New and improved – the pic above is the field in the story. Route 40 is above and rt 70 below. Boxed in. Bret and the boys are at the top of blue bordered field.

---

Prologue

Nashville, TN to San Jose, CA

05/24/24

The raindrops pelt the car’s roof.

The sound reminds me of videos of the poor souls caught up in protests turning into riots, trying to drive through waves of people who stood in their way, striking the car. They were the first to cast stones, judging the occupants for things they did not.

The current protests in Los Angeles may swing the same way. Darkness is what encourages rioters to yank people out of their vehicles to do unspeakable things. More and more of this darkness or despair creeps into our daily lives, much like the bleak night that clings to our car as we speed through the rain.

Gripping the steering wheel tight, a chill runs through me as we’re cruising down I-40 West. Jen’s warm hand is in mine, the same grip we had under the cafeteria table when we were shy teenagers.

It chases the chill away.

Her 0530 flight out of Nashville International is looming. Jen gives a heavy sigh, cutting the silence; it’s complete with the thing we cannot say: that neither one wants to be apart.

Thirty-two years married, plus the five years before that, and she still catches my eye.

“I feel it too,” my voice steady despite the ache. “Every time you’re gone, half of me goes with you.”

She squeezes my hand, her warmth seeping through to my heart.

Two weeks apart.

Another squeeze. “Bret, sometimes it just feels too long.” I can hear tears in her voice.

“Sometimes?” I tease her. “How’d you know what I was thinking?”

“We’ve been together for so long. You know how it works. We can read each other’s minds.” Shoving me gently.

I smile and chuckle, knowing she speaks the truth.

She’s my world and has been since we were kids, practically raising each other. Fifteen when we started—stubborn as hell against her folks, who repeatedly tried to split us up.

I turn on the radio, higher than normal, given the storm. The broadcast is worrying. The voice on the radio breaks through our quiet banter, “Governor Olson of California is threatening secession again. This time, it’s over Washington DC’s handling of the undocumented immigrant groups’ rampage across several states. Those same groups are now sheltering in California. Meanwhile, a Chinese battle group has been sighted off the West Coast. With U.S. forces scattered on several fronts overseas, who is going to defend Los Angeles?

“Our leaders have stretched our defense line so thin that it barely covers our home soil. The National Guard has been activated for precautionary measures in the Southern states after bad actors tried but failed coordinated attacks on multiple electr…”

I reach over and switch it off.

I can see Jen’s jaw tighten in the dashboard lighting; we’ve heard it before, but this time it feels closer.
Inevitable.
Echoes of 1941.
Infamy.

Jen lets out another weighted sigh, possibly weighing the probabilities: “What if I’m there when it blows?”

Her voice falters: the strongest woman I know sounds storm-tossed.

“I’ll gladly turn us around. Head home. Right now. You know what I think is going to happen. What I’ve been preparing us for.” Giving her a sideways look. “I pray to God I’m wrong.”

“Me, too.” Nudging me. “But you know I can’t do that.”

“Won’t.”

“Okay—won’t.” She grows quiet, surprising me with both word and action. It’s not in her nature to give in.

She is concerned.

“You’re tough,” I say, giving her a pep talk but hoping she’ll tell me to take her home. “But if anything happens, keep moving east like we planned, from RP to RP. Use the skills you built. We’ve got it all figured out. I will come for you.” I squeeze her hand assuredly. She gives me a less-than-confident smile but squeezes back.

She’s my ‘Stands with a Fist.’ We stole the nickname from Dances with Wolves. It’s our inside joke, but it fits Jen perfectly. Her fighting has shifted from childhood brawls to battles for nurses. As a director now, she’s a shield for her staff and those seeking guidance.

Having the airport’s exit in view takes something out of me every time.
It’s too soon!

We drift into the drop-off point, the storm hammering down. Brakes protest, echoing our unspoken sorrows.

Jen’s grip tightens. “I don’t want to go.” Her eyes glisten, and her lower lip quivers.

“I don’t want you to,” I rasp, pulling her close to me. My chest tightens with the dark possibilities.

This early in the morning, traffic and security are sparse, so we have a minute or two.

As we leave the car, the Tennessee humidity is thick, and the rain is dripping from the CR-V.

I retrieve her laptop pack and carry-on from the back seat. The airport doors woosh open. The air from inside the terminal carries the conversation of two National Guardsmen speaking with security personnel.

