---

---

"My country tis of thee,"

BOOOM

"Lost land in anarchy,"

BOOOM

"Of thee I weep."

BOOOM

"Land where our fathers died,"

BOOOM

"Land of our fallen pride."

BOOOM

"From every sea side,"

BOOOM

"Oh save us please."

BOOOM

Cannons boomed as gunfire and and bullets broke the air, screams and shouts piercing the air. The ground shook as the fortified church was bombarded with lead and hellfire. Ancient roots which had grown to swallow up much of the church quaked as they too took the brunt of the damage of stray shots from the assault on it. But yet inside it was calm, sure the boom of artillery could still be heard and a small ran of dust or glass rained in from above from the ceiling and windows that were long destroyed. Yet this failed to unnerve the sole occupant of the room as he lit candles like a monk around a small alter.

BOOOM

The ground shook again as cannon landed closer, the defenders outside were loosing ground as judging from their cries of pain and worry. The rushed patterings of hoof-like feet signaled the arrive of a new soul into the inner church. There was a clear sense of worry coming from the mutant Evol even before his mouth opened.

"Kobar, you are here to tell me that I am to evacuate now, are you not?" the monk-like figure rose with his back to the newest member.
"Yiss..." the Evol hissed, "We missst get you outsss. Tisss too dangerousss here now. We will ssssee our deathsss sshould we ssstay."
"How many soldiers are left?", the cloaked hood rotated a little to give some attention to Kobar.
"Unknown sssir... there are aboutsss a hundred ssssoldiersss left lassst I check-"

BOUMM

A shell flew through the ceiling, taking with it more of what fragile old world church still had too offer, dull colored glass flew through the hair like sharp rain. It was clear that this fortified monastery would no longer hold, the enemy would no give up now. They now had a clear advantage, troops would continue to stream in to this siege. Maybe there would have been a chance but by now they were out of food, out of supplies, out of manpower and out of luck, at this rate the place would fall before sun down.

"Kobar," the monk turned around, his face shrouded by shadows of his hood, "Get everyone to the trucks. We can't have have everyone dying on us now; the call of America still echoes and its requires people to bring it back."

With a nod, the Evol bowed and dashed out of the room once more. The hooded monk watched as one of his friends ran back out into the gunfight, the great doors slamming shut. He then turned around to face a statue, a statue of a man named Kriss or something on a cross. The monk had long forgotten who actually was the person, but he knew the meaning none the less. Drawing a gun from his robes, three shots straight to the head of the cracked, aged figure caused the entire piece to crumble to the ground.

"No God, no kings, just men." the monk said as he walked out, "And Patriots."

---

---

"I am regretted to inform you that we have failed to eradicate the target sir. It seems that this "Patriot" fellow has escaped us once more.", the commander kneeled before the President, the Senate and the High Church of Americanism. in the grand chamber of the Senatorium.

"Commander, you are utterly incompetent!" President Tarrot roared as he almost jumped out of his seat in rage, "For Washington's sake! You take 10,000 men to hunt down one man and his oversize band of rabble and yet you still manage to fail?!"

"If you were one of my warbosses, I would have taken you head by now!" Karakzaw roared even louder, brandishing his great axe.

"T-t-th-" the commander began before quickly blurting out, "Thereisnoexcuseformyactions!"

Tarrot sat back down and sighed, his hands attempting to sooth his aching temples. This whole thing was already a mess, this "Patriot" fellow had already plastered signs and graffiti all across Independence and the GCU as a whole with a slew of various messages. Calling Americanism a "fake, bastardized religion", saying that Tarrot himself was a tyrannical leader and that the GCU should not be using "violent criminal rapists and murders as soldiers". The last one got Karakzaw pretty angry to an almost humorous degree although he did end up doing a number on his personal quarters, its still hadn't been fully repaired even up to now.

Dismissing the commander, the chamber became lively once more until Yorland regained everyone's attention through skillful use of a mallet, "Alright everyone, settle down now, beaches only get rougher with high waves. We have other things to discuss."

"Thank you Yorland." Tarrot cleared his throat and spoke, "My fellow compatriots, we have survived yet another harsh winter through the hard work of our people and the blessings of the Founders! But now it is time we come out of our hibernation and once again return to full capacity! Speak now of your questions, and answers you shall receive!"

The delegations took up another two hours, possibly more as equal parts of words and insults where thrown about before President Tarrot retired to his study. Quotas were being met for this time of year, only about 3 thousand people starved to death and more independent raider tribes where being civilized. Unfortunately the Steel Legion was still being fairly uncooperative in that regard. For as great of a military assist they were, they sure as hell were rowdy and looks somewhat ridiculous if not down right barbaric, Tarrot could rant for a hour straight one their appearance and clothing alone, or lack there of.

Opening his door to his spacious study, he quickly strolled over to his desk and sunk into his chair. The office as a whole was modeled after old world pictures of the Oval Office. Of course, the current situation meant the had to skip out on some spots, but as a whole, Tarrot looked pretty well. Minus the ugly fireplace which he used as a disposal unit.

Pulling out a pen and some rough parchment, he got to work on his presidential duties with his notebook next to him and. He wrote up new quotas, seasonal tax plans, looked over military reports and letters from factories and business. Someone also decided to mail him a a box of shit as well. Tarrot made a note to go yell at the people in the mail room before chucking the the box and its contents out the nearest window. Heading back to work, he was writing a letter to a governor in the midstate before remembering a mental note he and made earlier.

Grabbing a fresh sheet of his finest parchment and deepest ink stone, Tarrot dripped some water into a slab and pressed the ink stone and swirled it around until a shimmering black ink was produced. With a flick of his his eagle feather quill reserved for only the most official of proclamations, the president quickly scribbled out a declaration in curvy letters which would open up diplomatic ties between the Grand Union Commonwealth and any other nation which might be interested. It could also be a chance to obtain some new ties and maybe spread the words of the Founders. Sending the final copy of the decree to a secretary, Tarrot relaxed a little in his chair. Soon enough scribes would archive the original piece somewhere and then make copies of it to be posted in every town, settlement and outpost in GCU lands, could also be used to cover up some of the crap that Patriot fellow put up to.

Rock Hill

Mark Rogers put the spurs to his horse and held tightly to the reigns. The bay-colored horse snorted and its hooves clopped against the dirt road that had once been Highway 21. It ran concurrent to the long bending road they once called an Interstate. A century after the bombs fell and the interstate was still a mess of rusted cars and chunks of ripped up asphalt.

Mark gripped the horn of his saddle as the horse galloped over a hill and the town of Rock Hill came into view. Its taller buildings were starting to crumble from the century of wear and tear, but the smaller buildings and homes were being kept up by the people of the town. Rock Hill stood as the second biggest city in the Upstate with a few thousand inside its borders.

Now there was a few thousand more, Mark thought to himself as he bounced in the saddle. Below him, a long line of horse-drawn wagons were rolling down the dirt road towards the city.

He clicked his tongue and started the bay down the hill towards the town. Each wagon was pulled by two horses and held a half-dozen soldiers with full kit and equipment, along with duffle satchels. He saw the rifles sitting in each soldier's lap. Mark raced by them until he came to the wagon at the front of the line, already in the city and heading towards the center of town. Six soldiers watched him in the back while the driver looked straight ahead. Riding shotgun with him was a middle-aged man with silver crewcut and an eagle emblem on his collar. He stood as Mark's horse trotted beside the wagon.

"Sheriff Mark Rodgers, York County," he said politely enough.

There were more than a few long looks his way. He expected that from people not from the area. Last he could figure, Mark was the only black sheriff in the Republic. The Republic wasn't exactly the old South, and it sure as shit wasn't the Neo-Cons, but black people in positions of true authority were still rare in these parts.

"Sheriff," the man with the crew cut said with a curt nod. "I'm Colonel Alexander Jeffrey commander of the SCDF's 31st Infantry."

Jeffrey reached into his jacket and pulled out a sheet of paper, gingerly passing it to Mark as they continued down the street. Mark glanced at it while he held on to his horse with just his legs.

"Signed by the President and General Thurmond," Mark said as he passed it back to Jeffrey.

"Yes, sir. Where's the best place we can make camp, Sheriff?"

"There's a space on the other side of town." Mark pointed straight ahead. "Just keep going straight and it'll be on your right. How many deep are you?"

"Two hundred are coming today," Jeffrey replied. "We expect to have another thousand encamped by week's end."

"We'll talk when y'all get settled." Mark tipped his hat. "Colonel."

"Sheriff."

Mark squeezed the horse's side with his legs and led his nag away from the wagon train at half-speed. The people of Rock Hill were out on the street watching the line of soldiers riding through town, plenty of eyes were on him too. He dismounted in front of Sammy's. Sam Calhoun stood in the doorway with a towel slung over his shoulder, the apron around his waist was spattered with eggs and bacon grease.

"What's going on, Mark?"

"Military is moving in for some goddamn reason," Mark said with a spit in the dirt. "Got official orders from Sumter and Columbia that they're to camp outside of town for the foreseeable future."

"First you hear about this?" Sam asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Of course. I gotta send a letter to Columbia to see what the hell is going on. Twelve hundred soldiers are coming into town and all I got is three deputies. Four if I include you."

Sam's face broke out in a grin. "If I want to be included. I'm only a reserve, sheriff. I don't know how I'll do if something happens..."

Mark put a hand on Sam's shoulder and laughed. "I'm sure you'll make all the difference if we have to face twelve hundred liquored up soldiers. Is Hobby in the back?"

"Washing dishes."

The two men went inside Sam's small diner. Most of the regulars had their eyes glued on the wagon train going by outside. Sam went behind the counter while Mark sat down at the counter, his hand resting on the butt of his revolver on reflex. Hobby, the skinny and pimply kid who worked for Sam came out the back with gloves on.

"Sheriff?"

"Go run and find the mayor for me, son. Tell him to come to Sam's so we can talk."

Hobby shucked off his gloves and hurried out the diner. From behind the counter, Sam fixed a cup of coffee and passed it to Mark. The men kept eye contact as Mark took a long sip of the hot coffee.

"Say it," Mark said after he finished with his sip. "Say what you're thinking, Sam."

Sam shrugged his shoulders and wiped the counter with his rag. "I'm just thinking what you and everyone else in town is thinking. Soldiers in town, this close to the border, might mean more trouble than a couple of drunk privates fighting with townsfolks. It could mean movements against the Commune. You ready for that?"

"No," Mark said bluntly before taking another long sip. "But who the hell is?"

----

Charleston

Jerry Hunley stood on the deck of the Palmetto Rose and welcomed his crew as they walked up the gangplank. The ship was one of the new hybrids the South Carolina Navy created a few years earlier, a mix of wood and metal with sails that made it fast and strong. It was a sloop-of-war with tweleve guns that could outrun bigger ships and tear apart smaller ships. It was Jerry's first command and he was nervous about it.

Jerry had worked as a junior officer and XO before, but never as a skipper. All told one hundred and forty men crewed the Rose and got her out to sea. He was responsible for the lives of those men and keeping them safe. Their mission wasn't the most dangerous, but it wasn't certainly a cruise down the coast.

"Skipper," Lieutenant Sturgeon, Jerry's XO, said with a salute. "It seems all men are accounted for. Orders?"

"Call them to the deck," Jerry said as he started towards the helm. "I'll give them a talk."

"Now hear this!" The XO announced once every man had gathered on the deck below Jerry. "Skipper?"

"Men," Jerry said with an easy smile. "Welcome to the SCN Palmetto Rose, your new home. I'm Lieutenant Commander Hunley and I am your skipper. Our mission involves pirates. Reports have them harassing ships around Myrtle Beach. The Navy wants us out there to flex a little Republican muscle. We're to patrol, find, and take out any pirate vessels we find. Let's show them what this ship can do. Make ready to set sail."

Lieutenant Sturgeon barked orders while the men scampered around the deck and back down below to get to work. Twenty minutes later the Rose was under way across Charleston Harbor. The ship fired a one-gun salute as it passed Fort Sumter, headquarters of the SCDF.

"What's our heading, sir," Helmsman Price asked once they cleared the harbor.

"Set a course north," Jerry said with a grin. "Keep the coastline in sight, but steady on towards Mrytle Beach. Let's see what kind of trouble we can cause."

----

Calhoun Falls

A mostly cloudless night gave the half=moon ample opportunity to shine on the waters of Lake Russell. The chosen cove was tucked away far from the bridge and the SCDF troops that stood guard on it. Billy Brown stood on the muddy red banks of the cove and watched for any sign of movement out across the water.

Harper, his man from Georgia, had come into the Slab House two days ago and ordered his usual. That was the sign that a new shipment was due to come across the lake. Harper lived across the border near a placed called Ruckersville. He was the last stop in Georgia before Billy took over the shipment and smuggled his cargo through the Republic.

The sound of lapping water made him narrow his eyes. Movement appeared somewhere out there and started to get closer. A lantern flashed and then disappeared out on the water. Billy lit up his lantern and let it shine for a few seconds before he killed it. Five minutes later, the flat-bottom boat came into view. He turned his lantern back on and saw the boat clearer.

Harper piloted the boat with the rudder at the rear. Two men in the center rowed with oars while three women and two men sat on makeshift benches. Besides Harper, they all wore tattered rags for clothing. Billy saw one of the men still wore manacles on his wrists. Harper hadn't been able to strike them free before the trip across the lake.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Billy said as the boat softly ran aground in the mud. "Welcome to freedom."

He helped the runaway slaves out the boat one by one before Harper was left alone in the boat.

"There were supposed to be eight," he said with a shake of his head. "But one of them got caught in between Athens and Ruckersville. That's going to hurt our bottom line."

"But seven is going to get us a lot of good money," Billy said softly. "I'll see you next week with your cut."

Billy pushed the boat back into the water while Harper started to row away across the lake. Billy turned around and looked at the grouping of scared faces looking back at him through the dark. There was fear there, but Billy also saw excitement underneath it. His talk of freedom wasn't bullshit. Slavery was outlawed in the Republic and although they were on good terms with the Neo-Con, they didn't exactly help them retrieve any runaways. If you could make it across the Savannah River, you were free.

"Alright, guys. I've got a place you can stay for a few days. From there, we'll go to Abbeville and you'll meet the man who paid to get you out of slavery."

Billy was part of the smuggling pipeline that got slaves out of the Neo-Con, but only because he was a smuggler. Slaves, drugs, ammo, and weapons were all the same to him. Contraband and cargo were contraband and cargo. He wasn't a fan of slavery, but Billy never did anything out of the goodness of his heart. It was nice to do a good thing like this, but it was even nicer to get paid doing it.

"But for now, y'all are gonna rest up and enjoy freedom. Let's go."

The engine popped and sputtered as the truck bounced across the rocky wastes. Rocks, bits of metal, and some black stuff that supposedly was once used to build a road all littered the Badlands. The transport rolled right on over them, its pilot more concerned with the setting sun and, the sand in the wind, and the names coming out of the ancient radio.

"Isabella Gomez," the solemn woman in the radio continued, voice crackling and fading intermittently. "Benedict Keeswood. Eddie Marlow. Amy Nabahe. Eduardo Sanchez. Zachary Tailor. Jaquisha White. The ashes of these twelve brave heroes will be interred tomorrow in the Canyon City Catacombs. It was only a week ago that--"

The driver pressed a button, flipping to the only other channel on the radio. The chords of a soft, slow guitar rose in the air, just barely audible over the whistling wind, the noisy engine, and the mess the truck ran over as it sped across the desert. She adjusted her goggles and wiped some grime off her cheeks with a gloved hand before flicking on her one good headlight. It was getting hard to see.

Day waned. Night grew. The red sky slowly turned purple. The woman in the white truck raced the setting sun an hour longer when she finally saw the first sign of civilization: a barely visible but familiar billboard that was made illegible by the ages. She drove on.

Eventually, she came to a small, enclosed settlement nestled in a Badlands canyon, a cozy place named Second Chance. The walls were made of wood and reinforced with old tin roofs in the front. The men on watch peered on down and waved the truck on through, and she started driving on into the town, turning her music off as she did.

The canyon provided great shelter from the hell beyond its walls. The quiet conversation of soldiers around a fire was far better than whipping sand and the cold night air. One nodded to her as she drove on by, and the other stared like a man that hadn't seen a woman before. The driver nodded back and carefully maneuvered through the narrow streets until she came to a cave with a door. Smoke rose out from a chimney in the rocks. She off her truck, listened to the engine as it sputtered out a few more gasps, and then stepped out of her truck and into the cave, passing under a painted wooden sign that simply read "Beds & Booze."

Warmth greeted her, a welcome change. The cave walls sprouted a little moss. The light inside came mostly from a fireplace to the left. A few hanging lamps over the bar helped, but they flickered often. There were some tables, none of them matching, with some chairs, only a few of which were comfortable. A short series of sofas with long, plastic tables in between made booths of a sort. As for the bar, it spanned the length of the room, functioned also as a kitchen, and was manned by a short man with dusty black skin. He grinned as the woman entered.

"Diane Keyoni!" he called out, his voice overpowering the radio in the room. "My favorite customer and the bearer of all good news! You do have good news?"

