. The Kimber was in his hand and pointed at the man with the bat.

The old man did something stupid. He reached into his own jacket and grabbed a revolver.

Bradley didn’t want to shoot anyone. But now he had a gun pointed at him. Again. He could just pull the trigger and this would all be over unless the other members of the Reels’ household were also packing.

On his peripheral vision, Chris pulled out a small hand gun, and aimed it at the bearded man.

The guy with the bat stopped in his tracks, and his face suddenly changed. He’d been mad before. Now that look had disappeared to be replaced with concern. His eyes went wide as he realized he had a very large gun pointed at him.

“Put that down. I’m not going to say it again,” Chris ordered from the side of the yard.

The old man turned and pointed the gun at Chris, and that was a big mistake. Chris’s gun barked, and the old man’s head snapped back. The round had taken him right in the forehead. He didn’t look surprised. He just dropped to the ground in a heap.

The man with the bat screamed and raised it over his head. He leaped over his father. He didn’t even have his feet on the ground when Bradley put one in his chest. The guy fell next to his father and gasped before the noise turned into a cry of pain.

“Take them and get the fuck out of here, or I’ll shoot you and the woman. You got that?” Chris said as he closed the distance.

The woman dropped to knees. She screamed and pressed her hands on her brother’s chest. The other brother appeared to be frozen in panic.

The brother Bradley had shot groaned and gasped for breath.

“Better get him to a hospital. That’s a sucking chest wound. Means his lung is collapsing,” Chris said, still keeping his little Beretta Nano trained on them.

Bradley’s mind reeled. He’d shot another man. Not just another man, but the brother of the guy he had shot and killed yesterday. He wanted to render assistance, but the other brother would probably try to take his head off if he got his hands on that bat.

Chris kept his body angled so he presented less of a target. He put the gun next to the brother’s head and reached down and felt inside the man’s jacket. Then he came up with a gun and slid it into his own waist band.

A shape appeared in the darkness from the Southern corner of Bradley’s yard. Someone moving fast and carrying a long gun. Chris spun to assess the new threat.

“Wait, Chris. That’s my neighbor. He’s okay,” Bradley yelled.

That’s all he needed. One of his only friends gunned down over a mistaken identity.

“Whoa. Yeah, I’m Andy from next door. What on God’s green earth happened? I heard yelling earlier after I woke up from my nap,” Andy said. “Then I heard shooting. I grabbed my Remington and came out to see what was happening.”

“These fuckers tried to kill Bradley. We sorted them out,” Chris said.

“They what?” Andy shifted from foot to foot. “My god. Is that Russ Reels?”

“He drew on Chris. Chris had no choice,” Bradley offered.

“Russ was an asshole, but I’m not sure he deserved to be a dead asshole,” Andy said.

“You know him?” Bradley asked.

“Knew. Yep. Used to see him down at the VFW.”

Bradley wished Andy would have left his shotgun in the house. All of the weapons in the open were making him very nervous. All he needed now was for Chris to shoot another person. How was he going to ever explain all of this to the cops? But they hadn’t shown up when Monica reported armed assailants at their home.

He also felt stupid for not contacting Andy. He might have been able to help deescalate the situation with Russ Reels family, or at the very least, helped protect Monica and little Jenny.

“Put your fucking hands under the old man’s arms. You got a car here?” Chris said as he continued to feel around the man’s pants. He came up with a wallet and thumbed it open.

“Right there,” the man said and pointed at a light blue, old Pontiac across the street.

“Drag him over there. Put him in the car. Then you take your brother and get him to a hospital. You do anything stupid and the next fucking bullet is going to be between your eyes. Then I’ll put one in her just for good measure,” Chris said.

“Okay, okay. We’re going.”

Chris thumbed up an ID card from the man’s wallet and glanced at it.

“Stephen Reels on Coventry drive. That right? I’ll just hang onto this for you.”

“Please, don’t do anything. I just came because Ed was family, but he was crazy. You didn’t have to kill my father.” Stephen sobbed.

Chris tucked the ID card in his pocket, and then tossed the wallet so it landed on the wounded brother’s chest.

“Do what he says,” Bradley said.

Bradley had been prepared for the worst but this somehow seemed like it couldn’t have gone any farther south. One man dead, one man shot, and two potential enemies that might come gunning for him. There was nothing else to do right now. Did he sit out here and wait for the police to eventually show up? For all he knew, they had been called to Chicago and would never arrive. His town was small, but it sported a combined police and firefighter station right next to a post office with only two counters.

Andy finally set his Remington on the grass and went to help the remaining Reels family. They moved the brother first, who groaned when he was lifted off the ground. They put him in the front seat of the Pontiac and lowered the seat so he was prone. Then they dragged his father, Russ and put him in the backseat.

Sondra got into the driver’s seat after her brother Stephen slid inside so he could hold his hand over his brother’s chest wound. She started the car, then turned and met Bradley’s eyes. She tried to burn him to a cinder with pure hatred. When that didn’t work, she shot him her middle finger, and then, with a screech of tires, the car sped off.

“Oh, my goodness, what happened?” Monica asked in horror.

She stood in the doorway behind the security screen door, with her hands pressed to her mouth. Her eyes were wide and behind her, to Bradley’s shock, was little Jenny.

“Get her back,” Bradley called to his wife.

Monica pushed Jenny back and disappeared for a minute.

Chris holstered his gun, his eyes never leaving the car until it made a turn at an intersection.

The shakes kicked in and Bradley walked to the edge of the sidewalk and threw up stomach acid.

“I’ll grab that beer so you two can tell me a story,” Andy said, picked up his Remington, and made for his house.

Junior got out of the car and ran for his dad. He wrapped his arms around him and wept silently.

Bradley felt no shame for his son.

* * *

They retired to the basement. Junior stayed with Jenny, promising to keep her entertained. He probably wanted to know what the adults were discussing but he also bore a haunted look. He had seen too much today. The massacre in the city, and now this.

Monica stood near the entryway and sipped one of the beers Andy had brought over. Budweiser wasn’t Bradley’s favorite but it was cold and bubbly. He hadn’t eaten in hours, and his stomach rumbled, but the thought of food wasn’t something he wanted to contemplate right now. If he ate a sandwich, it would probably be wasted when he had to rush to the toilet to throw up again.

Bradley had given Monica a short play by play while Chris sat in an old recliner and listened. Then he told Andy a brief play by play regarding the workplace shooting.

“I heard about that but didn’t realize it was you,” Andy said, sitting forward in an old wooden chair that Bradley had made in high school wood shop.

“Would have been all that people were talking about. Then we had a bunch of cities come under attack,” Bradley said. “Not that I want the attention. I just did what I had to do.”

“Those are false flags. I read about them on the burning times website,” Andy said.

“I don’t know where they got their information, but I’m telling you point blank, I was just in Chicago, and it was very real,” Bradley said. “People are very scared. Don’t believe everything you read.”

“It was paid actors. They had some photos showing some of them moving before the sheets were put over them. Just a bunch of local talent brought in to create a cover story. The president, God love him, is only concerned with power, pure and simple. This is how he’s going to take control. His numbers are in the dumpster and he’s going to be voted out. I’d like to say it’s a dick move, but maybe this is really what the country needs.”

“You’re an idiot,” a voice said from upstairs.

“That you, Junior?”

Brad Jr. Came down the stairs slowly. He had changed into some clean clothes. A black T-shirt with some band logo, of a group Bradley had never heard of, and a pair of jeans that only had a few holes. Bradley wasn’t sure if the pants had come like that or Junior had created the rips. His mop of hair was a ragged mass that hung around his face. He pushed it out of his eyes and stood at the bottom of the landing, eyes fixed on Andy.

“I’m an idiot?” Andy said and turned to look at Bradley for support.

“I was there,” Junior said.

“You don’t have to talk about it right now. Why don’t you go back upstairs and try to get some sleep.”

“No, Dad. I was there. I saw it, worse, I smelled it. I’ll never forget that reek. I’ll never forget all of those people falling with bullet holes in their bodies. Screaming in pain. Begging for help. No one helped. Those guys kept on shooting. They even stopped to finish off some of the injured before the cowards turned and ran away.”

“Junior,” Bradley warned in a stern but low voice.

He didn’t know what else to say. His son had seen something he wished he could have protected Junior from. But his boy had run off, and he would have to deal with those consequences.

“But you guys can’t talk about this like it was a movie. It was real,” Brad Junior said. “Like I said, the smell was the worst. There was so much smoke from the guns. They were loud, and Kirk and I thought we were going to be killed. We were across the street, near a McDonalds. We took shelter inside. Everyone freaked. Some ran out of the store. Some hid under tables. When they stopped shooting, we looked out there and we saw a stampede. People were crushed to death under so many people. The blood. It was everywhere,” Junior said.

“And I suppose you got a look at the so-called shooters?” Andy asked.

“No. They were already gone,” Junior said.

“See. That’s how it works. A big show. Lots of fake gunfire. It creates a panic. Everything you saw was fake,” Andy said with genuine conviction.

“It’s not. I’m telling you. You can’t make this up,” Junior said and came short of stomping his foot.

“Brad, please get some sleep. I believe you, okay?” Bradley said.

“It’s not right to say it didn’t happen the way I saw it,” Junior said. “It’s not right.”

“We heard you,” Bradley said. “Now why don’t you make sure Jenny is okay, and then hit the hay. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

“Fine, but you know it happened. Andy gets his news from websites that feed his fear. I got it straight from the source. I don’t need websites to show me what real horror looks like,” Junior said. He gave Andy one last unreadable look, and then stomped up the stairs.

“You’ll understand someday, Junior,” Andy called after him.

“Good night,” Junior called back.

“It’s okay, kid’s young,” Andy said.

“Andy, I have trouble believing this wasn’t real,” Bradley said. “So, for now, why don’t we change the subject.”

“Fine by me. How about your partner?” Andy turned to Chris.

“Hard to say what happened since I wasn’t there,” Chris said simply. He pulled his hoodie up and closed his eyes as he sat back in the chair.

“So, what are you planning to do now?” Andy asked.

“I’m going to start fortifying the house. Not just against the Reels. I hope they don’t come back anytime soon. I think we’re about to be in a very bad spot here, and I want to be prepared. Cities under martial law are just the start, and you know it, Andy.”

“I figured as much,” Andy sat back in his chair and drained half of his beer. “I’m stocked up, but not enough to get through more than a month realistically. I never did make a run to Walmart to get more ammo. I’m down to a few boxes of shells for the Remington and my .357.”

“I wish I had more of everything,” Bradley said.

“Well, hell. Let’s just make a run to Walmart right now before it gets too wild,” Andy said.

“Good plan. By tomorrow, the shelves could be bare,” Chris said

“I was going to get cash out in case the banks shut down. I didn’t have time today,” Bradley said.

“Check your account on your phone. It they say they’re having issues right now, you’re screwed,” Chris offered.

“Why do you say that?” Bradley dug out his cell phone.

“Because that’s how it will start. One day it’s an issue. The next day you can’t get at your money,” Chris said.

Bradley was relieved to find he was able to view his balance, as pitiful as it was.

“Andy. Let’s make a list on the way. How’s your pickup running?”

“Fine as ever,” Andy said, rose to his feet, and drained the rest of his beer.

Bradley took the stairs two at a time. He found Monica and explained what he, Andy, and Chris planned to do.

“You just got home, what if the police show up and you aren’t here?”

“Tell them I’ll be right back. This can’t wait. By tomorrow, the stores shelves could be empty.”

“But you just got home. What if there’s more trouble?”

“Baby, I’m sorry. We’ll be back as soon as possible. Just lock the doors again. I promise it won’t take that long. By the time we get there, we may not find much food.”

“Do you really think it’s going to be that bad?”

“I’m afraid so, love. I’m afraid so.”

“So, you’re going to just run off and leave the woman at home again, huh? Why don’t you make a list and I’ll go? You can watch Jenny and Junior.”

“Sure. I’ll get a pencil and paper,” Bradley said.

“Oh, damn. Called my bluff.”

“Didn’t think you were bluffing. I love you, honey. I just want to make sure we’re all safe for a week or two. Maybe this will all blow over and we’ll go back to normal. I’ll start looking for a job again,” Bradley said.

“They probably have some insurance at AlgerTech for what happened. I bet they will owe you some,” Monica said.

She put her hand in his and held it.

Bradley pulled her tightly against him. She wrapped her hands around his waist and hugged him. When he kissed her, she tasted like coffee, and he didn’t mind so much.

“You just be careful, okay? You’re not going to be this lucky forever,” Monica said.

“I promise I’ll be careful. I didn’t ask for any of this. Ed Reels was a wacko, and I wouldn’t have ever hurt him. It’s such a tragedy,” Bradley said. “But I’ll tell you one thing, I don’t regret that I killed him. It was me or him, and if you had seen the bodies, you would have done the same.”

Monica’s face clouded. “I’m glad you’re talking about it, but you’re going to need to talk to someone when everything is back to normal. Promise me you will.”

“I promise. I’ll talk to Pastor Glenn for starters. Get things right with God. Then I’ll see where that leads me.”

“It better lead you to a therapist,” Monica said.

“I got the message, baby. I promise I’ll find a good one.”

Monica hugged him again, this time with a fierceness he returned.

“Now go do whatever stupid thing you’re about to do with the boys.” Monica thumped his chest with her hand.

“I will, besides. It’s good for me to keep moving. Takes my mind of what happened yesterday,” Bradley said.

“Yeah. Keep moving your ass back home as soon as you are done. Don’t even think about stopping to make sure the bars are safe and still have stock,” Monica said.

Bradley laughed for the first time in two days.

“You got it, Mon,” Bradley said with a smile.

He touched his side to make sure the Kimber was still in easy reach, grabbed his keys, and wallet, and went outside to meet Andy and Chris.

He had every intention of talking to Pastor Glenn in the next week, just like he’d promised.

Sadly, Pastor Glen didn’t make it through the next few weeks.

Chapter Twenty-One

There was going to be a learning curve, that was the final words of advice sergeant Wells offered James Briggs before he departed with Charlie and Delta. He’d left Alpha and Bravo at the newly constructed check point. It wasn’t much, yet, but they had promised more equipment, including a HUMVEE in the next few hours. For now, it was a large light to illuminate the area suspended from hastily rented or requisitioned scaffolds.

They had used the MTV to block half of the street, themselves, and it was 2330 hours and mandatory curfew would start in half an hour. James knew because he checked his watch every couple of minutes. When he’d asked what he was supposed to do with those who broke curfew, Wells had said, “Use your best judgment. If you’re given any grief, you are to detain those who do not follow your orders. Is that understood?”

It was understood but it was all very surreal.

They left supplies in a large wooden box. Plastic cuffs, MREs, and bottled water. He hadn’t had a chance to go through the rest of the equipment that had been left for the squad yet.

There were still a lot of people on the streets, either scurrying to stores or running home. Cars had come to a near standstill, and the side streets were gridlock. Abandoned cars everywhere. Some pulled to the side of the road, other’s blocking. A number of them still had occupants who were unsure how to get to their destinations. Was he supposed to arrest someone if they dragged their kids to a hotel because they were tired of waiting in the cold?

Elements of the Army had been trickling in for the last few hours. Troops on the back of transports carrying weapons and wearing grim looks. If the Army was here, good, maybe they would all be allowed to go home in a few days.

Earlier, James had been thrilled that he had been made a fire team leader. Now he wasn’t so excited because he was worried he would choke if the proverbial crap actually hit the fan. He had stared at the words on his orders that stated, “LETHAL FORCE AUTHORIZED,” and been chilled to the core.

When the time came and went, nothing really changed. There had been a couple of people on the street earlier, rushing, while checking the time, but they had disappeared.

Alpha company went out on patrol and came back half an hour later with nothing to report.

James assembled his squad and took the next patrol because he wanted to stretch his legs. He’d been up for eighteen hours and he wasn’t sure when he would be able to get some sleep. It wasn’t that eighteen hours was an eternity, it was the thought that it might soon double that made him groan.

He moved out with his squad and patrolled a four block area. People peered out from windows. A woman waved at them, and they waved back.

“She wants me,” Skip said.

“She wants you to do her laundry,” Sanders said. “Then clean her windows. Did you see those things?”

“I’d do it for the right fee,” Skip said and grabbed his crotch.

“You’re so gross,” Sanders said.

Sanders turned around to check their six, but not before James caught a little smirk on her lips.

“Did you see that?” Cooper said. He pointed toward the end of the block.

James squinted and made out a couple of people near a car. Great. It was going to happen sooner or later, he just didn’t expect to have start confronting civilians so quickly.

“There is a mandatory curfew in effect as of thirty minutes ago. What are you doing on the streets?” James yelled as they approached the two men.

Cooper and Skip moved at a forty-five degree angle, with their M4’s at patrol ready, so could cover the men’s flank. James took the lead with Sanders right behind him.

The two men, one sitting on a car hood, the other standing next to him, smoking a cigarette, were both Hispanic.

“Mandatory…what the fuck?” the guy sitting on the car said.

“Chicago is now under martial law. You’re not allowed on the streets unless it’s to go to go to work for emergency services or for utilities. If you have a hardship, you will be able to apply for a permit in the morning,” James said.

“I don’t need a permit for my line of work, bro. Know what I’m saying? I’m at work now. You need anything?”

“Sir, I’m going to say this one time and one time only. If you do not return to your home immediately, we will detain you.”

“Man. Get the fuck out of here, GI Joe. You can’t infringe on my right to be outside,” the man on the hood of the car said. He pointed at the four-story building next to the street. “I live up there on the second floor. See?”

James had a moment of indecision. He could take the patrol and move on. But that would not look good in anyone’s eyes. Wells had told him that they might have to set an example, and the first few nights would probably where they ran into the most trouble.

“Please, return to your home and tune into your local news channels on the radio or television,” James said. “This is your last warning.”

“Warning? This is the US of A and I’m legal, bitch. I was born here, not sure about that guy. He got a green card?” the man stood up and pointed at Skip.

“Dude, I’m half black, and you’re one half of an asshole team. Why don’t you go inside before anything nasty goes down,” Skip said. “Know what I’m saying?”

“So, wait. You’re gonna come into our neighborhood and tell us how to act, where to be, when to be there? I don’t think so, man. I don’t think that shit’s gonna go down too well. See, we got this block locked up,” the man said, then added. “Know what I’m saying?”

His friend didn’t look like he wanted to be part of this. His face went from cocky to scared in the space of a few seconds.

To hell with these guys.

James snapped his M4 up to firing position, pointed it at the man, and put his finger over the trigger. Sanders pointed her gun at the other man who stood by the side of the car.

“Against the car, now. Hands interlaced behind your neck. If you so much as reach into your jacket, I won’t hesitate to fire,” James said. “Do it!”

The man’s jaw dropped. He slowly turned and raised his hand. The guy’s friend did the same thing, but not before calling his pal a puta.

“Hey, hey, we were just playing around,” the man protested. “No harm, no foul.”

James slung his M4 low while Cooper and Skip covered them from the right flank. Both held their guns at the ready.

James used his foot to nudge the man to spread his legs. Skip came around and pulled a pair of plastic cuffs off his belt.

“You had your chance,” James said.

He patted the man’s waist and didn’t find anything, but pulled his wallet and put it on the hood of the car. His friend was a different story. He carried a .38 revolver in the waistband of his pants and under his shirt. James took it and put it in his own belt.

“I have a conceal and carry for that,” the man said. “I’m an American.”

“Good. Then you’ll understand what’s happening and why you’re coming with us,” James said.

Lights came on in windows in the apartment complex. James fished out the UHF radio Wells had handed him, piece of crap that it was. Typical US Army hand me down.

He called in the two men, and then requested help. Wells informed him that Charlie was double timing it to their position.

A woman opened a window. She was dressed in a large orange robe. “You can’t do that. Those boys aren’t causing any problems.”

“Ma’am, please go back about your business,” James called.

Skip and Sanders cuffed the two men. More windows opened and heads peered outside.

“We’re going to have trouble,” Skip said quietly.

“I hope not,” James said truthfully.

Another window opened, and the face of an angry older man appeared, then another window slid upward and a man and woman leaned out to see what all the noise was about.

“Just ignore them,” James advised his squad.

“Hey. Leave those boys alone,” a man yelled.

James got the cuffs on the second guy. They protested that this wasn’t constitutional. They couldn’t be picked up like this. Then one of the men called him a fucking Nazi. Great. That’s exactly what he had signed on for. To be called a Nazi.

“Gun!” Sanders yelled and took cover behind the car. Skip joined her and pointed his M4 at the building.

Cooper and Skip took cover next to a dark Chrysler Le Baron and trained their guns on the window.

“Do we take him out?” Skip asked.

“No. Do not fire unless fired upon,” James said. All he needed was for this to go south real quick on his first night. They would never let put him in charge of a team again.

Charlie company arrived and took cover behind a truck. James signaled to them. Their fire team leader, a woman named Angela Davis, wasn’t his favorite person in the world. There was nothing that she had done job wise, she just rubbed him the wrong way whenever they tried to engage in conversation.

“SITREP?” she asked James.

“Two men refused to go back into their house. We confronted them, they didn’t back down, so we put them in cuffs. People in their apartment complex didn’t take too kindly to that and exchanged words. There was a guy in that second floor window, fourth from the right, with a gun, but he backed away.”

“Probably just heard all the noise and got freaked,” Davis said.

“Yeah. Appreciate you coming out here for support,” James nodded.

“Well, I wasn’t getting a mani-pedi tonight so why the hell not?” She smirked.

“We’re going to withdraw and bring these guys back to the FOB for processing,” James said.

“We’ll hang back and cover your retreat. Stay in the shadows,” Davis said.

“Do our best,” James said, annoyed that she’d mentioned retreat.

She was just kidding around, sure, but it was the way she did it that got him. Like she was smarter than everyone around her. Maybe he was alone in his thinking. He’d never heard anyone say anything bad about Angela Davis. Plus, her team trusted her or she wouldn’t be a fire team leader.

“Hell of a night,” he said.

“This is just the start. Give it a few days and this shit is going to be a walk in the park comparatively,” Davis said.

“How do you know?” James asked.

“I’m a sociology major. What would you think if the army rolled into your home town and told you to stay the hell off the streets after 2200 hours?”

“Yeah. I guess I’d be a little cross,” James said.

“Crossed. What are you, fifty? Who says that?”

James frowned, then gathered his squad under cover from Charlie and took them to the FOB.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chris had no regrets about shooting the old man.

He had feared that the events at Bradley’s home would force him to move again. But the police had never arrived and, as they made their way to the local super store, he found the city was already devolving into chaos. For now, all he had to do, was be a good little American and pretend to fit in. He had given Bradley over a thousand dollars from his personal cash supply, and it would be worth every penny if he could lay low for a few more days.