They’re too far away to distinguish their words clearly, but I’m able to catch ‘militant groups’. Odd. They’re in full battle-rattle with loaded M16s. On any day at the airport, seeing soldiers in uniform is normal but not usually armed. If you see kitted-out military at the airport, something bad happened or… Lightning flashes and thunder answers back. Something is about to kick off.

Hmm.

I slam the liftgate shut.

My wife crashes into me, surprising me, locking her arms around me tightly. We feel the warm exchange of our love for each other. It feels right and is a reminder of what we’re willing to fight for if it comes down to it.

“I love you,” she whispers, pulling away just enough so her brown eyes can pierce my blue. Her hand touches my cheek; I lean in, lips brushing hers…

The storm is unforgiving, like life.

It crashes and rages, hammering down on us. And as I breathe in Jen’s scent, I wonder if this is the last time I’ll ever hold her. Yet even in the fiercest storms, our embrace holds—unbreakable. To the world, it’s only a husband and wife clinging together. But I know the truth: we are already standing against the darkness, side by side, back-to-back, armor on, refusing to yield.

And in that silence between thunderclaps, I can almost hear the storm cry out: Where do they come from? How do they stand so firm?

The answer rises inside me, steady and defiant, as lightning splits the sky: For love. For tribe. For family.

Chapter 1

A Glimmer Through the Mist

06/15/24 – Nine Days Post-China Invasion

Fifteen days into the American Civil War.

Goodwin, Arkansas

Ash pulled ‘wake up Bret duty’, slathering my face with his tongue. “Thanks, Ash,” I say, wiping my face with my sleeve. I gently shove him away. “Leave it,” I tell him, unable to stop smiling. Skye, the ever-vigilant canine brother of Ash, faces the field beyond our hide site. I’m still half asleep when Skye releases a deep, low growl, unlocking a primal fear deep within me. His warning causes my neck hair to stand on end. My smile vanishes, and I am now completely awake.

Since starting our trek on June 6th, 2024, I’ve come to rely upon their instincts. Reacting to Skye’s early warning, I take cover behind an old fallen oak tree, its surface pocked by shrapnel scarred by this ten-day-old war on American soil. Skye’s growling is increasing; hackles raised much like quills. Ash is following his brother’s lead. The response to danger can be unsettling. I’m a little clumsy getting my scoped AR-15 in position as I’m stiff in the mornings. Stress and early-onset Parkinson’s aren’t good bedfellows, adding a variable of difficulty to an already difficult scenario.

“Leave it!” They both quiet down, “What’s got both of you so spooked?” I ask as I peer over the oak.

The field ahead of me is blanketed in an early morning Arkansas mist, making it difficult to discern what I see with the naked eye. About 500 feet out are ghostly shapes moving in our direction.

Skye’s growing impatient, shown by his quiet groaning. I ignore Mr. Drama Queen while dialing in my scope for a better look.

Surprisingly, the first to emerge appears to be a woman by her body shape. She’s garbed in mismatched clothing—a civilian jacket and camo bottoms—with what seems to be a chest rig and backpack. Tan complexion and dark, long hair.

Possibly Latina. Possibly Native American. At this distance, who knows?

Her pace is that of a scout—and the spacing between her and the others, hidden in the mist, confirms it. Clutching her rifle, her head on a swivel, she takes in her surroundings, her gaze lingering momentarily behind her.

As if on cue, the rising sun rays glint off her weapon while five Chinese regulars walk through the vanishing mist—following her. Whoever she is, she’s leading them straight toward us. One of the men is flapping his jaws and motioning with his hands.

Must be the man in charge, an NCO. A Communist Chinese fire team is apparently pulling reconnaissance duty, probing into the Southern states. This woman is playing tour guide in my country’s backyard. I honestly didn’t expect a patrol here. If our new invaders, but old enemies, the Chinese, are infiltrating from the south, it tracks. An even scarier scenario, they were embedded months or years before the invasion. Reports on the back channels said they struck a deal with Mexico and were staged just over the border. These pukes probably marched straight out of the same tent cities where they trained the Jihadis.

The same Jihadis that were hidden in plain sight among the “activists” in the Los Angeles pro-illegal immigrant protests. There are captured stills of Chinese Communist (Chicoms) regulars with their high and tight haircuts, throwing Molotov’s at the federal troops. There were tells if you knew what to look for. The insurgents were disguised as protestors, stirring up trouble.

Fanning the flames.

Using “us against them” straight out of the Marxist handbook.