"I've brought your rations and your booze," Diane answered, and there were several cheers, claps, and relieved laughs from the occupants of the room. Diane pulled her goggles up off her swarthy face and reached into her jacket. "I also have the mail," she added, setting a thin stack of worn out papers onto the bar. "Now, let's start unloading the-"

"Oh, no!" The bartender reached out and put a hand on the Navajo woman's arm. "You sit on down. I'll get you a drink. Let the boys handle it."

Muttering a thank you, Diane did just that. There was a short argument between the black man and the other men in the room, but some of the workers and soldiers got on up and went out to fetch the goods. Before long, the metal barrels and wooden crates were being brought on in, and Diane had a cup of rice milk and another of mezcal in front of her. Red corn and roasted goat were also presented, and she took that plate with a very grateful smile.

"Max," she said between gulps, "there's raiders about. I'm alone because two of my men took bullets. I left them and the medic at Fort Browning."

The smile on the barman's face turned a little flatter. "Ah. Not good news, then. Well..." He refilled her cup of horchata just after the downed the last of the rice milk. "At least nobody died. When are you leaving?"

"Not leaving until I find wherever they're hiding." Diane grabbed the horchata again, but didn't drink for a moment still. "They're going to hit the border towns now that you're resupplied. We need to stop them before that happens."

"Ah." That sound escaped Maxwell's lips again, and he took a seat himself. "We. So, you're drumming up our militia, then."

"It has to be done. There's maybe six or seven soldiers here besides myself, and we need to leave one of the marksmen here. If we don't..."

"I know, I know," said Max. "I just wish it wasn't happening so soon again."

"The worst of it is over," assured Diane, gulping down another mouthful of her rice milk. She wiped her mouth with her fingers. "Winter's done. Planting season is here. Once we drive these raiders off, you shouldn't be seeing many more. They'll be too busy worrying about their own crops and herds. But until then, I'm going to need every man this town has to spare, and we aren't going to finish this without a fight."

There was a pause. Max nodded. Behind him, the music from the radio was replaced by words yet again.

"Hello, my friends," it began. "The setting sun marks the end of a season of troubles..."

---

---

"...and the beginning of one of hope. God and our ancestors have preserved us from the evils of the world yet again, long enough for us to enter a time of..."

"Why do you listen to that evangelist?" asked Bill's freckled friend, rubbing his face. "It's not like he ever says anything worthwhile."

"He offers encouragement, Evans," Bill answered as he studied the map on the wall. He scratched at his neck as he considered the neighboring states and the forts on the map. "People need encouragement. He's also a source of some very aggressive rhetoric, and his name has been chanted by more than one murderer."

"It's not murder in the United Pueblos," Evans reminded him, pulling the small pipe in his hand away from his mouth. He blew out smoke.

"It should be," Bill grumbled, folding his arms over his chest. "They're no less human than anyone else. They did not choose to become mutants." He turned his head and raised an eyebrow at Evans. "Peyote?"

"What about it?"

"You're smoking it."

"I'm feeling religious." Evans smiled innocently up at Bill. Bill sighed. He wouldn't chastise the President of Utah any further, but it always bothered him a little when Evans smoked peyote like that. He didn't do it for any sort of ceremonial or spiritual reason. He just wanted his high.

Bill focused his attention on the map. "Turn off the radio," he said, and was satisfied to hear a small 'click' behind him as Evans acquiesced. The Secretary General had already gone through all the important files (which were scattered across his desk) and had finished eating his dinner (and had left his plate on the end table). The room was a bit of a mess.

"We need to reopen negotiations with these nations," he said finally, tapping his cane against the map. "The ones occupying the rest of New Mexico and Arizona. The raiders coming out of Arizona represent a threat to everyone in this region, and New Mexico..."

"...is sandwiched between us and Texas," finished President Evans, tapping his foot against the floor. "They could end up suffering the brunt of someone else's expansionism."

"Which is why we should offer them a chance to join the League once again," Bigishie added. He lowered his simple wooden cane back to the floor. "We would be better off working together should Texas become aggressive. They know that and we know that."

"But they don't want to help us should we be attacked ourselves," said Evans with a chuckle. "What is that called again? Oh, right: fair-weather friendship."

"Which is why we can't settle for less than their membership in the League."

"They always ask too high a price," Evans replied. "That won't change."

They both went silent. Evans took a long puff from his pipe of peyote, the redheaded man looking rather relaxed. Secretary General Bigishie looked toward the eastern side of the map. The tall Navajo man drummed his fingers against his arms.

"I'll send the message anyway," he decided. "And I'll send diplomats to the non-League nations in Arizona and New Mexico. And... We should keep ourselves aware of what's happening in the East."

"Why is that?" asked Evans curiously. "Are you worried about something in particular?"

"The last time we heard of Patriot's army, he was going East. He most likely won't stay there too long, and we need to be prepared for... whatever happens when he finally heads West again." Bill eyed the southern half of the coast, too. "And any wars that happen in the southeastern part of the continent may send refugees our way. Not all of them will be eager to settle peacefully."

"You talk about that Patriot fellow a lot," observed the pale President, leaning on back in his seat. "What's got you so enamored with him?"

Bill scoffed, then brought his cane in front of him and leaned on it. "Nobody knows what he wants," he answered. "Nobody knows why he does what he does. For all intents and purposes, he is both a leader of refugees and the commander of an army. He and his people must be desperate, and might be a little mad." Bill paused, then sighed. "I am both scared of him and for him. What more can I say?"

"Well," began Evans slowly, a grin creeping up his face, "you could always ask him on a date."

Bill groaned, then walked on over to the President and snatched the pipe from the smaller fellow's hands. Pale fingers grasped wildly at the smoking pipe, but to no avail.

"I think you've had enough religion for the day," he told his friend as he emptied the stuff into an empty cup on his desk. "And we both have a lot of work ahead of us tomorrow."

"Spoilsport," grumbled a very resigned Mr. President.

Unfiltered morning light was the call to get up. Turning in bed a man sought to escape the bright sunlight as his head exploded in a fury of knives. He rose an arm to shield his eyes and rolled over to the wall. But like with the wet dripping of softly melting ice his hangover could not escape the sun, after all: his walls were white.

Groaning he finally submitted and threw off the covers, jumping – or rather: falling – onto the wooden floor and shuffled to the curtains, pulling them shut.. With numb hands he threw them closed and dropped his head against the wall. There was a pulpy musty smell from the window frame, and cracking open a weary eye he could track the thin moldy line along the river of condensation that bordered the wooden frame. That is if the nuclear radiation of the sun wasn't so beyond white it was torture.

Finally overcoming his lethargy he pushed back from the wall and staggered naked across the darkened bedroom to the dresser in the corner. Reaching for the drawers he opted instead to simply not open them, but to lay on the floor and sleep again. He lay there for another fifteen minutes.

True to his family name, Marc Hardwell McTarson was no less a sober man as a politician was uncorrutpable. As with his father, he had won a reputation for having conquered the crystal gins of the whiskey runners from over Wisconsin who plied such a sharp and fiery liquor it was promised to put many a man to the ground. He had a gut as strong as a bear, but a liver probably as rotted as an atomic crater.

He grunted and moaned as the hard discomfort of the floor offered no salvation and he sat himself up. Fat in the gut with lumberjack's arms, Marc was a pale man with a thinning head of hair. Hardly much older than thirty-five he felt fifty. Seventy with the hangover, and eighty with the sores in his arms from the floor. And by his reckoning eighty-five with the additional bruises just working their way to his brain covering his body. Massive dish-pan purple spots that marked his bare skin with ferocity on his gut and face. As his head cleared some in the darkness, he could only guess that one eye was swollen. And for that one rare moment, he wondered what the fuck he was doing the night previous.

These would be questions he would undoubtedly learn later that day as he sat himself up. His bones cracked into place and each time they did he swore he felt a sledgehammer swing at his joints. He threw open the dresser and began pulling out worn and tired clothes. Shirts with moth holes the size of his thumb, old printed designs peeling off and taking much of the fabric with them. And a dirty accomplishment of blue jeans. Both of which seemingly resisting his efforts to put them on.

But when it was finished, he had on a faded gray shirt, brandishing the logo of the ancient Bad Ass Beer company. The jeans had a leather patch on the back that probably said “Strangler” fifty years ago.

Dressed, he shuffled out on bare feet, dragging his fingers along the drywall of the hallway as he forced himself out to meet the day. Morning spring sunlight filled the living room and kitchen with an innocent malice that he shirked back against, flinching as he squinted his eyes.

On the kitchen table he found a loaf of bread, already sliced in two. The bread knife lay nearby. Greedily he reached for it, cutting half of the remaining bread and gorging his face with it before shuffling on to the sink.

The water doesn't run, it never did. But there was a pitcher on the country filled with water from the lake. Some people were afraid of drinking it, mentioning Palisades further down the lake, much further. But for Marc of the Iron Belly, it didn't matter. And it never mattered for most. As the stories go, people had been forced to drink from the lake the day the water stopped running. Wells were re-dug, and the few inclined enough to imagine it build windmills about town, slowly sucking the water up from below their feet so there were common wells to drink from.

As with the bread, Marc greedily snatched up the pitcher and drank straight from it. It was as warm as the air around him, and had a slight nature smelled. Like pane sap and lake algae. But it was clean and clear, that was all that mattered to him.

The water helped whet a tongue dry as a desert flat, and the bread put something in his gut. It made him feel ill but he had learned it from his father. If you were to throw your weight about the town the day after a hard drinking, it was worth trying to eat and drink. God bless his soul, and damn the cancer that took the crazy coot.

The water was gone and so were the bread in short order, throwing himself down in a chair he allowed for things to settle and clear up. Slowly the headache subsided, but never wholly went away. And the sun stopped being murder. A ringing in his ears he hadn't noticed fell aside and he sat and listened to the drip, drip of melting snow and ice and the distant roll of Lake Michigan. There were gulls crying in the air and finches chirping in the bushes. And there was the mumbling singing of a little girl.

Ellie was her name, and she was in the garden. Pushing himself from the moldy recliner he stepped towards the front-door, lake side. Sitting in the garden a frail golden-haired girl weeded the garden in a dirty browned dress. While she did not sing great, she was a song-bird to Marc.

She was as old now as he was when he met married his wife, just over fifteen. She had all the perks and downfalls of a teenage girl, the innocence of a child but the brash and strong minded independence of a woman. Marc hoped to nurture the later, hoping she would find a suitable job and fill in for what was left by his former wife. As he stood in the doorwall she looked up to him, and smiled.

She looked just like him, with a round race and a soft wide chin. Her eyes and hair were her mother's work, golden blonde and steel-blue. She waved gently back at her father, and he nodded back as she turned back to the carrots she grew alongside the deck.

She would have seen her father, looking in. But in the window he saw a gravely thirty-five year old who had married young and lost a wife too young. His face was graying too quick and he hadn't shaved in several days. His brow was swollen and split by someone's fist or a rock. He couldn't remember which but he was sure he'd find out later today.

With a tense distraught breath, he decided to brave the outside. The doorwall groaned as he fought against rollers that had become frozen stiff with rust; there was nothing to do about that. It groaned shut with equal determined stubborness.

The air outside was crisp and clean. There was a cold freshness to it, but a certain coming warmth. Out to the lake, large chunks of ice still drifted in great black waters and large patches of snow covered most of the ground. Hanging from the overhang, icycles shimmered in the morning light as they dropped crystal drops from the warm thaw. In places a little bit of greenery was beginning to poke through, but there was still a lot of snow left behind.

Keeping the sun to his back, Marc leaned against the railing of the lake-side deck. Under the patchy spring snow there would have been a gravel path to the sand and gravel beach down the long hill.

“Good morning!” Ellie greeted.

“Mornin'” Marc replied in a stiff voice. His throat was dry and sore.

There was an uncomfortable moment of silence between the two. Finally broken by Marc's daughter, “You should get Doc to look at that.”

“At what?”

Allie put her hand to her forehead, just above her left brow. “At da goose egg on your head.”

“At da- oh...” Marc mumbled, “It'll be fine.”

“No it won't, it looks bad.” fought Ellie, “You should get it looked at.”

“I had worse.”

Rolling her eyes, Ellie sighed, “I'm sure you have, pops.”

“Have I ever told you about da time someone tried to gut me with a knife?” Marc asked.

“No, and I don't want to here it!”

“You sure? He damn near took my galsack out until someone stopped him.”

Ellie moaned and put her hands to here ears. “Gross!” she protested, yelling with distress and protest. Marc laughed dryly. He still had the jagged scar from that.

“What are you going to do today?” his daughter asked, hoping to change the subject.

“Work.” Marc grunted, indifferently, “Going to work.”

“Well, I'm going to be at Chrissy's, I hear her mom has got new books and she said we can read them!”

Marc smiled, “Sounds like a safe plan, just be back before sundown.”

“Don't worry.”

“Yeah, I won't.” Marc answered, lowering his head. Ellie was a good kid.




Boots muffled in the old hall of the Michigan State legislature. The ancient wooden galleries empty, save for a few curious passery-bys from off the streets, still dressed in spring winter coats as they thumbed their faces, watched the house body below shuffle to their wooden desks. There was little pomp and circumstance to the coming below as many simply shuffled off of the granite floors outside. To the side in a distant corner one of the sergeant in arms stood with his hands crossed behind his back. He wore a dark wine-purple uniform, deeper than the purple itself and bordering on black. An oak nightstick hung at the side of his belt as he stood at attention.

Watching high among them, amid the thin and sparsely spaced public onlookers, simple writers, business men from the gray heart of Lansing itself sat in a shadowed corner an individual of more pomp than the others around him. Pale white fingers twiddled idly at a shaggy brown beard that fell short of the chest of his tarnished black suit and yellowing white undershirt. He leered at the floor of the House of Representatives with a cynical point of mind behind his chestnut eyes.

As the representatives gathered at their seats, the speaker of the House stepped out from the backroom to take the podium. Andrew Steffonson was a man of no mean demeanor, but neither kind or weak either. A hobbling dwarf of a man who bore his fair shares of scares from younger, crueler days and a hand that twisted around the head of a maple cane like cracks in a glass vase. His face thin and gaunt with thinning hairs. He was a mummy of a person, old enough to have seen the end of the world.

He took his seat at the podium and rested his back into the high-back chair. The green light from gas lamps dotting the chamber betrayed a cryptic complexion in his pale northern skin. But his voice betrayed the dress of frailty. “I call to order this session of congress, to meet on orders concerning the bolstering of our physical trade assets, and of House updates on the condition of the Detroit outposts, and the present conditions around the remains of Palisades.

“Dha gentleman from Grand Rapids has da floor.” Steffonson offered with a wave of his hand. His voice was heavy with the cold weight of the upper peninsula, which he had come to dominate half without contest, and he delivered into the house the same spirit as the north.

Since the collapse of the old-world the size of both the Senate and House had been reduced greatly. If seen compared to what it once was, the Hall of Representatives would be a void of emptiness with half of the old congressmen having died, and their districts reshuffled to the best of the new legislature's ability to maintain the old order. It was a solemn reminder to the state's contraction as much as the glass tiles that had cracked or fallen out over-head served as a stark reminder to the decay and fading of memory as the Old World. And in a haunting manner, those glass tiles that had once bore the seals and crests of the old states served as the only lesson and reminder of their existence to many in this room, and even given the nearby lands the congressmen could only name maybe a quarter of the old world states.

The door to the galleries swung open quietly, and a squat man slipped inside on soft feet. He crept quietly and quickly through the galleries to that far corner with the chestnut-eyed man watching the floor below. As a portly figure took the stand, he sat down.

“Erwin, did I miss anything?” he asked, out of breath.

“Nothing's happened yet Bryan, but he's just go on the stand.” Erwin motioned.

Erwin Codlkya, the senator from Livingston was a force he prided himself on as being a quiet if precise man, with a methodical point of view in politics and a timely response. Despite being well into his middle age, he wore a thick head of brown hair the envy of anyone his age. Most certainly including that of the man about to speak now.

“For the rise of our state from a subject to an independent entity on the American stage, our risks have been great. But we have overcome. But we have not yet ensured our individuality and independence until we have promised ourselves commercial sustainability and the realized power of our lake's ports. Therefore, our vetted interests and sovereign guardians of the Great Lakes is owed to us and by us to seek a total control of these impressive waters!”

He spoke with a vigor and energy, using the podium as a stump to ride his own words to their conclusion.

“The success of our state does not any longer stem from idly waiting, we did treat our enemies in the passive with that level of passive, dismissive caution and nor would we ever! To go forth and dream big is our righteous duty and I suggest to this body that we allocate our noble resources to a campaign to close and take the shores and passages of the Great Lakes for use for our benefit and to close them to our enemies so they may not benefit to their gains!”

Bryan leaned in, “That's it?” he asked.

“There's more.” Erwin cautioned, the representative from Grand Rapids continued.

“The total control of our water ways will rake benefit into the state, by naming all ports as Michigan coastline. Bringing in the additional revenue from merchants inland and by river. It is a sensible choice, and one that I ask we all consider.”