The town of Vicksburg fit in with his plans. Since it was a small city, he knew there wouldn’t be that many security cameras, the bane of his existence. The second he had walked into the Walmart, he had snagged up a ball cap featuring an American Eagle and pulled it over his eyes.

A run on goods was underway, and there would be fights. His first stop was at the gun counter in the back of the store where the line stretched along a full aisle. He noted an older man’s name, prominently displayed on his ID badge, and then waited.

The second the two employees had their backs turned, he moved behind the counter and grabbed two handfuls of 9mm and .357 ammo. He would have loved to buy a new weapon but there was no way in hell he’d be able to fake it. As good as his ID was, it would never pass even the barest of government checks for a firearm purchase. At least he still had the gun he had taken off the old man after shooting him in the head at Bradley’s house.

Someone protested his intrusion, and another man raised his voice, saying “You have to wait in line like the rest of us, buddy.”

Chris ignored them, kept his head down, and pushed his cart off into the crowd. The best concealment in the world awaited him, a flurry of activity from scared shoppers.

With his cart loaded, it was just a waiting game to checkout and, even when the clerk tried to give him grief about not purchasing ammo in the correct location, he flat out told the young woman that “Chuck at the booth told me it was okay. He said to tell you that.”

With a line of impatient shoppers behind him, she just shook her head and rang the rounds up.

As he wheeled his cart outside, a large man wearing a Chicago Cubs ball cap bumped into him. He tried to ignore the man but the man was persistent.

“Hey, man. Sorry about that. Looks like you got a lot of stuff there. Can I buy some of it? I have cash.”

“Fuck off,” Chris said and pushed his cart away.

He saw the second man coming a mile off. He’d been waiting behind a pillar holding up the Walmart’s sloping overhang and wasn’t all that smooth. But the two were big men, and they were probably used to getting their way at bars.

The second man grabbed Chris’s cart by the basket and yanked. Instead of fighting, he pushed hard, and took the man off balance, forcing him to stumble before the man went down with a cry.

Chris would have loved backup. Even someone with his training wasn’t a sure bet against two experienced combatants, so timing and speed were of the essence.

There was no finesse in the kick. He delivered it with a snap to the first man’s knee. Chicago ball cap yelped and Chris followed up the kick with a y-hand blow to his throat. That took the fight right out of him, and he dropped to his knees gasping for breath.

The second man barreled into him. Chris accepted the momentum and turned his body, making a hook with his toes against the pavement, leg cocked, creating a basic Judo move. The guy tripped and went to his hands and knees.

Chris pulled out the .357 Smith and Wesson revolver he’d taken from Russ Reels and pointed it at them.

“Get out of here or I’m going to splatter your fucking brains all over the sidewalk. Go. Run!”

They got smart and followed his orders.

People stopped to gawk and one man even took out his cell phone. Chris kept the revolver in hand and pushed his cart. As the passed the man with the cell phone, he slapped it out of his hand. It clattered to the ground with a noise known all too well by cell phone owners, that of the screen cracking.

“Sorry, buddy. I’m so clumsy,” Chris said.

“What the hell, man. I didn’t do anything to you.

“Yeah? Well I’m shy. Go buy a new cell phone and send me a bill,” Chris moved past him with his gun still prominently displayed.

“What? I don’t know you or have your address.

Chris made it to the Bronco at the end of a long line of cars in the parking lot and pushed his cart next to the rear passenger side door. Then he waited patiently, all the while keeping an eye out for the two men to return.

They did not, and anyone who took even half a glance at him noted the gun, the hard look on his face, and decided to move on without a challenge.

Bradley and Andy returned to the vehicle, and they left without further incident. Chris was under no delusions that this was just the beginning, and other problems were going to crop up. He needed a little more time, and then he would pick a day, and disappear in the middle of the night.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Bradley slept with the help of another dose of Ambien. He woke up after five hours in a cold sweat. He had managed to throw most of the covers off the bed, so he pulled them to his chin and shivered. Monica slept next to him, but she tossed and turned. He didn’t move for fear of waking her, but after a half hour of violent images rolling through his head, he rose and went to the kitchen to make coffee. There was a half pot from yesterday, and never being one to waste, he poured a mug full and nuked it for a minute.

Then he returned to bed, slipped under the covers, and stared at the wall.

The trip to Walmart the day before had been like walking into a politicized Black Friday sale. He, Andy, and Chris had hastily scratched out notes with the supplies they needed to secure.

Then the mad dash had begun. It took almost an hour, and they were not always successful, but in the end, they came home with a large haul. Fresh bread, rice, beans, flour, and canned goods like meat, fruit and vegetables. Sugar, coffee, salt, vitamins, and oatmeal. Bradley also stocked up on medical supplies. Ointments, bandages, and a couple of large first aid kits. Those would remain sealed until he needed them.

When Bradley said he was worried he didn’t have enough money to cover his list, Chris had reached into his pocket and peeled off a stack of hundred dollar bills.

“I can’t accept this,” Bradley had protested.

“You can. Call it a thank you. I just got a huge bonus, and it’s worth it for all the help you’ve given me. Take it. It probably not going to be worth anything in the coming weeks,” Chris had said and departed into the madness at the store.

When they had returned to Bradley’s house, they had divided up the supplies. Andy had to make several trips to his house to carry over his goods. Chris helped, and told Bradley he should start sorting and storing items. Everything fresh was jammed into the refrigerator. He put a dozen loaves of bread in the deep freeze in the garage, as well as anything else that could remain frozen.

He had even scored a couple of boxes of frozen steaks in vacuum sealed bags. Those were distributed around the freezer with a dozen of them on the bottom. He rolled out his generator, a Troy-Bilt that could generate 7,000 watts. The eight gallon fuel tank would run for almost twenty-four hours. He did some calculations and determined he would need 255 gallons to last a month if it ran all of the time. If they ran it for a few hours a day, it would last considerably longer.

Where was he going to get that much fuel?

He prayed the power didn’t go out, or he would have an entire freezer of spoiled food in a day.

He and Andy decided to go out later and try to secure some large gas containers and STA-BIL to keep the fuel fresh in case it needed to be stored for the long term.

Monica stretched and rolled over after he had slurped down half of his coffee. She rolled over, night gown riding up her side. He put his hand on her hip, and then leaned over and kissed her.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I got beat up. I’m sore everywhere.”

“You slept?”

“Yeah. That Ambien knocked me out. I had some weird dreams,” he said. “How were the kids after I went to bed?”

“They were good. Junior was sullen. I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t engage with me. He moped around and then went into his room to mess around with his tablet.”

“I’ll try to talk to him today. I’m still mad that he ran off and nearly got himself killed, but I’m relieved he’s okay. I’m glad we’re all okay after last night.”

There was a knock on the door.

“I’ll make sure it’s not trouble,” Bradley said.

“It’s probably Andy. He always knocks softly and never used the doorbell. At least he’s polite even if he is sort of an asshole,” Monica said.

Bradley grabbed his jeans from the dresser and slid into them. Then tossed on a clean T-shirt and, and picked up the Kydex rapidtuck holstered Kimber, and attached it to the waistband of his pants.

He peeked out of the living room blinds and found Andy standing on his doorstep.

Bradley looked out of the door’s peephole. Andy stood on the front porch with his back to the door. He looked up and down the street, then adjusted his ball cap, and turned as Bradley opened the door.

“Hey, neighbor. Looks like the Anderson’s across the street put all of their stuff in a rental and hauled ass,” Andy said.

Over the last few years, the town of Vicksburg had experienced a lot of growth, but Bradley’s neighborhood had actually shrunk. His house was fifty years old and there were rumors that a developer was eyeing the homes along his street to possibly buy up, raze, and then build a new housing development in its place. So far, no one had shown up at his door with a wheelbarrow full of money.

“That’s a shame. I liked Shawn and Jed well enough,” Bradley said.

“Didn’t bother you that they were a couple of butt pirates?” Andy said.

Bradley rolled his eyes and fought from laying into Andy. If there was one thing he hated, it was intolerance. Shawn and Jed were nice guys, and had even helped out when a tornado nearly touched down in the neighborhood. He’d had a large tree fall, narrowly avoiding his Bronco, and blocking his driveway. The men had come out in coveralls to help the neighbors out, and they had stopped at his house first. Twenty minutes with a chainsaw, some back breaking labor dragging the pieces aside, and he’d had his driveway back.

“Not a very polite thing to say, Andy. And no, it doesn’t bother me at all. Whatever they are happy with ain’t my concern,” Bradley said.

“Okay, I’ll give you that, I guess. What time do you want to go get the fuel tanks?”

“How about in an hour, sound good?”

“Sure,” Andy said. “Where’s your buddy?”

“Chris? I think he’s still in the basement. I let him crash down there last night.”

“I wondered if he stayed. Assumed he had. You feel okay with him around?”

“Yeah, I guess. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. Something off about that guy. He’s got some hard edges, and I don’t mean he’s grumpy. I believe he could shoot either one of us and walk away without a second thought,” Andy said.

“He seems harmless enough,” Bradley tried to placate Andy.

“Harmless? He killed Russ Reels last night, and then threatened to shoot his son and his son’s wife.”

“They were a threat. I shot Stephen. Are you suddenly afraid of me?”

“No, I guess not. Just don’t plug me for my food when the shit hits the fan.” Andy offered a grin.

“I promise I won’t. I’ll just wait until your rotten ass dies because you can’t get the internet and look at sheep porn anymore,” Bradley said.

Andy got a quizzical look on his face for a split second, then he burst into laughter. He doubled over and nearly choked himself.

“You got me, okay. Shots fired, neighbor. I’ll see you in an hour.”

“Uh, might be longer than an hour,” Bradley said as his gaze was pulled to the end of the street.

Andy turned to follow his look, and then swallowed, and his face went white.

There was a police cruiser on the road, and it headed right for Bradley’s house.

Chapter Twenty-Four

James Briggs got a little bit of sleep.

After they had been relieved at 0600, he and the rest of Bravo had assisted in moving some large barricades across the street so it created a one way entry point. Traffic departing the city was rerouted a block away. Then they had assisted with hanging up a six foot sign that proclaimed:

MARTIAL LAW IS IN EFFECT. 10:00 PM CURFEW ENFORCED.

PLEASE APPLY FOR HARDSHIP OR WORK PERMITS.

VIOLATORS ARE SUBJECT TO MILITARY AND POLICE DETENTION.

THE USE OF LETHAL FORCE AUTHORIZED FOR LOOTERS.

By then, he was dead on his feet, but he pushed on. Finally, they had been granted rest. Wells apologized and said he’d been swept up in patrols, but that his squad did good and they should get some shut eye.

There was no mention of the two men they had brought in. The pair had been loaded onto the back of a transport filled with angry citizens.

The Guard had setup a temporary FOB with a couple of hastily constructed barracks in the southwest corner. He found a cot, rolled onto it, and passed out. After being up for nearly thirty-six hours, he was beat. He tried to answer a couple of messages from Jessica but sleep dragged him down.

Someone bumped his cot hours later. He rolled over and stared at the sleeping face of Skip, three feet away, who snored like a tornado shaking a house.

Something cracked in the distance like a popcorn maker. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, eyes wide.

Those had been gunshots.

James checked his watch and found it was nineteen hundred hours.

“Where did that come from?” he muttered.

“Thought it was you farting,” Skip Koslowski said. He yawned and rolled over.

“I heard shooting,” James said.

“Yeah. I heard it too, but it was pretty far away. When everyone else dives under their cot, I’ll be right there with them,” Skip said. “Gonna catch a few more winks. Wake me thirty?”

“Sure. I need to get some chow.”

“I’ll find an MRE later. Better than that slop in the DFAC,” Skip said and closed his eyes.

James rose, slung on his M4, retrieved his combat helmet and dropped it on his head, and went to the latrine to relieve himself. Glancing in the mirror, he found his face looked haggard. Whiskers had popped up along his cheeks and neck. He splashed some cold water on his face, and then leaned over and drank from the faucet for a solid thirty seconds. James wasn’t a big coffee drinker, preferring to stay hydrated with water. He had found that a large glass of ice cold water in the morning woke him up quicker than a cup of Joe ever did.

The DFAC (Dining Facility) was a disorganized clutter of chairs and benches. The line for food was much longer than he had expected, but his stomach grumbled so he waited it out and was rewarded with something that vaguely resembled beef stew and had no flavor. There was no place to sit so he stood near a wall with a dozen other Guardsmen and regular Army, and ate something that might have been chili mac. After the second bite, he sought out some hot sauce, salt and pepper, but it barely made an impact on the blandness of the dish.

A pair of regular Army guys stood near him. They glanced at his uniform, and one of the men smirked at his friend. James ignored them and slurped up the rest of his food, and then got a cup of bug juice and drank it down in a half-dozen gulps. Protein and sugar, he felt like he had a damn hangover, but that was probably just the stress of yesterday combined with a need for more sleep. He could find another cot and try to close his eyes for thirty minutes, but he’d feel better if he talked to his girlfriend.

James had thought to carry a battery brick with him, and he had relied on it the night before to charge his phone. He might get another full charge out of it before he had to put the damn thing on to charge itself.

He had an hour to kill before his squad had to be back on duty so he left the DFAC and checked his phone.

James opened his banking app, and was greeted by a small message.

Withdrawals temporarily limited to $20.

What in the hell? Since when was a bank allowed to tell a customer how much money they could take out of their account?

Then James breathed a sigh of relief when he checked his account balance. Most of the money the hacker had stolen had been returned by his bank. He had half a mind to find a branch, and demand that they give him his money.

A message from Jessica popped up.

Not what I expected here, but I’m doing okay.

I miss you. I’m staying at home because work has some concerns regarding the legality of martial law. I guess everyone is trying to work from home. It’s hard to get on the internet.

He told her to stay safe, and that he would see her soon, even though he doubted he would. James tried to stay optimistic but it was not looking good for them returning to their homes in the coming week.

He tried to call but couldn’t get through, which was troubling. Was the government cracking down on the cell towers for some reason?

I miss your face

He took a selfie of his tired features and sent it.

I take it back

Glad you’re at home and safe.

I am, but I’m but scared.

Then she sent him a selfie. She was cross-eyed and had stuck her tongue out

You and me. We’re a hot mess.

She didn’t respond right away, so he went to find Wells and find out what his orders were for the day.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The police officer parked the cruiser in front of Bradley’s house and opened the door. He nodded at Bradley and Andy, so they nodded back. The officer’s partner got out of his car as well but stood next to the cruiser.

The man who approached Bradley looked familiar. He had dark skin and a black mustache. It took him a second before Bradley realized it was one of the cops who had been on the scene of the incident at work the other day.

“Officer Jenz, right?” Bradley greeted him.

“Good memory,” Jenz said.

“I guess I know why you’re here,” Bradley said.

“Don’t you say nothing until you talk to a lawyer,” Andy advised.

Bradley brushed past his older neighbor and met the officer at the foot of his porch.

“So, I heard from Sondra Reels that you opened fire on them without provocation. Now I’m not saying she’s lying, but what was she doing here last night?”

“My wife called for help and no one came. Sondra showed up with Ed Reels father, and her husband, and Russ’s other son. They raised all kinds of unholy hell, threatened my wife, banged on the door with a baseball bat, and when I got home, they threatened to kill me,” Bradley said in a rush. He was scared. The man could slap him in cuffs and book him. Plus, he was carrying the weapon he’d used in the shooting. By rights they would confiscate it into evidence.

“I saw the whole thing, officer. The shootings were justified. I came out with my shotgun, Remington pump action, you know, and I was going to help out, but Bradley and Chris sorted it out,” Andy said.

Bradley noticed he wasn’t writing anything down.

“Look, I should bring you both in. Truth is, we’re up to our necks in shit right now. I came here as a courtesy to let you know not to leave town. Please. It’s not that I’m arresting you, I don’t want to, I just need to know that you’re available so we can ask a few questions when this all blows over,” Jenz said.

“I agree to that,” Bradley said, absolutely surprised they were here to just ask a few questions.

“Sondra Reels raised all kinds of hell. She yelled at everyone from the chief of police to the mayor. Now I spoke up for you because I know what happened at your workplace. The chance of that woman and her family just happening to stroll past your house so you could take a few shots at them is ludicrous. I don’t suppose you have any video footage of what happened? That would be real helpful,” Jenz said.

“How could I forget about that. I got a security system. My cameras don’t point at Bradley’s yard, I’m not a peeping Tom, but they do have fish eyes. Might be we caught some of it. Plus, there would be audio,” Andy said.

“Like I said. That would be very helpful. Can you put that on a flash drive and drop it at the police station down on Elm?” Jenz took out a card and handed it to Bradley.

“That’s it?” Bradley said.

“We can barely keep up with everything in this town. Last night a kid was killed in the street and we don’t have a single witness. Nice boy, too. Went to the high school. Seems like his only crime was having dark skin and being from a Syrian family. Then we got the looting, practically a riot at Walgreens last night. Plus, we’re dealing with the feds. We got convoys of troops passing through town on their way up north. Then there’s the run on stores. Fights everywhere, people brandishing weapons, you get my drift?”

“I guess so,” Bradley said.

“Then some yahoos set the high school on fire the last night, and they had a five alarmer. I haven’t slept in thirty-six hours, and I have to make at least seven more stops before my shift is over,” Jenz said. “Not to sound like an asshole, but do me a favor, Bradley, please don’t shoot any more people for a few days. I already have enough paperwork to catch up on to last me six months.”

“Uh, okay.” Bradley nodded.

“Oh, who’s this Chris guy?”

“He came down from Chicago with me. He’s a good guy, got trapped in the city. He helped us out,” Bradley said and conveniently left out the fact that he’d been in another fight at a Subway when he’d met Chris. “He’s around here somewhere. Need to speak to him?”

“Just give us a few days. When it’s calm, I’d like for you to call and arrange a visit with this Chris guy. We’ll take a proper statement and look at that video,” Jenz said.

“Okay, I’ll do that,” Bradley said. “Just curious, why aren’t you writing any of this down?”

“I have an amazing memory. Just kidding. I have body cam on, and I’m too tired to take notes,” Jenz pointed at his chest. There was a device there no larger than a ball point pen point.

“That’s slick,” Andy said.

“Yep. Real slick. Have a day, folks,” Jenz said and headed back to his cruiser.

“That was the weirdest thing I have ever seen in my life,” Andy said.

“You and me both,” Bradley scratched his head. “Is this a sign of what’s to come?”

“I think you already know the answer to that. If it’s just him and his silent partner, where are all of the other cops in town?” Andy said.

As the cruiser pulled off the curb and drove away, Bradley barely resisted the urge to wave. Instead, he closed his mouth and went back to washing the blood off his walkway.

Strange times were here, stranger were on the way.

Chapter Twenty-Six

It was the third day of occupation. That’s what Skip kept calling it.

On the first day, they had been greeted like friends. Cars had stopped at intersections for them, and people has shown some respect.

Then last night, just before curfew, a faded yellow 70s Buick had nearly run them over. The worst part was that it seemed to have been the driver’s intention. They were cursed at while the Guard patrolled, people spit on the streets near them and, on more than one occasion, something had sailed out of the air and nearly hit them.

“Can we just shoot people?” Sanders said.

“Really, Sanders? You want to shoot people who don’t see the work we’re doing for the city?” Skip said.

“Just one or two. Set an example,” she said.

“I heard some Army regulars got into it a mile south of here. Gunfire was exchanged. They put down the shooters, and then confiscated every single weapon. I’ve heard rumors they’re now seeking out people with assault rifles and taking them,” Skip said.

“Confiscating guns is a goddamn death wish. I’d hate to be the one knocking on someone’s door and saying, excuse me, good sir,” Sanders switched to a pretty decent British accent, “do you have any Grey Poupon? And while I’m here, hand over your legally purchased firearms.”

“It may come to that,” James said.

“The hell it will. I’ll get out of this fucking outfit before I have to bang on doors. That’s some fascist bullshit right there,” Sanders said.

“When you get out of your outfit, invite me over,” Skip said.

Sanders threw a mock kick his way.

“Did they get that mess cleaned up at the pavilion?” Skip said.

“By mess, do you mean all the corpses, blood, and body parts?” Sanders said.

“Yeah. I mean, once that’s done and they get the pavilion clear, maybe we can call it a day.” Skip said.

“Gonna take a long time to process everything. I don’t know that it will change anything. We may be here for weeks,” Sanders said.

“At least we’re not in Houston. That was crazy,” Cooper said.

“Damn nightmare,” James said.

He had read about the newest attack and had been horrified. Someone had snuck a military grade .50 cal in to the city and mounted in the back of a van. They had stopped near a demonstration in which thousands had been protesting the president’s move regarding martial law.

“So how did they do it?” James said.

“I read about the whole thing on Reuters this morning. This van was custom fitted, and it had some UPS stickers on the side so I guess it looked legit. The back doors were flung open and there was a team of three. They had the gun covered with a big black cloth. They mounted the gun on this thing that slid out and was bolted to the base of the van.” Skip gestured with his hands as he gave the play by play. “So, these guys, dressed in black masks, cause that’s how they roll, start shooting. You ever seen a .50 cal? It’s like explosions, man. People flew apart. I read over on Breitbart, that they are having trouble matching up body parts with bodies. That shit is messed up.”

“How many?” Sanders said.

“Before we left, I read it was in the hundreds.”

“Hundreds? All from one gun? That can’t be right,” James said.

James and the rest of the squad had seen the carnage following the mass shooting in town. With multiple guns, it hadn’t been in the hundreds. Last he heard, it was ninety-two dead.

“I guess. Figure everyone’s bunched up. Let’s say it’s a Browning, and it’s an old AN/M2. You’re looking at about 800 rounds per minute, and like I said, those rounds can blast into one guy and then exit through another.”

“Gross,” Sanders said.

They’d been patrolling the same blocks for three days, and the changes over that time were interesting, to say the least. No one had picked up garbage, and it had been rotting for two days. There was a rumor that the refuse collection service was on strike as a way to protest the president’s orders. As a sign of solidarity, people had been hauling bags of trash out and leaving them on the street. Weird way to make a protest since it would stink up the neighborhood soon. Hell, it already was.

“You guys hear about the stuff down in Vicksburg?” Cooper asked.

“Looters?” James said.

“No. Some guy shot up his work the other day. Then one of the employees managed to get the gun away and he wasted the dude. Eleven people dead, of some shit. That was a few days ago,” Cooper said.

“Boston had another attack. Some kind of bomb,” Sanders offered.

The news was grim, and more and more cities were seeing military occupation. There was another rumor floating around that a lot of soldiers serving overseas were being recalled. There were also other things being whispered about. Camps where the detainees were removed to, and more immigrants were being rounded up.

Cooper had been quiet today. When James had asked him if there was a problem, Cooper had said everything was good. He was tired, but there was something he wasn’t telling the rest of the squad. In theory, that was fine. He should have his privacy, but if he was having an issue with the mission then he needed to be upfront because James needed to know if he was about to be a liability.