Pushing the polarization until it reached its limit. One could feel the metaphorical EMP across the nation.

Maybe even around the globe.

The enemies turned a manufactured situation from a protest into a riot that caused a major state to butt heads with the federal government. The California politicians wouldn’t budge on their ideals. This scenario then forced the federal government into enforcing the laws or look weak to the quickly changing constituents from the liberals to a more conservative base. Each expressing their disfavor of the double standards used in dealing with citizens versus illegals.

That was how this damned secession and second Civil War started, and a week later, Socialist California welcomed the Chinese into the bay.

There were many hands, including Americans, holding the match that lit the fuse, starting all this.

The truth? This has been decades in the making.

Now, here we are.

***

The six enemy soldiers are 400 feet away and drawing closer. Six against three, me and my two boys, blue heelers.

My insides tighten.

Paralleling Route 40, we’ve had our share of action and close calls.

“Down-stay,” I hiss at them. They slowly lower themselves onto the wilderness floor, waiting excitedly for the release command.

The fallen tree I’m using for cover supports my rifle, providing a wonderful firing platform as I scan the field one last time.

Scattered in front of us lay the remains of several burned-out Humvees, their armored husks like giant abandoned carapaces. The rising sun’s light illuminates their impromptu use as artist canvases adorned with rattle-can-sprayed messages. ‘Reds go home!’ ‘Home of FALF!’ with a stylized upside-down Old Glory next to it.

I know that symbol and abbreviation.

***

Greg, my best friend since middle school, leads one of the five American militias within this newly formed Free America, and is the one who gets me up to speed on FALF being this sector’s militia.

These folks aren’t FALF.

These soldiers are obstacles on my journey west to California to save my wife, my reason for being here in the first place. If the chain of events hadn’t happened, Jen would be home with me, minding our own business. Or be sheltering in place. Maybe even at Greg’s…

My stomach sours as I remember Jen’s hurried text that put me on this quest: Uber attacked. Driver dead. Chinese soldiers everywhere. I’m okay. Moving east like we planned. Love you. The last stabbed my heart with urgency. I had tapped in my hurried reply, Remember your training. You’ve got this. I’m on my way. Love, your Bret.

Having followed the events these last two weeks on TV, radio or through CB radio leading up to the invasion, our CR-V was already packed with my gear and weapons. I had 600 rounds of 5.56 and 250 for my pistol. Me and the boys jumped into the CR-V and hit the road, watching Tennessee grow smaller until it vanished from the rearview mirror.

The Chinese-looking patrol keeps moving in our direction as I’m squaring away my gear for engagement, inching closer to our destiny being intertwined.

I’m no soldier, but my dad made it a career. He taught me always to be ready—and I’ve taken that to heart. Over the years, I’ve picked up the kind of skills that make me a modern-day Minuteman.

Through my travels thus far, I’ve seen people fighting over nothing, what they’re gambling with—their lives. One memory stands clear: this girl, sitting in the family car as her daddy got beaten along I-40 West. Her eyes pierced my soul, frightened and unsure.

They pleaded with me.

I rolled on by.

Jen is my mission; I can’t save everyone.

Even now, when I recall what went down there, it twists my guts.

Later, perhaps payment for my apathy, I had to ditch my car earlier than planned.

Been humping it ever since.

Karma.

Today, my legs ache, not being accustomed to this type of activity.

Fatigue and daylight dictated my poor hide site choice last night, insufficient cover and concealment, and too close to Route I-40, which is now at our backs.

Sloppy Gordon.

Now you pay the piper.

At the beginning of this crisis, I adopted a me-or-them mentality. I won’t be the one dying for my country today.

I start with the one who was running his mouth earlier. Usually, the one barking orders is the one in charge. They are now three hundred feet away. I line him up in my scope—he’s young, early twenties, probably half my age. He sweeps his weapon left, and I realize this is a pivotal moment to act. They’re all looking in separate directions, making it difficult for them to zero in on my first shot… Only if I act fast.

My finger gently caresses the trigger, taking me back to the aroma of the North Carolina pines and the voice of instructor Brody, echoing throughout the range.

“Slow is smooth, and smooth is fast.”

I mutter the mantra under my breath. Cementing my confidence. Steadying my aim.

Stock against my shoulder. Crosshairs on the NCO’s chest.

You’re just unlucky, my friend.

Safety off, breathe, squeeze.

The bullet breaks the sound barrier as it escapes the barrel.