“It's done.” Erwin said, leaning into his portly aide, “Go and tell Haufman that Brier has shown his cards on this. Before the scribes get to him, I want the senate ready as soon as this orders gets off of The Northern Warrior's bench and down the hall.”

“W-wait so soo-” Bryan began in a shocked gasp, “I just got he-”

“Shut up and get it down the line. Haufman will want to know.”

Bryan nodded and rose from his seat. His subtly had waned and instead his feet drummed across the wooden boards as Brier left his podium. He glanced up into the stands, searching for the noise. He found Erwin instead, leaned back and poised to watch and he knew what was happening.
_______________

“So Peter Brier intends to take us to war?” Andrew Haufman, the Speaker of the House asked.

“It would seem like it.” Erwin acknowledged, arms folded as he leaned against the office wall. Both men were lit up by the afternoon sun from just outside the window. A clear overhead sky let down an unfiltered sunlight which the city glowed under. Though still scorched, and much of the worse damage from so long ago only feebly patched aside the red and orange bricks of the nearby offices and old parking garages that encompassed the capital building still stood and glowed bright. Out through the dusty windows as well, the gray monolith across from the capital building's back was still a patchwork of plywood but all the same used by state officials who wandered through to use it. It was undoubtedly where Representative Brier decided on his proposal in a committee over the past several months.

“Well, what are the details?” Haufman asked. A tall man he towered over Erwin and held him in a still blue gaze. He offered him a glass of hard cider as the two talked.

“The thing is he didn't offer much. As I watched the debate on the floor it turned more into an argument of the proposed action's validity than details. But even the jingos on the flood think it could be pulled back from full coastal control in order to force a state monopoly on the lakes.”

“By the end of the week it'll be on my desk.” said Haufman, sitting in our court, “You and I know that and the most ready we can be to receive it the better. What's the predictions, whip?”

“It hits the senate floor proposing we claim areas.” Erwin said, sipping his glass of cider. He looked over out the windows and thought awhile, “Taking a wild guess I can guess Green Bay, Windsor, Canadian Sault Ste. Marie, Toledo, Milwaukee and Chicago will be on the shit list. They could bullshit something for Duluth and Thunder Bay so we have total control of Lake Superior.”

“They're really going to go that far out?” Haufman scowled. He wasn't much for scowling and had an odd face that made him look like a caricature of a bulldog when he did. “What'll be next if they get their way, The Falls?”

“It's bullshit, I know. Even after allocating the means to the military and giving Richard authorization it'll only spell trouble.”

Hauffman nodded, dragging his meaty hands through his thinning black hair. “If we kill it then, they'll send it right back in some form or another. Do we know Andrew's position on this?”

“I don't doubt he likes it. He finds war exciting.” Erwin chuckled, “My father used to tell me war was bullshit. Then he disappeared, so go figure.”

“No use about that, keep an eye on this will you? Then get some bodies ready when it's ready to hit our floor. I want the Senate body ready for it when it comes. I'll look into the military's opinion on this and we'll work from there.”

---

City Hall, Hamilton, Bermuda

Chancellor Samuel Kipps paced back and forth up the lawn of City Hall, pondering the position of the FSA in the world, and troubles that afflicted all the peoples of the Earth. None less than the Bermudians, it seemed to Kipps.

He unfolded a scrap of crumpled paper he gripped with his right hand. Reports of civil unrest in the Azores. Normally, it was the Canaries that provided such difficulties - the Portuguese were generally Anglophile, which included the Bermudians - but it was clear that the increasingly vocal Hispanics were not fully content with Bermuda's overlordship.

In theory, the FSA was a democratic federation, but in truth it was simply a Bermudian project. Even Burmuda itself was no utopia - 'elections' were held, yes, but the actual decisions were made by the power struggles in the rather more oligarchic government, with the powerful Trade Companies vying for power within the Parliament to put their representative upon the seat of Chancellor. Even the Chancellor's hands were often tied, bound to the will of his or her supporters.

Sighing, Kipps turned instead to the serene, blue waters of Hamilton Harbour, a couple of kilometres away across the low-buildinged townscape. The breeze soothed his face, as strained as it was with the problem-lines of the day. The wind brought the sharp tang of sea-salt to his nostrils - he could even taste it on his lips.

Sometimes life wasn't so bad, after all.

"Sir?"

A voice shattered the momentary calm.

"What is it, Perkins?" snapped the Chancellor, turning round to face City Hall and the short, rather stout figure of his assistant that occupied the space between.

"The Coordinator for the Company of Nova Scotia is here to speak with you, sir. He is currently... in some debate, shall we say, with the Coordinator for the Company of the Caribbean".

"Very well, I shall attend directly. Please announce me while I change for dinner."

Fierce gray clouds covered the sky. Rain cascaded from the sky. The earth was wet and muddy. It was only getting worse as time passed. Carts were getting stuck in the mud, along with the boots of men. Luckily, it wasn't the acidic rain that Georgia was cursed for. Horses were panicky as well. It was a long march, the men hadn't stopped since they left the train station, which was the quickest and effortless way into Georgia. Although the railroad didn't go as far as many hoped. It was so bad, a few of the men started to develop foot-rot or commonly know back in the Old World as trench-foot.

President Andrew Griffith and General-in-Chief Harley Crawford decided to send a company of men into the Frontier to resecure it. Over the winter, the amount of creatures in the Northern sector of Georgia tripled. There was no explanation of it. As soon as the snow and ice thawed out, these creatures started heading south, almost into the borders of Florida. They caused quite the stir up, as frontiersmen and settlers began losing their lives. The creatures were always a constant threat, but now they are an immediate danger, or so Andrew declared during an address. Crawford used the crisis to his advantage, as he wanted to station some soldiers in the North, hoping to maintain a military outpost that would force the railroad to be built further north. So, Crawford sent Lieutenant-General Elrod Soyer to oversee this operation.

Soyer took out a pair of binoculars, hoping to see through the rain and out into the distance. This action proved fruitless, as the rain only seem to be thicker further north. "There is no goddamn way we can make it down this ridge." He said openly to his troops. "If we try to descend, we will most likely lose a few carts. If we don't descend, then we remain in the rain." Soyer stroked his face, as if he had any facial hair on it. "Shit..take it slow. I want one cart at a time." Soyer declared. As he ordered, so they did. Those under his command were not as experienced as he wish they would be. They were fresh recruits. The experienced soldiers were back in Florida, trying to bring order. Apparently, rebels were making a foothold down there. Regardless of what was happening in Florida, Soyer carried on in Georgia.

Soyer and his men descended down the ridge, slipping through the mud. The carts repeatedly got stuck. They kept pressing on. By a miracle, they managed to get down the ridge without incident. The company made camp by the ridge, finding an overhang they could take cover in. Soyer took out his crudely-drawn map. "Now, reports are coming from this area... here" He pointed on the map for one of his junior officers. "And here." He pointed again. "We are in the middle of those two areas and I don't see a god damn thin-"

Soyer was cut off by one of his scouts. "Sir! We have movement to the north-west. Moving this way, quickly."

"Alright, defensive positions!" Soyer ordered. His men hurried, some taking cover behind carts, others found some else where. As his men were doing this, Soyer kept observing the surroundings, looking for any movement. All he saw was rain in almost every direction. Some movement caught his attention in the corner of his eye. Just as he turned to face it, from behind him he heard a bloodcurdling scream.

"They're here!" One man shouted.

"So many of them!" Another shouted.

The rain was too thick for Soyer to see. Some of the men were too far away. Yet something was picking them off. Several shots went off and hair-prickling roar erupted from the rain. "Arms at the ready! Fire at will!" Soyer shouted, one of his junior officers repeated it further away. More shots went off, he watched muzzle flashes go off. More screams, more roaring. It seemed to get louder and more frequent. He hoped they would make it through the storm.

---

Tallahassee, Florida

A horn blared, warning anyone who is supposed to be a board that the train will be leaving shortly. To confirm this, a gawky man stood out from the train, shouting at people to come aboard or be left behind. Most of the passengers that boarded were settlers, believing that Georgia has new opportunities for them. The rest were soldiers on their way to Pensacola

The train sighed and shuffled. Its wheels churned, smoke bellowed out from it. Stragglers hurried with their belongs, making last minute boarding attempts. Two of these stragglers were Delmont Huckleberry and Second lieutenant Gale Buxton. Delmont and Gale were going to Pensacola, as Delmont was to be escorted to there and into Badyoyo Tribe territory.

Delmont's objective was to represent the Neo-Confederacy and discuss relations with the tribes. Mostly in the interest of borders and trade. Gale was sent to oversee the success of the diplomacy and the safe return of Delmont. Gale believed that the tribes were rather barbaric people, that they needed to be revitalized and civilized. He preferred to eradicate them instead of conversate.

The duo sat in one of the high-class cars, which were rather ornate in design, specifically for VIPs or maybe the President himself. Delmont sat down at the mini bar. Gale decided to sit behind him, in a booth that had a window.

"So, Mister Ambassador." Gale said as he stuffed a bit of chew behind his bottom lip, packing it tightly. "Yous think we can come to reasonable terms with the Bad Land savages?

"I believe we can come to terms with these people." Delmont exclaimed as he pulled out a freshly wrapped cigarette and placed it between his lips while he dug into his pants in search for his matchbox. "The President wants to expand into Alabama. Most of Georgia is a commonly known shit-hole. The further North you go into, the more dangerous it gets." The cigarette bobbled between his lips as he spoke.

Gale nodded, listening with half intent. He didn't really care about diplomacy. The only diplomacy he ever knew was the barrel of his gun. "So? Whys can't we just take care of that problem?"

The Ambassador found what he was looking for, pulled out a match and struck it against the side of the box. The match flared with life and he brought it to the tip of the cigarette and took a drag. "The beasts in the North are far too difficult for us. We lose thousands of people in that region. Alabama, well, you see..." Delmont exhaled. "If we don't do this, if I don't do this, we could have troubles in the west. These people are expanding and if they decide to expand towards us. They definitely could." He placed the cigarette between his two forefingers and looked at it, smoke dancing off the tip. He then placed it at the ashtray, to end up pouring himself a glass of whisky. Delmont gestured to Elrod if he wanted some, the officer nodded. Delmont poured another and gave it to him.

Gale brought the glass to lips and tossed it back and slammed the glass on the table. It was damn good, too damn good of whisky. Gale thought he was blessed by God to be on this car. "So if these... bad boys? If theys come, there be no stopping dem?"

"Our army may be professionally trained, but they outnumber us. We wouldn't be able hold and we have no allies. The President has yet to decide about the R.S.C." Delmont took a quick swig. "Personally, I believe we should have gone to them first, because if negotiations with these people go sour, we may as well have a war on hands. We don't have the weaponry, the manpower, the proper resources. Oh God, it will be a fucking mess" Delmont trembled at the thought of his head being cut off and used for the children to kick around. Gale quieted, understanding the importance of this mission.

Although Gale and Delmont had around two hundred soldiers with them, they knew it wouldn't be enough to bring them home if anything occurred. They would be miles away from their border and most likely in the heart of Badyoyo territory. "God help us.." Delmont mumbled and finished his drink.

“Major General Adam Roscol will see you now, senator.” the secretary announced, leaning out from behind the door of the commander's office. Rising from his seat Andrew Steffenson went to the door.

The old State Police headquarters at the center of Lansing was one of the buildings in the capital's downtown that survived the scourging that had taken East Lansing. It, the state offices, the Radison, city offices, and those west of the Grand River remained standing. Though the windows were blown out by the shock waves, there was little doubt to the viability of the structure's continued purpose. The former police station was with the Capital Building as having had its windows fully replaced where they were broken inward. Yet on its eastern face the brown brick of its facade had been stained with the light of nuclear fire.

“Major General.” Steffenson politely hailed, stopping with his arms crossed as he stepped into the office.

Looking up from a lantern lit desk the major smiled and went forward to greet the senator. “Steffenson, it's fine to see you again.” he beamed, shaking his hand, “What brings you to me?” asked the commanding officer.

Adam Roscol was an imposing figure of a man, even well into fifty years of age. He was as large as a bear, and as well kept as any professional person. His blues eyes shown with a warm welcoming light and a dark blue uniform put his heavy frame into a sharp and military profile.

“State business.” Steffenson replied. Roscol wasn't a fool himself and he guided himself back to the world of professional ceremony.

“Then sit, please.” he asked, holding out his hand to one of the two chairs he kept in front of his desk. He walked to his side, his boots thumping heavily across the old tile floor.

“Word has come to my ears the House of Representatives is pursuing authorization for the governor to exercise military maneuvers to occupy and hold the Great Lake coast. Before it reaches the Senate I want the professional opinion of our military men to carry with me onto the floor.”

“Or to committee.” the general corrected, “I no doubt you'll lead your senate into the backroom to decide on the show you want to put forward.

“So, what do you need me to say?” he asked. There was a low tinge of criticism that subdued in otherwise low voice.

“I don't need you to say anything particular, I just want to know the status of our armed forced for whether we want the state to pull this off before the Governor puts his name on the authorization.”

General Roscol nodded, “Well, we're certainly not in any position to take the entire coast of the lakes. Even under full authorization to legally sieze the whole lake coast we won't be capable of prolonged war against all regional powers to wrest coastal power from everyone. My recommendation presently would be that could maybe take Windsor and Sault Ste. Marie but that's without proper intelligence work on either, I'd be recommending Governor Coleman to accept requests to send or acquire men in the area to build up full and accurate intelligence files.

“But to say we should go for everything is unnecessary. Simply holding the Detroit River and both Sault Ste. Maries would give us near defacto control of the waterways. From Mackinac Island we can exert full control of the Straights of Mackinac.”

“So what you're saying is we're not prepared?” Steffenson asked.

“Well that's ultimately what you men in the suits think.” Roscol declared, tapping his knuckled on the desk for emphasis, “When it comes down to the table it's up to you on whether or not you press certain things on our enemies through the diplomatic process. I wouldn't recommend trying to push total authority since we may not have the manpower for that sort of prolonged push.”

“I get what you're at.”

“Of course.”

“In the end then it won't be worth the state to push for everything the House may be pushing. Good to know general. I think we came to a productive conclusion.” Steffenson rose, “But, I'm going to want this to be put into paper and issued to the Senate by next week so we have written and signed word as proof.”

“A stink will still be raised by the House if you shoot down their bill and send it back on it, but they'll still moan.” Roscol added, “But I will. I'll write it out and throw in numbers for your benefit. Have fun.”

“And you too.”




The air smelled heavy of pine sap as the woods echoed with the noise and chatter of men entering the the thick forests north of Escanaba proper. Horses neighed as their drivers lead them along down dirty two-tracks into the woods that dotted the quilted landscape of northern Michigan. In the post-war world, the old world had charitably carved the countryside into parcels with the inter-lapping straight roads that ran through the country and the forests. Many of these plots sold off to the post-war lumber barons by the state who built from them the timber empires of the Upper Peninsula.

“Hey, Marc!” a man called out in the work line. His head still thrumming from a fading hangover Marc turned to look at who called him out as they meandered through the forest, passing spindly furs and birches still naked from winter.

Running up from behind him a spindly grasshopper of a man bound through the muck with explosive excitement and a devlish glow in his eyes. His pack of gear flapped from his out stretched hand as he held his balance to keep from slipping through the treacherous spring-time mud with his jump. “You're a pretty cheeky cunt, eh?” the little weasel whipped and hollered.

“What about it?” Marc grumbled, hoisting his own bound gear higher up on his shoulder.

“Well shit brother, thinkin' you can take Jethro Toole as ya did, yea?” he laughed, “Shit brother, he really walloped you a fuckin' good one. I'm surprised you came in to work today!”

“I did what?” Marc asked.

Laughing, the little rat of a man wooped and hollered, “Aw shit!” he cackled, “You were really fuckin' wasted then! I don't fucking believe it!”

“I guess you haven't quite heard of dha McTarson name!” roared another lumber jack with a dry whipping crack in his voice, “Everyone with that name can slam it down and walk dha next day.”

“Apparently dhey all gotta head ah' steel.” laughed another.

“Oh brother, the way fuckin' Toole threw your face against the side of the bar I thought you were done for sure!” the scrawny man exclaimed. “I ain't seen shit like that ever. Fucking wild!”

“Flannagan you stupid piece of shit, maybe if'er weren't born as a Troll you'da known fighting when you see it. Dhat fight was just a bout ah' roudy sex is all.” someone laughed.

“Oh, while we're trying to sound all tough and shit, Flannagan answer me this: ya ever bagged a buck when you lived under that bridge of yours?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Flannagan demanded.

“Because it determines if I get to whip you dead.”

Big Mamo Tribe, Mobile Alabama

Music blared across the camp loudly as all the tribe members sang along while they went their daily routines. They chanted it almost cult like. “The devil is a lie, bitch I'm the truth, the devil is a lie, bitch I'm the proof.” On one end of the camp chefs prepared the meat they had gained hunting, raiding. Skins were peeled back as venison from deer was throw over poles in small strips to be smoked and turned into jerky for the warriors to eat when they ventured out. The scent of a sweet pork wafted through the air so delicious it would make any mouth water until the person saw the human limbs and torsos cooking over a fire pit.