They rounded the corner and proceeded to Ravine. A bunch of guys in their early twenties, wearing black, saw the patrol coming and ducked between a restaurant and a CVS pharmacy that was closed.

“Think that’s trouble,” Skip asked.

James brought his M4 to low ready and moved to the location, but the men were long gone.

An LMTV rumbled past. In the back, seven or eight civilians in zip tie cuffs, sat looking miserable. James nodded to the driver, but the driver ignored him.

“Those guys are gone. I didn’t see any weapons, you all?” James said.

“No, but they were wearing light jackets. Kinda weird considering it’s in the sixties,” Skip said.

James considered following but not without backup. He made a call to Sergeant Wells, but Wells told him that if they weren’t under direct threat, they should proceed along their patrol route. He acknowledged and the squad moved out.

As daylight faded, the squad didn’t run into any more trouble.

When night fell, it would be a different story.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Several days passed and Bradley had made a lot of progress towards prepping his home.

Junior had spent most of his time since returning from Chicago in his room. Kirk hadn’t been by the house at all, but Bradley was sure the two talked on the phone. Bradley needed to sit down with Junior and talk about his son’s actions that had almost gotten them killed. He would do it soon. School had been canceled again, but things were going to return to normal soon.

Junior was useful at times, helping him measure and cut beams in the garage, but for the most part, he was quiet and sullen.

Bradley had rigged up a couple of supports for beams across the back and front door. Then he’d cut down some plywood in his garage that would fit his windows. He’d purchased some 3M window film about a year ago but had never gotten around to installing it. When he opened the box and read the directions, he remembered why he had put it off. The film, which would make it harder for intruders to see into the house, also added an additional layer of protection to the glass. It would be harder to shatter, and everything he did to slow an intruder, make them think twice about raiding his house, was a good thing.

He spent most of the morning measuring, cutting, applying soapy water, and then squeegeeing on the film. First, the window had to be cleaned, then sprayed with more soapy water. Slap the film on. Spray on even more soapy water. By the time he had the large sun window in the front of the house installed, it was almost noon.

Chris had offered to leave, but Bradley said he didn’t have to.

“How’s your sister?” Bradley asked.

“I talked to her last night,” Bradley dug out a cell phone and wiggled it. “She’s about ten miles from here and feeling a lot better. I promised to make it over to her house as soon as I can. Didn’t want to hit you up for another ride.”

Chris didn’t bother them much, and never got on Bradley’s nerves. He stayed in the basement, and like the 3M film, added another layer of protection. He knew there was more to Chris’s story than the man was letting on, but after his help with the Reels, money, and assistance gathering supplies, Bradley felt indebted to Chris. Whatever he was hiding, or hiding from, would have to wait for another day.

So, the shit had not hit the fan and maybe it would not after all. He and his family were safe, and things had calmed down, according to the news. Bradley had even taken Chris to a local hardware store to pick up some thick boards in case he had to put plywood over the windows. They were out but promised to have them in stock in a day or two.

They drove by the Walmart the next day, but it was filled with empty shelves. Bradley did not see any trucks pulling in to deliver goods. He wished he had stocked up on more medicine. Tylenol, aspirin, and cold medication would be at a premium over the coming months if things really did go south.

Even the sporting goods stores were closed, which was a damn shame. He needed more ammo. He had four hundred and fifty 9mm rounds, and two hundred .45 rounds. What he also wanted to purchase was an AR-15 but he didn’t have the money for it.

More disturbing, he had seen a number of men roaming the streets and they didn’t look like they were interested in making friends. They openly carried assault rifles and belts covered in magazines. Maybe they were the new sheriff. Maybe they were there to keep law and order. Chris hadn’t been too impressed.

“Those boys are a walking fuck load of trouble. They come near the house and we’re probably going to have problems.”

“We’re too far away from them,” Bradley said.

“Won’t matter soon. People have about three days’ worth of food. Store shelves are bare. Like you pointed out, there aren’t any trucks delivering goods. That means we have a larger problem than what we’re seeing in the big cities,” Chris said.

“The news channel’s been on for damn near three days straight. Things are getting better.”

“Sure. Getting better. Have you noticed that the broadcasters are changing? They’re out sick or covering stories. There are less and less of familiar faces. Oh, don’t get me wrong, they have some good looking people on the tube with smooth voices. Lots of calm talk. The weather, local news, feel good stories. Where’s the coverage of Chicago?”

“They talked about it this morning. Said things were getting back to normal. They even showed people out on the street after dark. Did a few interviews,” Bradley said. “All above board.”

“Above board. More like above the average ability to question beyond a thirty second puff piece.”

“So you’re saying I’m a dummy,” Bradley scoffed.

“No, I’m saying you’re a consumer of the nightly news and whatever bullshit story that’s been approved for daily consumption. Only now it’s a lot worse. It’s all being manipulated on a scale that’s never been attempted before.”

“Sounds like a conspiracy theory to me,” Bradley said.

“Keep telling yourself that until boys like that,” Chris said and pointed at the armed militia. “Show up at your from door, rape your wife, steal your food, and then put a bullet in your skull.”

Bradley didn’t feel much like talking on the rest of the trip home so he kept his opinions to himself.

He dug out his cell phone and checked it for messages from Monica. Instead, he found another emergency alert.

“The hell?” Bradley said.

Chris glanced over at Bradley’s screen. “Everything okay?”

“They’ve temporarily disrupted cellular service in the state, except for 911, in an effort to find those responsible for the killings in Chicago.”

“The other shoe drops,” Chris said.

“What do you mean?”

“This is all coordinated. It’s a slow siphoning of your ability to get news from alternative sources than what’s on television and the radio,” Chris said.

Bradley nearly dismissed that as more conspiracy theory, but then the idea took hold. What Chris had said in the Bronco would be ludicrous on any day of the week, but the pieces were starting to fall together in Bradley’s head.

He had one other question that he decided to tuck away.

How did his new friend Chris know all this stuff?

* * *

For the last few days, Bradley and his family had put a dent in their supply of fresh vegetables and meat. He had a few pounds of beef in the fridge, and the night before he had made burgers and invited Andy over. His neighbor on the left side of his house had waved at Bradley so Bradley had invited him over as well.

“Haven’t seen you around much, Clarence,” Bradley said and shook his neighbor’s hand once the man crossed into Bradley’s backyard. Clarence had over half an acre, and it was well maintained by a crew that stopped by twice a month. Clarence was an attorney for a law firm in Joliet. He was also one of the few black neighbors on Bradley’s street that Bradley knew on a personal basis. It wasn’t because of the man’s color, Bradley simply tended to keep to himself.

Andy and Clarence didn’t engage in conversation. Andy, an acknowledge hater of minorities, and homosexuals, found he had forgotten to do something at his own home and excused himself a few minutes after Clarence had arrived.

Clarence had left his suit in the house and wore a loud Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts. He also dressed in socks and tennis shoes, something Junior would have laughingly approved of.

“Truth is, I couldn’t get out of the city the first night. I heard about the gridlock and decided not to take any chances. So I slept in my office and tried to pretend like everything was normal.”

“I hear that. I had to go to Chicago the day of the incident. I only managed to get out, because I parked a few miles away from where I had to be,” Bradley said but didn’t elaborate.

“You got out of town, good for you.”

“So, is all of this stuff legal? I didn’t know the president could declare martial law without the approval of congress.”

“I’m not a constitutional lawyer, man. I just help people get their insurance companies to comply. But I don’t think congress would have held him back. They’re talking about expanding the president’s orders to larger sections of the states that were attacked. He’ll probably need approval for that, but when has he ever done anything by the books?”

“That’s why people like him. Does what he says. I was sick of politicians saying one thing and doing another,” Bradley said truthfully.

“If you say so. Hard to know what to make out of the news these days, especially since the attacks happened,” Clarence said.

“That I can agree with.”

* * *

He and Clarence talked for a while as the burgers cooked. Bradley kept an eye on them, but two burned on one side anyway. He had some leftover whisky from the a few days ago and mixed it with Cokes for himself and Clarence. He let Clarence in on the shootings he had been involved in, although he downplayed the one at his home a few nights ago.

“Guess I missed all of the excitement. I was out at my brother in law’s house drinking beer, and eating hot dogs.”

“Glad you weren’t around, Clarence. It was an ugly night.”

“I think we’re in for a few more ugly nights, before much longer,” Clarence said.

“I just want to float this by you,” Bradley asked after they had a couple of drinks.

“What’s that?” Clarence said.

“On the off chance that martial law expands, and we’re locked down here, would you consider helping Andy and I keep a neighborhood watch? We’d want to meet at one of our houses once a day.”

“Count me in. I don’t think Andy likes me too much, but I’m game,” Clarence said.

“Andy is old and set in his ways. I’ve tried, Clarence, I’ve tried.”

“It’s hard to kill old prejudices, you know? I could hate him, but I feel sorry for Andy. Still, man. I don’t think I can trust him,” Clarence said. “So, we need more neighbors to make this work, right?”

“Yeah. We’d want everyone on the street. That would be ideal.”

“Sounds good to me. I know Brent and Lisa next to me. They’re decent people, but I haven’t seen them around. They might have run off to hide out with family. He’s from Arkansas.”

“If they come back home, we can certainly try to recruit them.”

We shook hands like we were making a deal.

“You have weapons?” Clarence asked.

“Got a Kimber .45 and a 9mm for conceal and carry. Monica has been carrying it around,” Bradley nodded.

“Good. I have a hunting rifle, even though I’ve never been hunting. I have one other gun, but you’re going to laugh,” Clarence said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, you remember seeing the old Dirty Harry movies? I used to love them,” Clarence said. “Except the black partner always seemed to die. Anyway, I loved his gun, and I have one.”

“A .44?”

“.44 automag. It’s a beast.” Clarence smiled. “Ever read the old pulp men’s books, Mack Bolan? That was his gun.”

“Damn. Take a man’s head clean off,” Bradley said with a grin. “I read a few Bolan books back in the day. I think I still have a box of them in the garage.”

“The Executioner. Mind if I hit you up to see the collection some day?” Clarence asked.

“Happy to, but they aren’t really a collection. I forgot I had them until you brought the series up. Might make some good reading if the lights go out,” Bradley said.

“Let’s hope that doesn’t happen. Anyway, that gun is my baby. I take it to the range a couple of times a year. Kicks like a mule.” Clarence grinned. “If those jerks come back looking to take you out, they don’t want to meet me if I’m packing that monster.”

Monica came out with some paper plates, napkins, and buns. She’d made potato salad and set a glass bowl on the table.

For the next twenty minutes, they ate, joked, laughed, and forgot about the shootings, the explosions, the fact that cities were now under the control of the military, and tried to focus on friends and family.

Bradley noted that Chris did not try to join them. He didn’t intrude on the man and left him to his own devices.

Junior came out and got a burger, put it on a plate, and then added some potato chips. He turned to head back into the house.

“How’s it going, Junior?” Bradley asked him.

“Good. Just got a lot of homework to catch up on. No school again tomorrow but they are offering, I mean they were offering, things we could work on at home so we don’t fall too far behind the curriculum.”

“That’s a pretty good deal. We should talk about Chicago. It’s been a few days,” Bradley said.

“I don’t want to talk about it right now, Dad. I saw what happened. I don’t care what Andy says. It was real.”

“I said I believe you. I’m more interested in what made you think it was okay to go up there in the first place.”

“We had to, dad. The constitution guarantees us the right to protest. I wanted to be a part of it all.”

“Does the constitution allow me to put my foot up your ass? Because that’s what I felt like doing. It was stupid not to tell us, son. That’s all you had to do, tell us you wanted to go. I would have figured out how to take you,” Bradley said. “It’s the sneaking that I don’t like.”

“You wouldn’t have taken me because you don’t agree with the politics. You can’t see what’s happening in the country. They’ve built prisons that look like concentration camps. That stuff used to be joked about, but now it’s real. Immigrants are being tossed out of the country. Families have been separated. And the worst thing is all the fighting. Two parties in this country and they can’t get along, Dad. It’s one battle after another, and now the battles are bloody.”

“That’s the American way. We disagree about stuff, and then figure it out,” Bradley argued. “You can do that when you have your own place to live. Your own family. Your own responsibilities. Going to join a protest didn’t make a damn bit of difference, did it? You could have been killed up there.”

“But I wasn’t, I was fine. We would have made it home.”

“You didn’t feel that way when I drove up there and got you. You were scared. How would you have liked to spend the night on the streets if I couldn’t have made it up there?”

“But it was starting to become real fighting. Now we’re about to be locked down, and it’s being blamed on anarchists as if they could get organized long enough to pull something like that off.

“Stop changing the subject. You need to tell me before you take off. You’ll be eighteen soon, and then you can make your own hours, get a car, and hopefully, a job.”

“I’d love to get a job, Dad, but the market is dry right now. Adults have taken all the jobs I was qualified for. Even McDonalds isn’t hiring right now,” Junior said sarcastically.

“It can’t be that bad,” Bradley said. “You just have to keep applying. You give up too easily.”

“I haven’t given up,” Junior said.

“Good. Persistence pays off.”

“Things would be different if that man wasn’t the president. He’s the worst, and you can’t see it. He’s a cheating, lying sack of shit.”

“Watch your mouth, and don’t talk about the president that way. He’s our commander in chief. He’s going to finally turn this country around.”

“Yeah. Right around to the dark ages.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. After you’ve lived through a few more presidents, you’ll understand that.”

“I will, but unemployment has skyrocketed over the last nine months.”

“Just keep plugging away, son. And don’t think about running off like that again.”

“Okay.” His son’s face dropped, and he had that mopey look teenagers get once again.

“Thanks for talking with me,” Bradley said.

“Sure. Good talk,” Junior said, turned, and went back inside the house with his dinner.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“Stop and back out of the store. Failure to comply may result in lethal force!” James Briggs yelled for the second time.

He was hot and tired. Their body armor had arrived a few days ago, and they had started wearing it on patrol after a squad in the 178th had come under direct fire. None of them were injured, but they had been forced to kill a man who shot at them from his house with an AR-15.

His own interceptor body armor (IBA) had seen better days. It was typical of the Guard to receive hand me downs from the regular Army who had started to phase theirs out in favor of the lighter Gen III IOTV. The army, being pragmatic about gear, had probably boxed the stuff up after it was replaced and shipped it to the Guard armories, and it showed because it smelled like old sweat, and the ceramic plate in his front vest had a crack in one corner where it may have been dropped. He didn’t want to think that it had come from a bullet.

The looters had struck again, but this time they had been caught. Alpha and Bravo squads had compared notes and noticed a pattern. The looters were timing the Guardsmen, then causing havoc when the streets were clear of patrols. It had started as a simple robbery at a small convenience store. The store had been closed for a couple of days because, as far as James could figure, the employees had stopped showing up. If it was a chain, then the owners probably couldn’t do a damn thing about it if they were in another state. This was happening more and more, stores closing because no one wanted to go to work, especially those who had shifts that butted up against the demands of martial law. Getting a work, or hardship permit, could take days.

But more and more, stores closed because people were sick of dealing with the new way of life. He wished he could assure civilians that things would be back to normal in no time. Just wait it out. But there was now a shortage of food underway. It wasn’t that the Guard and Army had intentionally screwed up the road blocks, it was that companies who delivered in bulk were sick and tired of dealing with the delays. So, eighteen wheelers diverted to cities that were able to fulfill the seller’s need to move product.

Citizens complained, loudly. He knew because he had to listen to it.

Skip was sick of it, too, and had started telling pissed off people to go home. He didn’t wave his gun at them, not exactly. With tensions starting to run high on both sides, it was only a matter of time before someone did something supremely stupid.

Cooper hadn’t said anything to James, but James was worried that his rifleman was hiding something from them. He would have to take Cooper aside later and confront him. Sergeant Wells had told him to keep his men motivated and on mission. If Cooper had an issue with the way things were being handled, he would have to talk to James about it.

Charlie squad backed them up.

James took bravo in close. They didn’t hide their approach, they simply spread out and covered the storefront.

The glass door had been forced open and hung on its hinges. Something clattered inside, and James raised his gun.

“This is your last warning. Come out of the store with your hands up,” James yelled, sounding like every cop in an action movie.

More banging from inside. He quickly realized the perpetrators were most likely attempting to force their way out of a back door.

Sanders knelt next to a light gray Honda and covered James’ approach.

He poked his head around the open doorway and didn’t see anyone so he moved in.

There was a tremendous bang and the glass door next to him shattered. He dropped like a rock to land on his butt, back against the broken door, causing safety glass to cascade off his combat helmet. He must have scratched his right upper arm when he fell because a line of fire opened up there.

James’ heart raced as adrenaline kicked in.

“Shots! Shots!” Sanders yelled.

Then she was next to him in the doorway. She sprayed the inside of the store with her M4. The spent shells clattering across the ground. James lifted his M4, pressed the stock to his shoulder, pivoted, and fired as well.

Rounds punched into shelves, blew boxes off, and struck the coolers in the back. Smoke rose as they fired, and James’ hearing took a beating.

Sanders grabbed him by the collar and, while still staying low, dragged him out and around the corner.

“Where are you hit!” She leaned over and patted his chest.

“I don’t think I got shot,” he said, more to convince himself than her. “I fell down when they started shooting.”

She peered into his eyes, probably looking for shock and probably finding it.

Cooper moved to their side and looked James over. Then he, with Skip covering, went into the store. They didn’t waste any time. Shots sounded, were returned, and then someone screamed in pain. A couple more retorts, and then the sound of M4’s firing.

James pushed himself to his feet. What kind of a fire team leader was he going to be if he sat out an engagement?

“Clear!” Skip yelled.

“Clear here,” Cooper said.

James kept low with Sanders right next to him. Skip and Cooper knelt next to a shelf and pointed their guns at the back of the store. A figure lay unmoving on the ground.

“Let’s clear that back area. Check the perp for wounds,” James said.

With Sanders covering him, he advanced across the darkened store. He pushed the button on his rail mounted tactical light and an illuminated circle appeared ahead. James stayed low and advanced. They stepped over the figure while Sanders kept her gun trained on the corners of the room. The man on the floor was dressed in jeans and a White Sox jacket. He had black hair and was face down.

There was a revolver still clutched in his right hand so Sanders kicked it free. The man still hadn’t moved.

Cooper knelt next to the body and checked him by feeling his neck.

“Shit. This guy is gone,” he said.

James’ heart sank. This was an authorized action, but he didn’t want to see anyone get killed, especially not a citizen of the city whose biggest crime was probably being hungry. He pushed aside his guilt and took a couple of cautious steps.

Movement in the back of the storage room. Crates, boxes, cases of soda, all made an intricate battleground. If multiple assailants were hiding in there, they would have good cover.

“Come out with your hands above your head and no harm will come to you,” he called into the dark room.

Something shifted.

“Is Marco dead?” A female voice asked.

“Ma’am, this is your last warning,” James said.

“Did you kill him? Did you, you monsters? We were just hungry,” she said with a sob.

“Comply immediately, or you will be shot!” James yelled fiercely.

A gun banged from the corner of the room. James dropped low, shifted the barrel to the left, and fired several rounds. The tactical light caught her face, a ghoulish white in the bright light as her eyes went wide. She looked down and, then, without a sound, dropped to her knees.

Then she fell backward and didn’t move.

James shined the light around the room, but there was no further movement. He took a few steps to the side.

“Sanders, cover the right flank,” he said.

He took another step and then stopped. Why hadn’t she answered him?

“Briggs!” Skip shouted.

James spun and found Sanders down. She had her hands to her neck and a look of complete shock on her face.

Cooper moved in and swept the rest of the room before calling the all clear.

“Get a medic,” James said and tossed his radio to Skip.

He opened a pouch on his belt, ripped out hemostatic gauze, and tore the package open with his teeth.

“Sanders, look at me,” James leaned in and pulled Sanders’ hand away from her neck.

He put the gauze there and held it tight. She touched his hand with hers, and then wrapped her fingers around his.

“I should go home. John’s got the kids this week. I hope Billy remember to take his allergy medicine,” Sanders muttered.

“Medic’s on the way,” Cooper said. “Is she going to be okay?”

“Sanders, look at me,” James said and gently smacked her cheek to get her attention.

“It’s like that time we were at the zoo,” she said, then her eyes fixed on the corpse across from them.

“Yeah,” James said as he looked into her eyes. “She’s going to be just fine, right, Sanders?”

Sanders didn’t move again.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Bradley woke to gunfire.

Instincts kicked in. He rolled over, grabbed Monica around the waist, and shifted to protect her body. She sat up, shrugged his arms off. He grabbed her again and tried to pull her back down on the bed.

“Brad, what are you doing?” She said.

The room was dark. He blinked a couple of times to moisten his eyes, but they felt like sand paper.

Silhouettes in the dark. Shapes that were indistinct. He grabbed the Kimber off his bedside nightstand and flung the holster to the side. Bradley thumbed off the safety and raised it to eye level. Another shot in the near distance.

“Bradley, put that gun down,” Monica urged.

His vision narrowed and he dropped out of bed, knelt by its side. Someone moved in the living room. No, in the kitchen. There were people here for him and Monica. They would take Jenny and Bradley Junior. He would kill them all before they got near any member of his family.

Another pair of pops, this time closer.

“Bradley, you awake?”

A voice from the hallway. His door was partially closed but the nightlight spilled in a soft beam of illumination. He waited for a shadow to come into view so he could kill its owner.

“It’s cool, Brad. It’s me, Chris,” Chris called from the other room. “Don’t start unloading on me, pal.”

Outside? He shook his head and pressed a hand to his temple. Dizziness. Displacement. Was he at home? Was he in Afghanistan? Where was the dry heat and the smell of his squad? Men who showered but were immediately drenched in sweat that soaked into their uniforms and body armor.

Monica’s face came into view as his vision came back. She was an ethereal figure in the pool of moonlight that managed to sneak past his blinds and curtains.

More banging.

Bradley rose and found his jeans on the floor. He dropped the Kimber on the bed after thumbing the safety on and tugged his pants up.

“Just a minute, Chris,” he said quietly.

“Take your time,” Chris responded from the hallway.

“Please, don’t go out there,” Monica begged.

She got out of bed and retrieved a light blue robe he had purchased for her at Costco about a year ago, then she switched on the nightstand light.

“Kill that. We don’t want anyone to know we’re home,” Bradley said.

Monica let out an exasperated sigh and turned the light off.

“I just wanted to see your face. Make sure you weren’t about to do something stupid.”

“Just need to check on things. Get Jenny and Junior. Go to the basement and wait. You have the little 9mm?”

“Yes. It’s right here,” she said and opened her nightstand drawer to pull out the holster.

“Keep it on you. Please. If we have intruders, something happens to me, don’t hesitate to use it.”