‘Crack!’

My first shot veers wide, a tremor betraying me, kicking up a plume of dirt.

“Shit!”

Skye’s ears perk up, and Ash flinches.

Damn, this disease.

I take a deep breath, steadying my nerves.

The leader barks orders to his subordinates. I reacquire and fire. The bullet punches through his chest, high, missing his armored plates. A dark red blossom appears as he staggers and drops.

I get lucky. The round punched through him, and it seems to have hit or trimmed the soldier nearest him.

He’s rethinking his life choices.

They all crouch low, freezing momentarily. The tall grass provides partial concealment.

Whoever had the big idea to put yourselves in an empty field…

Their body language screams panic while searching their surroundings. Looking for the shooter. Looking for me.

I haven’t taken many lives in this war, but every life I take matters and leaves a mark.

And the war has just started.

I snap to the next target, a kid, barely twenty. I fire two shots in quick succession.

One in his throat. The other through his jaw.

The brass ejecting to my right, flashing briefly on its descent to the earth.

 An arc of red spray erupts, reflecting the early morning sunlight as he crumples on top of himself.

Four left.

Unbelievably, the leader I dropped earlier staggers back onto his feet.

Dazed and confused.

Crosshairs centered.

Squeeze.

The round pierces his right eye and blows out the back of his skull, ensuring he’s not getting up again. His body is carried backward by the round’s kinetic energy. Resting forever in the Arkansas field.

The last two Chinese have been closing the gap by taking advantage of my distraction with their boss.

They’ve been leapfrogging forward.

Weapons chattering.

Bullets are chewing up the tree trunk.

My cover.

The one I trimmed is crouched in the grass, attending to his wound? An assumption. No clear shot.

“Hold tight, boys,” I growl, ducking low behind my weapon but still maintaining visuals.

The tour guide takes this opportunity to vacate the battlefield.

I can’t allow her to escape. However, the Chinese soldiers are the nearest threat.

Momentarily forgotten are their incoming rounds, as the scout runs east, pushing hard for the trees’ safety.

The soldier I trimmed bolts opposite her, away from the battle space.

I need to find out more about this scout, making up my mind which to pursue.

Leading her just right, I squeeze the trigger.

The bullet bites through the atmosphere and causes her to tumble.

The grass swallows her up. I watch where she dropped for a couple of seconds, until I’m satisfied.

No movement.

Now, the last two Chinese. They’ve made good time closing the distance.

Forget the squirter I trimmed. He’s beat’n feet south through the thin western strip of trees.

Focus on the ones I let get closer.

I aim at the nearest. He’s shorter, stockier, and crazed-looking. I fire.

Neck shot.

A pink mist flares in the sunrise.

He loses his footing and face-plants. His momentum causes him to tumble through the knee-high grass a few feet.

A round misses my head by mere inches, whistling and burying itself in the ripped-up log.

I reflexively jerk away and down but I have the wherewithal to note where the last soldier is. He’s close.

Another distant shot, from behind the last dude.

That blasted scout is still in the game!

Moving up just enough to get a quick glimpse of the field, I see the last soldier. He’s lanky and skinny, running at me for all he’s worth. Spraying and praying.

He’s at seventy-five feet, firing from the hip.

Rounds zip past, impacting trees behind us.

Some slam into my chewed-up cover, splinters biting my face and neck.

I present enough of myself to fire two rounds toward the scout’s position, then transition to my backup sights, and gut-shot the last soldier.

He staggers and vanishes into the high grass, losing sight of him.

That’s okay, as I fire two more shots in the scout’s direction.

If Mr. Chicom likes playing games, I’ve got a solution.

Skye loves playing hide and seek. You can’t hide from his nose.

He’s killer at this game.

“Skye, find!” He launches himself without hesitation, a fifty-five-pound hair missile, fur bristling, legs a blur.

The scout presents too much of herself, thinking she’ll take advantage of my distraction with Skye.

She fires as I shift low and left, coming up breathing, acquiring and firing two rounds as she’s turning toward the eastern tree line.

To my horror, the missing soldier appears to my left with his arm in mid-throw.

In slow motion, I see the fragmentation grenade release from his grip, heading mine and Ash’s way.

Skye pounces on the grenade thrower, jaws clamping down.

The soldier’s kicking and screaming is cut short by the grenade blast.

The shockwave slams into my chest, stealing my breath away.

Knocking me off my feet. Blackness swallows me.

Continue to the second book sample- here.