In the middle of the village that used to be Mobile was a pick up truck, a larger tattooed Samoan man covered from toe to head in swirling tattoos sat upon its tail gate holding what used to be a human femur now covered in nails and tribal designs. Behind him his four wives dips their hands into a pot of oil rendered from human fat and gently massaged it into his skin making him glisten in the sun. Big Mamo as the tribe called him ran the lands for miles around, and with his success at continuing to take more territory Ashwanni was the only man he answered to anymore.

It was then that two young African boys ran up one of them holding a shotgun, the other holding a bow. “Big Mamo were be somtin happnen wit dem neo confed folks. We not too sure, but it seem sometin be comin dis way.. This caused a pause in the chanting around big Mamo his guards looking to the lesser chief to see what he would do.

With a grunt Big Mamo stood up causing the shocks to groan with the relief of Mamo’s massive weight. “Well guess we gone hafta go meets wit dem neo folks see what dry be bouts.” He turned climbing into the bed of the truck literally shoving his wives out onto the cracked asphalt. “Boys we goin ride for dah border to meet dem neo folks…”

It was then men seemed to come out of the wood work with a variety of weapons at hand as they followed behind the old 81 Chevy as it started to take up a slow pace towards the east, towards Florida.

Badyoyo Tribes, Northern Territory Mississippi River, Rival Tribe Raid.

A humid night like any other in the swamp lands, except tonight would be full of violence and cruelty. The glassy eyes of alligators surfaced in the water near Kafamo village. Beneath these eyes were the shaved bare heads of men as they watched the unsuspecting villagers, sing and dance. Slowly they rose from the water thirty of them in total, they carried a myriad of weapons, some blunt, some bladed.

With bare feet and naked bodies they crawled ashore and quickly dispatched any guards by jamming blades in their throats and sending blood spraying across the mud. It was then they began to scream loudly whooping and hollaring as they ran between the huts and tackling men, beating them and stabbing them. While the women were captured and tied with ropes they wore around their bare waists. Anyone who resisted was shown no mercy, man, woman, and even children were killed without remorse. By the end only bodies littered the streets as the survivors were drug off to Baton Rouge to become slaves or meat. As the raiding band marched away they could be heard chanting. “I could be your pain killer killer killer.”

The Democratic Nation of Jackson

"They're at least thirty strong, general."

Andrew Jackson McCullough nodded slowly at the news he'd just received. John Norman, covered in about five layers of mud and filth and with a bushy beard, stood in front of the general's desk with his rifle slung over his shoulder. The small room had a rickety office desk, two metal folding chairs, and little else. It was just to the right of the front entrance of the meeting hall where the monthly meetings were held. His office wasn't homey because McCullough never spent much time here. He was always out and about helping whoever needed him.

"You and Andy were the only ones that saw the camp?"

"No, sir," Norman said in his thick mountain accent. It came out running together like nawsur. "Reg was with us as well. We all got to ciphering between the three of us and about thirty is what we come up with. Now that includes men, women, and children."

McCullough grunted. The three scouts left town two weeks earlier to track a group of raiders. For months now the raiders had been hitting farms and supply lines near the Bluffs where Jackson became the wilderness. Nearly a dozen settlers were dead and untold amounts of food and supplies were stolen. These barbarians were a threat and one McCullough did not intend to take lightly.

"How far away from Jackson are they?"

Norman scratched his bushy red beard and contemplated it. "As the crow flies, probably two hours north. They're sticking close to the river. I let out this morning, but Andy and Reg is staying with them in case they move again."

McCullough stood and walked towards the one window in the office. His long, lanky frame shuffled across the wooden floors with his large feet sliding across the wood. He looked out and saw people going about their business. It was hard for him to believe all this was actually happening. Ten years ago, he'd been scared and panicking as he ran across the wilds looking for escape. He found this place, and people found him. He was a leader now, he had a family and a community to protect. He still worried that the men who wanted him would come for in the dead of night. If that happened, what would happen to these people he swore to protect? Could they do what was needed to protect Jackson?

"Go find Mike Long," McCullough said after a long silence. "Tell him to have his platoon ready to move out tonight."

"They're going during the spring festival?" Norman asked with a frown.

"No, we're going out." McCullough turned away from the window. "You're going to lead Mike's platoon and I'm coming with you."

-----

"Thank y'all!"

McCullough stood on the makeshift stage and beamed out at the people of Jackson. They cheered wildly at the sight of the general, waving wide and smiling even wider at the sight of all of them together. They were in a field just outside of town. Long picnic tables filled with food were off to the side and waiting for them to start.

"Welcome to the ninth annual spring festival. Nine years... hard to believe it's been that long. We got our tenth anniversary coming up in the fall. Who would have thought this could actually happen? But here we are."

More applause from the crowd. McCullough looked out at the sight of families with small children. He caught the eye of Mimi, his wife of six years, and their three children around her. Yes... he was not the same man he had once been. He broke out into a sheepish grin and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Y'all know I'm never one for words, but let me say that I am proud what we have accomplished here. This part of the world ain't like other places. There are no Republics or tribes or support. It's just us surrounded by the wilds. We are the frontier where it is uncivilized. But every day that Jackson exists, that's another day that we get stronger. This part of the world is uncivilized, but every day we make it a little more civilized. Here's to at least another ninety spring festivals!"

The crowd erupted as McCullough stepped off the stage to make way for the band. Harmony Nelson and her four-piece band took to the stage as the people of Jackson made their way to the picnic tables. Harmony strummed a tune on her guitar while the banjo player picked up the melody. While the mass of people moved towards the tables, a small collection of men and women walked in the other direction. McCullough was one of them. They all shared looks of knowing among each other. A dinner bell rang somewhere while McCullough and the men and women made their way towards the town.

"Tempted and tried, we're oft made to wonder why it should be thus all the day long..."

-----

Music

They moved as quietly as they could through the darkness. John Norman walked lead, his rifle out and at the ready. Behind him was McCullough with a rifle in his hands and a saber strapped to his waist. Mike Long and the fifteen men and women who made up his platoon were in the woods surrounding the two men. Slowly, they made their way towards an encampment.

Norman slung his rifle over his shoulder and pulled out a knife and motioned for McCullough to stop. They could hear the sound of footsteps growing louder and louder until Norman thrust out with his knife and stabbed a marching sentry in the stomach. He started to gasp, but McCullough covered the man's mouth with one hand and slit his throat with the blade of his sabre. McCullough held the bleeding man in place for a few moments before letting him fall to the ground. McCullough wiped the blood from the sabre with his pants leg and started to move again.

McCullough and Norman saw the raider camp through the trees. McCullough saw that Norman's guess was right. There were sleeping men, women, and children in sleeping bags around a burning fire. The sound of rustling tore them away from the fire. Mike Long came into the view in the dim light.

"We took out the sentries," he whispered. "What's the plan?"

"Kill them," McCullough said with no hint of emotion in his voice. "Every man, woman, and child. Leave their bodies where they die and put up a sign 'This is what happens to the enemies of Jackson.'"

Long hesitated at the order before nodding and heading back through the dark to past the order down the line. Norman made no comment at the order. McCullough did what he needed to do to protect Jackson regardless of the cost. Any survivors The message had to be delivered to the world that the people of Jackson would not be intimated or threatened.

"Let's go," McCullough said to Norman as he started through the trees towards the camp, holding tightly to his sabre.

Andrew Jackson McCullough was not the same man he was ten years ago. But in a lot of ways he was still the Butcher of Macon.

The sun glistened off of wet pavement. Through a cracked storefront window it illuminated the dusty bar room. Empty fluorescent lights sagged from fraying cables in the ceiling, which was naked struts, beams, and air circulation vents that sat silent and filling with dust. A thin crowd filled the establishment, many wearing the tattered gray-blue uniform of the Aventurier company, here on break from their base at Fort Renaissance.

Not far beyond the window the Detroit River flowed steel gray and shimmering between they and Canada. The skeletons high-rises of Windsor not far from view. Along the streets wagons shuffled along at staggered distance. Some appearing one after the other, then for there to be a dead silence on the streets for half an hour.

Detroit had a reputation before the war for being a city that had been on its last legs. But climbing back up before the bombs dropped it had shone promise. Not to be great as it once was: but to simply be a livable city again. It was that city that the bar celebrated to its best abilities. In the lights of candles, the sun, and more than a few fat-fueled lanterns colored images of a city on the rebound hung in cracked frames on the walls. Men driving already old – if well kept cars – driving down Woodward Avenue smiling and beaming at the camera. Scenic pictures of joggers on the River Walk. The stoic marble Art Foundation glimmering bright and pure in a white winter's sun and the vibrant eatery scene of Corktown.

There wasn't a method or a specific theme on the walls except simply for an Old Detroit. An Old Detroit from before the bombs. The entrepreneur who held tight to his bar at the river felt he owed that much to himself.

“I see you found some fuel.” a man at the bar pointed out, breaking a long silence of his own after a fresh sandwich and a warm glass of a fizzy apple pop.

The man, an Aventurier in his late thirties wore all the brisk trim and polish of an officer in the local armed militia slowly turning merchants, or merchant scouts. The complex and slow shift in their priorities was becoming a baffling question to itself. While they still performed their patrols of the Detroit ruins and held uncontested control of the Detroit river it was somehow not nearly enough for their command who was becoming increasingly interested in finding routes to play trade across and running supplies on their own.

They had gone so far as to try and unseal the Chicago River three times, but the locks that held the river shut were more stubborn than the Sault, welded shut by nuclear Armageddon and rust.

In the corner of the bar an old CD player sat on a lonesome table spinning working music from the bar owner's collection that had survived the great cataclysm. Of piquing interest from the speakers was the work of Jack White.

“Yea, I managed to find some at a price I can afford. But I don't think the ethanol will be good on the generator. Seals are hard to come by.” the bar owner grumped from behind the counter. Though he only had the old scarred player connected to the generator there was a deep and grave concern in his voice that betrayed a feeling of sorrowful morning.

It was keyed into easily by the Aventurier, “I'm sure you can teach someone to perform White Stripes.” he joked, sipping the soda. He bore a long smile across his long square face and slapped his thin lips together as he swallowed.

“You like it? I just got a few barrels of that from Grand Rapids.” the bartender said.

“Beer and coke, who would have known.” the company man chuckled.

“It's not the same shit as what we had when I was kid. But tell ya what, I have something stronger if that'll do for you, Paullie.” the bartender offered. His old face lightened with hope and for a second even his silver hair glowed with expectation.

“I'm on duty now, but thanks for the offer.” Paul declined, the bartender's blue eyes dropped and he sighed woefully, “I might stop by later if the bosses drag me through the ringer. But thanks for the offer, Rog.”

“Fucking shit Paul, you know you're a sober man.” Rog the bartender laughed, “Fuck, I ain't ever gonna shill this out to you, am I?”

“Nope.” Paul answered.

“Well whatever, you can't have it all.” Rog said resigned, “Maybe someone else.

“What's the news these day around the 313?”

“Same fucking shit as any day. Someone clubbed another down by 8 Mile and I had to be there with my men to clean up the mess.”

“Anything to keep the peace, am I right?”

“Yea, sure. But you're certainly loved by the tribals here for simply preventing their revenge conflicts. There ain't no civility here. That's for sure.”

“Don't be too hard on them, we Detroiters have been through a lot.” Rog said with an apologetic smile, “I know you weren't born before the bombs dropped, but you got to believe me.”

“Alright, I'll believe you.” Paul answered, choosing to humor the old man as he took a bite from the remainder of his sandwich. By this point what had been a simple beef sandwich had become a greasy strip of crust on his plate.

“I'll tell you one thing, after the bombs came down it was a Hell greater than I've ever seen this city dragged through.”

“How so?”

“You ever seen a man so blown up by an explosion he shambles like a living corpse down the street? I've seen that Paul, I've seen some shit; tell you what.”

“Monsters and ghouls is nothing new.”
“They certainly weren't fucking new back then!”

“Well a few have tried to get over The Bridge before. There's a reason no one likes to sit up there. It may be boring but Hell'll come quick in the form of a big heavy that has to be forced over the edge to drown or you're missing a few limbs or a face.”

“Brother, how can you even think about that after evening. I still get sick when I think about the bombs.” Rog moaned.

“I got numb to it.”

From across the room there was a disturbance as the bell over the door jangled from its wire. The old pre-war bartender turned to look over. “Looks like another friend of yours is in.” he said in a low voice.

Paul looked up to the door. Standing in the sunlight was another Aventurier man. A younger specimen with a boyish face still, he had to be no older than sixteen. His trime flat-pressed button down uniform didn't scream a man on street patrol and his red cap was still clean. He scanned the room for a little, looking lost.

“You want a drink?” Rog called out to him.

“No sir, I'm looking for a captain Paul Suffridge.” the youth answered, clearly not knowing who Paul was.

“Here!” Paul answered, raising his hand as he stood up out of his seat.

“Good, the Marshal wants to see you.” said the courier.

“What for?” Paul asked.

“He didn't say, but you need to report back to station and see him. He's waiting.”

“Alright, I'll be in there. Run ahead and tell him I'm five-minutes behind.”

The courier nodded and turned back out the door. Briskly running down the empty streets in the direction of Fort Renaissance. Paul dug about in his pockets to pay his tab before Rog stopped him, “I'll get you later. Your boss is waiting for you.”

“Thanks, man.” Paul smiled, taking his own tufted cap from the counter and pulling it down onto his head.

As he left the bar there was a muted and mutual “good luck” from the others scattered about.

Stepping out onto the street he immediately was greeted by the cool moist air. There was a clear singing of birds in the spring-time stillness of the air. The caw of crows echoed between the empty towers of Detroit. Seagulls nested in the light-posts, watching Paul with a sharp cynical sneer in their black gaze.

Elsewhere there were finches and other noisy song-birds making use of the warming temperature as duck and geese came back home from the south.

Even distantly, misshapen and echoed by the valley of cement and glass that was downtown Detroit the calls and yells of the remnants of humanity that lived in Detroit's new wasteland did not disturb the city's return to nature. It was a process that historically, come could claim was already happening even before the bombs fell. But with no one to care to clean the city of the weeds and the vines, the open grass plots in its parkways were becoming vastly over-grown with grasses and weeds. The trees that had diligently survived nuclear devastation grew without hindrance where they had been planted by the road-side until they pushed up from the side-walks the iron grates that had decoratively trimmed their trunks and framed them in the concrete.

While nuclear apocalypse had been the finishing nail in the Renaissance of Detroit in the 21st century, once and for all destroying the city's surviving industry, the human use in the city had not completely disappeared, contributing to the distant sounds of human activity that echoed like specters through its abandoned streets. Following the slow and uneasy assertion of power of the surviving state government, Detroit became a scavenging yard for scrap, dug into by fearless scrappers and their families making quick use of the valuable copper and iron that they could carry off and sell to communities. The city became a hub for the commerce, accepting wagons or commandeered ships clear to the docks for the resources dug out of the ruins to move elsewhere with abandon.

These scrappers quickly turned into the present tribes of Detroit; or rather, they were self anointed tribes but more like the old persistent street gangs. The same groups that had gave Lansing hell a couple decades ago and vying for a “independent kingdom of Negroes” in the old Metropolitan area, headed by a so-called Kwame II.

It had been where the Aventuriers stepped in. Born from the romance of Detroit's french past they conspired with Lansing to put an end to Kwame II and in return the Aventurier paramilitary were awarded license to use Detroit as it saw fit. Recruiting out of, working out of, and directing scrap in Detroit. And under Aventurier control the city realized a second purpose.

It was to them a hub, a central hub in the shadow of the old Renaissance Center at the banks of the Detroit River. Elevated up from street level, the commercial complex had become a fortress. Built up around it perimeter brick rubble and steel walls guarded or closed the perimeter, closing the already collapsed people mover transport hub. It was a fort, a citadel which threw its shadow down across the street with all the towering splendor of the mid 20th century, and through which Paul walked.

Though grand, the six towers it comprised had in the years after the bombs partially collapsed and broken, turning the monument of glass and steel in a motly stand of hollow hoodoos that stood a vigilant grave over the river. The central tower, which had once flown the logo of GM was missing it branding, and the crown of its mast. The large GM logo had been missing when the Aventuriers arrived, believed scuttled away to some god forsaken corner of America.

It was that central office though became the keep of the new Fort Renaissance, where the Aventuriers ruled and command brooded. In rounding the perimeter the bastion towers towered over Paul and the men that walked the tall base that was the platform for the entire structure. The sturdy cement, brick foot that had withstood Armageddon and fire, unsheered, uncracked, tested true.

River-side the complex's entrance stood a solemn guard with its patchwork facade, reconstructed with newly cooked glass, or laid over with sheets of wood to seal the fanned entrance of the Atrium hall. Wooden Scaffolding anchored to the cement river walk and moored into the Detroit river ran clear to the old Wayne County Port authority. Here boats sat docked and Aventuriers worked dock-side.