“You’re overreacting, baby. It’s just some kids out there,” Monica said.

“I pray you’re right, Monica.”

He leaned over the bed and planted a kiss on her lips. She returned it, but she was hesitant. Monica had kept pressing him to talk about the shooting at work. She wanted him to discuss it with her for his sake. She also advised seeing a professional. He said he would when this all blew over, but she did not look convinced.

“Chris, I’m coming out,” Bradley said.

Bradley found Chris in the living room with the curtains over the main window pulled a few inches to the side so he could peer outside.

“I see you. Did you hear the shots?”

“Yeah. Woke me up. I thought we were under attack.”

“We’re not, but someone is,” Chris said. “I’m going to go take a look.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? Probably safer to stay inside.

“Probably, but I know what I’m doing,” Chris said.

Once again, Bradley wanted to probe Chris for information. He was good with a gun, with his hands in a fight situation, and he was spooky, the way he moved. Everything about him spoke of special ops training. Bradley had run into a few guys like him when he was overseas, and they were some of the most dangerous men he had ever met.

“What are you planning to do?”

“Just go out and take a look. I heard shooting from two different locations but both were, I think, west of here. Do you have a dark jacket I can wear?” Chris asked.

“Yeah,” Bradley said and opened the hallway door.

He moved aside kids overcoats until he located a dull black, zip up jacket he hadn’t worn in a few years. Bradley pulled it off the hanger and handed it to Chris.

Chris slid into the jacket and affixed the holstered Beretta Nano near the front of his jeans, with the butt pointing to the right.

“I’ll knock three times, then two, then three. My challenge word will be endeavor. Say that.”

“Endeavor,” Bradley repeated.

“I’ll be back in fifteen to twenty minutes. If I don’t come back, stay here until the morning. Don’t come looking for me,” Chris said.

Monica moved through the hallway, stepped around them, and went to Jenny’s bedroom. She woke the girl, and then ushered her out of her bedroom.

Chris went to the back door and peered outside. He undid the security bar that was jammed under the doorknob and ran at an angle to butt against the floor. Bradley had created brackets to bar the door higher up that would help deflect an intruder from the window. With the help of the 3M security film, it was the best it was going to be at keeping out bad guys, short of nailing plywood over the entry way.

Chris nodded once at Bradley, and then the man opened the back door and slipped out. Bradley replaced the security bar and shot the bolt home. He moved to the kitchen window that overlooked the backyard. Chris became an indistinct shape that moved quickly to the edge, slipped through some waist high hydrangea plants, and then was gone from sight. His path would take him along Andy’s backyard. He hoped his neighbor didn’t have some kind of security system that Chris could trigger. Andy was so high strung, Chris could be staring down the barrel of Andy’s Remington if he wasn’t careful.

“Brad!” Monica yelled.

He moved down the hallway, brushed past Jenny, who put her arms up. He put his hands under her arms and scooped her up so she could straddle his waist.

“Is everything okay, Daddy?” She breathed next to his ear.

“I hope so, honey. Besides, I’ll protect you, right?”

“Yeah.” She said.

Monica came out of Junior’s room, eyes wide, hands to her head. She spun and looked back in his room.

“What’s wrong? Junior? Everything okay?”

“He’s not here,” Monica said.

Chapter Thirty

Chris skirted Bradley’s yard. He had assumed his latest persona as Chris, concerned citizen of the United States of America, a few weeks ago, and planned to stick with it for the time being. He had no interest in being Bradley’s friend. That was a temporary condition he would drop when the time was right. Now that the cell phones had been cut, and the chaos was spreading into rural areas, it was probably time to act on that plan.

Christ, but he missed his regular load out, the Heckler and Koch VP9, and his backup, a Glock 26 Gen 3. But the Beretta Nano had become a decent enough weapon and had come in handy as well. His gear had presumably been confiscated when the killers, led by Lawson, had tried to take him out at the safe house.

If this ever blew over, Chris was going to make it his mission in life to hunt Lawson down and put a bullet in the man’s head.

It was happening quicker than he had anticipated. The chaos, the run on goods, and now he was curious who was openly discharging firearms on the street. Was it a threat that would compromise him? Was it a bunch of kids blowing off steam since there were no police to be found? Andy was an asshole, but Chris had overheard him telling Bradley that he had stopped by the police station the morning before to drop off the security footage showing the attack on Bradley’s house. Then reported that there was no one there and that there were no police cruisers in the parking lot.

He still couldn’t believe he had killed a man, and the police hadn’t even asked him a single question. Well, this was what they wanted. Complete control of the country and all of its citizens. This had been brewing under several administrations, and now it was becoming a reality. The country had no money, and it had been kept under wraps that China had begun to call in its debts. With a divided Congress, and Senate, nothing was getting done in the government. Now the president was making the ultimate power play.

Chris didn’t give a damn. He was going to leave the country at the first opportunity, and he might consider coming back, in a few years, if things returned to normal.

He moved into the open space between Andy and Bradley’s house, then hugged Andy’s wall where the overhang provided the most darkness. He waited for his eyes to adjust and wished he had a pair NVGs. While he was wishing, he also wished a decent assault rifle would magically appear in his hands.

He wasn’t going to do battle, though. He was scouting and trying to decide if this was the right moment to leave the Bradley Adam’s family in peace. He should really cover his tracks by killing them, but that Bradley had quick reflexes and sharp ears. He’d likely face a very pissed off armed man who knew how to handle a gun. He’d have to take Bradley out first, in the dead of night, then finish off the rest of the family off.

But he had no intention of killing them all right now. This was currently his safe house with a family as cover. With the police gone, probably having deserted to protect their own families from what may be coming, he had a place to lay low. Plus, Bradley’s son had gone out in the middle of the night.

The kid had tried to be quiet but Chris was a light sleeper. At the first sound of a cabinet closing, he had sat up on the cot and reached for his requisitioned .357. He had moved to the bottom of the stairs, careful of light sources so he didn’t cast a shadow on the stairwell, and listened. In the quiet house, it was easy to make out. He was nervous from the sound of his rapid breathing. Brad Junior also tended to breathe through his mouth. After spending a few days with Bradley’s family, he was already familiar with their mannerisms.

Junior had jammed items into a bag or backpack, then crept back to his bedroom. Chris had moved to the end of the basement and pressed his ear to the wall. Sure enough, Junior’s window creaked open as it was opened at a snail’s pace. Then a thump and it was quiet again.

So, the kid had decided to, what, go see a friend? Score some weed? Hook up with a girlfriend?

Chris moved around the corner of the house now that his eyes had accustomed to the darkness. There were street lights but they were sparse and on the opposite side of the road. He avoided Andy’s yard because that man was crazy as fuck. He didn’t want to find out what going to the emergency room with buck shot in his ass felt like.

Night vision blown again, a set of headlights poked around the corner, paused, as if the driver was looking for someone, then the car straightened out, and continued on its way.

Chris took to the sidewalk and then, when he had advanced past the line of houses on Bradley’s block, he stopped and looked up and down the road. He took cover next to a house that had no lights on and waited for his eyes to once again adjust. One of the street lights had burned out. With the cover of night and his black jacket, he would be all but invisible unless someone looked directly at him.

A woman screamed. He ducked and tried to pick out the direction. Another scream, and then a shot.

Chris moved quickly, taking to yards as he sprinted a half-block, slowing, ducking behind cover, and then moving again. Finally, he rounded the corner and found the source of the commotion.

Thirty yards away, a pair of large trucks and a sports car had pulled in front of a house. The vehicles were arranged in an arc so they could shine the light on the front of the garage. Chris moved closer to find out what the commotion was about. He pulled the Beretta Nano from its holster and kept it at his side. The .357 thumped against his back, assuring him he had more firepower if needed. The Nano was a great gun, but it was designed for emergencies, not with engaging multiple hostiles at a distance, but the revolver was much larger, silver, and could catch a hint of light, blowing his cover.

He ducked behind a rambler that had ivy growing up the side. A figure moved behind a curtain, and he went low under the window. He was lucky they had not been looking in their front yard. When the shape moved off, he kept his head down and hustled while remaining hunched over.

Then the house came into view, and he realized what was happening.

The men were a mixture of young and old. They wore T-shirts with beer logos and rock bands. Just a bunch of guys who should have been at the bar tonight. He found an SUV to move behind, and then peered out from around the back. The cars with the headlights on, now only thirty or so feet away, had created a little stage for the actors, only this wasn’t a play. This was all too real.

A man lay unmoving on the ground. A younger version of the dead guy, lay right next to him.

The woman was held by one of the assailants who had his hand around her neck and a gun pressed against her temple. A beer swilling guy with patchy short black hair grabbed the woman’s white nightgown and ripped it open, revealing dusky skin, pendulous breasts, and slim legs. Her foot lashed out at the guy who had stripped her, but he danced back.

“Woohoo. Got a live one here. I thought you Muslims only fought when you were hiding, planting bombs, or planning to shoot innocent people,” he said. “You from Syria?”

He had a beer in one hand and a gun in the other.

“I’m Pakistani,” the woman pleaded in a thick accent.

“Whatever,” he said. “See, we got some new rules around here yet. We’re like the new law force. Your man didn’t listen, didn’t do what we told him, and look at him now. Look at you now. You’re a pretty good looking woman for your age.”

“Please. Just kill me and get it over with. You are an animal.”

The man next to the gun wielder laughed. “An animal? You’re one to talk you brown skinned monkey.”

She stopped fighting and went limp, dragging at his arm. The man appeared to relax his grip. She took the brief opportunity to kick again, this time she got him right in the balls. He screamed and doubled over.

She ran toward her house but didn’t make it far. A guy on top of one of the trucks lifted an AR-15, aimed, and shot her in the back. She struck the side of her house, spun, leaving a splatter of blood on the white wall, and then fell to her side.

The guy she had kicked roared in anger. He stalked toward her body, and when he was a few feet away, he lifted a black handgun and shot her in the face three times.

A couple of the men in trucks stepped over the sides of their pickups and hit the ground. They moved toward the house and went inside, presumably to loot it.

Chris had seen enough. He backed away, wishing he could take one of those guys down so he could take a better weapon. But even with his training, he would probably be killed. It just took one shot. He had once read a quote from a World War II veteran who said: “You know there’s a bullet with your name on it. It’s the one you don’t expect that kills you.”

There was more gunfire in the distance. Chris frowned, and then turned to head back to his safe house.

That’s when he saw Bradley moving up the street, not even trying to conceal himself.

Christ! He was going to get them both killed.

Chapter Thirty-One

James had to be treated for a gunshot. He hadn’t even realized that the sting, when he’d fallen against the door in the convenience store, the pain had actually been from getting grazed by a round. They cleaned his wound, applied a bandage, and gave him a shot in the arm that hurt worse than the graze had. Then they gave him a couple of Ultram and told him to get some sleep.

He didn’t get much rest over the next eight hours. He tossed and turned, this time on a new cot because he couldn’t get the image of Sanders out of his mind. When he did doze off, images of blood and Sander’s white face and vacant eyes haunted him. Ultram was a lot milder than Oxy, but it left him feeling dizzy and out of it.

He overheard some of the other’s in the 178th talking about similar things run ins across the city. One squad had even been tasked with going into a house of a suspected looter and rifling through the guy’s belongings so they could confiscate his guns. On one hand, he hated that they were being required to perform such an outrageous act against the second amendment. So, this was how the US Military, now in control of law and order in Chicago and other cities, was doing business? It sickened him, but what could he do? They had to stick to the mission and, frankly, he was too scared to even consider running, something that more than a few in the Guard had done. Desertion, during martial law probably had some dire consequences.

There were reports of an attack up near North Side, where a squad had come under direct fire from a bunch of people hiding in an apartment complex, and there had been casualties on both sides.

Wells found him in the DFAC. James had given up on sleep and was bleary-eyed and hungry.

“Are you doing all right?” Wells asked him.

“Not really, Sergeant. Losing Sanders, well, I didn’t see that coming. It was just a routine patrol. Nothing to see here. Get it done and call it a night. Then we went into that convenience store and two people started shooting. I got grazed by a bullet, not bad, but it was just two scared people inside the store. But that doesn’t fix anything,” James said. “I was the one who ordered us to go in. Sander’s death is on me.”

“I read the report,” Wells said. “You did the right thing, and no one’s blaming you. If someone else had been fire squad leader, then it would be them hanging their head in shame. The fact is, we’ve had multiple squads come under attack, and that’s why the Army is stepping in to help. It’s not a mission failure, they have more combat experience, so don’t take it as a defeat. This is one of the hard realities of what we do. When you sign up, you know that you may come under fire. One of yours got killed, and that’s going to be with you for a long time. It’s how you deal with it, rise above it, and become a better leader, that will define your experience in the Guard.”

“Thanks, Sergeant.” James said.

“You bet, now listen up. You guys are heading out this afternoon. We have a situation in Vicksburg and they want us there ASAP,” the sergeant said.

“Vicksburg? I have family there. Well, we’re not close, not since our mother and father separated. In fact, I haven’t called him in a long time.”

“Hopefully your family is okay. We’re going to be there as a show of force,” Wells said.

“Show of force?”

“Yeah. There were some shootings. A family was taken out of their home and killed. Then some dumb ass shot another dumb ass, and now things have escalated. The president is about to expand martial law to the entire state. There’s a large protest planned for tomorrow morning. We’re going to be on site when the order comes in. Now that the regular Army has arrived, most of the company will depart at 0500 hours and setup a temporary FOB. Get your squad ready.”

“I still have my squad?”

“Yeah. You’ll have one or two new guys as well. I don’t know who they will be yet, but they will report to you before we depart.”

“Thanks, Sergeant Wells. I won’t let you down,” James promised.

“I’m sure you won’t. Get some chow, some rest, and be ready to muster with your squad at 0430.”

He needed some sleep, but he was afraid that any rest was going to be elusive.

At least they were getting out of this powder keg. Hopefully their next stop wouldn’t be as volatile.

James was very wrong about that.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Bradley didn’t waste any time. Kirk lived only a half mile away. Where else would Junior have gone? He could have taken his Bronco, but with the shootings, he didn’t want to risk running his headlights. This way, he could hide if he needed to. If he got caught out on the street by some kind of bad guys, they would likely take his Bronco if he had to stop for any reason. Better to risk driving in broad daylight.

“You’re going to find him?” Monica asked.

“I have to,” Bradley said.

“I wish you would wait until morning. He’s probably at Kirk’s. I tried to message him, but I don’t think they are going through. I haven’t been able to use the internet on my phone all day.”

“It’s an outage. Chris has this crazy idea that the government has cut off access to keep us under control. I mean the states that are affected by the attacks.”

“Really? Maybe he’s right. I tried to call him, and at least that went through, but it went to voice mail,” Monica said.

Chris took his cell phone out of his pocket and also tried to call Junior. It rang until Junior’s voice came on. “I’m here but my mind is in another state. Say the words, and I’ll call you back.”

“This is Dad. Where are you? I’m not mad, I just want to come get you. Call me back as soon as you get this message,” Bradley said. When he hung up, his hand shook from gripping the phone like an iron vice.

“Be careful. Are you going to drive to Kirk’s?”

“No. Gonna walk. It’s not that far,” Bradley said.

He hugged his wife and headed for the front door.

He had packed his Kimber and two extra magazines. Then, just for good measure, he had filled one of his pockets with extra ammo.

He’d made it two blocks when he heard the woman’s screams. Bradley should mind his own business. Besides, Chris was already out here, and he would be back after he scouted out what of the commotion was about. He came around the corner and spotted the men chasing a naked woman. A tall man standing in the back of a pickup truck, tracked her with his rifle, fired, and dropped her.

“What the hell?” he said.

Bradley reached into his jacket and pulled the Kimber. He pressed his hand on top of the slide and worked it back nice and slow to keep the noise down. Then he thumbed off the safety.

Someone grabbed his hand and hissed, “It’s Chris. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Bradley just about jumped out of his skin. If he’d had his finger on the trigger, the gun would have gone off into the street, or Chris’s chest.

“We have to do something,” Bradley said.

He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. How could decent men do something like that?

Chris dragged him around the back of a house.

“Don’t interfere. Those guys are literally getting away with murder. Don’t become a victim,” Chris still hadn’t let go of his hand. He held his wrist, and when Bradley tried to jerk his hand free it was like he was held by a vice.

“I have to find Junior.”

“Fine. Let’s go find him. Do you know where he went?”

“Yeah. Probably to Kirk’s house, but I can’t figure out why,” Bradley said.

“What’s he been doing for the past few days?”

“Just moping around. Hanging out in his room,” Bradley said. “I tried to talk to him but he’s not much of a talker.”

“Kids,” Chris said. “How come you came out on foot?”

“Don’t know. When I heard gunshots, I thought it might be safer not to announce myself with head lights and a loud engine.”

“Let’s get the car, go over and see if your son is at his friends. If he isn’t, we may get a clue from his parents.”

“I can go alone. This…” Bradley pointed at the house where the family had been murdered. “This is crazy. No reason to risk both of us.”

“What just happened there is exactly why you need backup,” Chris said.

Bradley nodded, and they huffed it back to his place.

* * *

Bradley idled in Kirk’s driveway for a few seconds, then cut the engine and got out of the car. Chris stayed behind to keep an eye out. Bradley approached the door, but before he could knock, it cracked open.

“If you’re selling something, better be the most amazing thing in the goddamn world,” the voice said followed by a gun’s hammer locking into place.

“Mr. Rosen? I’m Bradley, Brad Junior’s father. I apologize for bothering you at this hour, but I’m looking for my son,” Bradley said.

Chris waited at the foot of the stairs and kept his eyes on the road, covering Bradley’s back in case those yahoos came around and wanted to start some shit.

“Move to the left a little, more in the light. I don’t have my glasses on.”

Bradley complied and was relieved when Mr. Rosen recognized him. “It is you. Damn. You about gave me a heart attack. I heard shooting, and I thought I heard a woman scream. I haven’t been able to get a wink of sleep.”

Mr. Rosen was a short man with a U-shaped black haircut that was trimmed nearly to the skin. He was dressed in a long brown robe, and he smelled like he’d slept in a bottle of bourbon.

“Same thing happened to me. That’s when my wife and I realized that Junior was gone.”

“He’s not here, as far as I know,” Mr. Rosen said. “Want to come in?”

Mr. Rosen opened the door, and then unlocked his security screen door. Bradley nodded gratefully and gestured for Chris.

“I’ll wait by the Bronco. Keep an eye out for any trouble,” Chris said.

Bradley nodded and stepped into the warm house.

The hallway wall across from the door was plastered with pictures of Kirk and his family. In one particular shot, Kirk was about ten years old and holding a lacrosse pole. In another, Kirk’s mother had still been alive, and she had a huge smile, but her face was sallow and her hair had been shaved off. Cancer had claimed her shortly afterwards as far as Bradley could recall.

“You want a drink? I was just about to have myself a little nip. Helps me sleep. You know how it is,” Mr. Rosen said.

“No, sir. I’m all caught up on my nipping for the night. I just wanted to check on my son,” Bradley said.

“Right. That’s right,” Mr. Rosen said and led Bradley down a long dark hallway. “Kirk’s room is at the end here. It’s usually a mess. I’ll just peek inside. I like to give him plenty of privacy. Nothing worse than Dad catching you doing something. Teenage boys and all. Not saying it’s wrong. Not saying it’s right. It’s just what they do, you know.”

Bradley paused when Mr. Rosen nearly stumbled into the wall looking for the light switch.

“Damn thing’s here somewhere, you know. Think I’d know my own house after thirty years. Ah, there it is.”

Mr. Rosen hit the light switch, illuminating the end of the passage with faded yellow. His ceiling light didn’t throw much light because one of the bulbs had burned out. It must have had a glass cover at one time, but now it was bare and wires poked out of the ceiling.

He tapped on Kirk’s door twice, then turned the knob. He pushed the door open a few inches and peered inside. Then he opened the door and walked inside. After a few seconds, he came back out.

“Huh. He’s not here. Now what are those boys up to tonight?” Mr. Rosen said.

Bradley’s eyes squinted in frustration. Where were they indeed? He was afraid it was going to be a very long and potentially dangerous night.

Chapter Thirty-Three

The butt crack of dawn hadn’t even made an appearance yet.

James had dressed in his BDUs and affixed his body armor. He met with Cooper and his friend Skip in the DFAC where they ate a meal of reconstituted scrambled eggs, French toast that looked like cardboard, hash browns that were dry as sand, but all of it was saved by the glory of tobacco and syrup. His stomach grumbled before he sat down, and he wolfed down his food. He refilled a coffee mug and went back to the fold out table.

“Sanders was the best. She gave me a ration of shit, but I loved her like a red-headed stepsister,” Skip said.

“Aren’t you from Arkansas? I thought you liked real sisters over stepsisters,” Cooper said.

“See, that’s the kind of shit that will get your ass kicked in Little Rock,” Skip said, temporarily dropping into his home state’s accent.

“Little Rock? The only thing tough that ever came out of Arkansas was the man in black,” Cooper said between bites of eggs.

“Really? I thought your mom got toughened up down there, or should I say tenderized.” Skip smirked.

“That’s the thing about you, man. You always have to go one step too far.”

“Fuck you, Cooper.” Skip said.

“Fuck you back,” Cooper said. “Speaking of the man in black, how you feeling?”

“Huh?” James said. He’d been staring into space, and had been mildly amused by Cooper and Skip’s bickering. It wasn’t even bickering, just mean natured jabs. They used to spend more time palling around outside of the National Guard than they did in uniform.

“You have that look on your face, like you’re trying to find a glory hole,” Skip said.

“That the same look your mom has?” James asked.

“Oh shit, son!” Cooper howled.

“It’s too early for this kind of abuse, I’m going to go hit my vape pipe. If anyone needs me, I’ll be out by the transports,” Skip said.

Skip picked up his trash, stacked it neatly on his plate, and then stood up. As he turned to leave, he dumped his scraps on James’ half-finished plate of food, sending Cooper into another fit of laughter.

James frowned, but Cooper found it pretty amusing, and practically fell out of his chair with laughter.

“Here’s to Sanders,” James said and lifted his cup of coffee.

Skip and Cooper sobered and lifted their own cups.

* * *

The trip north shouldn’t have taken over an hour. They had been diverted along a number of side streets before they made it to the freeway. The number of road blocks they were forced to bypass was an intricate maze that threatened to leave them stuck in the city forever. How regular citizens were getting around was an absolute mystery to James.

A few days ago, cars had been abandoned, but most of them had either been retrieved or pushed aside by engineers. The streets were bare, with the exception of a few souls. They moved on sidewalks with their heads down. When the MTVs passed, some headed to side streets or faded behind buildings. Chicago, a bustling city, looked like it was prepping to be a warzone.

