Change - ch. 7

The interior of the space station was flaring with red flashing lights and the sound of boots pounding on the catwalks hanging dangerously over open wires and circuit boards. The crew was mustering to their positions preparing for the worst, not knowing what to do next, awaiting their orders from their commander.

“Colonel, we’ve lost contact with Mariner Bravo!” Wallace roared over his shoulder.

Baker looks to the technical sergeant and points his finger to him in frustration and yells over the emergency sirens, “Well, God damn it! Get them back!”

With his other hand, Baker grabs the microphone and presses the intercom button. A robotic click is heard followed by a horn to give his announcement. The sirens became quiet as his voice, like god, blasted over the entire station and to his subordinates.

“We have lost contact with Mariner Bravo. Weather conditions on the planet have made communications impossible. Scramble Mariner Charlie for immediate departure. Extraction and evaluation of Mariner Bravo’s condition is critical. Make it happen! Out!”

The crew was wary and tired. Susan Langley heard the order and turned her attention to another crewman. Susan was a military civilian working in coordination with the Department of Defense on this mission. Her job was to evaluate and assist the crew in asserting possible extraterrestrial or otherwise peculiar abnormalities during the mission. This constituted an anomaly from her perspective.

Sarah looks over to crew member beside her and asks him in cynicism, “You’ve got to be kidding me! We can’t dispatch a second vehicle with what crew is left!”

The crewmember didn’t reply. He was given his order.

“This is bullshit!” She threw down a pencil that was in her hand for no reason. She storms out of the cramped work station and down the maze of corridors to get answers from the Commander’s station.

Wallace was sweating, pressing buttons and flicking switches attempting to change frequencies on the off chance the Mariner Bravo scout party’s radio shifted their channels. He was welcomed by static and feedback loops from space.

“It’s no use sir, all channels are down!”

The colonel looks over to the radio frequencies and notices the same. He looks to a video monitor where the robot camera feed was coming through. The dust and wind on the planet had made it impossible to see anything but flying grey specks.

“Move the camera and see if the vehicle is still in the area.” He demanded.

Wallace did what he could but there was nothing to be seen from the Mar’s canyon. Another fruitless effort it seemed.

“Damn it!” Baker yelled.

A door slams closed and Sarah marches towards the Colonel not at all pleased by the order he had given, “Tell me what exactly you’re thinking sir! We can’t send down another crew on the surface now, who the hell would man the station?”

“Ma’am, the station is automated and I have men on the surface that require immediate extraction. I leave no man behind.”

“Even if that means your extraction may compromise the integrity of the station’s mission Colonel?”

“The station will be fine, this is a simple extraction mission at base camp on the surface.”

“Sir, you realize that the situation on the surface? Hurricane winds and debris may hinder your operation!”

“Ma’am, with all due respect, this is my call. Feel free to write your report as you deem necessary. We’re millions of miles from any beurorat right now. Stay in your lane Sarah and let me do mine!”

Wallace tried not to be part of this argument, still trying to shift channels and frequencies.

“Sergeant, escort her off my bridge!” Baker orders to Wallace.

He stands up and leaves his post and puts himself between her and his commander, “Ma’am, please leave the bridge immediately.”

She hesitated and tried to look over Wallace’s shoulders to the commander and like a reporter, she would not leave easily. Being pushed out she continued to ask and demand questions and responsibility for the station. Her face flustered red with anger.


On the surface of Mars the weather picked up a violent surge. The wind howled like a hungry wolf and debris slammed against the haul of the rover as it tried to escape the raging torrent of a Mariner sand storm.

The vehicle slams into a deep trench, Its nose digs into the soft soil. A boulder hits the rear of the armored tank and slams the exposed under carriage of the vehicle and jolts the crew inside.

A crewman inside flies from his seat and instantly crashes on the roof of the interior of the vehicle as the boulder collided with the bottom of the tank. Chapel braces for the impact and slams face first on a monitor that was hanging on from a stand on the side of the computer module. A third member is flung about like a rag doll, still buckled in his seat that was torn from bolts on the ground near the impact area. Him, the chair, all the items not bolted down bounced inside the small cavity like a pinball in racking points for the highest score.

Chapel shakes his head as he tries to gain his senses. Blood pouring down the side of his head he holds his arm in sheer pain. He groans to his crewmembers, “Jamison! Sampson!”

Chapel’s only response was the ominous howling wind and the creaking of metal as the boulders continued to pound on the outside by the hurricane.

Sampson releases an agonizing moan. He was still buckled in the chair which now hung like an ornament on a Christmas tree. A long metal rod stuck out from his chest. He spat blood and released a weak yell to his Lieutenant.