The uniform of the Aventurier looked like an imaginative cross-section of 19th century garb crossed with French Fur trader circa 18th century. Gray-blue slacks held up by rope string with an overlaying military coat with a thick black belt. Many wore a deflated white bonnet, a tuft of string hanging down from the flaccid hat to dangle along at the cheek or on the back of the neck.

For officers like Paul, the cap was less limp dicked and attracted the alert salutes of the well-respecting minor foot soldiers and operators of the Aventuriers. Though still white, the hat was a much more robust phyrgian cap, tied at the ends with yellow.

Spring sunlight poured through the atrium ceiling, a checkerboard of overhead old and new glass glowed with the sunlight as within the Wintergarden Atrium hummed quietly with the activities of the Aventuriers. The towering three-story atrium was used in full. A display of the company's self-imposed power and recycling of the old world. With his feet echoing on the tiled floor Paul kept a brisk pace through the warm greenhouse air. The old diners that had been the norm had long since been turned into canteens for the plebeians and the non-commissioned officers of the force, who absconded from the more expensive fair nearby for overcooked pork and crow.

The fort's halls and branches soon dispersed under the light of skylights to the numerable towers. But like a monolith overhead the central tower stood posed to speak the sky, and it was where Paul was bound.
______________________

While stripped, the suites of the mid-tower were spacious. Cleaned out, they were bare and impartial. Floor to wall windows looked at the city outside, and across the river to the south. Standing in the Marshall's office Paul had a clear view to the city of Windsor across the river, the old Canadian casinos were skeletons in a city ruin, and Caesar's Windsor was particularly clear, though all the signs of the old days were dead and dim. And while at the edge of view the span of the Ambassador Bridge stood as the only solemn link here to Canada, the old tunnel having collapsed and flooded with river water.

“Captain Suffridge.” the marshal greeted with a wide smile as he stepped into the office.

If it weren't for the marshal's uniform, a man who crossed him in his office might see him as a man who had rejected wealth. And his physical person was as austere and simply kept as the room. A tall proud looking person, he was also basic and clean. Shallow wrinkles and lines flowed lazily across a face that was soft and almost fatherly. His green eyes greeted Paul with as much a polite glow as his handshake, “How are you doing today?” the marshal asked.

“I'm doing well, marshal Fyde.” Paul greeted.

“Good to hear, and I might perhaps have an assignment for you that might make your days better if all pans out.” Marshal Fyde started, walking towards the winter. Pointing down to the boats docked in the river he asked: “How long has it been since you were last on the water?”

“Sailing?” Paul started, “Well, I think maybe six years since my last duty on the water.”

“How'd you like to go back on it then?” Fyde asked with a wide beaming smile.

“Is this about Chicago again?”

“No, not at all.” Fyde laughed, “I gave up on trying to break open those locks. And trying to get around isn't worth it. City was hurt too hard.

“No, I'm looking to seek a route into the Atlantic. God willing the New York canals weren't obliterated by the nuclear storm.”

“I know nothing about no canals, sir.”

“Well, you'll sure enough come to know them soon.” Fyde nodded confidently. He pointed to a particular wooden cog docked in the middle.

“La Griffon 2.” he declared, “It only has a couple days to being finished and all that's left is the allotment of rigging and guns. I got word from Freedom Arsenal that the two guns I commissioned for it are in the process of being finished casting. They'll be loaded on a wagon and delivered here in the next two days and loaded on board. As soon as they are, you're to take its christening voyage to New York.”

“Sounds easy enough sir, but there are other more dedicated captains. What happened to Mayward?” inquired Paul.

“Mayward is on an assignment looking for a lost ship in the Superior.”

“Penscoit then?”

“He's retiring, he asked for his final assignment to be moved to administering the small stop-over port at Sannilac, he said he wants to try and make something of somewhere before he dies. That's his retirement assignment, he's committed to never sail again.”

“And I suppose there's no one as veteran as I?” Paul asked.

Fyde gave him an affirmative nod. “Your mission isn't as simple as simply breaking out into the Atlantic and reporting back. I want something established out there before you return, some commitment from some populations to be incorporated in our routes. With them we'll have the longest range of any company. Understood?”

“Yea, I understand. That sounds easy enough. What'll be the goods to barter with?”

“Don't move too fast captain,” Fyde said with a scowl, “I'm not there yet.

“When you get out to the Atlantic you're going to head north to Canadian Acadia if you can get to the Atlantic. Connect with the Quebecois for the sake of finding some heritage.”

“Ok, but why them?”

“Because I asked.” Fyde scoffed.

Paul figured he shouldn't pursue the line of questioning and admitted himself out of that line of questioning. Finding that he was being conceded to Marshal Fyde continued: “You will be given several crates of cherry preserves as a sample of Michigan produce, a little bit of a luxury good. Bring back whatever you can. Your crew will be company picked.”

“Of course.”

“Are we at an understanding?”

“Yes sir.”

“Excellent.” Fyde said with a grin, clapping Paul on the shoulder, “For the future: God speed.”

---

City Hall, Hamilton, Bermuda

Samuel Kipps, Chancellor of the FSA, slammed his fist down on the table.

"Silence!" he bellowed, stunning Felicity Spencer, the representative of the FSA Nova Scotia Company, into silence.

Darren Smith, the coordinator of the FSA Caribbean Company, stopped mid sentence, his mouth hanging open. There was an audible snap as he brought his jaws together again, a look of frustration carved on his face.

"I demand that you discuss theses issues like Britons, not some Hispanic peasant of the Canaries! You know that these problems are important to the security and growth of the Federated States." snapped the Chancellor sharply.

"If I may remind you, Chancellor Kipps, the Caribbean Company is currently the most competitive and prosperous of the National Companies. We have virtually eliminated competition from the mainland American powers in the sugar trade. Currently, we are in the process of bringing the Turks and Caicos Islands under the influence of the Company, and thus the FSA. Furthermore, it was we that funded your efforts to rise to your position in the current government. Are you sure you want to throw that away, Chancellor?"

Kipps fumed in silence. Cursed be the Burmudian bureaucracy, and the fuzzy borders between the Companies and the Government! Such a system was altogether too corrupt and inefficient for the liking of the Chancellor.

"I... understand your point..." Kipps hissed through his teeth.

Felicity Spencer's eyes opened wide.

"You don't mean to tell me that you are going to bend to the will of this man?" she almost shrieked. "You know very well that our entire national wood supply comes through Nova Scotian ports. Without funding, this route is in jeopardy."

"Oh, and you think the Caribbean Company can found a subsidiary Company of the Mississippi without those funds then, do you?" retorted Smith. "I'm sure the people will enjoy admiring your nice wooden ships as they starve to death when our wheat imports fail to meet demand."

"Why you..."

"Silence!" Kipps shouted again. "I know you both have issues, genuine issues, which must both be attended to." He paused briefly, and lifted a sheet of paper to the light.

"While you two were discussing your differences, I had time to draft a compromise. We can work out the details later, but this is the outline of my plan: funding will go to the Nova Scotia Company for the repair of another dock in Halifax - that should maintain the current wood import rate required, if we cut down on supplies to the Azores. And instead of funding the Caribbean Company to found a company based around the Mississippi, the government will allow new entrepreneurs from the Hispanic regions to set up a new, independent company. And don't - " Kipps raised a hand to silence the rising wrath of Darren Smith " - even think about complaining to your superiors, or I will allow the Nova Scotian Company to create a subsidiary company in New England to secure food supplies from there instead. You can't threaten me, or I will go over to Nova Scotia."

Smith raised a half-impressed eyebrow. Felicity Spencer look aghast.

"I'm listening..." they spoke in unison.

"The Coordinator for the Company of Nova Scotia is here to speak with you, sir. He is currently... in some debate, shall we say, with the Coordinator for the Company of the Caribbean".

"Very well, I shall attend directly. Please announce me while I change for dinner."

---

City Hall, Hamilton, Bermuda

Samuel Kipps, Chancellor of the FSA, slammed his fist down on the table.

"Silence!" he bellowed, stunning Felicity Spencer, the representative of the FSA Nova Scotia Company, into silence.

Darren Smith, the coordinator of the FSA Caribbean Company, stopped mid sentence, his mouth hanging open. There was an audible snap as he brought his jaws together again, a look of frustration carved on his face.

"I demand that you discuss theses issues like Britons, not some Hispanic peasant of the Canaries! You know that these problems are important to the security and growth of the Federated States." snapped the Chancellor sharply.

"If I may remind you, Chancellor Kipps, the Caribbean Company is currently the most competitive and prosperous of the National Companies. We have virtually eliminated competition from the mainland American powers in the sugar trade. Currently, we are in the process of bringing the Turks and Caicos Islands under the influence of the Company, and thus the FSA. Furthermore, it was we that funded your efforts to rise to your position in the current government. Are you sure you want to throw that away, Chancellor?"

Kipps fumed in silence. Cursed be the Burmudian bureaucracy, and the fuzzy borders between the Companies and the Government! Such a system was altogether too corrupt and inefficient for the liking of the Chancellor.

"I... understand your point..." Kipps hissed through his teeth.

Felicity Spencer's eyes opened wide.

"You don't mean to tell me that you are going to bend to the will of this man?" she almost shrieked. "You know very well that our entire national wood supply comes through Nova Scotian ports. Without funding, this route is in jeopardy."

"Oh, and you think the Caribbean Company can found a subsidiary Company of the Mississippi without those funds then, do you?" retorted Smith. "I'm sure the people will enjoy admiring your nice wooden ships as they starve to death when our wheat imports fail to meet demand."

"Why you..."

"Silence!" Kipps shouted again. "I know you both have issues, genuine issues, which must both be attended to." He paused briefly, and lifted a sheet of paper to the light.

"While you two were discussing your differences, I had time to draft a compromise. We can work out the details later, but this is the outline of my plan: funding will go to the Nova Scotia Company for the repair of another dock in Halifax - that should maintain the current wood import rate required, if we cut down on supplies to the Azores. And instead of funding the Caribbean Company to found a company based around the Mississippi, the government will allow new entrepreneurs from the Hispanic regions to set up a new, independent company. And don't - " Kipps raised a hand to silence the rising wrath of Darren Smith " - even think about complaining to your superiors, or I will allow the Nova Scotian Company to create a subsidiary company in New England to secure food supplies from there instead. You can't threaten me, or I will go over to Nova Scotia. To sweeten the deal, the government will issue a decree concerning the annexation of the Turks and Caicos Islands as soon as you have brought them under your sway."

Smith raised a half-impressed eyebrow. Felicity Spencer look aghast.

"I'm listening..." they spoke in unison.

East Koniginsberg, Northern Manitoba, Gottesland

The filthiest slum in Gottesland, stretching as far as the eye could see, lay beneath a bleak, cloudy sky. In the centre of town, thousands of agitated citizens shuffled around, amassing around a small wooden stage, with a sole figure standing on it.

"Dear President Koln, and Prime Minister Steinmann. It is the ongoing wish of the British people, whom you continually trample upon with your barbaric restrictions and customs, to be given full sovereignty over their own lands. Segregated and self sustaining as we are, your continued violent law enforcement betrays your regime for what it really is. You are nothing short of a foreign, imperial dictatorship, and my people will not stand for it. The British people are as stalwart as they are ancient. Our unbroken lineage has been synonymous with independence and distinction for millennia, dating back to the establishment of the oldest, and most enduring kingdom in the history of the world. To deny the potency and perfection of the English language in your parliament, and to suppress the free expression of individuality that our ancestors gifted to humanity, is to spit in the face of a lion!"

Victoria Albertasdottir, clad in a flowing, bright red cotton dress, polished jewelry hanging from each limb, spoke with an unwavering confidence, upon her rickety wooden platform. The massive crowd of unwashed peasants stood before her, in complete silence. It was unlikely they understood half of what she was saying, but they nonetheless hung on her every word. She was a figure of authority, and a strikingly beautiful one at that. As her speech continued, the only other audible sound was her scribe, typing away on a rusty typewriter. This was to be her sternest declaration yet. With any luck, it would incite further heavy-handedness from the government, increasing her popularity even further.

"It is with this understanding, of our own innate superiority, that we, the British people, demand equal representation in Parliament."

She paused, to emphasize the importance of this demand to her uneducated audience. Gracefully brushing a few strands of long, blond hair from her face, she continued.

"It is with this understanding, of our countless invaluable gifts to humanity, that we, the British people, demand complete self-governance over our cities."

Again she paused, taking a moment to bask in the look of incredulous awe that sat on the faces of her followers.

"It is with this understanding, of the purity of our language and culture, that we, the British people, demand freedom!"

With this, she thrust one fair, slender fist into the air. The crowd exploded in applause, roaring with enthusiasm. She gave a bow, as her guards, clad in red wool jackets, swiftly escorted her from the stage. The masses parted like the Red Sea as her entourage moved toward them. She smirked as a wave of ecstatic self-adoration surged through her. The dust-covered masses shrieked and bellowed with joy as she blew kisses at them.

Coming up from behind her, and hopping into the circle of red-clad guards, Sir James Painter joined the briskly marching celebrity.

"Your best speech yet, m'lady."

"Well I should hope so", she responded quietly. "It's about damn time we took this to Argyllsberg."

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Prime Minister's Office, Parliament, Argyllsberg

A middle-aged, suspendered man, sporting a greasy beard and a sizable bald spot, frantically rifled through hand-written letters on his large, oak desk.

"Verdammt", the Prime Minister hissed, before grabbing hold of a faded note, tucked near the bottom of the stack. "Aha!", he exclaimed.

"So which one is this?", asked a stern, red-headed man sitting across from him.

"Zis is zie vun frhom Vest Koniginsberg", Steinmann responded through his thick Germanic accent, skimming over the page. "Two dead, sree voonded. Zey haf fallen bek to zie Koniginsberg military base."

The Prime Minister's guest furrowed his brow. "May I?", he asked, gesturing toward the letter.

"Ja, ja", Steinmann nodded, passing it across the table. "Vut do you sink?"

"I think...", the man responded, his eyes darting across the page, "that it's time for a blitz. The longer we leave this alone, the worse it's going to get. We need to stamp the whole thing out, and fast."

"You know zis will be a hard sell to zie Gutteslander leut. Zey von't put up wit zie violence."

"This is an easy story to tell, Lukas. They've already killed two officers. Any action we take, from now on, is a defensive action. Let's use this excuse to end this problem right now."

"Yes, yes, I will put zie vord out. Ve'll get posters up, send out vhornings und notices."

"Good man. Now if you'll excuse me, I think it's time I checked in on our dear neighbours."

"Goot luck, Mister President", Steinmann proclaimed with a wave.

"Likewise", MacFearghus-Koln grunted, as he let himself out.

A beautiful lass stood in a beaming ray of sun. Her warm crescent blues eye framing her shy grin. The sun accented her tanned skin, giving it a slight glow. Her golden-blonde cascading hair danced in the wind. The field around her was of wheat, which only added to her mystique beauty. She stood proudly, beckoning for Soyer to come to her. He trudged to the woman, his legs heavy with fatigue. Each step took only more out of him. The woman continued to grin at him. "Wake up, Lieutenant-General. Wake up, it's time to go." The woman's voice was soft-spoken, her accent was obviously southern. As Soyer got closer, blood drained out from the woman's eyes. Her eyes turned a fiery red. Her skin turned a scaly gray, which was only made worse by her ash-blackened hair. Her voice was shrilling. She continued to scream for Soyer to wake up.

The Lieutenant-General woke up, sweating heavily, gasping for breath. His eyes fluttered, his vision unclear for a few moments. As he regained it, he realized his face was half in a pool of blood. At first, he believed it was his until he got up. A gruff voice spoke out " Lieutenant-General, you're alive!" Soyer felt a heavy hand grab his shoulder and help get him on his feet. He focused his attention on the origination of the voice, trying to ignore the warm blood dripping off the right-half of his face. The man before him appeared to be in his late thirties, wrinkly skin, long bushy beard that trailed down to the man's waist. He was a head shorter than Soyer, forcing him to look down. "Christ, thought we lost you, sir, yes we dids. We saws dat big ol' ironfur comes at you, you were a goner for sures." The man smiled ear to ear, obviously happy that his commander is alive. Soyer brought his hand to face and touched the blood. The man saw the question in Soyer's eyes before Soyer could say it. "Aye, not yours. Tis the young fella, Sergeant Evans." The man explained. Soyer looked at the dead Sergeant. Evans body was missing several parts, some of the insides became outsides as well. Soyer made a mental note to notify the family immediately, they were neighbors when they were kids.

The man that woke up Soyer, whom he found out to be named Tomel, explained how the battle went. "Wes stepped in their nest here. The ravine wes went down on was close to a cave they made home in. There was a few, mostly cubs. As you see.." Tomel pointed out to the Lieutenant-General "Wes lost a few. Wes believe that the mumma came directly for yas. Better thank God almighty for savin' yer ass, sir." The man chuckled and slapped Soyer on the back.

"So, I assume demo-charges were set in the cave?" Soyer questioned. He feared of more Ironfurs attacking.