The exodus had started the morning after martial law had been declared and continued throughout the day. Those who could leave had packed up their vehicles and made for points unknown. But the city had over 2.7 million people, and there was no way everyone could have left.

James couldn’t imagine how day jobs had been affected. Mass transit had become a nightmare of late buses and trains, packed cars, and people in suits giving up and simply walking. As the days passed, the daily traffic had steadily dropped.

Would the city’s economy be able to stay functional? He checked the news when he could, but after cell phones lost access to the internet, he was forced to get his information from news stations.

Between broadcasts, there were the ever-present reminders and warnings about the curfew, what sort of ID to have on you at all times, and the threats to looters and law breakers. The first night that martial law had been declared, it was quiet, and their job had been to warn citizens to return to their homes. By the third night, gunshots had become the new normal, along with sirens and the sound of military trucks on patrol.

Police, looking more like a militarized force, had joined with the Army and National Guard to assist. But James had also heard rumors that some in the police force had left the city, deserted their jobs, and gone to be with family members.

They passed an overturned pickup truck that still smoked and was riddled with bullet holes. A couple of military personnel stood around with their assault weapons in hand. On the ground, three figures were covered in white cloths.

James’ squad entered the onramp onto I90, and he sat back and was relieved they were moving at a normal pace. The interstate, normally packed with cars, was a ghost town. They passed another pileup of cars that had been pushed off the road. A white BMW’s hood had been crumpled against a dark blue Toyota RAV4, two other cars were almost unrecognizable hulks. They had been burned and also had bullet holes in the windshield.

A group of people with backpacks slung over their shoulder scrambled off the road as they passed. James wasn’t surprised to see them reappear as the convoy of transports got up to speed. He hoped they had safe travels.

A new guy had reported to him first thing in the morning. He was nineteen and completely and utterly miffed that he had been called up. He wore thin, but trendy Oakley framed glasses, was skinny as a rail, and his name was Donald Sprouts.

Cooper and Skip got his story with a little cajoling and some teasing, but Sprouts didn’t seem to have a sense of humor.

“What are you studying in school?” Cooper asked Sprouts as the truck trundled along the highway.

Sprouts had to yell over the wind that pushed into the truck.

“Right now, I’m taking the biology of disease,” Sprouts said.

“Sounds like some cool nerd shit,” Cooper said. “It’s like how diseases are created?”

“No. More like how they work on a molecular level. We also study immune response and stuff like that,” Sprouts said.

“So, let me ask you a serious question, Sprouts,” Skip yelled over the wind. “How in the hell does the zombie break out start? Disease, or you know, like the Romero film, people just rising up from the grave because they miss coffee?”

“Zombies aren’t possible. There’s a mountain of research suggesting that a zombie virus or disease simply cannot happen,” Sprouts said, tilting his combat helmet back and scratching his forehead.

“Don’t say that. I’m planning to build up a zombie-proof bunker when all of this blows over,” Skip said. “I’m going to have a year’s worth of food and water, guns, ammo, and it will be real inviting for a couple of hotties who want to ride out the zombie thing with me. We’ll lock the place up, and then practice making babies.”

“That is the most ree-goddamn-diculous thing I’ve ever heard, Skip.” Cooper shook his head.

“What? All that food?”

“No. The fact that you plan to lock two women up with you in a fucking bunker. I think that’s called kidnapping.”

“Hey, man. I’ll be their protector, and I’ll provide them with food. What more could they want?”

“I don’t know. A guy who isn’t an asshole?” Cooper said.

James choked back a laugh.

“I’ll treat them like princesses. Hell, they can wear tiaras and not much else, if you know what I mean.” Skip winked.

“More likely? They’ll quickly make you their bitch and have you chained up outside your own bunker.”

“I’m not into the kinky shit like you, Coop. But I’ll do what I have to for the survival of our race.”

The next half hour passed in relative silence until they reached the outskirts of Vicksburg.

James wished he had a pair of binoculars. He pushed the front of the truck’s cover aside and looked outside. The wind howled through the opening, shrieking like a banshee.

A mass of people had gathered in an open field park. As they got closer, it became apparent that it was more than a mass. It was a damn army of people. They milled around, working on signs, or holding them aloft. James couldn’t make out what the signs said yet, but he was sure he had seen the like before at one of the countless anti-president Henderson protests across the country.

People pointed in their direction, and as they drew into the city limits, they were met with jeers and boos.

They had just about passed the mass, which had to number into the thousands, and growing by the minute, when a piece of fruit sailed out of the crowd and struck the side of the transport. Then a hail of items rained down, forcing him to duck back inside the truck’s canvas covering.

“What the hell are they doing?” Sprouts strained his neck around, trying to see out of the back, over the heads of the other troops.

“Our greeting party,” James said.

“That’s some greeting party. I hate to see what they send us out of town with,” Cooper said.

James thought the same thing. Assuming they left this place anytime soon.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Bradley spent most of the night searching for his son. He didn’t find Kirk. Instead, he found a nightmare.

The city of Vicksburg had been a quiet city the entire time he had lived here. He shopped at the grocery, hardware, second hand stores with Monica and the kids. They saw movies at the local AMC. They went to parks, took walks, and nodded at the others on the streets. He recognized at least thirty people on site and always offered a word to those, others he nodded at and had his gesture returned.

He went to church here, and felt like they had a tight community even as the city had quadrupled in size over the last eight years.

Streets were packed on the weekends, but not so much during the weekday. Some nights he went out to the local watering hole and enjoyed a beer with Andy. They watched a game, talked politics, and discussed their families and friends. Sometimes gossiping, sometimes having frank talks about life in general. Bradley rarely shared his experiences in the military, preferring to keep it to himself.

He’d spent half of the evening in a city he did not recognize.

They had to avoid bands of roving cars looking for trouble. With no police to be seen, people let their prejudices and hatred free. The worst of humanity was on display that night, and Bradley was witness to it.

They drove past the local Kroger, where two bodies hung outside of the store from long ropes. They were too far away to make out details such as the color of their skin, but Bradley had a feeling he already knew they had been Muslims. Bradley passed a bonfire in the middle of a park where women were being slapped and passed around like meat.

Stores’ front windows had been shattered, doors kicked in, and from the look, of it shelves looted.

But the strangest thing of all was a huge number of people who gathered at Perkins Park. A sprawling collection of tents had appeared, as well as hundreds of cars that had overfilled the parking lot and spilled out into the street, and were now beginning to cover an open section of grass. He and Monica had taken the kids to the park about a year ago. They’d picked up cold fried chicken, coleslaw, and a slab of fudge covered chocolate cake that Junior had torn into.

“That’s where your son is,” Chris pointed.

“What would he be doing here?” Bradley said, even though the pieces started to fall together.

“It looks like a tent city in the works,” Chris said. “But it’s not. It’s going to be a protest. And where there’s a protest this large, there is going to be trouble.”

“He wouldn’t dare do it again. He’s not that stupid,” Bradley’s voice dripped with venom.

“He’s not stupid. He’s fired up. He has a cause, and he believes in it very strongly.”

Bradley cursed and pulled the car over. They were a quarter mile away but they’d be able to cover the ground in no time if they hoofed it. Bradley turned off the Bronco’s lights, and then pulled his Kimber. He ejected the magazine, checked to make sure it was full, and then inserted it, and chambered a round.

“You gonna help me?” Bradley said.

“I’ll stay here,” Chris said.

“Makes sense, besides, he’s my kid, and my responsibility.”

“Not just that. I’d assist, but one of us needs to keep an eye on the Bronco. The way things are going out there, it might be gone by the time you get back,” Chris said. “I’ll take a look around the area, make sure they’re no bad guys lurking.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Bradley said.

“I got you in my cell phone,” Chris reached into an inner jacket and pulled out a large phone.

“What’s your number? With messaging down, I’ll call if I find him.”

Chris looked at the phone. He squinted his eyes, and then unlocked it. “Damn. Don’t know my own phone number. Here it is.”

Bradley added it to his phone, and then pocketed his device. He slipped the Kimber back into its holster and got out of the car. After a second of indecision, he left the keys in the ignition, hoping Chris was who he said he was and didn’t steal his only means of transportation.

“Don’t take my ride,” Bradley said.

“This heap? You’re safe. Take the keys. I’ll be okay. If I see any trouble, I’ll lock the door.”

“Thanks,” Bradley said with a lopsided grin.

He put the keys in his pocket and made for the crowd, knees aching, side burning from his cut, face still sore from his run ins with less savory characters. Even his back ached from being cramped into the Bronco for too long.

He pushed the pain away, touched the Kimber through his jacket, and then moved toward the crowd.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chris waited until Bradley had departed and was out of sight. He slid out of the car, locked it, and then pushed it shut until it clicked. He pressed on the door again just to verify it was closed and tested the handle.

He moved out of the light and found a row of duplexes that were half-completed. Chris surveyed the property and decided it was probably deserted. Or the owners were completely uninterested in the gathering that was occurring near their back yard. Chris moved around to the front of the house. He watched the windows but the curtains didn’t move. Five minutes later, he approached the front door and rang the doorbell twice, then he darted around the side of the house and found some low brush to hide behind.

When no one answered the door, he decided to risk it.

Getting on the porch’s overhang was the most difficult part. He hoisted himself up, then swung one leg over the edge. Chris moved to the wall and found a drain that was secured to the side of the house and scaled it, using the corner to help brace himself up to the roof. Once on top, he pressed his ear to the shingles and listened for voices or movement. Several minutes passed. There were no voices rising in alarm that someone might be on their roof.

He slid up to the top of the roof and peered at the gathering crowd. Daylight would arrive soon so he had to act fast.

If he were leading a mission, where would he arrive from? There were quite a few homes around the park, but it was so large there was no way he could determine which might be used to use for cover. The parking lot was absolutely packed, and it could easily contain a nondescript van loaded with a death squad.

Maybe his hunch was wrong and there wouldn’t be a team on the scene. Maybe this would play out like countless other protests had over the last few months. People gathered, marched, chanted, displayed signs, then packed it up and went home after getting media coverage.

Then Chris noticed it wasn’t just one group of protesters. There were two distinct camps. One of them was smaller, but Chris made out at least one pro-Henderson sign as it was being spray painted on the grass.

Daylight would be here soon, and he should get out of sight. He rolled over and slid down so he wasn’t exposed.

Chris had no intention of stopping an attack. That would be a death sentence. He would like to get one of the men or women separated from the death squad and find out what they knew. It was a long shot. Worse than a long shot, but he wanted answers. More than likely, a team of shooters would meet the same fate his group had met. Shot in the back.

Lawson. Maybe that son of a bitch was here.

He shimmied back up the roof for one more look. He spotted Bradley moving in on the crowd. Bradley would be lucky if he found his son. There were thousands of people, and Brad Junior would be a proverbial needle in a haystack.

Chris had overstayed his welcome. If he wasn’t able to locate a squad, he would hitch a ride out of town and move on to a new city. In a few weeks, he could be in Albuquerque where he had one of several safety deposit boxes. Money, IDs, and weapons. A few changes here and there, hair dye, glasses, grow some facial hair, and he would be just one of millions of ordinary citizens.

Weeks later, he would depart on an airplane and head to Sweden, or maybe Argentina. Somewhere he could lay low for a year or two. He’d like to think that people would stop looking for him, but he was one of the few men alive who knew the real story behind the attacks.

He kept his eyes on Bradley as the man moved into a crowd, then he was gone from view.

He nodded once, then was about to slide down the roof, when movement on the outskirts of the protesters’ camp caught his eye.

Chris stayed in place for another minute as the transports arrived. That’s when it hit him. There was going to be an attack, but it would come from somewhere no one expected.

Now that the National Guard were on the scene, he was convinced there would be bloodshed.

Chris lowered himself, and then crouched on the porch in a pool of shadow as the sun rose.

He should go. Just go.

Bradley Adams meant nothing to him, not a damn thing.

There were a million nice guys in the world, and Bradley was no different.

Chris scratched at a wound on his hand, a piece of metal that had become lodged there during the attack on the protesters in Chicago. Extracting it had been easy, but it felt like it might be infected.

There was his reason to go. Can’t let something fester like that.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

Chris moved around the side of the house, then angled himself in the direction Bradley had disappeared.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Bradley had moved through the building crowd for an hour and a half. He had reached one end, then circled back until he’d completed several passes through the throng of people. Yet he was no closer to finding his son.

What he found was a mass of people with a message to pass on. He listened in on conversations and picked up why they had chosen Vicksburg to meet in.

Bradley had stayed away from the town, preferring to be at home where he could keep watch over his family. He had known things were going south because Andy had filled him in. But he had no idea how bad things had become. A group of protesters had departed at dawn for the Walmart to help take down the bodies that had been hung. They were planning a prayer vigil for the victims that would go until the protest started.

His little town had become a powder keg, and it had been chosen as a meeting ground.

But things wouldn’t remain peaceful because, not a quarter of a mile away, a second group had gathered for the past few hours. These were pro-Henderson supporters, and they planned to counter the march of these protesters.

Bradley had to find his son before this went bad. The two groups had already started taunting each other, and it was just a matter of time before things came to blows.

Bradley didn’t give a rip about either group. He planned to find his son and drag his butt back home. Then he would deal with his son, set some hard boundaries, and this was not going to happen again while Junior lived in his house.

He ran into a group of bikers who acted as a sort of security detail. They moved among the crowds, talking to people, assuring them they would have protection in case the Henderson people got out of hand.

Bradley steered clear of them and continued his search, but along the way he caught further snippets of speech, things he saw on liberal news sites that were shared on social media.

“planning to deport millions. And for what? What possible good can come of it…”

“…a laughing stock to the rest of the world…”

“…heard Chicago has become a hell hole with the army acting like executioners…”

“…not going to make a difference. He’s going to take us into an unsinkable war against each other…”

“…Civil war could break out at any time. How are we going to survive as a nation…”

And on and on. Bradley had to bite his tongue so many times he should have passed out from blood loss. These people had no idea how things were in the real world, where men went to other countries and died for their freedoms.

Voices rose in alarm around him. He whipped his head around looking for the source of the commotion, but there were too many people. Bradley kept moving, looking for the source. He ran into a large man dressed in black who pushed him back.

“Hey, man. Sorry, didn’t see you there,”

“You should watch where you’re fucking going, pal,” the man with the hard face said. His head was shaved and he had a two day growth of whiskers. His eyes were piercing blue and challenged Bradley.

His friend, a man with the same look, dressed in a dark sweater and camouflaged pants, grabbed the man’s arm and whispered in his ear.

“I said I was sorry. Decent thing to do would be to accept my apology, not be an asshole about it,” Bradley said before he could stop himself.

“So, you’re calling me an asshole? You better move on, snowflake, before you get your feelings and other things hurt.”

Someone else touched the man’s shoulder and said, “Keep a cool head. Let’s get setup.”

The blue-eyed man stared at Bradley for a few seconds more before making a gun out of his finger and pointing at Bradley’s heart.

Bradley’s instinct was to pull the Kimber and show this guy he could point a gun as well, this one, a .45. But he resisted, choosing to keep a cool head. When he had bumped into the man, he felt something under his thick black blanket. The guy was packing a piece, something large.

Bradley turned away without a word and continued searching for his son.

* * *

He broke free of the crowd and found a melee in progress. Two groups of people had peeled away on opposite sides of the park. They taunted each other, cursed, and then someone threw an apple core. The other side returned fire, then they closed on each other and fists flew. Bradley ducked back out of harm’s way. This wasn’t his fight.

The crowd shifted as more protesters went to battle with the smaller group.

He searched in vain for Junior but so far had not seen his son or Kirk.

More voices rose in consternation around him. He finally located a break in the crowd and found out why.

Military transports had arrived and spilled solder’s out onto the street next to the park. Hundreds of them, and all armed. Bradley’s stomach sank. He was running out of time.

A guy with long hair gray hair, dressed in an olive drab jacket that would have been in style during a Vietnam war protest, lifted his megaphone and yelled for the protesters to start marching. This was their time.

He led a group toward the soldiers who took places on the park field.

The crowd began in ones and twos, following the man with the megaphone. They followed, and as they moved, more and more people joining them. It took a few minutes for the word to spread, but soon they were on the move. Signs popped into the air, and those who had been milling around, joined in on the march.

Hundreds lurched into motion, walking toward the military personnel, who moved aside to let the throng pass. The military looked to their squad leaders for direction, but from Bradley’s point of view, there was simply no way they could stop the thousands of people. There simply weren’t enough of them to put up a fight.

This was actually a good thing as far as Bradley was concerned. The protesters were no longer clumped into a mass in one place. They would be able to hit the street and disperse as needed.

Bradley became one of them, flowing with their movement as they passed the large parking lot, then took to a four lane street. Not many cars had been moving this early, especially with the violence of last night, but now vehicles stopped, or pulled aside and turned around.

At this rate, they would pass his Bronco in five or six minutes, and he would take the opportunity to part company with the throng of people.

Maybe Junior was in the march. Maybe he was off smoking pot somewhere with Kirk.

Bradley hoped his son was safe, but he couldn’t spend the rest of the day searching for him.

Then he came up with a plan. He would simply head to the front of the crowd, then break free, and find a place where he could watch them and hopefully find Junior.

He tried calling again but got the fast busy.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

James Briggs hopped out of the back of the truck. His eyes were gritty because he’d managed to close them for fifteen minutes and doze off. He had awoken with his head bouncing against the back of the truck. Skip met his eyes.

“Morning, sleepy head.”

“I was only out for a few minutes,” James said.

“Yeah. Lucky you. I’m about dead on my ass and it’s still morning. I hope we get to rest when we arrive,” Skip said.

The MTV had come to a slow stop, with other transports behind them slowing or moving around theirs. Wells listened to his radio for a few seconds, then turned to the men and women.

“Listen up. In approximately fifteen minutes, the order will be official. The state of Illinois will be under martial law. That means we’re going to have to disperse the protesters,” Wells said.

“Can we do that?” Skip whispered to James.

James nodded at the sergeant, hoping Skip got the message to pay attention.

“I want this to be peaceful. We’re here to make sure everyone disperses without incident. But tempers are hot right now, and we have thousands of people out there, and if Chicago is any indication, they may be looking for trouble. So, we may be in for a very long day.

“Squad leaders on me,” Wells said and strode towards an area that was being converted to a temporary base of operations.

Trucks continued to pour into the area loaded with soldiers and supplies. A team of medics dragged equipment onto a section of the parking lot and set up a temporary hospital.

James joined Wells, along with other squad and fire team leaders. Wells laid out a map and quickly sketched out patrol regions. Behind them, the engineers were already in the process of setting up a location for any people they had to detain. The transports would bring the real troublemakers to a camp that James had only heard rumors about, and living conditions were said to be poor.

“Our mission has been laid out,” Wells said without preamble. “I don’t need to tell you all how tricky this is going to be. We need to keep the peace and disperse these protesters as quickly as possible. OC spray will be distributed. Riot guns and flash bangs have been authorized. If you’re behind on your training regarding these devices, you need to get a crash course ASAP.

“At 0830, we will move in. Squads are not to engage with lethal force unless absolutely threatened. If someone shoots at you, shoot back, but be very careful. We don’t want a full-scale riot.

“At 1000, if the crowd had not been dispersed, we will resort to more forceful methods. What methods are those? I’m not sure, still waiting on orders. You all know me. I don’t beat around the bush. This is new territory for us, but we’re going to rise to it and fulfill our mission.”

Wells was greeted by, ‘Hooahs.’ They gathered around a map Wells had laid out, and setup areas for the squads to cover.

James’ stomach did a flip flop. He had been through OC (Oleoresin Capsicum) training, and getting pepper sprayed was horrible. But if it meant meaning a peaceful end to the demonstration, who was he to argue?

When James was clear what his designated area was, he went to grab his team so they could pick up their OC spray, and muster on the park grass. Then the crowd of people started to move, after being goaded by people with bullhorns.

James breathed a sigh of relief, hoping they were all going to do the smart thing very soon, and go back to their homes.

He was very wrong.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Bradley had traversed the throng of people so many times he was now convinced that Junior wasn’t here. He didn’t like the looks of the military on the scene. Didn’t like it one bit. protesters walked at a snail’s pace, waving signs, chanting anti-Henderson slogans, but they kept their eyes fixed on the soldiers setting up their base. Dozens peeled away from the crowd and left, some muttering, “Screw this,” or, “Not worth it today.”

But rallies started to take hold. Leaders broke out megaphones and yelled for everyone to stay together. “We’re stronger together. Don’t give into fear!”

The other group, the pro-Henderson, didn’t seem as interested in sticking around and large groups of them tromped off to find their vehicles.

Bradley stood on a slight rise and got an eyeful of the proceedings.

A group of soldiers dragged out loudspeakers and secured them to long poles before hoisting them into the air. Each had three rows and looked like they would be more at home at a concert, than out here in the chilly morning air.

Bradley rubbed his eyes and wished he had a cup of coffee. He took out his cell phone and tried to call Junior once again, but he was met with a fast busy signal. He considered calling Chris, but he had nothing to report.

Bradley decided it was time. He needed to make one more pass, and then go home. Whatever the military was planning, he didn’t want to be caught in the middle. He navigated through throngs of people, looking for a good place to exit from that would take him away from a confrontation with the men in green.

The protesters grew suddenly silent as someone tapped a microphone. The speakers rumbled to life and a man cleared his throat before speaking in a commanding voice.

“At 0830 this morning, the president of the united states issued an executive order placing the state of Illinois under martial law.”

At the mention of the president, people booed his named.

A couple next to him looked at each other, fear on their faces as the words poured out of the speakers.

“You must immediately disperse. Failure to return to your homes will result in severe consequences. Please tune into local radio and television channels for more information,” the man said. His final words chilled Bradley. “There will be no further warnings.”

“I’m out of here,” Bradley said to himself.

He pushed past a family of four who seemed to be struggling with indecision.

He moved around a cluster of organizers who met and spoke in loud voices.

“Do we stay?”

“This isn’t legal!”

“They can’t do this.”

“What does martial law mean to us?”

Idiots. It meant get the hell out of here.

Bradley found a break in the throng and headed for open field. Ahead of him, dozens preceded him. He glanced at his watch and found it was 8:29. If they were going to move in on time, the order could go out in seconds.

Clumps of men in BDU’s, wearing body armor, carrying weapons and bottles that looked like pepper spray, formed a long line. A second group moved through them, carrying plastic shields.

Panic rippled through the mob as the first retort sounded.

Bradley looked skyward and nearly yelled, “Incoming!” but someone else beat him to it.

Loud bangs exploded around him. Smoke rose into the morning air, sending people into a panic. Bradley moved his feet apart into a fighter’s stance, lowered his upper body, and got his hands up, because he didn’t want to be knocked over and trampled.

“Dad!” someone yelled.

Bradley turned and was nearly knocked to the ground by a young couple holding hands.

