The Reason: Book One

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. “Stay,” 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, 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 them 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 this — scout. Whoever she is, she’s guiding 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, but if our new invaders but old enemies, the Chinese[TT1] , are infiltrating from the south, it tracks. An even scarier scenario, they were embedded months, 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 “protestors” in the Los Angeles pro-illegal immigrant protests. There are captured stills of Chinese Communist (Chicom) regs 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.[WG2] 

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 American’s, that held the match that lit the fuse, starting all this.

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.

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

The fallen tree 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.