Tomel looked down immediately, trying to avoid Soyer's eyes. "Well sir, the uh.. rain..." Tomel stuttered as he tried to explain. Soyer pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed heavily, shrugging his shoulders. The rain had compromised the explosives that were going to be used in demolition of any nests that were encountered.

"Find First Sergeant Riggs, get him and his men to clear out the cave. I want you and your squad to assist, SergeantTomel." Tomel's eyes widen, realizing the emphasis was a field promotion.

Tomel turned his back to Soyer. "Alright you bed-shitters! I'm Sergeant Tomel." He grabbed the recently deceased Sergeant Evan's jacket that had a rank insignia on it. He pulled his arms through it "We're going to hunt these fuckin' bears and gut them. The Lieu-Gen wants their nest cleared out. On me!" Tomel shouted as he ran off to find Riggs and his squad, leaving Soyer relatively alone.

Soyer stepped over to Evans, bending over. "Shit, Evans, shit." He put a hand into his pocket, fumbling for a cigarette. He shakily found and brought one to his lips. He brought out a match box. He tried to strike it several times, but the match wouldn't go. "Fuck!" He spat the cigarette out and dropped the matchbox. "Why'd you have to go fucking die, you selfish piece of shit!" Soyer pushed Evan's lifeless body, tears welling up in his eyes. He looked down, placing a fist against his lips, as he heard several gunshots go off and people yelling.

---

Pensacola, Florida

Pensacola was the last major hub before exiting the Neo-Con territory and into Alabama. That being said, it was the only confirmed safe haven for Delmont and Gale. Gale and his company, whom were called the "Johnny Rebs" had disembarked from the train earlier than Delmont, to secure themselves vehicles to use in their travels. Delmont used the time he had alone to explore Pensacola, which was rather short lived. He had to rendezvous back at the train station with the "Johnny Rebs" within an hour.

Delmont walked back to the station, his eyes looking above and past it. He noticed gray clouds to the north-east and hoped it wouldn't come south. A vehicle's horn made him pay attention to where he was going. Gale and his men had rounded up some cargo trucks. They were modified as well. Gale and his boys had added wooden spikes and makeshift barbed wire to the front of the trucks, mostly for intimidation. They also made sandbags to cover the exposed back-ends.

"Well, Delmont. Let's go, we are burning daylight and I am sure as hell you don't want to be catchin' those barbarians at night." Gale stated. Delmont couldn't refuse. He was scared of the oncoming events. His military attachment gave him some comfort though. He dismissed these thoughts and climbed into the passenger seat of Gale's truck, which was in the middle of the convoy. Gale stuck his head out the driver's window and shouted "On the move, soldiers! I want some distance between Pensacola and us!" The first truck lurched forward and drove off, as did the second and third and so on.

Several minutes passed as the two men watched as Pensacola become smaller and smaller in the rearview mirrors. "We are headed towards Mobile. I believe we are meant to meet them in the middle." Delmont said to cleanse the silence that was growing. Gale had grown oddly quiet, although it wouldn't have bothered Delmont in a different circumstance. He wanted social interaction, as it may be his last time to speak. The silence came back. Gale had only peered over at Delmont, noticing the older gentlemen to be sweating heavily.

"Never been out this long, have ya?" Gale teased. Relief flashed over Delmont's face.

"No, I normally stay inside from most of the heat. The South is just dreadfully hot." Delmont exclaimed. He pulled out a red-white checkered handkerchief to blot the sweat that was dripping from his forehead. As he was doing so, he heard clicks and clanks from the back of the truck.

Gale once again looked over at Delmont. "They're getting ready, in case your negotiation skills don't prove fruitful, Mister Delmont. Think of it as added job security." Gale had a gap-toothed smile, which gave discomfort to Delmont.

"Just let me handle it, okay. We don't need a war breaking out." Delmont said quickly and strictly. Delmont was more afraid of the Badland tribes than Gale and if everything proved to go smoothly, it would be quite the step-up, both for Neo-Con and the tribes, or so thought Delmont. Little did Delmont know is that Gale had strict orders from the General-in-Chief that if things were to go awry, is to set-up a foothold in Alabama and dispatch Delmont back to inform Crawford.

The soldier simply chuckled and continued to focus on the drive. He was ready to take whatever path was open to him when they became open. He cared little for potential peace. Gale had lost his twin sisters. People said they simply went missing, but Gale knew better. His sisters were close to the border of the Tribe's borders, so he thinks they were kidnapped. The path he wanted, the one he was vying for, was total war. Gale was prepared for it.

The Democratic Nation of Jackson

Sherman Potter took a large swig of whiskey and tried to get up. His hangover was still killing his head, but the whiskey helped with the worst of it. Finally, on his fifth try, he was up on his feet and getting ready for the day. His hands shook as he buttoned his shirt and buckled his belt. A few more long sips of whiskey killed the shakes and got him to an operational level.

Once upon a time, Potter had been without a doubt the worst doctor in the Grand Union Commonwealth. He killed more than he saved. That led to an awkward situation where he began to make money off of the killing by selling the dead bodies to interested parties. He was nearly hanged in Independence, quick timing and an even quicker horse got him out of town by the skin of his teeth. He headed out into the wilds and found Jackson three years ago. While he was the worst doctor in the Commonwealth, he happened to be the best doctor in Jackson... if only by default. He kept up his drinking, but only after work and to cure hangovers. He was still an alcoholic by any textbook definition, but now he wasn't a reckless one that killed patients. And to Potter, that made all the differences.

"Doc Potter!"

Potter was just out of his door when little Johnny Greene came running up.

"My ma needs help, doc. My sister's sick... bad sick. We don't know what's going on."

"C'mon," Potter said as he put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Show me."

Johnny led Potter down the dirt road of Jackson towards the outskirts. The Greene family lived in house no bigger than a shack. Next to it was a field made up of half corn and half wheat. The plants were still sprouting, but it looked like a good indication that they'd have a nice crop this summer.

"He's here," Johnny said as they went into the shack.

Miriam Greene looked up and breathed a sigh of relief as she saw Potter. She was sitting beside a mattress laid on the floor. On the mattress was a little girl covered in blankets with a sweaty forehead.

"Doc, thank god," Miriam said as Potter stepped forward. "She's got a fever. She's been sick the last few days, but I just thought it was a cold."

"Let me see."

Potter got on his knees and looked the little girl over. He pulled the covers back and could feel the sweat that drenched the blankets. He saw swelling near the neck and jaws along with something that frightened him. The little girl's face and neck were covered in dots. She was wearing pajamas, but he had no doubt that the dots were all over her body. He knew exactly what she had. Potter had seen it in a medical textbook the Commonwealth had managed to find somewhere.

Smallpox, the book called it. Highly contagious and highly deadly if not treated right. The book said it had been all but wiped out by vaccines. But that was in the last age. That was before the people who made that miracle world tore it apart in a nuclear holocaust. Now, in the world they lived in, something like smallpox could destroy a whole town in no time.

"Shit," was all Potter could say.

-----

Andrew Jackson McCullough looked around at the small gathering of women and men in front of him. Mike Long, John Norman, Kelly Kilpatrick, Harry Flint, and Lisa Lewis were the closest he had to a general staff. Each one served as an officer in the Nation's defense force. Harry was the smartass that named it the Democratic Party. He found a book on the first Andrew Jackson in the ruins of a library one time and knew all there was to know about the man. In honor of McCullough's namesake, Harry said with a grin, they should name the fledgling force after the Democratic Party that Jackson founded over two hundred years ago. It passed in the town voting 298-1, McCullough the lone vote against.

"Kel," McCullough finally said. "How do your folks feel about a ranging mission?"

"They're antsy," the middle-aged woman replied. She pushed wiped her sandy blonde hair from her face and kept speaking. "It's been months since they had to go out and do anything. They're getting along fine with their farms and jobs, but I think they'd like to help out. What's the job, sir?"

"Memphis."

All five faces turned to stone all at once.

"It's suicide." Mike Long placed his chubby hands on McCullough's desk. "Memphis is crawling with raiders. We'd have to take the whole Party to Memphis to even make a dent. This is--"

"A scouting mission," McCullough snapped with a finger pointed at Long. He looked over at Kilpatrick with the same stern gaze. "And nothing more. Take your best squad and head out this afternoon. Get the lay of the land and see what they're doing and what their defenses are like. Take your time, Kel, I want y'all back safely."

"Yes, sir," she replied with a semi-salute.

"What about the rest of us?" John Norman drawled. "You called us all up here for a reason, boss."

McCullough nodded and pulled a sheet of crinkled paper from his desk. He passed it to Lisa Lewis, who read it and passed it around to the others while McCullough spoke.

"We got a courier from Looloo yesterday. They're running out of food and still have to wait for their spring crop to come in. I'm calling a meeting tonight to talk about it. With any luck, we can send a wagon train to them by the week's end. We'll need some of y'all to volunteer your companies for caravan duty."

"This could be an opportunity," said Lewis. "Looloo is a shit hole, general. It's always barely scraping by and getting fucked with by bandits. We could bring them into the fold, offer them protection and food and let them join the Nation."

"Hell no," said Long. "Loooloo folks ain't nothing but trouble. They're dirty and shifty. They can't be trusted."

"Just like you couldn't be trusted?" McCullough asked Long. "I seem to recall you coming here six years ago, Mike, trying to hide from some very pissed off Badyoyo boys. We could have not let you in, Mike, but we knew you needed help. Just like Harry and his wife needed help when they got to Jackson, just like Kel needed help when she found us. The folks in Looloo ain't any different than you or me."

Long shook his head and just shrugged his shoulders. "We'll see."

"I'm for it," Flint smirked. "Folks in Looloo make some damn fine hooch."

"We'll float that possibility at tonight's meeting," McCullough chuckled. "Among others. If the folks want it, then I'll ride with the convoy and open up negotiations with Looloo."

Expansion. The idea was something McCullough and others had thought about for the last few years. The hard days of survival for Jackson had lasted the first six years. Now, four years past the last famine and they were stable and well-defended and well-fed. In these times, that alone was a mighty blessing. Looloo was how Jackson had been during those trying times. If they could help out, then they should. But then a whole new town to protect and upkeep?

"Alright," McCullough said. "Kel, get your folks ready to head out. The rest of y'all are gonna go across Jackson and let folks know about tonight's meeting. I want as many people there as possible to discuss this. That's the end of the meeting."

-----

Georgia Frontier

Holmstead's horse slowly walked down the cracked pavement of the highway. It weaved through the rusted out cars that had died on this road so long ago. An old, battered sign a few miles back told him he was near someplace called Dalton. Holmstead clicked his tongue in an effort to speed his mount up.

Going this far out into the wild hadn't been part of the plan. His official mandate was to round up runaway slaves. The Neo-Cons paid damn good money for it, even more for the white folks that helped them to freedom. Most of the bounty hunters stuck to the northeast and the Carolina border. Holmstead instead headed northwest towards the wilds. A more recent sign let Holmstead know that Chatanooga was thirty miles away. In all his travels across the south he'd never been to Tennessee, but he'd certainly heard stories. Supposedly, the entire expanse of Tennessee was nothing but wilderness with the occasional pockets of civilization.

Chatanooga would be where he could get his answers. He'd heard rumors in North Georgia about a town near the Mississippi River. One of the several dozen city-states that covered Tennessee. There was nothing special about it except its leader. He was named after one of the old leaders of the Republic, and he was a man with a very steep bounty on his head. If the rumors were true, then Andrew Jackson McCullough was hiding in plain sight. If he was indeed the man Holmstead was after, then the bounty hunter could bring the Neo-Cons his severed head and make more with that a than he could with a thousand runaway slaves.

Bullets slammed into the hood of the truck and all Diane could think of was MY BABY! Angry, she waited for the next barrage of bullets to hit, then poked her head around the side and got one of the bastards in her sights.

Bang!

The raider clutched at his chest as he fell, but the others were scrambling over the rocks and getting closer. Inwardly, Diane cursed.

Twelve of them, she counted in her head, affixing her bayonet to her gun. Eight of us with an absent Franky. I hate these odds.

"Captain!" shouted one of the militiamen beside her, apparently having gotten the same idea as her and gotten out an old red axe. "Orders?"

"Wait for the God-damned cavalry!" Keyoni shouted to him. She got on up and fired her hunting rifle again, this time barely missing one of the surging raiders. The odds were not looking good. A few more bullets flew at the raiders from other militiamen, and the raiders fired back. Someone to her right grunted in pain, and then someone else cried out. Not good at all.

She hadn't expected the raiders to be so well equipped. They were clad head to toe in some sort of armor, and the handful of guns they had were deadly as sin. Those were old world military guns, that much she knew, the sort of guns that soldiers used. Her militia had hunting rifles and pistols and axes to bring to bear against that. They were outnumbered and outgunned, and where the Hell was the Frankentank?!

"Leslie's down!" Max called over to her. Diane wanted to leap out and give the raiders some retribution so badly, then, but she knew better than that. But... damn it!

"Keep her from bleeding out," Diane snapped, "and everyone else stay low! Stay low and brace you-"

Just then the roar of an engine came from the left, and Diane felt relief wash over her. The Frankentank was back, a big, roofless red truck with giant wheels and a United Pueblos flag. A man stood at the top with a hose in his hand, as as the bulky vehicle came hurdling through, he started firing huge jets of water at the raiders.

It was glorious. Raiders flew and fell about like bottles being swept off a bar by a pissed off drunk, so powerful was that hose. Any sense of organization they had was broken: some tried shooting blindly at the truck, others darted off and away, and others still tried to charge at the group of militia huddled behind the wreckage of their transports.

"Now!" shouted Diane. "Fire! Fire!"

Emboldened, the militia got themselves up to their feet and gunned down those bandits that tried to get too close. Those they didn't their bayonets, axes, and machetes made short work of. And as the red truck hurtled on by, the militia encircled those raiders who'd been unfortunate enough to get knocked senseless by the high pressure water. Guns and axes were pointed at them.

Still, one of the raiders decided to try and fight back. He started grabbing his gun, and Diane immediately shot the scumbag in the head.

"Parley?" asked one of the other raiders meekly.

---

---

There wasn't much information to be gleaned from the raiders, and in the end they were shoved into the back of one of the last operable vehicles, their gear removed and their hands and feet bound in rope. There were six captives, three dead and three that had escaped the fight.

What information they did have was troubling, though, and Diane couldn't get it out of her head.

"What do you make of it, Max?" she asked the bartender as they prepared her white truck for towing. It certainly wasn't operable in its current state.

"Personally," he mused, "I think they're from some sort of military tribe. See, my old man used to tell me that soldiers before the war sometimes lived separate from other folk in their own soldier towns. Pass the chain."

Diane did that, yanking the links and handing it to Max. The dark-skinned fellow hooked the chain on, connecting the little white truck to the massive red one.

"Guess that makes sense," mumbled Diane. "They keep talking about 'The General.' Sounds like any old warlord to me."

"Probably a warlord who actually knows how to wage war," grumbled Max. "Which is why I'm scared."

"Yeah." Diane peered at the battlefield and the bodies of her dead companions spread about it. She thought about the crazies loaded in the back of the red truck, how many more of them could be out there, and how many militiamen each one was worth in a fight. These weren't ordinary raiders.

"Yeah," she repeated. "Me too."

Then she went to go retrieve the bodies. There'd be another ten names spoken on the radio tomorrow.

---

---

Bill stared intently into his half-empty cup. Or was it half-full? He furrowed his brow and decided the question wasn't important, not as important as the report he had on his desk. Taking another small sip from his rice milk, he re-read the handwritten missive for the third time.

Really, the Free People of New Mexico were asking for quite a lot in return for membership in the League, and it wasn't what Bigishie would call a fair deal. Besides asking for an immediate payment in foodstuffs (which weren't in great supply in the League), New Mexico's tribal nation wanted a law to be instituted that would give them special privileges, like not having to adhere to certain rules for member states in the League. And they wanted one of their generals to be given an equal rank in the Council Guard. And...

Well, there were several other things the Free People wanted, but their demands would be hard to meet. Bill wondered if this was a disguised "No."

Still, that situation seemed salvageable. What seemed less salvageable was the lack of response from the diplomat who'd been sent to Arizona. Weeks had gone by, and he'd gone out in one of the fastest vehicles available with a number of guards, and somehow he'd not gotten back yet. It was troubling to say the least.

Still, it was better to focus on what problems could be solved, so Bill did just that. He started drafting up a letter, a very different sort of letter than he was used to. It wasn't often that he mentioned the word "trade" in a letter to foreign nations, let alone write to a nation based in Canada. Truthfully, he wasn't even sure if the nation he was writing to still existed, or if it would be possible to do what he wanted. But...

It was done. Bill signed his name before setting down his feather quill. The Secretary General blew gently on the ink to help it dry, then looked back at the map.

"I hope you're the land of milk and honey the stories make you out to be, Gottesland," he said to the map. Then, he grabbed the letter and started on out his office.