He pushed them aside and strode into the crowd toward the direction he thought Junior had called.

Then a terrifying noise echoed. Sharp retorts. Someone had fired a gun from the inside the line of protesters.

Within seconds, more gunfire rippled into the morning air.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

James Briggs advanced with his squad.

They had been placed behind a line of Guardsmen from Alpha who had been tasked with carrying riot shields. Behind them, a number of squads fired off tear gas canisters. They landed with whumps among the protesters and exploded, releasing clouds. Many of the people in the crowd pulled bandannas and T-shirts from bags and quickly wrapped them around their faces.

“Disperse and return to your homes,” sounded over the loudspeakers over and over again.

James’ stomach was in knots. When he had signed on as a National Guard reservist, he had thought he would do drills, march around, earn a little money and have his school paid for in the process. He would never had expected he would be marching on private citizens, threatening them with violence, and chasing them out of a park. Not to mention the fact that he had been under fire by looters in Chicago.

The protesters hung back, perhaps unsure how what to do. They would have been best served by leaving when they had been told to.

The park stretched out with one gentle rise in the center. A hundred or so yards to the west, a line of trees faded into the horizon. Groups of the milling people broke away and made for their parked cars. Some headed for the safety of the trees.

There was a large scale fight underway in the middle of the two masses. Men went at each other with round house swings, kicks, and even flailed with signs.

A dozen more tear gas canisters landed among the fighting people and sent them scrambling.

His squad was less than twenty-five feet away when the first gunshot sounded.

Then a blast of an automatic weapon rippled. One of the men with a shield directly ahead of him screamed and dropped to the ground, clutching his ankle. Skip ducked and swung his M4 up.

Two more Guardsmen fell to the ground. Someone from his side returned fire.

Smoke rose into the air as guns discharged.

“This is fucking crazy,” Cooper yelled.

More automatic fire blasted from the protesters. At least three, possibly as many as five, guns fired. Guardsmen dropped. Cooper spun and fell on his back.

“Medic!” James yelled.

He rushed to Cooper’s side and checked his rifleman for a wound. Cooper grabbed his chest and sucked in breath.

“Plate took the damage. I’m not hit, just hurt and pissed,” Cooper wheezed.

James dug his hand under Cooper’s IOTV and was relieved when he didn’t feel wetness. Cooper stuck his finger in a hole in the bottom left quadrant of his vest, then blew out another deep breath.

“Son of a bitch,” Skip muttered.

Something sailed back out of the crowd. It landed among a squad thirty feet away from James. Jesus, someone had picked up a tear gas canister and lobbed it back at them.

Then the earth shook with an explosion. One of the men lifted into the air and flew backward. He landed in a heap and James realized part of the man’s left leg was shredded.

Two more grenades flew and landed. He grabbed Cooper and dragged him backward.

Explosions tore up the earth and flung men around. Blood splattered his face, and something sharp struck his leg. He staggered back, and then sat down on his ass. The pain quickly told him he had been hit. He grabbed his left leg and press his fingers in to find the wound. Automatic gunfire toppled more soldiers.

They dropped to their knees, and then opened fire.

James rose and tested his leg. It didn’t give under him, so he grabbed Cooper again and dragged him away from the fighting.

Sprouts appeared at his side, face white. Skip covered them but his line of sight into the protesters was blocked by their own men.

“This isn’t happening,” Sprouts said.

James wished that was true, but it wasn’t.

Someone had shot at them.

He’d been hit by shrapnel.

He got back to his feet, lifted his M4, and advanced on the crowd.

Chapter Forty

Bradley dove for cover as gunfire sounded. He dug his fingers into the earth and prayed.

Then he was nearly trampled as the protesters turned and ran in every direction. What had been organized chaos, became a full-scale flight.

Bradley fought back the narrow vision as it tried to set in. He held onto reality and managed to stagger back to his feet.

“Dad!” Junior called from somewhere.

A man ran into Bradley, knocking him flat. He went to his knees, then used a panicked protestor as an anchor and dragged himself back to his feet as the woman tried to run toward the gunfire. He stopped her, and yelled, “Not that way!”

He pointed in the opposite direction, but her eyes barely registered him. She barreled past him, and then went down under a dozen people running in terror. He got one last look at her as he fought toward the direction he had heard Junior. She tried to go into a fetal position, but someone’s foot caught her in the face, and she rolled away with blood squirting out of her nose.

“Junior!” Bradley yelled over the noise of people screaming, yelling to each other, and gunfire.

A couple held hands, as the much larger man dragged her, fighting to break free of the throng of people. Then they dropped like rocks as bullets punched into their torsos.

Bradley stayed low and fought to breathe. The pepper spray canisters had played havoc among the thousands of people and filled the air with a noxious smell. His eyes burned, and his nose bubbled snot.

Someone grabbed his hand. Bradley was about to shake them off, but the grip was fierce. He turned and found Junior just before the two of them were knocked to the ground. Bradley rolled over and used his much larger body to protect his son. He heaved himself to his feet and picked up Junior. Adrenaline blasted through him as he turned, lifted his son, and then set him back on his feet.

“Don’t let go of me,” Bradley yelled over the noise.

“I won’t. I’m sorry, Dad. So sorry,” Junior said.

“I’m here, Son. I won’t let anything happen to you,” Bradley promised. “Where’s Kirk?”

“He left as soon as the guys in tan started showing up in trucks. Said it wasn’t worth it,” Junior said. “I was getting ready to leave. Then this started happening.”

Junior’s eyes were wide and filled with terror. Bradley clutched his son’s hand and pulled him along.

He didn’t have a destination other than anywhere but here. The military had blocked off most of the park, but there was a clearing that would take him near a public rest room. Then he would angle away to the west and make for the trees. They could hike out of it, circle around, and come back for the car when all of this was clear. He’d hide out at a fast food restaurant if he had to.

The moved with the flow of the crowd, fighting to stay mobile and on their feet.

A man brushed past him, someone familiar. He was being followed by three other men, and each kept their hands inside their jackets. They wove through the crowd. Then Bradley recognized one of them. It had been the hard ass who had tried to start some shit with him.

The guy pulled out a gun, lifted it high over his head, and sprayed a dozen bullets toward the military. Then the group of men disappeared from view.

What in the hell was happening? The gun was a Heckler and Koch MP5, a military weapon and that made Bradley’s neck shiver with dread.

More gunfire from their rear as they broke out of the crowd and moved toward the public restroom. Faces looked out of the men’s doorway, then ducked back in as more shots were fired.

Bradley nearly went down when his son clutched his hand tightly, and then his son’s grip was gone. He spun to grab him again.

Someone nearly ran into him, cursed, and then faded into the mass of people.

Bradley couldn’t see his son. He pushed a woman with a bloody gash on her neck aside, and then stopped stock still.

Junior lay on the ground holding his side.

Bradley fought to reach his son and picked him up, turning to run again.

“What happened?” Bradley said, even though the sense of dread that crept through his soul told him.

Junior groaned. They were nearly knocked over yet again. Bradley turned toward the street and turned his body into a battering ram as he fought to get free.

He looked down at his son’s face, but Junior’s eyes were vacant.

“You’re okay. Just got the wind knocked out of you,” Bradley whispered.

He hugged his son’s body to his own and kept running.

Junior didn’t respond, nor would he ever again.

Chapter Forty-One

Chris Miller was certain he knew what was going to happen, but he was still shocked when the gunfire started. As he suspected, at least one team had been embedded with the protesters and they had opened fire on the military from a short distance. Then grenades had joined the chaos and tossed bodies around. That part had been unexpected, but it was a brilliant way to add to the confusion.

The National Guard responded by opening fire on the crowd. Bodies dropped, men and women screamed, and the scene became a nightmare as the protesters turned into a mob, crushing each other as they fled along the streets, broke out, and headed into alleys or simply ran back in the direction of the huge parking lot. Mothers and fathers picked up kids and hugged them to their bodies.

But Chris had found a target. Four of them to be exact. It was the way they peeled out of the crowd, shedding clothing that was clearly covering weapons that were tossed on the ground. The men also wore blue nitrate gloves.

One of the men was larger than the rest and, as they drew closer, Chris realized it was none other than Lawson himself. Son of a bitch.

The problem was, he was too far away, and wading into this mess would probably get him killed.

He tracked their path and scanned the area they would shortly arrive in. There were no black vans or SUVs in that direction, the telltale sign that a team was waiting to take them out.

He hadn’t abandoned his perch up on the rooftop. He still kept an eye out for Bradley, but he also tracked the team of shooters. Soon they were just four more people in a frightened mob. But he didn’t let them out of his site.

Had to be pure fucking luck. They made for the duplexes that were under construction, and the same area he was using as cover. The house they had chosen was mostly completed. It had a roof, walls, but no siding yet. There was a for sale sign in front and the grass had grown to knee height along with a mass of weeds.

Then Bradley came into view, and he carried his son. He must have sensed the four men knew where they were going because he followed, but he wasn’t able to keep up.

Chris took out his cell phone and called Bradley, but the man didn’t answer.

“Shit,” he said.

He climbed back down from the roof for the second time and went to assist Bradley.

Chapter Forty-Two

It was a massacre.

As the protesters had taken to the streets, James and his squad had followed, then angled around them at a quick clip so they could flank the throng of people and pick out troublemakers. Then the gunfire had begun.

Cooper was back on his feet, although he bitched about his side.

“Do you need to go to medical?” James asked.

“I’m just banged up, but the round didn’t penetrate. I’ll be fine in a few days. There are people in need of a lot more help than I am,” Cooper said.

James sat down and unfastened his pants, then he dragged them down to look at the wound. Sure enough, something had penetrated, and it hurt like a bastard. James gratefully accepted a hemostat patch from Cooper and applied it to the wound. He’d have to get the metal extracted but right now, he had to make sure his squad was safe.

“Put your pants on, you perv,” Skip said.

“Damn, this hurts. Wonder if I’ll get a purple heart,” James said.

“Yeah. Right after I get one for getting shot, twice,” Cooper said.

James buckled his pants up, and then got to his feet. He and his squad moved away from the fleeing mass, toward the rally point that Wells had designated.

There hadn’t been nearly enough National Guard on the scene to deal with so many people so they were stretched thin. Medics moved among the bodies, patching up what they could and summoning stretcher-bearers to take the wounded.

Tempers were hot and gunshots still rang out as the protesters fled, leaving bodies on the ground. Some moved, but too many of them did not. After the grenades had exploded, James had taken his squad farther away from the throng of protesters in case they kept lobbing explosives. Where in the hell had these people gotten actual grenades from?

“Did you see that?” Cooper said.

He pointed in the direction of a series of two-story homes that sat forlornly under wilted red oaks.

“What?” James asked.

“Four of guys on the run. One of them wrapped something in a jacket and tossed it in the bushes.”

“What was it?”

“Looked like a gun to me,” Cooper said with venom in his voice.

James’ eyes narrowed. He motioned, and his squad followed.

The men disappeared between a pair of buildings.

“Yeah? Let’s sort them out,” James said.

“Hooah!” his team replied.

James led the way by breaking into a light jog, he kept his M4 ready in case they came under fire.

Sprouts breathed heavily as he kept up. Skip covered their right flank, and Cooper kept his eyes on their six. A family of five, the husband and wife dragging their crying kids towards a minivan parked on a side street, broke from cover. They reached their vehicle and the father, hands shaking, managed to trigger the locks. They were barely inside the little van when it started and tore away from the side of the road.

James trained his gun on them, but they were no threat, and he let them go.

He was more interested in what Cooper had seen.

“Here, it was right here,” Cooper said.

He stopped at a bed of flowers that had seen better days and he dug under a hydrangea.

“You find it?” James asked as he kept his eyes peeled.

“Bingo,” Cooper said and pulled out a thick black jacket.

Cooper rolled the overcoat out and a military style gun fell out. James frowned.

Cooper ejected the magazine, and then ejected a shell in the breech. He slung the automatic over his shoulder.

“Let’s find those assholes,” James said.

“Hooah,” Sprouts, Skip, and Cooper echoed each other again.

Chapter Forty-Three

Bradley’s eyes filled with tears as he moved toward his Bronco. His son was heavy, but Bradley ignored the strain on his muscles and marched Junior to his vehicle so he could take his body home. His silver Bronco was in sight so he made for it.

“Why did you leave, son?”

Junior’s eyes were completely vacant, and something wet dripped down Bradley’s hand from his son’s back and onto his pants. He should stop. He wasn’t thinking clearly at all. The first few seconds were so important. He needed to perform CPR, get his son breathing again, and get him to a hospital.

Someone broke free from a line of trees and made for Bradley. He put his son’s body on the ground next to the Bronco, and then reached into his jacket and placed his hand on the stock of his Kimber.

“Brad, we got trouble heading this way,” Chris said.

Bradley nodded at Chris and released the gun.

“What happened?” Chris asked.

“They shot him. They killed my son,” Bradley said.

He leaned over and checked Junior’s neck for a pulse. Bradley pushed open the tan Dickies jacket Junior had nearly outgrown and lifted his shirt. There was a pool of blood on his chest, just to the left of his sternum. Bradley put his palm over Junior’s chest, and then placed his other hand on top. He pushed down in rapid succession, then leaned over and breathed into Bradley’s mouth while holding his son’s nose.

Chris dropped to his knees and helped tilt Junior’s head back. They worked on him in silence for several minutes. Chris checked for a pulse, and they repeated CPR.

“He’s okay, just needs a minute. I’ll get him to a hospital,” Bradley said, then leaned over and breathed in Junior’s mouth again.

“He’s gone, Brad. He’s not coming back,” Chris said.

“Get the fuck out of here. You don’t know that. Just leave us. I’ll bring him back,” Bradley said.

“You won’t, but I can help you get a little retribution on the men who did this.”

“What are you talking about?”

“They went into a house. The guys who carried automatic weapons into the protesters and opened fire on the Guard. They did this. You can lay the death of your son at their feet,” Chris said.

Bradley pumped his son’s chest. Blood poured out of Junior’s chest each time he pressed. A spreading pool gathered underneath the body.

“Brad, he's gone. Go home to your wife. She's going to need you.”

Bradley sat back and looked skyward. So many deaths over the last week. So many lost, and for what? Was God really this vengeful? Had his country really devolved into this?

Bradley squinted as four men dressed in BDUs came into view. They walked slowly and carried guns. Chris wasn’t making sense. The only gunfire he cared about had come from the soldiers, and one of them had killed his son.

He reached into his jacket and pulled the Kimber in one smooth motion. Before he could level it and blow the head off the man in the lead, Chris knocked the gun to the side.

“Do you want them to kill us?”

Bradley didn't care. He fought Chris’s grip on his wrist.

“Put it down!” One of the soldiers shouted.

Chris pulled his hand down and cranked Bradley's hand hard to the right, forcing his wrist to bend until it screamed I pain. Then he yanked hard, and the gun came free.

“On the ground, now, or we waste you,” another of the squad yelled as they closed.

Bradley yanked his hand free and got to his feet. Why didn't he bring his smaller gun? That was right, Monica had it. He had no backup, not even his knife. That was on the bedside because he'd been in such a rush to leave his house.

“Don't do it,” Chris said and pulled Bradley back down.

“Get off me, you son of a bitch,” Bradley howled.

One of the soldiers moved quickly, lowing his weapon, and jabbing Bradley in the chest with the butt of his rifle. The breath left his body as he keeled over. He dropped the Kimber, and stupidly reached for it again. That earned him another blow. This time, he sprawled on the ground. Another soldier, just a tall skinny kid no older than Junior loomed over Bradley, putting the barrel of a gun in his face.

Bradley grabbed the barrel and pointed it away from his body. He used the kid’s grip to heave himself to his feet, pushing the assault rifle to the side, then yanking hard. The gun fired, and the other three soldiers swarmed him, striking Bradley with the butt of their guns until he let go and dropped one more time.

He took a blow to the head and saw stars.

One of the soldiers shouted for the squad to stand down. He loomed into view, and Bradley was sure he was hallucinating.

“Bradley?” A man he hadn't seen in at least five years said.

“You know this asshole?” The shorter soldier with dark skin said.

“Yeah,” the familiar faced man said. “He’s my brother.”

Bradley rolled onto his back, and with tears of sadness, laughed at the sky.

Chapter Forty-Four

James Briggs had not seen his older brother, Bradley, in a number of years. When they were younger, James, six, and Bradley, fifteen, the boys had been separated by divorce. James had gone with his mother, who married a lawyer, and moved to Joliet. Bradley, and their father, had stayed in Vicksburg, and Bradley hadn’t left since.

When they were growing up, separated from each other, their father had been so bitter he rarely let Bradley visit their mother. They had grown up practically strangers. With the exception of a few phone calls a year, and occasional interaction on social media, they had barely spoken over the last four or five years.

James was so shocked that his brother was here, it wasn’t until he made the connection between the boy on the ground and Bradley.

“Is that…”

“It’s Junior. You bastards killed him.”

“I didn’t kill anyone. Someone opened fire from your side and killed a bunch of our guys. You fired first,” James said.

He still hadn’t taken the barrel off James.

“Why don’t you go fuck yourself. I didn’t shoot at anyone, I was there to get Junior, I had no side in that fight. Now he’s dead.”

“Brad, I’m sorry. It wasn’t me. When some of the protesters started shooting at us, it became chaos,” James argued.

“Why don’t you go to my house and explain that to Junior’s mother,” Bradley spat. “You remember her, right? Monica. Tell me you remember Monica!”

“Guys, I’m going to reach into my jacket and extract my identification. I’ll do it nice and slow. I need to tell you all something before this escalates any farther,” Chris interrupted the bickering.

Cooper shifted his aim to cover the older man.

“Nice and slow,” James said.

The man pulled a slim black wallet out very slowly, then he offered it to James.

James leaned over and grabbed the wallet. He flipped it open, and then his eyes went wide.

“Who is this guy?”

James read it again, and then held it up for Cooper, Skip, and Sprouts to take turns leaning over to inspect the contents of the fold out wallet.

“Mind if I get up?” the man said.

“Of course, sir,” James said.

“Call me Chris,” the man said.

“Listen, the people who perpetrated this heinous act fled. I was on assignment to track them down. We’ve suspected that the shootings taking place might have been motivated by a fringe group of white supremacists intent on destabilizing the government,” Chris said.

“Heavy shit,” Sprouts muttered.

“The men who did this went into a home just south of here. You want some payback, you come with me, and we can bring them to justice,” Chris said.

“Those are the guys we saw. I dug out an assault rifle one of them stashed under one bushes,” Cooper offered Chris, then he turned to show the piece.

“Sig Sauer 553. The folding stock makes it easier to conceal.”

“Let me radio for support,” James said.

“Do it on the way there. We don’t have any time. They’ve already loaded a transport,” Chris urged.

“What should we do?” Cooper asked.

Gunfire erupted from the direction Chris had pointed out.

“We go take care of that,” James said.

James’ head swirled. Fringe groups, an NSA agent, and mass shootings. It was like he was stuck in a bad episode of the show 24.

“Hooah,” Sprouts, Cooper, and Skip echoed.

“What about him?” Cooper said.

“I’ll call for a medic on the way. Also, I’ll get our backup here as soon as possible,” James said.

“We don’t have much time, gentlemen,” Chris said.

James leaned over and put his hand on Bradley’s shoulder. “We’ll be back. We can talk. This wasn’t us, man. I swear to you.”

Bradley didn’t meet James’ eyes. He simply sat back against a silver Bronco and pulled his son into his lap and cradled his head.

James sighed and, with Chris in the lead, they moved out.

Chapter Forty-Five

Chris had to be fast on his feet. The fake ID he’d stashed had saved his ass this time. If they attempted to check his credentials, there would be questions. But for now, the kids had bought his half-truths. He would use them to help extract one of the men from the four person team.

Then he’d get some answers. Why had he and his team been hunted down and eliminated and, if nothing else, he could take down Lawson.

Overhead, helicopters arrived in droves. He glanced skyward but there weren’t any news choppers to be seen, a far cry from the way things were a few weeks ago. Information was being very quietly disseminated to the public, and most of that was heavily edited. He had watched enough on the extra TV at Bradley’s to see that.

They raced toward the home he’d seen the team enter. As they neared, another blast of automatic gunfire sounded from that direction.

Faces peeked out from behind curtains, then withdrew when the home’s occupants got a look at the soldiers.

It was only a couple of blocks, and it was probably going to be a complete waste of time. The team would have moved on by now, or the gunshots meant they were dead. If nothing else, maybe he could grab one of the shooters this time.

But it wasn’t purely about information, or beating the shit out of Lawson to find out why he had been targeted, it was also about some good old fashioned revenge.

* * *

They had donned new clothing, and now there were four of them. Chris pointed out the team as they tossed bags into a large black SUV.

Briggs, the young fire team leader, issued orders, and his men responded quickly. They went defensive, with Briggs in the lead, the others behind, weapons pointed in a way that covered their approach. They might be young, but they had excellent grouping.

Chris reached into his waistband and tugged out the .357.

The black ops team took cover behind the white SUV, missing his approach. Chris took the opportunity to fade behind a pile of garbage next to a full trash can. Someone had tossed out a bunch of furniture as well, and it all smelled like shit.

Before he could pop up and take out one of the men in black, they opened fire. Briggs fired back and his team took shelter behind a blue Hyundai sedan.

Chris moved left and kept low, using a row of rhododendrons to hide his shape. The soldiers fired their M4s, and the black ops team shot back, blowing holes in the side of the Hyundai.

He went flat and crawled under more plants until he had a decent view of the field of battle. One of the men, an Asian guy who looked vaguely familiar, fell under his sights. Chris lined up a shot, cocked the hammer, let out a breath, and splattered the guy’s brains all over the side of the SUV.

He pulled back as bullets sprayed over his head.

Chris took his time and did it right. He rolled ten feet to the right, and then found another target. This guy wasn’t familiar but he had a dragon tattoo running up his neck. One of the men turned his gun on Chris’s position and opened fire. Bullets ripped over his head. He aimed and fired, but his shot went wide because the man moved back around the side of the SUV.

Chris’s position was compromised. He scrambled back while Briggs’ team laid down a hail of fire that shredded the side of the SUV and made the black ops team drop into cover.

Chris pushed himself out of the brush and rolled again, this time toward the house. He was exposed for a split second and almost paid for it with his life with a bullet. Instead, it ripped into the ground he had just occupied.

He used the gunfire to make a run for it. This wasn’t going how he had planned, and the chance to snatch one of the shooters was fading by the second.

Then the large man loomed into view and fired on Chris’s position. He managed to slide behind a large landscaping rock and make his body small.

Lawson was still alive. Now he really wanted to kill them all, and he’d be happy if that asshole was last, begging for his life before Chris put two just left of center mass, and one to the head.

Then something crashed into his shoulder, and Chris knew he was in trouble.