Chapel hears the pain and crawls over to him the best he could in the awkward walk way of what was left of his craft.

“Sampson!” Chapels made his way near him and saw that his soldier was hanging from the wall or was it the floor, it was hard to say in his state of mind.

“Stay with me Sampson, we’ll make it through this.”

Chapel touched Sampson’s face his skin cold and clammy. His sweat was ice cold and when he spoke blood dribbled down his chin. With his eyes trying not to roll into the back of his skull he replies, “Sir…” To the end, he was a trooper.

Sampson looks to Chapel and whispers a final request. He knew he was dying and they were so far from home, “Tell my fiance’ that I love her…”

“Don’t waste your strength. We’ll be back aboard the ship soon. Colonel Baker is sending help.” Fool’s words for a moment of desperation, but it was all the Lieutenant could do for him now.

A buzzer begins to go off and a mechanical female voice announces to the beaten crew that there was a breech in the haul and that life support was failing. Chapel could hear the whistle of his oxygen escaping from his tank.

Change - ch. 6

“Scavenger Alpha has descended. Making its way towards the target…” The frequency cuts out into gibberish and static. “Is that a good copy, over?”

The surface of Mars is a desolate terrain of cracked mud rocks and powdered rust. Within the red walls of the cavern there lay inside that strange metallic object. Certainly it wasn’t from this world or any world known to man. The Mariner Rover kept distance as the captain ordered and watched in silence as the little box was shot from space.

The box burned brilliantly in what little atmosphere the planet had before smashing into the surface. Even as the parachutes fell on top of the metallic box, labeled with the property of the United States, the enormous cube was quite the sight. The box took quite the beating as it rolled and smashed onto the surface before the impact balloons expanded and rolled the object up right.

The parachutes draped and twisted around the top of the crate and remained as silent as a metallic box could in the growing winds and debris slashing at its walls. It remained unmoving and still for what could have minutes before one side of the box opened up and dropped down like a ramp for loading cars on to the back of a big rig truck. The dimensions of the box were the normal military issued ‘quad con.’ Measuring the side of a small room in a cheap apartment, the box held within it a billion dollar piece of machinery.

The machine rolled out of the crate like some mechanical contraption from any 1960s science fiction. It rolled on a modulated tri-wheel track capable of flipping over even the harshest terrain and it wielded two powerful two-fingered claws that were able to pick up the finest and most delicate material available on Earth. The body of the robot was thin with bulking wires wrapping around what most would consider a spine. Its head was a square block with two massive red glowing eyes for sight followed by two additional cameras that constantly moved about. All of these visuals could be seen from the space station casually drifting above the scout party.
“Scavenger Bravo, that’s a good copy. Atmosphere radiation is interrupting signal. Expect delay in response time. Current time is thirteen fifty-six Zulu, package arrived at thirteen fifty-one Zulu. Do you confirm delivery, over?” Colonel Baker was lounging in his chair and leaned over to look through the small port hole and overviewed the roundness of the red planet below him.

The radio responded minutes after Baker’s response and he heard Lieutenant Chapel’s screaming clear enough to recognize the voice in the speaker. The winds picked up in the response made it difficult to understand his word and the Colonel could hear the small over shaking sounds of rock violently hitting the rover from the massive winds coming their direction.

“This is Scavenger Bravo, we confirm drop and it proceeds to target. Heavy winds in the area will make for difficult movement back to base, over.”

The robot was controlled by Sergeant Wallace near the Captain’s chair. His seat was far from completed. It was a make-shift gnarled wire frame with a torn pillow for the base. It creaked and rattled every time the station made an orbital adjustment. He hadn't grown used to it over the month of his time here, after all he had been working down in the cargo hold for most of his time. Wallace looks over to his commander and shakes his head with disagreement. He wasn’t pleased at all.

The robot on the surface attempted to move to the target inspected by the scout party before it, but it moved in slow periodic movements. It crept several feet forward and stopped. It moved several more feet forward and stopped. This was what the scout party noticed as a large chunk of something crashed against the side of their rover rattling the crew within.

“We can’t stay here much longer Sir, winds are picking up, danger imminent.”

Sergeant Wallace turns his attention to his commander and speaks bluntly, “Sir, this robot isn’t responding to controls. Something on the surface is interrupting the transmission. I suspect it’s the Mariner winds.”

The commander looks to Wallace and frowns. He nods his head and grabs the microphone from his desk and presses the button down, “Understood Scavenger, make your way back to base as soon as possible. Mission scrubbed, over.”