The floor of the Representatives was abuzz as one man stole the debate on the floor, railing as he commanded the stand and thrusting and throwing his hands like a conductor orchestrating. His voice rose and fell. His energy strong, and passion there.

But he wasn't necessarily on topic.

Taking advantage of particular oversights in House function representative Paul Studdermaeder decided to go on the same tired political crusade that he started when he arrived from Traverse City. He commanded a certain notoriety for irrelevance and instead tried to direct the topic away from the war bill and on to fishing rights, then to the competitiveness of the Michigan brewing industry and local notoriety of the wines. He droned and driveled from the head of the chamber and couldn't be stopped on the pure technicality that he had started discussing the proposed war bill.

As off-topic as it was, it was a relief to Erwin he leaned back in the gallery stairs and listened with placated entertainment. Even if it wasn't meant to be Representative Studdermaeder's choice in time to strike was a delaying tactic for the senate that'd ultimately dilute the war authorizations before it passed to them for tacit approval or denial. However much was up to the wind really.

“I didn't think I would ever have to sit through so much of what I never needed to hear.” a observing passerby whispered to Erwin. Being the nearest neighbor in an otherwise empty gallery, the passing move to strike up conversation was understood.

“Welcome to politics.” Erwin replied with an earnest smile.

“I had a friend who was on the Williamston Village Council, he used to write me about what they were doing and it sounded civilized to say the least.” the man sounded baffled as he watched, “The House was in session, I figured I'd see how they do it. And I don't know what I expected anymore.”

Erwin smiled and nodded. With a soft laugh he turned to the man and answered him: “Welcome to the House of Animals.” He dressed himself with an all too pleasant and knowing smile of humored loathing, “I was once interested in a Representative seat, but I ended up passing that up on a Senate chair.”

“You're a senator?” the man asked, stunned.

“Mhm.” he nodded, “I'm eyes and ears right now. Another correspondence on internal legislation.”

“Well that sounds...” the other started, “I suppose that's interesting.” he added politely, “What's your take on this?”

“Who's asking?” Erwin offered.

“Dave Conegal, Grand Ledge Herald.” he introduced himself.

“Oh, so you're in to cover politics?”

“Well, yes and no-” Dave said, resigned, “I was in Lansing to cover the proceedings for a ferry link along the Grand River between here and Lansing, a mass transit sort of option in partnership with communities down and up river. And well: it's off hours and I felt I should see a congressional event.

“Unfortunately, I'm rather disappointed.”

“As would anyone, but our friend's play at the podium isn't completely misguided if you know what he's doing.”

“How's that?”

“Studdermaeder is new meat, newly elected. As political news goes, he was elected to replace his predecessor on the basis that he'd give new voice to the Traverse Bay area. The man that came before him, Braedy Kind was what you might get away with calling career, but he since carried over into the Senate. As rumor had it, he was projected to loose in the much smaller Representative district and he rolled the dice on the larger Senatorial district.

“Representative Studdermaeder is simply doing as he said: albeit in an obnoxious way that derails any discussion.”

“I see it now.” Conegal nodded, “He can't be stopped?”

“Not at this point, only his breath will. He'll keep the wind his for as long as he needs or can. Back home people will hear he fought for them on a bill, and despite not having any significant legislation to his name: he'll stay.”

“Fascinating, so what's your opinion on all of this then?”

“I don't think I'm obliged to answer questions on senate business.” Erwin answered with a wry smile, “Perhaps another question. Perhaps another time.”

“When could the senate answer questions, if I might ask?”

“Next week, maybe.” the senator answered, “Provided this makes it out on time and we don't adjust any schedules to accommodate for this change of plan.”

“Then I won't pry you any deeper.” Dave said, excusing himself as he leaned away from Erwin. He returned to silence, watching the impassioned fillabuster on the floor below. Despite knowing what was going on though, he wasn't amazingly impressed with the off-topic show of force.

“Humor me, how'd you get into politics?” he asked, leaning back over to Erwin.

“My father decided to become mayor of our hometown a few years after the bombs fell. By then people were starting to suffer from the starvation after the bombs or leaving to seek refuge in the mystical golden states to the south, or to the Great Prairie where it was said they weren't as bad off; they never returned.

“Not many people were around to notice or take him seriously, but he won. And won young. Had me a few years after.

“But all through my child-hood he brooded over our town, a little hamlet east of here called Howell. So, you could say I was raised politically, and he gave me the inspiration to try and leave. Simple as that.”

“So what happened to your dad?”

“He up and disappeared.” Erwin nodded, leaving it to that. But what needn't be said was towards the end the elder Codlyka was himself a slowly growing more eccentric by the weak. He was beginning to spend weeks out of the office in an almost withdrawn, detached state.

By his last night he had whispered many things. “I miss it all.” being one. Then he was gone.

“So unfortunate. God rest his soul, that's all that needs to be said.”

“Aye indeed, God rest his pour soul.”




The singing of songbirds was swept away with the arrival of an army of ax-weilding men who began to disperse at the end of their road. The beaten and rutted two-track path ended in a vast sandy clearing where there was already an assortment of tools laid out waiting for them. A shoddily built gazebo on one side made an open-air long-hall where metal and plastic tables had been thrown down in a haphazard fashion as an outdoor mess hall for the lumberjacks. Posts driven into the spring-melt whetted sand housed heavy posts for the horses to be tied to.

The order given was decidedly silent as the laborers dispersed into the forests to go about their work. In teams of three they fanned into the shady brush of towering spruce and inter-spaced hardwoods. Worries bird song chirped overhead and more than a few squirrels scuttled away at the wet cracking of twigs as they went about.

“So Marc, ya gonna try and get back at that McTarson guy for whipping you good?” Flannagan asked excitedly as he followed alongside him. His wide green eyes begged for more blood as he looked his partner over.

“No.” Marc answered simply.

“What? Shit man why not, he fucking iced you is what he did! Shit, it's what we woulda fucking did in Traverse, I tell you that much!”

“Troll,” a husky voice grumbled from behind them, “You shut your fuckin' trap or I'll have to beat you in a brawl here and now. And I will be tacking your tongue as a trophy when I win.”

Marc looked behind him with unemotional apathy. He was still too hung-over for any of this shit and just wanted to cut some wood.

Behind them was a bear of a man, a hulking pillar of old muscle who had been in the field more than any one of the two in front of him. With a great husky beard and mustache that obscured his lips, and giant caterpillar eyebrows he was a true bear in the face as well. “I don't give a flying fuck what ya Trolls do in Traverse. But up 'er we have rules. And Marc – drunk as he can be – abides be dem.” he grunted as he shifted the long saw that rested bent over his shoulder.

“I don't rightly remember, nor do I care about this fight.” Marc grumbled.

“Aye.” the bear of a man acknowledged, “And knowin' Marc for as long as I have, dhat's all he needs t'here.”

“Fuck, the two of you are fucking boring.” Flannagan swore.

“Rightly so, run on ahead and measure up and mark some trees for us to cut and we can get on with our job.”

“Fuck, fine.” moaned Flannagan, bounding further down the wooded path.

As he foot steps grew distance, the bear walked up alongside Marc. “Piece of work he is, eh?”

“Where dha fuck did Jimmer find him even?”

“I dunno, but I take he came in off'er dha boats, lookin' for work for the season. Some migratory ass hole. But we'll make a man of the kid yet.”

“Is that so?” Marc asked.

“Yea, Brady said he'd take him hunting later t'is summer to put blood on his hands. Force him to eat his first heart like dha Woodsmen up north and around Iron Mountain like t'do. Maybe then he'll have some of dha north in him and have more respect.”

“That can't be it though?” Marc asked him.

“Aye, I offered after I'd fight him hand to hand like a man.

“We already know he can drink, but he 'comes a piece of piss when he's shitfaced so that's not on dha agender. Probably best we don't force him to drink till he drops, or he might come fer ya now.”

“I'd rather not fuck with him, honestly.”

“Good, so we're settled t'jus knocking his teeth out. Fine by me.”

As they turned a bend in the path, they pumped into Flanagan. The corrosive southerner had been rendered there on the spot a frozen statue of awe, and bleached disgust. His features a frozen wide-eye statue.

In the middle of the lumberjacks' path the dessecrated corpse of what appeared to be a bear. The hide shorn off of, and the rest of the misshapen remains laid sprawled out in the middle of the run.

“F-fuck, what is that!?” Flannagan stammered, frozen with fear.

“Well, shit.” Marc muttered to himself, “George, is it really one?” he asked, turning to the man bear.

Mumbling to himself, George put down his tools and inched towards the corpse. The mud had been turned red from the blood, and the gut had been pulled open so the ropy intestines laid out, nibbled at by birds and scavengers. He stepped around the mess as he turned to the head.

Lifting the misshapen skull up by the mouth, fingers gingerly clamped along the edges of the long razor teeth George turned the beast's skinless corpse to look up at the two other men.

Looking as if it had been beaten with a club since birth, and scarred with innumerable tumors in its flesh and bone there wasn't much denying it.

“Big Gray, someone actually came in and managed t' kill it.” George grumbled, “Shot out dha eyes.” he added, pointing out the empty holes gorged into the skull where the eyes were, “If yea have no dynamite, or can't seem to strangle it, drown it, ya aim for dha eyes.” the remark seemed more guided to Flannagan who continued to stare down at it with twisted terror and disgust. The knotting in his stomach was plainly visible in his face.

Stammering he backed away, “I don't feel to good.” he gasped, tripped back down the path with a shocked look still owed to the corpse on the ground.

“Shame he didn't stick, I always found dhese bastards interesting.” George remarked, looking back down at the mutant bear sprawled out in the muddy ditch, “Look here at dha forehead, looks like it might have had'a twin, didn't make it from dha womb.” he pointed, putting his finger on a half-developed lower jaw embedded in the thick bone and sinewy flesh of its scalp.

“Disgusting.” Marc commented. He was beginning to feel ill at the sight of the beast, and the stench from its open gut was petrifying to say the least. A foul stench of rotten fruit, flesh, and fresh shit and piss.

“I don't think we're alone in dha woods here right now.” George grunted, standing up, “Don't know about'chu, but if someone's stulking dhese trees and can shoot out a fucking Gray Fur, dhen I don't feel like staying.”

“I'm up for reporting to dha Foreman too.”

“I'm wid'ya dhere.”

"So here we are," the Patriot looked into the heartlands of the Neo-Con, "The homeland of former rebels and enslavers. I cannot say much has changed."
"Yiss..." Kobar hissed, looking on edge, the rumors of what happened to Evols in these cursed lands had reached far and wide, "Ss-ssshall we move on with the plansss?"

With a simple nod, the Patriot turned his back as the wind began to pick up and how faced an array of catapults, each one of them loaded with boxes full of posters which would open in the wind and spread across the hills and swamps. Raising his arm, the crews quickly loaded the machines with zeal, firing them all at once in order. One by one, boxes sailed into the air as the sky burst them open and spread them across the land. Once more the hand went up and crew reloaded their engines and fired again, then again, then again for one last time.

The Patriot looked into the horizon at his work, the posters were full of messages denouncing the Neo-Con, their policies and what he thought was their hypocrisy. Turning around on his heels, he began walking back, "Come my friends, the slavers will be here soon if we do not make haste. There is still work to be done. The badlands tribes need our assistance."

"Sssshould I preepare the "ssspeccialls?" the Evol hissed.

"Yes... They shall be most instrumental in our little siege..."

---

---

The night had fallen on the great unending desert planes of Zoria as the Huachuca called it, a place located in what was once Arizona. Campfires and smoke rose to illuminate the starry skies as the unending beating of metal drums echoed in the landscape. Many a men had camped out here for their raids on the lands of the League of the First People, palisades and barricades walled off much of their new settlement from the outside; a network of shallow trenches cut into the ground beyond that with towers and firing positions to assist.

The amount of men here was numerous, hundreds most likely, maybe even thousands. But outside of the warriors and champions was their families and children, the reason they had taken such a journey to raid the League. There own lands were dying, not that it was really ever able to sustain them to begin with, but now the dirt had simply become sand and stone with no chance of coming back. They had to move or they would die.

This newest base was only the first in a chain of havens for the Huachua, all still lead by their General with a Major acting as tribe head. Some would say that this would have disgraced their old world roots in the pre-war American military, but this move had been purely pragmatic. Raiding was once supplementary to their activities, but now it had to be their main stay; farming had failed them and now it would be lucky if their herds could find something to munch on. It was like another apocalypse for them, as if the first one wasn't enough.

Now, their warbands and raiders were once again turned back, bruised and battered. It was at times like this which the War Council had to gather in the most unfavorable of atmospheres. The air around them was black and gloomy, news had it that the League was using armored vehicles, something they had to leave behind at their old home. Twas truly dark times, dark enough for words of using the legendary metal monsters. The debate flamed on for hours into the night with no end in sight until dawn, but no matter the debate on the rising of the old world beasts, the next day was going to be their attack once more in force. This was no longer a war for resources or glory, it was a fight for the survival of their people, a last stand against the darkness which would descend upon them had they failed.

West Koniginsberg, Northern Manitoba, Gottesland

"Shiiit!", James Painter exclaimed in horror, as a cannon ball blasted through the barricade. He tumbled backward, shards of wood and rusted metal flying into his face. His ears rang violently. Endless thunderous cracks and bangs echoed through the town, as the Gottesland army continued their assault. Through his squinting eyes, he saw a nearby comrade jump up and return fire with his rifle, only to tumble backward, riddled with bullets.

In preparation for the government's response, the rebellion had fortified the majority of Koniginsberg, barricading every major street into town, and stationing armed guards. Not that they thought this could ever repel the military. It was meant to be a show of force, to make negotiating easier when the government sent a representative. They weren't expecting this. This was a slaughter.

The reality of James' own mortality sunk in. He had to get out of there. The rebellion had only just begun.

"PULL BACK, MEN!", he bellowed as loud as he could, "PULL BACK!". "INTO THE CITY! PULL BACK!"

Sure enough, even through the rain of bullets and the endless roar of gunshots, his men heard the call for retreat. One by one, ducking below what remained of the barricade, they turned around and sprinted into the city. Hoisting himself upright, and rising to his feet, James followed quickly behind them. As he ran, he glanced over his shoulder, to see the army in its full glory. It was something to behold. All along the horizon, stood thousands of uniformed soldiers, clad in their signature brown coats. As they fired, groupings of about a hundred marched forward, one after another. All raising and aiming their rifles in unison. Before he could even register what happened next, his vision went dark, and he fell to the ground with a weighty thump.

Laying there on the cold stone street, the pain hit him. He curled inward and lifted his hands to his face, writhing from the shock. They hit his eye! His breathing grew shallow, and panic overwhelmed him. He had to keep going. They were going to kill him!

With all the strength he could muster, James again rose to his feet. Hunched over, and bleeding profusely, hardly able to see out of one tear-soaked eye, he shambled onward. The thundering continued behind him. Onward, he kept going, as another cannonball struck a nearby roof, sending more shrapnel cascading onto him. It didn't matter, he had to keep going. A sharp stab of pain jolted from his lower back, as more bullets whizzed past him. Still, he went.

Tripping around the street corner, he slowed his pace and attempted to catch his breath. He was out of the line of fire. Seeing an open door ahead, he dove forward and swung himself inside. Rapidly growing dizzy, he looked around, and saw the friendly faces of two of his men. They ushered him through a latch door in the floor, before following him in. The door swung shut, and he was surrounded by darkness.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

East Koniginsberg, Northern Manitoba, Gottesland

Lady Victoria sat at her desk in the mayor's former office. She glanced out the window, to see him hanging from a nearby tree. Smirking, she wondered how much longer it would be before the government's dignitary arrived. She had been reciting her demands all morning. Then she heard it.

Off in the distance, from across town, gunshots rang through the air.

"... the hell?", she muttered to herself, furrowing her brow. "What are those savages doing?"

It was probably nothing. Perhaps a warning shot, to show the government officials that the rebels weren't going to take 'no' for an answer.

More gunshots rang. Far louder, and more numerous.

She rose from her desk, startled.

Then came the great roar of a cannon volley.

Walking quickly, she headed for the office door. Opening it, she began looking around for her personal guards.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Gottesland United Force's Rear Military Camp, Northern Manitoba, Gottesland

"General, sir!", a peppy young messenger spouted.

"What is it corporal?", Luke MacFearghus-Koln responded wearily, leaning back in his chair and gazing up at the green fabric of the outpost's command tent.

"The assault is successfully underway. We're encountering minimal resistance, and should have full occupation of the city within a couple hours."

"... expected.", the general mumbled in response.

"Sir?"

"As expected", he clarified with a bit more aggression. "Here, deliver this to Argyllsberg", he added, scratching away at a piece of paper and handing it to the kid.

"Yes sir!", the corporal responded, before turning about face, and marching outside the tent. Walking to the stables, he glanced at the note in his hand. It read:

We won,
-General MacFearghus-Koln

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Parliament, Argyllsberg

Prime Minister Steinmann gazed apprehensively through the front windows of the parliament building, watching the strange convoy be escorted through town. Surrounded by Argyllsberg city guards, a rusted-out pickup truck lurched forward, carrying four equally filthy people. He did his best to wipe the scowl from his face.