Chapter Forty-Six

Bradley loaded his son’s body into the back of the Bronco, ignoring the blood that continued to leak from Junior’s body. He closed his son’s eye lids and stared down at his innocent face.

Grief gave way to anger. Anger gave way to rage.

He leaned over and kissed his son’s forehead, then closed the Bronco’s door.

Bradley went prone and felt under the car tire. His fingers closed on the Kimber.

Gunfire rose into the morning air. His mind flashed back to a short time ago when he had come under fire in the crowd and his son had dropped like a rock.

His brother had turned up and, for all he knew, had been the one that pulled the trigger and killed Junior.

Bradley rose on shaking knees, looked back at his son’s face in through the window of his Bronco. Junior looked like he was asleep. His mouth was parted and his eyes closed.

Bradley’s features hardened as he did something stupid. He ran toward the sound of gunfire.

* * *

James ducked as a dozen rounds struck the Hyundai he and Cooper used for cover.

Skip provided cover fire, while skinny Sprouts ran across the street and ducked behind a white compact.

Chris was completely pinned down and unable to get out from behind a large rock someone had used as landscaping. Rounds smacked into his cover, broke pieces off, and sent them flying.

Cooper dropped with a groan.

“You hit?”

“Son of a bitch. Right in the chest plate again,” Cooper said.

“Gonna live?”

“Probably not. Those assholes are packing some serious heat,” Cooper groaned.

“Catch your breath before one of them flanks us.”

“On the right, three o’clock, movement,” Cooper said and pressed himself against the rear door.

Cooper pushed his hand under his breastplate and rubbed.

“I see him,” James said.

He ejected his spent magazine, pulled one from his belt, and slapped it home.

James crawled next to the bumper and fired off three quick rounds. They pelted the back window of the black SUV and sent glass flying.

Sprouts ran to the next car while skip provided covering fire again. This brought the new guy into nearly perfect firing position to take out the assailants.

One of the men must have partially crawled under the SUV. Muzzle flashes lit, and then Sprouts screamed in pain. Skip laid down a burst of fire, then ran into the open before diving next to Sprouts.

A large caliber handgun spoke, and a bullet punched into the side view mirror of the SUV.

James wanted to run to Sprouts side, but they were suddenly hit with rounds from two guns. He ducked back down, and when he peeked around the corner, the team was on the move, about to flank the house. One of them spun and emptied an entire magazine at them.

* * *

Chris should have known the National Guard soldiers would be outclassed by a tactically superior team. Now they were getting away, and all he wanted to do was put a round in Lawson.

He touched his shoulder and winced. Blood stained his hand. He looked, and found that a small caliber round had taken off a chunk of his deltoid. He rotated his arm in its socket, noted his limited range of motion, and sucked it up.

Chris rolled out from the cover of the large rock and pulled his smaller 9mm, and checked his pockets. He had enough to reload the revolver a few times but no time to do it. He had one round left in the .357. He ran toward the two guardsmen and shouted for the darker skinny kid.

“Hand me that Sig Sauer, I’m going to follow them,” Chris said.

The kid held his chest, but turned and shrugged his back around so Chris could get at the spare weapon.

Chris unslung it from his shoulder and ejected the magazine. Shit, only about half full. He guessed there were fifteen, maybe sixteen rounds. He unfolded the stock and pressed it to his shoulder.

“You’re bleeding,” Briggs said.

“Yep. Not the first time either,” Chris said.

“Dude’s a badass,” a guy named Koslowski said.

“They’re going to try to flank us. Two will go in one direction, while another goes in the opposite direction as they draw a team after them,” Chris said.

“Yeah,” Briggs said.

“Look at me,” Chris ordered.

“You do whatever the hell you’re doing out here, one of my men is down,” James said.

“You’re all going to be down if you don’t listen to me. That SUV is their only way out of here unless they drag one of these families out and take the keys. They probably have equipment, more guns, maybe explosives. You want them coming back? We stop them now or we’re dead.”

James shook Chris off and ran to Sprouts.

* * *

Bradley had rounded the block, and then ducked behind the side of a house while the firefight took place. He waited as guns blasting back and forth.

He couldn’t see Chris, but the National Guard soldiers were pinned down as four men in black shot at them. Then one of them opened up in full auto, surprising the soldiers who dropped out of sight. Then the men were on the move as they dashed around the side of the home they had been using as cover.

He moved in the opposite direction and rounded a two-story home that had a brick accented double car garage. There was a six feet tall wooden privacy fence that would be a bitch to scale. A garage door opened, and a Prius backed up. A terrified woman with three kids packed in the vehicle, roared backward into the road, slammed on the brakes, and then accelerated in the opposite direction of the shooting.

Bradley thought fast. He dove under the garage door as it started to slide shut. He made for the inside of the house and tore through a messy dining room. He found the back, but it was raised five feet off the ground by a deck. He unlocked the sliding glass door and ran onto the wooden slats, then down a short set of stairs. He stopped at a back gate, then did a quick scan of the yard. Thank God there wasn’t a crazy dog that wanted to kill him.

When he eyed the lock, found the combination fastener on the door, but it wasn’t even locked. He lifted the padlock and tossed it on the ground. Then he leaned over and took a couple of breaths. His ribs ached like the Dickens. One of the soldiers had hit him pretty hard. His arms and midsection also hurt from the beating they had administered. He touched his face and found a line of blood from a rapidly swelling bruise below his left eye.

At least they hadn’t broken any bones. He sucked it up, pushed the pain away, and then opened the large wooden back door.

* * *

“I got your back,” Cooper said.

“Yeah? Who’s got your back?” Chris Miller responded.

“Honestly, I’m hoping the rest of my squad does,” Cooper said. “Ammo’s almost in the black.”

Damn. This kid would have to do.

“Stay close and do what I say,” Chris said.

“Sure, boss.”

Chris jogged between the houses. He motioned for Cooper to follow, and the pair raced around the house on the right, a nice little home with a low fence and manicured yard. The front of the house was surrounded by trees that had been sculpted to look like little animals. Across from it, a half-completed duplex with missing walls stood like a skeleton.

About fifteen feet separated the homes from each other. One was in shade, and the other received partial light.

“Stay on that side, use the shade. Move slowly. One or two of them will be lurking behind this house. One will probably be prone. Be very careful when picking out targets. If you see a gun wave in your direction, don’t try to beat them to the trigger, you get low or get behind cover right way.”

“Wish I had time to get on a roof for overwatch,” Cooper said.

“Me too.”

Chris nodded at the home across from him, then crept toward the backyard. Cooper took the queue and planted his back against the wooden structure.

Shots sounded from the direction of the rest of Cooper’s squad. Chris didn’t waste time. If they were in any way distracted, he had a shot.

Chris turned to face the building, stuck the Sig into the open, and fired several rounds.

“Go,” Chris said.

Cooper moved to the edge and aimed his gun. Someone moved, and the kid panic fired.

Chris used the distraction to round the corner, but he kept hunched over. His shoulder wound throbbed and blood spread into his shirt.

The backyard had been overrun with weeds and whoever lived here, before renovations had begun, had dragged some old furniture out and tossed it. There was a large desk, a bookshelf, a mattress, and a dresser that had succumbed to rain. Anyone of those obstacles could be hiding one of the shooters. He fired three rounds, two striking the bookshelf, and one through the mattress, and then ducked back around into cover.

No one returned fire.

Cooper popped his head around and surveyed the other yard. “I think they’re gone.”

“Doubt it,” Chris muttered.

Then a large caliber handgun sounded. Someone screamed and hit the ground.

It was probably a mistake, but Chris dove around the side of the house and took cover behind the desk.

Then all hell broke loose.

* * *

Bradley opened the door slowly and was grateful for quiet hinges. He poked his head out and found one of the men in black hiding behind a toolshed. Bradley lifted his gun and shot the man in the back. Then he fired again as the man spun. The guy had a neck tattoo and short black hair clipped close to his head.

Bradley walked into the open and took cover behind the shed. He leaned over and picked up the man’s rifle and put his Kimber back in its holster. It was a Taran Tactical with a pmag that featured a small window to show how many rounds were left, and it was fully loaded.

He swung the gun around the side of the shed and waited for someone to move.

Bullets exploded around him, making him duck down. The shots had come from somewhere to the left. Bradley stayed low and considered his options. If there were two shooters, they would have his number very soon. He returned fire in the general direction the shots had come from, then dashed behind the home, taking shelter behind the raised deck. It wasn’t much in the way of cover, but the shooter didn’t know that. The dirt was wet from recent rains, and he had to pull his foot free from the suctioning mess.

At least two other shooters were out there, and he hoped they were on his side.

A flash, and he tracked them with the gun, but they took cover behind an old wooden desk. Bradley laid down a few rounds just to keep their heads down.

A gun appeared over the desk and returned fire. He ducked and rolled behind the home’s east wall. Five rounds. Did the pmag hold twenty five or thirty?

Wood exploded as rounds struck the corner of the house.

He moved quickly, skirting the wall, until he reached the front of the home. Bradley kept the Taran Tactical locked against his shoulder, and fired as he ran.

He scanned the area and found the National Guard team in disarray. Bradley hoped they wouldn’t fire on him. He ran for the front porch and slammed into the front door. It gave with a crash and he fell into the living room.

Bradley stalked through the home, making his way through the kitchen until he found a back sliding door.

The shooter didn’t even see him. He was wedged between an old refrigerator that had been tossed on its side and a thick, dark wood desk. Bradley fired a burst. The sliding glass door blew apart and the man yelled in pain. He tried to crawl out of cover, and away from Bradley’s gun, but a shot from the south cut him off. The guy’s throat erupted with blood. He reached for it and gurgled before he started twitching.

Fuck that guy, too.

Then Bradley was hit. Someone had waited in the cover of a small copse of trees. Bradley had been moving, or the round would have taken his skull apart. Instead, pain blossomed along the side of his head. He leaped for cover and pressed his hand to the side of his face, coming away with blood.

* * *

Chris barely avoided getting his head blown off. The desk wasn’t thick and rounds punched through it like paper.

Then one of the shooters fell out of cover as gunfire erupted from inside the house. Chris snapped the gun up, aimed, and shot him through the throat. The man looked shocked, then his legs kicked as he fell on his side.

The last figure dove out of cover, snapping off shots toward the back of the house. Chris fired but missed. He pulled the trigger again and it clicked on empty.

“Shit!”

Chris pushed himself up and surprised Lawson by tackling him to the ground.

Lawson was stronger than Chris, and used his weight to roll on top.

Chris got his hands up and avoided a fist to the head, the second caught him around the temple, and he saw stars. He drove his knee into the man’s midsection and pushed him off. Then he rolled to the side and shook his head.

Lawson was fast. He swung a leg around and delivered a punishing blow to Chris’s upper thigh. Leg useless for now, Chris punched Lawson in the side, going for the kidneys. The blow was fast and sharp and drew a cry of pain.

Then Bradley was there. He strode out of the house, tossing an automatic weapon on the ground and pulling the Kimber. He aimed it at them, and Chris was afraid Bradley intended to kill them both.

Something seared his midsection. A burning line of pain that made him gasp. Then a stab as the blade sank into his gut and twisted.

Chris kept his hand wrapped around Lawson and managed to roll over one more time even though he felt like he had been cut in half. His shirt was sticky and wet as blood bubbled out. He went for the little 9mm Nano with his free hand, thinking he could get his backup magazine in time, but Lawson elbowed him in the face.

The Kimber boomed and Lawson folded up. He screamed in agony, and then went flat.

Chris rolled over and pushed himself to a sitting position.

“You dead?”

“You’re an asshole,” Lawson said.

“Why did they kill my team?” Chris said through gritted teeth.

“Telling you nothing,” Lawson said, then gasped as pain racked his body.

Lawson attempted to push himself away from Chris, his feet scrabbling at the ground.

Chris got his 9mm, fumbled for his backup magazine, and managed to reload. He lifted the gun and pressed it to Lawson’s head. “Want me to end it quickly?”

“Fuck you.”

“Move, Chris. I’ll finish him,” Bradley said.

His friend stood over them with the gun barrel pointed at Lawson’s head.

“Wait. Make him tell you what happened, how these attacks were planned and executed by our own government. I’m not going to last much longer so it doesn’t matter,” Chris said. “Fuck it.”

“I don’t care,” Bradley said.

“Tell him why you did it, why you fired at the soldiers,” Chris said and choked, tasting his own blood. “Tell me why my team was eliminated!”

“Liability, plain and simple. I told them you would be a problem, and I guess I was right,” Lawson said.

“So, we do the dirty work, and then they had us killed. Just a simple coverup?”

“Something like that. Neither one of us will see how our actions played out, but the end goal has been achieved.”

“What, power? It was all about power?”

“What’s it ever about? Never figured you for a Boy Scout,” Lawson said as blood bubbled over this lip.

Chris’s grip on the gun slipped as pain raced through his body. He’d been shot before, but this pain was nothing like that. It felt like he had been chopped in half. Blood pumped out of his wound hot and fast, making him blink rapidly because he saw static white.

Cooper rounded the corner and kept his gun trained around the area.

“Why don’t you tell him. You were on the first team,” Lawson said. “Not so fucking innocent.”

Chris wanted to say more but consciousness slipped away.

* * *

Bradley squatted next to the shooter and pointed his gun at the man’s head. Chris’s eyes closed, and he didn’t move with the exception of his chest rising and falling in slower patterns.

“Bunch of sheep. You don’t understand what’s going on, and you won’t ever get it. It’s all about control,” the man said.

“Control, huh? How’s this for control?” Bradley said and shot the man in the face.

Chris had called him Lawson. Well, Bradley now called him dead. Lawson’s head bounced off the ground, and he didn’t move again. Cooper came out from cover. He looked scared, and like Bradley, probably felt like events had spiraled out of control.

Cooper knelt next to Chris and checked his pulse while keeping his eyes up and scanning the yard for more threats.

“You okay?”

“Why do you care?” Bradley said.

“Wasn’t me, man. I swear to you. We didn’t shoot into the crowd. They shot at us, well, these guys did. There were no targets so I didn’t fire back. I’m not a fucking monster.”

“Go before I do something stupid,” Bradley said.

“You should wait here. We have backup on the way,” Copper urged.

“I don’t care,” Bradley said.

“They’ll go easy on you. We’ll back your story, man. Just put the gun down. Whole town’s going to be locked down soon anyway and you’ll have to surrender them.”

“Take that one,” Bradley pointed at the Taran.

Bradley dropped to the ground next to Chris and leaned over. He slapped the man’s face hard and got a flicker as a response.

“This is such a cluster, I can’t even,” Cooper said. “I’m going to get Briggs. He has some medical supplies.”

“Too late for me,” Chris said. “It’s hard to see. That you, Bradley?”

“It’s me. I don’t understand what’s happening here. You knew this guy?”

“Just say these words. Echelon, Delta, 1939. Birthday. The last is numerical. Caps on the first two words. Punch them in together,” Chris said.

“What are you talking about?”

“My jacket. There’s a secure phone and a half dozen SIM cards. Take them. Don’t use the phone at your house. Use a new SIM card if you need to connect. Without that password, you won’t be able to access my notes. Everything is there,” Chris said.

“I don’t understand.”

“Say it. Echelon, Delta, 1939. Birthday. The pin is numeric. The rest of the words start with a capital letter. Say it,” Chris said.

“Echelon, Delta, 1939, Birthday.”

“Good,” Chris said, and his eyes rolled back, then he focused on Chris again. “I’ve never been a good man. Not even a decent man. The things I’ve done for this country are going to send me straight to Hell.”

“Chris, I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“My real name is Roger. Sorry I lied to you, and doubly sorry about your boy. You want revenge? Use the phone. Don’t show it to anyone until the time is right. Don’t trust any government agency. They will take the device, and then kill you and everyone you know and love. Just use it…” Chris muttered, then he stopped moving.

Bradley took out the man’s phone and the SIM cards. They were packed in a tiny plastic case, and they rattled around as he examined it.

The phone wasn’t on, and he didn’t turn it on.

“Echelon, Delta, 1939, Birthday,” Chris muttered to himself.

He tucked the device away, and then sat back on his rear end. Bradley touched his ear and winced in pain. He probed anyway and found a chunk had been shot off.

Bradley wanted to sleep for a very long time, but he had to get his son home. Had to tell Monica what happened to Junior.

By the time his brother and the other men in James’ squad got there, Bradley was long gone.

THE END

Broken Patriot continues in

MARCH TO WAR

Check out the next novel in the series on Amazon:

MARCH TO WAR

A Broken Patriot Novel

Thank you so much for reading DRUMS OF WAR. I sincerely hope you enjoyed the book, and that you are looking forward to future novels in the series.

I’m a full time author, and pay my mortgage with my writing. If you could take a spare moments to leave a review for DRUMS OF WAR on Amazon, I would be extremely gratefully, and sing the praises of your name. Badly. And only in the shower.

As a thank you I would like to send you a free “Not a Broken Patriot” camouflage wristband for spending 2 minutes writing a few short words. Or long words. I won’t judge.

Now, before you think that I’m bribing you for a review, I promise that even if you hated the book, and leave a negative 657 star review, I will still send you the wristband with no questions asked.

Review link: Drums of War on Amazon

Send a link or screenshot of your review to: stupidzombies@gmail.com and I’ll send you a Not a Broken Patriot bracket.

Thank you so much!

-Timothy W. Long

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Impact Earth sample

Looking for a new read? Check out Impact Earth by Timothy W. Long. Can a band of regular people who can suddenly manifest superpowers stop an alien invasion over the skies of Seattle?

Prologue

International Space Station

Yuri Novitskiy awoke to pounding.

He tried to roll over but remembered he was stuck in a cocoon that was Velcroed to a wall. Or, as Sheppard liked to call it, being mummified for eight hours. One of the hardest parts about living in zero-g was that it didn't matter which direction you faced. There was no gravity to tell you which way was up and which way was down.

The familiar machine shop smell of the space station came back to him: a combination of oil, recycled air, and plastics. Then there were the constant noises of moving air and machinery humming away as the space station kept its occupants alive.

His thin door threatened to buckle as someone beat on it.

"Go away, zombie. I just closed my eyes," he muttered and tried to bury his face in the confines of his sleeping bag.

"Yuri. We need you, man, there's an emergency."

"Tell Oleg to take care of it. I am sleeping."

The pounding ceased, and the door pushed open. Light flooded into his tiny space, illuminating his laptop, the floating paperback of a Tolstoy classic, and a package that had contained a Snickers—the greatest invention in the known world, as far as Yuri was concerned.

He looked at his watch, which was set to UTC, and shook his head. Why couldn't the Americans take care of their own problem? It was always Yuri, we need this. Yuri, we need that. Yuri, you're the only one who knows this system.

"Sheppard, what is so important that you must have Russia's greatest mind awoken at…" He looked at his watch again. "It's not even eleven. I've had less than an hour of sleep."

"I'd tell you, bud, but you wouldn't believe me. Trust me, Yuri, if this weren't an emergency I'd be sound asleep too. You just gotta see this shit.” Sheppard’s lined face was split by a cocky smile.

"If this is another spore breakthrough, I am going to be very angry. You know what happened last time I got angry?"

"It's not like that, Yuri. I promise. No prank this time."

The prank war had begun with Sheppard appearing naked—with the exception of a well-placed cowboy hat over his genitals—riding an imaginary bull through the science pod.

Yuri had come back by playing a female voice that described how to perform a breast inspection for cancer into Sheppard’s radio while the man was on a space walk.

Ever the over-achiever, Sheppard had retaliated by breaking into a call Yuri made to his family back on earth, and had piped in a recording of how to do a proper testicle inspection.

There were the usual pranks after that, like switching the liquid salt with liquid pepper. One thing that wasn’t allowed in space was little particles of spice.

Yuri had ended the escalating war by crafting a little alien head out of PVC and a chunk of freeze-dried steak that hadn't properly sealed before the trip to the space station. A few minutes with a knife had given it shape.

With liberal use of ketchup, he'd scared Sheppard half to death with his Alien movie imitation. The only downside had been cleaning up the little red drops that had drifted in zero gravity.

Yuri sighed and unzipped his sleeping bag. He caught a glimpse of his unshaven face and the wild, curly hair that rose about his head like a Jewish afro.

He could shave it like Sheppard's, but he liked how it brought character to the station. Six people living 330 km above the earth on a vessel that orbited the earth every ninety minutes needed to have fun. He considered his clown hair fun because it did not match his very Slavic and downturned features.

"We have to get to Cupola to see it."

"It's shuttered for the night."

"Not now, it ain't," Sheppard said. "Bring a camera. The boys back home might take issue, so snap `em while you can."

"Such a rebel," Yuri said, but he grabbed his compact anyway, just in case this was actually something interesting.

They zipped through habitation, hit a node, and then slid up toward Cupola. The other astronauts would all be asleep, except for Ryu. He enjoyed his all-night research, but really he just didn't need as much sleep as the others. As a fisherman's son, he hadn't slept more than six hours a night as a kid. Now, nearly thirty years later, he was functional on four, but he could be downright wired on five.

Yuri nearly bashed his head on another laptop, and pushed the computer back on its rotating joint so it wouldn't catch one of the other astronauts.

"I was working on that," Ryu said from the corner of the space. He had a white blanket wrapped around his shoulders and had blended right in with one of the spacesuits they'd had to store temporarily while he pulled out and went over a computer system.

Suzie had reported some anomalies on a spacewalk to secure a loose solar panel two days ago, and Yuri had spent twenty-four hours going over the systems before realizing it was simply a miscalculation he'd made. Instead of explaining the mix-up, he'd informed the rest of the crew that he had fixed some code.

"Sorry. I almost hit it."

"My apologies," Ryu said. "You go to see it?"

"It?" Yuri asked.

"He doesn't know," Sheppard interjected.

"Better to sleep. Bad news can wait."

"What does that mean?" Yuri asked.

"He's just being melodramatic. Come on," said Sheppard, tugging at Yuri's shirt.

Ryu's eyes held something like sadness. He showed occasional bouts of humor though he was normally very serious, but now was most certainly not one of those times. The Japanese man turned his gaze away and focused on the circuit board he'd pulled out of a spacesuit.

He moved along another corridor and caught a handgrip with the top of his foot, which were well calloused thanks to living on the ISS. Ironically, the hardened skin on the bottom of his feet had fallen off.

They floated up the narrow passageway until they were in the nearly three-meter diameter portal that looked into space. Just as Sheppard had said the shutters were open, which was indeed against protocol. It was important to maintain a standard nighttime environment, so the astronauts were on a regular sleep schedule.

They were over the Sahara, with the sun's glare shining on their home below. The huge desert extended in every direction but would soon give way to vegetated land, then ocean as they spun around Earth's low orbit.

"There," Sheppard said, and pointed to three o'clock.