The truck screeched to a halt at the foot of building's staircase, and the passengers hopped out. Steinmann fussed with his jacket and tie for a moment. He had no doubt he'd look like a king to these hicks. Glancing back out the window, his eyes grew wide as one of the individuals began to tussle with the guards. With the utmost haste, he burst through the front door, and trotted down the stone steps.

"Halt!", he commanded to the guards. "Mein dear guests, vut is ze problem?", he inquired of the foreigners.

"Huh?", one man responded, attempting to parse the accent. "... Oh, uhhh, your guards don't speak English. We were looking around, and they started grabbing at us."

"Ah! Mai apologies. It vus a misunderstandink.", Steinmann attempted to explain. "Zey vur just tryink to show you zee vey to mein office."

Steinmann looked the foreigners over for a moment, before realizing that one of the filthy hicks was Gottesland's diplomat.

"Ah, Houk! Vhy did you not translate for zem?", he exclaimed.

"Sorry sir", the diplomat responded. "It all happened too fast."

"Vell enough, let us be goink. Zee president is vaiting inside.", Steinmann sighed, gesturing to the foreigners to follow him.

Three doors and two flights of stairs later, they all sat in the Prime Minster's office.

"So", said President MacFearghus-Koln to the guests, "as it seems to me, our nations are a match made in heaven. Our farmers will be happy to feed their southern neighbours, so that they never know hunger again. In exchange, we require a portion of your supply of metals, so as to maintain the farming equipment we'll be using to feed your people. However, my sources had left me unaware that you had the resources to fuel and maintain gasoline vehicles. We would like a small portion of your gasoline reserve to go with your shipments, so that we may share in the prosperity of pre-war vehicles. Likewise, any spare military equipment would be greatly appreciated, and rewarded. You must understand, we are a peaceful people, but it is still vitally important that we protect ourselves, and not fall behind the rest of the world on technology. In return for this, our shipments will include the finest Canadian softwood lumber, so that you can continue to grow without losing too much of your own green-space. Do we have an agreement?"

"I can promise common metals.", the southern diplomat responded. "Beyond that, I'll have to check."

"Very well", the president concluded. "Then I'll sent you off with our first shipment of food and lumber, as a sign of good will. From there, I'll take whatever you sent back as the answer."

"Sounds good to me", the diplomat agreed.

"Oh, and I'm afraid that we don't have any fuel to offer you, to get your truck back home. Instead, I'll muster a caravan for you, drawn by our strongest horses. Take them as a gift as well."

"Alright", pondered the diplomat. "I accept the generosity."

"Good, good. Mister Houk will show you to the stables, to ensure there are no further misunderstandings. And to oversee the assembly of the shipment", MacFearghus-Koln stated. "Herr Houk."

"Jawohl?", Houk saluted.

"Gib ihm das beschissen pferde, sondern geben ihnen das gute holz.", MacFearghus-Koln commanded with a smile. "Und, demontieren das fahrzeug."

"Jawohl, Herr Prasident", he responded respectfully.

With that, the men were escorted out.

Rog's bar and grill and fallen into a soft slumber with the onset of the noon-time lull. Everyone who could having already eaten, the little restaurant river-side had dozed off into a sleepy stillness its proprietor took for a moment to clean up the mid-day mess. Packing up the rough paper napkins they ate on, sweeping away the crumbs, and brushing the dirt out the door.

The spring air was warm this day, and he left the door cracked open with a chair leg to let in a breeze, while it not being open enough to keep his bell from being rung. In the corner Kid Rock sung an adolescent lament to the year 1989 in the battered CD player he had managed to salvage. It wasn't much that remained when the world fell, but with everything else lacking it was amazing all the same. He joked about it to himself, wondering if he should simply charge folk to listen to it while they ate. But music had been free before The War, so while kill that spirit before it could?

Besides, that time would come when the player failed and died, or the generator that powered it out back. Whichever came first. Or he, even.

Leaning over his broom, pushing the latest collection of dirt, rock and crumbs up into a neat pile in the center of the room he didn't look up to see the Aventurier officer walking up to the door. It wasn't until the bell clang softly he looked up and turned.

“Paul!” he shouted, smiling, “How you doing? Late for lunch.”

“I'm fine Rog, just here to pay off my dues.”

“Ya leavin'?” the proprietor asked, leaning his broom up alongside the table as he walked around the counter, “I wasn't going to send hitmen after you, if that's what you're afraid of. I don't think they could even get inside the Renn Cen anyways.”

Paul laughed, smiling softly, “No, I'm not afraid of any dirtbags you send after me to collect. But I got word from the boss. He wants to send me to New York.”

“Shit, I'm sorry bud.” Rog joked, with a dry laugh, “New Yorkers are pricks, and I'm sure bombs hadn't changed their entitlement.”

“What a wealth of knowledge, you got any more?” Paul said, bantering his way to the counter.

“'fraid not, that's all I remember.” Rog continued, he shuffled around in a receipt box he kept under his counter.

Each receipt of his were hand-written, dated, and titled with the name of the customer. Organized by date, it wasn't difficult to find Paul's last order, “In any case, your mean comes out to fifty dollars.”

Paul nodded, and search his pockets for the money, “I guess the commander wants to find a route into the Atlantic.” the Aventurier said, “I don't know how long I'll be.”

“I don't know how to get to the ocean through New York, but power to you if there's someway. You picking your crew? I could perhaps do away with leaving this shitpot.”

Paul smiled, and laughed, “Afraid not, powers to appoint my own crew are beyond me.” he said dryly, throwing down onto the counter a handful of Michigan tens, “That should be it though.”

Rog scooped up the bills and began flipping through the pale jean blue notes. Satisfied he pocketed the paper bills and struck out the order on Paul's receipt with a stick of charcoal. “There, you're clean.” he declared with mock triumph.

“Thanks, now I can sail out to die with a clean conscious.”

“Now, don't be talking like that.” Rog scolded, “I need you back. You're the only ass hole worth talking to in these parts. And the only one who appreciates The White Stripes.

“So you come back when you find that ocean, and buy some more sandwiches.”

“Plan on it...” Paul said, trailing off. He hung his eyes on the old pictures adorning the walls. Contemplatively he asked his friend, “You're before the war, what do you know about New York?”

“I know there's a city named New York as much as there is a state known as New York. The city's in the state. And the city was a big place, full of big buildings, and big jackasses.

“You can't stump the Trump.”

“Know anything more than that?”

“Afraid not.” Rog sighed, “Nothing that'd help you. I haven't ever been there, and I could tell you about how someone crashed some airplanes into buildings there but that was before my time. And ancient terrorist attacks aside, those aren't going to help you any even if you got there.”

“Shame.” Paul remarked.

“Sorry about that.” the restaurateur shrugged, “Now if we were talking Windsor I could tell you more. I've been across the river more than a few times in my youth. Mostly to catch some concerts and what not. Tell you about that tunnel before it collapsed, and the bridge before you folk shut it down totally and turned it into ramparts from which you watch the river.

“Take me over there, give me an hour or two, and I could maybe just relearn the streets. In a strange sort of way, it was almost a second home.”

“How's that, you had family there or something?”

“Aunt and uncle, actually. But that's all the past and they're dust.”

“Well, hopefully they have peace.”

“Same wish I hope for them too some night. More so my parents, and my old friends. A lot of people I miss, not so much from the bombs but everything from after. I did loose my grandma to the nukes, and a old girlfriend. Both shook me up for years as I nearly starved after.

“But shit, this isn't time to cry. So you paid your dues so get the fuck out and come back when you have new war stories.”




With the sun setting over the horizon, the water of the great lake burned with a raw elemental passion. Dawn fell across Escanaba casting long shadows and fingers of purple and orange light thrown down by the setting sun. Swelling and dipping the waves of Lake Michigan. The late season glowed with the fire of the setting sun, creating a carpet overlay of oranges and reds the silhouetted the pines and shrubs.

Unfettered by modern street-lighting the stars glowed in the sky above. Peeking out behind inky black clouds and shimmering like diamonds through a veil of thin mist in the air.

His body sore and the stickiness of sweat worn into the wool fabric of his clothes, Marc trudged up through the melting snow to his house on the lake. The windows glowed with the soft light of lanterns, signaling his daughter was home. She hadn't spent all night at her friend's after all, and he felt a slight weight lift off his shoulders for not having to worry about her walking home in the dead of night.

Ellie greeted him the moment the front door slammed close behind him, “Welcome home!” she called from some distant room in a corner of the house.

“Thank you.” Marc called back, the tone of his voice dry and cracked. He shuffled about the living room, hanging up his woolen work coat on the coat rack by the door in the dim lamp light.

“I'm going to head out again in a bit.” he called out to her. He knew she could handle herself for a little bit more. She was a strong independent sort of girl.

“You always do!” she protested from the back, “Dad, you always do!” she whined.

Marc rose a hand to his brow and messaged his head. He wasn't up for another argument about it. He had hoped today he would get an easy day, with finding the Gray Fur corpse today in the woods. The foreman heard them, but figured a couple of trespassing hunters was not the lumber company's concern, or their own. George even had protested concern.

“What if you come home beat up again!” Ellie continued to protest.

“Ell, that was only one time!” Marc shot back. His back was sore and he felt like he needed something to ease the pain and message it away. A little bit of comfort to cool the burning in his muscles from throwing wood all day.

“You say that all the time, Dad!” Ellie went on, “But one way or another you come back home, and you're in some sort of mess!” she continued shouting from the backroom. It wasn't even a face to face argument.

“All, I'm your father and an adult, I can make my own decisions!”

“But Dad!” Ellie whined, finally coming out of her room and hanging out into the hall, “I made a stew today! From one of Chrissy's Mom's books! It's really good, you got to stay home and try it!”

“I'll have some tomorrow morning.” Marc said, looking up to his daughter.

In the lamp-light she was a shadow against a canvas of flickering yellow-green light. The night gown she wore hung loose from her shoulders and was only half visible in the light, the young curvature of her young body as she hung of an arm in the doorway plainly visible. Catching himself wandering along the shape of her belly and thigh, Marc realized he hated it. It made him feel slimy, and it only made his annoyance worse. “It'll be spoiled by then!” she shouted.

“It'll be fine, I'll light another fire in dha morning and heat it up then!” his voice cracked.

“Dad, please! Come on!”

“I said no, I made up my mind for this evening!”

“Like every evening? Christ Dad, what does the town think of you?” she protested, angrily throwing her arms.

There was a yearning desire to slap the girl. He didn't want this now, and he was a blind-siding argument. He turned away from her, shielding his eyes as he felt a tremble, “Besides dha point!” he shouted back.

“Do you know what someone said to me today?” Ellie asked, dropping her voice, “'When are you going to start, pretty little whore?'”

“Who said that?” Marc asked, he found something new to direct his attention to and he turned back around. She was standing in the middle of the hall, her arms crossed in front of her.

“I know what you're going to do if I told you who. And it's not going to solve anything.”

Marc could be called a drunk all he wanted. He knew that much was true. And honestly: he was fine with that. He felt resigned to it. It was comfort, at least for him. But there was the nagging morsel of a consciousness that knew it was bad all the same, and it had a voice that sorely hoped it would not be something carried down to his daughter.

He wanted to snuff out that lie now. Damn the aching in his body.

“I'll find out.” he mumbled to himself, “I'll find out who, and I'll fuck him over good.”

He looked up. “I'm going to dha bar.” he declared, and turned out to the door. A blood lust in his knuckles and a belly that called for whiskey.

“Dad for fucksakes stop!” Ellie shouted, but he already left.
____________

Against the far side of the bar a band equipped with makeshift wash-tub instruments and hand carved guitars plucked along a folksy tune. The soft see-saw of a violin wailed above the deep bass tones of a washtub cello bass and the meaty pumping of deer-hide drums. Atop a stage of milk-crates they looked out over a chaotic throng of tired men and women who shuffled to the music in a lamp and candle lit in an old side-of-the-way burger dive. In the late evening hours the joint was packed asses to elbows with the concrete dance floor a tacky jungle of people. Hanging back from the chaos the tired prenukers leaned against tall wooden tables clutching glasses of stout, lager, and beer.

For Marc, it was the bar who propped him up.

Shots of whiskey down and he hadn't extinguished the insult that smoldered besides his head. Though the aching pain of a day of work had softened, he hadn't found his target to brawl with. He also had no plan, and that pissed him off more.

With a shot glass pressed against his forehead he starred down at the raw unfinished wood of the bar with a sour look as the smell of people mingled with the smell of wood fire and vats of frying food smoldered out back. Shadows popped in and out of existence from behind him as passerby's obscured the candle light hanging from the support post.

To his side sat a whore who was deep in flirting with a customer. Her loud raunchy laughter eclipsed all other sounds. 'Ellie, become like her?' Marc thought to himself. And that only made his attitude more desperate, but without a vent to take it out on. His fingers wrung tight across the shot glass. He didn't quite care if he broke it.

Soon, the whore and her customer departed in a cloud of jubilant forced laughs as she was carried off by a fat, drunk Romeo-to-be. As soon as they left, someone else took their place.

“You look well.” a deep south-state voice said.

He looked up, shooting a spiteful drink to the man besides him.

Covered in heavy leather, thick tufts of loose animal fur wrapped up from under the collar of his coat. A scowling fox's head rested on his head like a cap, letting flow coat of a amber that shrouded the back of his head to his shoulders, “I'll buy you a drink.” he invited.

Though angry, he wasn't one to pass one down. “Fine, whatever.” he grumbled.

The hunter rose a heavy gloved hand to the bartender. Throwing a roll of faded blue dollars onto the bar he called out, “A round for me and my new buddy!” he said with a smile.

He was a clean shaved man. Though his face was covered in a few rogue scars he looked to be a handsome sort of man by many accounts. Even in dim lighting his eyes shown a brilliant blue and full locks of muddy blonde hair fall limp from underneath his hat.

As he removed his gloves the fur-coated man looked down with a puzzled look, “So, why do you look like someone took a shit in your cup?” he asked, “Tell me your story and I'll tell you mine.” he added in invitation.

Marc scowled. “Someone's talking shit about me.”

“Really now?”

“I'd fucking fuck him over if I knew who.” he swore. Two tall miscellaneous drinks appeared before the two men.

“Tried asking around?” the man asked, turning to the floor, “Any idea who it might be?”

“No. And who ever's fucking talking is probably a pussy. If he knew I was looking it might turn and walk out. Fucking cunts. Fuck!”

“Mhmm, small town drama. I wish I was so boring.” the stranger commented with a joking, sarcastic smile, “Me: I'm heading up to Iron Mountain.”

“Why there?” Marc asked.

“Town fell silent. Not that you ever hear much from Iron Mountain but I haven't heard a word of stories from there in a little over a year. I got some friends and we're going to check it out.”

“Yea, have fun with that.” Marc snickered.

“We're looking to take on some good hands for the journey. We stopped over for some supplies for the long walk out that way. Willing to tag along, pay is good.” he offered.

“No, I'm fine.” croaked Marc.

“Fair enough.” the stranger added, dismissively twirling the glass of beer in his hands. He took a long steady sip and put it down on the table, “Not like ranger's work is for everyone. Don't get to hang around in one place for too long.”

Marc grumbled idle nothing to himself as he turned to look at the rest of the bar. Surely, the piss-head that pissed on he and his daughter were here. Was he still here? Did he leave already? He took a heavy drag from his cup, downing much of it in a single draw.

“Shit son, I knew you Yoopers could drink, but you're a fucking fish.” laughed the stranger.

Marc mumbled something in agreement before reaching to down the rest. But as he rose it to his mouth the band went silent all the sudden. All the music and the chaos of the bar went quiet soon after. “What's going on?” someone asked.

Marc turned to look, but couldn't hear or see anything. But there was a creeping tension in the room. He looked over at the band, the lead violinist looked blankly forward, an intense look on his face. Had he heard something.

“I think something's happening.” the range said, standing up out of the stool, leaving a beer that barely had three quarters left in the glass. The people parted like the Red Sea as he moved to the door, reaching under his coat for a hatchet at the belt.

All of a sudden from the distance an explosion rang. Echoing and soft from the forest. “Shit!” someone screamed, and panic ensued.

People panicked and dove for the door. The ranger soon disappeared among the crowd as Marc too was swept along in the waves of people pressing to escape. As the door was flung open and the people fled, so to did the sounds of fighting enter. In the distance gun-fire echoed in the cool night as Marc was thrown out the door.

People scrambled in every direction, absolutely lost as in the sky towards town a fierce threatening glow shone in the night sky. Marc could see smoke rising into the sky, and embers.

Like a release of steam he felt the anger melt away and replaced with the chilling gushing sensation of fear. And concern. In a panic, he too broke off into a run into the trees towards town. He had to get home, and get Ellie.

Diving out a tree-line he was blinded by the light of a burning farm house. The heat already intense as he rose his arms to shield his face. He just barely caught the glimpse of a misshapen shadow swing a club through the air, catching him in the head. The world went black and cold, and his last sensation was falling into the cold spring snow.