Yuri sucked in his breath when he saw…it.

From their viewpoint, space had ceased to exist in the direction of the moon. Something blotted it out as wide as they could see.

"Chinese?"

"Not on your life. According to Houston it's not theirs, and we know it's not yours."

"Ah, comrade, it's been many years since the Soviet Union launch secret craft." Yuri tried to think of an English word equivalent to what he was seeing but could only come up with one thing. "It's fucking huge."

"What's that?"

Another shape moved behind the anomaly, this one shimmering in and out like it was caught in a haze. The craft was black, with long, grey, pulsing lines like veins. It was elongated and had to be at least sixty or seventy kilometers in length. It spun along one axis, but the rotation was slowing.

Then something ejected from its side.

"What in the—?" Sheppard didn't finish his sentence because the smaller object emitted beams of light that swept over the first craft, the sun's radiance reflecting off earth's atmosphere causing a confusion of refracted images.

"It's above us, but moving. How can it move like this?" Yuri wondered out loud. Remaining in apogee was an art. Sliding in and out was the stuff of science fiction.

An explosion lit their view. Yuri looked away because the flash had been bright enough to remind him of catching a glimpse of the sun without a spacesuit's visor down—something that could ruin your vision for good.

"Well, goodnight!" Sheppard exclaimed.

Ryu slid into the Cupola and didn't utter a word.

Pieces leapt away from each object. Some accelerated the short distance to make impact with explosive effect, while beams leapt out and obliterated others. The ISS was rocked by one shockwave after another.

"This is no good," Yuri said. He had the overriding desire to rush off and do a full systems inspection. The solar panels maintained a very tenuous grip on the space station due to the nature of zero-g, and shockwaves were not the kind of thing they were built to withstand.

Lights erupted in space behind them and, for the first time, they got a look at the larger object.

Sleek: that was the best way to describe it. The object was oblong with rounded ends, like a giant cigar. There were no discernible lines except for the random veins. Ports snapped open to emit jagged objects that raced away, with points of light glowing from their rears.

The other craft was much smaller but danced circles around the first. Its signature was not as smooth, but rounder, and there were a number of protrusions like blisters along the hull.

"India and Pakistan?" Yuri said, and knew immediately how silly it sounded. If those two nations ever got craft into space, he doubted they'd start a war up there. They were more likely to start nuking each other back on good old Earth. So what did that leave?

"That is some shit right there," Sheppard said.

Yuri closed his mouth, raised his camera, and took pictures as fast as the device could ready itself.

A massive shock raced along the smaller craft's hull and it fell away suddenly, but not before a pod the size of a sports stadium broke away and became invisible. The larger craft hovered in place for a few seconds before withdrawing over the horizon of the space station until it could be seen no longer.

Another wave hit the ISS and something snapped. Yuri didn't hear it, but he felt it. The station thrummed and shook with something that was wrong.

"Not good," Ryu said and dove through the hatch.

Sheppard was next, and Yuri was right behind him. Alarms echoed up and down the passageways.

Yuri slid out of the lab and went to the Russian side of the space station. He floated in front of his computer and stared at the readout. His radio crackled to life, and a voice from home requested an immediate sitrep.

Yuri paused to collect his thoughts, then said something they would never believe back home. When he was done he rejoined Sheppard and Ryu.

"Something else is moving. It's that big round thing," Yuri observed.

A second explosion occurred half a minute later, in the direction the first ship had departed from.

"What was that?" Sheppard yelled.

"I believe it is called revenge. Now both objects have gone," Yuri replied. “No, not gone. They are in pieces.”

He stood stock still as he considered the implications. The planet Earth may have just been visited by aliens, but instead of coming in peace or for conquest, the two had eliminated each other from space.

He took a deep breath, and prepared to issue an order to evacuate the space station.

* * *

Victor

Victor was already having a bad day, thanks to the noisy downstairs neighbors who’d kept him and Laura up half the night. Then the sky opened up and tried to kill him.

Rain pelted the overhang in a steady rhythm that washed away the sounds of cars racing along 1st Avenue. The downfall came so fast and heavy that at times Victor wondered if a marching band had taken up residence above and decided to use the shelter's roof as practice for a college football game.

He dared not look up because his rain jacket had seen better days, and if a hint of wind caught his hood, he would likely end up with a face full of water. He wished he could have stayed in bed with Laura and ridden out the storm.

A woman hustled to the overhang. Her hood was black, and her face was barely visible in the dark confines. She carried a silver-colored coffee mug in one hand and a closed umbrella in the other. Tucked up under her arm, her purse displayed some kind of designer label—probably something Laura would like, if he could afford it.

She pressed herself next to Victor and looked up like she'd never seen so much rain in her life. The woman pushed back, to the dismay of those jammed inside the tiny space. She ignored their sighs and curses and sipped her coffee while staring straight ahead.

If this kept up, Victor was sure to catch a cold, and that would mean fighting for a day off from work, which he could not afford. Victor's boss, Jacob, didn't believe in sick days, even if his employees were dead on their feet. No sense in arguing that it was a good idea to keep everyone else from coming down with the same thing.

To take his mind off his misery, he imagined sitting in his warm apartment, a cup of coffee in one hand, the other on his wife's leg. They'd be sitting on the couch while a fire roared away in the fireplace ten feet away. Maybe the brats would even sleep late and let them enjoy an hour of silence. Maybe he'd ask Laura to join him in bed for an intimate break, her legs wrapped around his waist while he stared into her jade-hued eyes.

A 4X4 barreled down the avenue and shattered his little daydream. It swerved near the curb and hit a puddle the size of Lake Michigan. Water flew in a wave and pelted everyone under the bus shelter.

A guy wearing a black pea coat and hustling down the street managed to turn his head and get his umbrella into the path of destruction, but it was too late, and he ended up wearing a gallon.

"Son of a bitch!"

He glared after the car, shook water off his now-soaking pants, and stalked toward the truck as it stopped at a red light.

What was the man going to do about the guy in the truck, anyway? Pull him out and beat the shit out of him? The truck spun hard to the right and was gone before the man was remotely close. He shook his fist, middle finger extended, and screamed profanity.

Victor's already crappy day became worse because his own pants were now completely soaked, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. That was exactly how his luck had gone from the moment he'd stepped out of the apartment.

His days always started early, but today he'd had to hustle a half hour early, thanks to a bus schedule change. That, and he couldn’t sleep, thanks to the assholes downstairs.

He knew Laura was right. He couldn't stand his job much longer, but the market was dry right now, so he'd have to continue his construction job for the time being. Why even bother applying for something else? His inquiries had gone unanswered.

She'd harped on him for quitting school, reminding him over and over that he'd be somewhere right now if he hadn't, and they wouldn't be living paycheck to paycheck.

When he'd tried to leave the apartment this morning, he’d found himself blocked in.

The jerk on the first floor spent his days smoking weed. In the summer, when the back door had to be open to keep the upstairs apartment cool, the smell wafted up and filled Victor's living room on an hourly basis. Even though it was improbably early, it seemed that the downstairs neighbor's buddy had shown up, probably to sell him more pot, and in the process had impeded Victor's car.

That had led to a near-fight, when the Cubans visiting the apartment had told him to go get fucked. The only thing had that stopped him from storming into the apartment and probably getting beaten to a pulp was the fact that Laura had been upstairs with the brats.

So this morning, he'd had to walk to the bus stop instead of driving to a park and ride, just to avoid a confrontation. Of course the bus had been late, packed to the gills, and had gotten him to Seattle just in time to miss his connecting ride.

September had a mean streak this year that didn't want to let up. As the month marched toward October, it brought nothing but vicious storms, clouds, and cold, and Vic wanted nothing more than to stay in bed until June.

Seattle weather was notoriously wet. Ask someone about living in the state of Washington and they inevitably mentioned that it rained all of the time, which wasn't much of an exaggeration.

A bus finally moved through the intersection and came into view. The bright numbers displayed on the side display told him that it wouldn't get him anywhere near his job.

How could both be so late on a Wednesday morning?

An angry man who'd been shaking his fist stormed toward the bus, was cut off by a pair of teenage girls in bright rain slickers, and sighed loud enough for even the bus driver to hear. The girls leaned close together as they ran up the bus's stairs, oblivious to the dude's anger.

The bus pulled away, and Victor was left with a dozen other miserable commuters, who checked their watches or phones while they waited. None of them moved an inch to let him into the bus shelter, so he stood and waited. Stood and waited. Christ on a crutch, was he sick of standing and waiting.

Another bus made the turn from 5th Avenue, and for a split second he thought it was his, but the numbers changed to TERMINAL and it sped away toward home base.

Miserable, Victor turned his attention back to the crossroad. Any second now, any second, and his bus would come around the corner.

His cell phone buzzed against his leg. Shifting his backpack around, he reached beneath his jacket and dug out the device. As he lifted the phone, his wet fingers lost their grip and the device clattered across the ground.

Even through the sound of the heavy rain, he knew what that cracking noise meant. He leaned over to pick his phone up, and nearly fell straight into the deluge. Water staccatoed across his back and hood, but he stood up, otherwise none the worse for wear.

The same could not be said for his phone.

Victor got a look at his shattered screen and lack of power and found he was no longer in the mood to be a nice guy. He backed into his old spot, oblivious to the cries of indignation from the woman he pushed out of his way.

"That was rude," she said.

Victor ignored her and stared straight ahead, just as she had done a moment ago. He could passive-aggressive with the best of them.

Whoever had called would have to wait until Victor arrived at the work site and could get to a working phone. Assuming he could see the number on his broken phone screen.

As another bus came into view, he realized it was his and moved back into the rain, but not before the angry woman with the fancy purse could dash around Victor and cut him off. She seemed to delight in stepping in front of him, judging by the way she straightened her back.

His phone buzzed again. He stared at the dead screen and realized there was a little bit of life left in the device. After trying several times to push the answer icon, the phone finally relented.

"Hello?" He pressed the phone to his ear. "Laura?"

"Victor? Did you see it?"

"Laura? What's wrong?"

"It's all over the news, baby. Please—"

"Oh, hon, you wouldn’t believe the morning I’m having… Hello?"

The call cut off. He tried to call her back, but the remains of his screen refused to cooperate with his fingers.

The bus windows were completely fogged over from condensate. It rolled to a stop, tires kissing the curb, and the door shot open, letting out a blessedly warm blast of air.

People streamed out, but just when he thought his line was going to move, a mother with two small children moved to the front and asked the bus driver a question while the little ones—no older than three and four—tried to go in two different directions.

She got her hands on them, but her bag fell off her shoulder, items spilling across the floor. She yelled at her kids, apologized to the bus driver, and shoved things back into her purse as quickly as possible. An older gentleman grabbed a tube of lipstick off the floor and offered it to her.

Rain continued to pour into Victor's jacket, and he decided that he was never getting on this damn bus; he was going to stand here, trapped in purgatory until the day was done. He was concerned about Laura's call, but whatever she been talking about probably wasn't going to affect him in the city. He'd just call her as soon as he was on his lunch break.

The busy woman with two children managed to catch both kids' hands and help them down the two stairs. The pair were dressed in miniature, colorful rain gear, complete with knee-length yellow slickers.

The woman who'd cut him off stepped onto the bus and—of course—had to pause to find her bus pass.

Victor's considerable patience came to an end as he groaned out loud, "Oh, come on."

What came on wasn't the lady moving her ass, though; it was a massive boom that thundered around them.

"What was that?" she said, and actually took a step back down the stairs.

He didn't make it on the bus.

Instead, the impossible happened: the dark sky opened, pushing fat grey clouds out of the way. Bright light replaced the haze, casting the city in bright hues of yellow and orange. Oddly, rain continued to strike his jacket and hood in a rapid-fire pattern.

Victor raised his head. His hood was blown back, and rain hit his face and rolled down his neck, but it didn't matter now.

As the clouds were shoved aside, a section of sky revealed itself, now bright red. The rain faded to a mist, and then was completely gone.

Around him, the city was silent…until a driver ran a red light and was promptly crushed by a semi that had the right of way. The car screeched across the asphalt until both vehicles rammed into a concrete divider.

Brake lights lit up as cars slammed to a halt. Accidents all around him as heads gawked upward.

The rude woman who'd cut him off leaned her head back and almost tripped off the first step. For all his earlier anger, Victor reached out mechanically and got his hand in the middle of her back. She stumbled into him, didn't acknowledge his action, and took a step to the side while still staring upward.

Voices rose in alarm from every direction as the shapes crossed the sky. Hands frantically wiped across bus windows as the occupants struggled to look out and up. One of the passengers wore a pair of oversized headphones and nodded, eyes closed, oblivious to the madness that was occurring.

Victor panicked, grabbing his phone and beating it against his palm. Laura! He had to reach her and tell her that he loved her just one more time. When was the last time he'd even said the words out loud instead of shooting a "Back atcha" or "Me too" whenever she said that she loved him? Too long; far too long, was his guess.

But his phone was barely responsive beneath a spider web of shattered glass.

The woman who had seemed intent on making his day terrible had her phone out, and he nearly ripped it from her, but she dashed away, her travel mug sloshing coffee.

"What do I do now?" he muttered and looked at the bus. The driver stared back at him in shock.

"What's going on out there?"

"I don't know, man. Something in the sky. Look up," Victor yelled.

The bus driver slipped out of his seat and then down the stairs. He craned his neck back and gasped.

A roar built, then intensified until Victor had to slap his hands against his ears. The driver did the same and staggered back onto his bus.

Victor opened his mouth to cry out in terror, but if any sound came out it was washed away by the screaming horror above. Day became brighter still as the object continued its march across the sky. It was so large it defied thought. As it ripped the morning apart, it did so on a trail of fire that scorched the atmosphere.

The sound reached a crescendo, and then started to fade. Victor made for the bus, but the driver was having none of that. He panicked, dove into his seat and slammed the door closed. The bus lurched forward, rolled onto the curb, and then rumbled off with a trail of smoke belching from its exhaust.

The departing bus left the curb with a crunch, sped through a red light and smashed into another bus that had been forced to stop in the middle of an intersection.

Whatever the object in the sky was, Victor had to find somewhere to hide. He looked around in a dread and found a few concrete barricades that were being used to keep cars from cheating a parking lot out of money. He rushed to one and crouched behind it. Another man followed him and did the same. Victor looked into the guy’s eyes and they exchanged an unspoken glance filled with fear and revulsion.

The sky was still as bright as a summer day, and across it roared the object, until a shadow passed over the entire city. Smaller balls of flame followed behind but veered until they were aimed at the ground below.

Victor screamed as a flaming object the size of a small car bombarded the city.

He should run, but what if he ran into wherever the thing struck? He was terrified, stuck in place. Every ounce of willpower was trying to convince him to haul ass to anywhere but here.

"This is not fucking good!" the man next to him yelled.

A small object fell like a lead weight and smashed into the building they were cowering in front of.

Victor thanked his luck and God.

Then something punched him in the back, and he was propelled into the concrete barrier. He didn't have time to question what had struck him before he fell, limply. Just like that, consciousness was gone.

* * *

Victor came to and regretted it.

The world rumbled around him, but along with the noise came a sensation like he was on a slide and about to fall off the edge of the world. His shoulder hurt like crazy! He reached for it and found blood and an object protruding from the wound.

Rain pelted him in the face, so it became a struggle to keep his elbow over his eyes while feeling at the damage. He gave up soon enough because touching the protrusion caused pain to race up and down his arm, neck, and chest.

"You okay, buddy?" an unfamiliar voice asked.

Where was he? Hospital? Hell? Purgatory?

Vic looked around and found that he'd been dragged under the overhang of a building. This part of the city wasn't well-known to him because he usually just caught his bus and didn't stick around any longer than he had to.

Someone grabbed his leg near his ankle, and then he was pulled again. At least that explained the feeling of riding a slide.

"Stop!" he yelled.

"We're almost there. Sorry, buddy, I didn't know what else to do. You were lying on the sidewalk in the rain, with blood pouring out of your shoulder. You okay? I tried to call an ambulance, but they didn't pick up."

Blood? Ambulance? Then it came back to him. The object in the sky and something falling toward him. Something silvery that caught the sun's reflection and temporarily blinded him.

"The asteroid? Did it hit?" he asked, though he knew the answer already, since he was still alive and breathing.

"I don't think it was an asteroid, but whatever it was passed over the city and kept heading toward the coast. Damnedest thing I ever saw."

The man was in his early fifties, going by his appearance. Grey beard, and hair to match, which had well and truly receded into a bowl cut. His eyes were sharp, though, and that made Victor feel a hell of a lot better.

"What happened to me?"

"I don't know, buddy, but I'm real sorry to say this is all I can do. I gotta figure out how to get back to my family. You understand, right? You got a family?"

"I do, but please don't leave me, man. I'm bleeding."

"Not much. I'd stay, I really would. You have a cell phone, right?"

"I dropped it and the screen broke."

"Bad luck." He looked up and caught the eye of an Asian woman hurrying past.

"Miss, miss!" the man called. She looked at them and doubled her step.

The old guy got to his feet and rushed after her. He moved into her path and spoke with the diminutive figure.

"He's hurt. Call an ambulance, please!" he said, and then the guy was off like a shot.

"Oh, fuck me," Victor said. He knew the woman wasn't going to stick around and help some stranger. She'd be off just like the older guy, but was Victor any better? If someone stopped him on the street and begged him to call 911 would he do it, or make it anyone's problem but theirs?

Something buzzed around in the back of his mind like an annoying fly. Strange. Victor was overcome by lethargy. No. Something was talking to him back there. Something—or someone—and it was genuinely bizarre.

Much to his surprise, the woman came toward him. Her step was tentative, and when she got closer he saw that she was young and cute. If this was about to be his Mother Teresa, at least he was in good company. She had short, dark hair that covered one eye. Must be weird having one eye always behind a veil, Victor reflected.

"You okay?" she asked as she leaned over and looked at the blood. Her lips pulled back in a gasp.

"No, I'm not okay. Please call 911. Something's stuck in my shoulder."

She knelt beside him, even though it was into a puddle, and touched his jacket. She slid the zipper down so she could slip the coat open, then pulled the left side open until she could see his wound.

"Nothing here. Blood," she said, and their eyes met.

"It must have come out. Christ, it hurts so bad! I don't guess you have some Tylenol or something stronger on you?" He tried to sound flippant, but he hurt too much to be in a humorous spirit.

The buzzing wouldn’t go away, and it was driving him crazy. He clenched his eyes and rubbed his temples. Was he dying? Was this how his world ended? Bleeding out on a sidewalk in Seattle?

She took a handkerchief from her pocket and looked at it. Oh no, if she was sneezing on that thing, he didn't want it on his flesh. She might be a looker but that wouldn't save him from an infection.

She dug around in her bag and came out with a package of tissues. The girl pulled out a wad of them, then slipped her cold hand inside his shirt until she had the tissues over the wound. She pressed down hard enough to make him see stars.

"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!" he gasped, again and again.

"Sorry," she said, and she did look sorry. She looked downright miserable as she took his hand in hers and guided it to the wound. "Hold here. Help comes."

"Thank you. What's your name?"

"Kimiko. I'm Kimiko. Nice to meet you."

"You're very kind, but I can't imagine this is in any way nice," he said.

She looked at him quizzically, but he didn't offer any follow-up questions. What was wrong with him? He’d been stabbed by something, left to bleed out, and all he could think about was being a smartass.

She glanced over her shoulder and up at the sky, worry etched on her face.

"You know, finding a guy on the ground with all this stuff going on overhead. It's just nice of you to stop. Thank you for helping me."

"You are welcome." She smiled and pushed a wet strand of black hair out of her eyes, leaving a streak of his blood across her brow.

"Oh no. I'm sorry," he said.

His words sounded hollow, and he had the urge to take the tissue from his shoulder and wipe her face. Then something lurched inside him, near the wound, and pain made him nauseous. It started in his shoulder and sent pulsing waves along his spine and sides. He tried to wave at her face, unthinking, only to find that his arm wouldn't respond.

Kimiko had her phone out and dialed over and over again. She hunched over and used her jacket’s hood to keep the phone from getting soaked.

"Oh, oh! Answer," she said, and handed him the phone.

Victor gave her a tight smile, took the phone in his left hand, and slowly tilted his head to avoid straining the damaged muscle too much, but it wasn't enough: he saw stars. He wanted to bite down on his tongue. His teeth ached as the pain overrode all other senses.

The buzzing was still in the back of his head. It whispered to him, and tried to reassure him, but there were still no words, just the feeling of peace.

Something wrenched in his arm again and he cried out. He reached out and grabbed hold of the curb, squeezed, and wept as the waves of pain built and washed over his body.

Then the ache faded and he felt—better? Not better; he felt different. It was the same feeling he used to get when he'd been a runner. After the first few miles, he’d reached a state of mind that was almost like ecstasy. It was called "runner’s high," but that made absolutely no sense.

“Sir? Hello?” A female voice on the phone said.

"Ah crap, sorry, sorry. My name is Victor Barnes and I'm at the corner of…" He kept talking until he felt like he was going to pass out. Ten minutes later, the glare of flashing lights and the sound of a siren brought him out of his near-fugue state.

"Saved at last."

When he looked around, Kimiko was nowhere to be found, nor was the phone he'd been talking into. At least she'd stuck around until she knew help was on the way.

The Victor noticed that the small section of curb he’d been clutching in pain had been crushed into chunks of concrete and powder.

About the Author

Timothy W. Long has been writing tales and stories since he could hold a crayon and has read enough books to choke a landfill. Tim has a predilection for weird literature, and a deep-seated need to jot words on paper and thrust them at people.

Tim spent time in the US Navy, worked for a major game corporation, an aeronautics company, and he was in the IT field for the last 15 years as an engineer before becoming a full time author. He is an active member of Horror Writers Association, SFWA, and International Thriller Writers.

Tim is the author of 16 novels and resides outside of Seattle where he spends time with his partner in crime, author and publisher Katie Cord. As well as 2 children, 4 dogs of various sizes and dispositions, a slightly psychotic Bengal cat named LucyFurr, and a near constant supply of overpriced and overcooked coffee beans.

* * *

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Also by Timothy W. Long

Among the Living (Permuted Press)

Among the Dead (Permuted Press)

Beyond the Barriers (Permuted Press)

Beyond the Barriers: Ghouls

At the Behest of the Dead

The Zombie Wilson Diaries

The Apocalypse and Satan’s Glory Hole w/Jonathan Moon

Z-Risen 1: Outbreak

Z-Risen 2: Outcasts

Z-Risen 3: Poisoned Earth

Z-Risen 4: Reavers

Z-Risen 5: Barriers (forthcoming)

The Front: Screaming Eagles w/David Moody and Craig DiLouie

Impact Earth 1: Symbiosis

Impact Earth 2: Metastasis (forthcoming)

Damaged w/Tim Marquitz