Lieutenant Chapel yelled at the top of his lungs from the cabin of the rover to his crew barely heard over the shattering torrents of wind outside, “I’ve been ordered to scrub the mission, prepare for immediate evacuation from the site!”

The two crew members were far from hesitant to react to the order and immediately began to move the rover around to move out of the chasm that they were in. The robot was left ignored and they all expected it was controlled by the experienced professional on the station in the heavens.

One of the crew members in the rover yelled back, “Moving out now!”

The rover was a massive machine the size of a small tank. It was armored to resist the impact of a nuclear explosion. The design was Russian and even though the armor was expensive it was insisted by several other governments in NATO. The tank moved slowly through the treacherous debris and was struck several times by boulders the size of small cars. The crew inside shook around like marionette dolls, but they held their resolve. Their only focus was to survive this growing storm they had found themselves in.

The robot moved inches and finally stopped at near the haul of the abandoned wreckage. The cameras had already been destroyed by the flying debris and Wallace was driving the machine blindly. There was a single camera left from the impact of the storm, a fail-safe system demanded by the Chinese. The camera recorded only in black and white and the resolution was terrible but at least the machine was still operational.

The grey and black images were spattered with speckles of grey and white flying by at incredible speeds when Wallace reviewed the footage nearly a minute after what the robot had seen. He looks to the Colonel and says, “I can’t see shit in this storm Sir… I don’t think this robot will survive this weather!”

Frustrated and blind, Wallace tries to drive the billion dollar machine out of harms way. This was his opportunity to show his captain what he was capable of doing. The brightest and most well equipped in the world. This was why Wallace was selected for the mission. This was more than just a simple operation to the sergeant, it was a test of mettle.

Colonel Baker looks back to Wallace, “Try and salvage what you can!” He looks over his shoulder and notices the rest of the crew wasn’t there. He turns on the intercom within the station and demands all hands on deck.

Wallace maneuvers the robot near the side of the wall and the lee side of the unknown object. Here the robot had the best chances of survival. Wallace continues to review the dark mass of spatter on his screen and can’t tell where the ship was or what the debris from the wind. The movement was erratic and from time to time the images from the camera jolted as the robot was struck or moved by the wind.

“All hands on deck! This is not a drill!” Baker spoke and his voice echoed heavily and loudly throughout the station, “All hands on deck!”

Suburbia - ch. 6-7

Ch. 6

Thieves sneaking around in broad daylight and trying to hide behind shrubs near the sides of someone's house should be an indicator that something going to happen. A neighbor was outside watering his yard wearing a stained white t-shirt and boxers along with knee high black socks and slippers. He was tall and too slender for his height while his head marked a perfect beacon to airplanes when the sun reflected off his scalp.

He swings the hose around, rainbow colors of water drops misting out around his lush flamingo garden, he notices the thieves at Jimmy's parents' house. Steward was the flamingo care-taker's name but the rest of the neighborhood called him stupid. He was adept at watering and caring for his lawn which had won the annual neighborhood beautification award for the past three years. He hung the medals on the window overlooking the road.

He waves over to the boys sneaking about, "Howdy there!"

A distant sound bellows to the thieves' direction like some exotic avian mating call. One boy had unplugged the bottom of the basketball goal, water draining down the driveway and into the street very conspicuously as the mating tune rung in his ears.

"Dude someone spotted us Roger!" Don whispered loudly to himself as he looks over either shoulder. His accomplice was no where to be seen. Maybe he was attempting to break in through the back door. Maybe he was a chicken-shit that ran before the job was done.

A twig of a man, pale as the moon and as hairy as a beast was waving gingerly at Don. Of course this suburban little paradise would never experience any break-in or other criminal mischief.

This was Brownwood after all!

When you go to a public area and bump into someone that looks up at you then smiles and begins to start conversation, often it is polite to return the conversation until a decisive moment to escape. Sometimes two complete strangers meet and someone says that they knew them from high school or at some other convention. Sometimes the recipient of the comment lies and nods his head saying that yes perhaps they had met. This is often also called being polite.
This was exactly what Don had done. He stood up in the drive way and waved back to Steward with a ginger smile. A loud pound followed by a crack erupts the awkward moment and the criminal goes to check on Roger who by now was either halfway to his car or extending his criminal record.

"Those are some nice boys they have!" Steward says to himself and smiles, shaking his head and returning to watering his garden of grass.

He leaped and bounded over bushes and slammed his boots into a thick puddle of mud. He dashed past the corner of the brick home in the green alley between the house and the fence. Don couldn't help but remind himself of Rambo while charging into the dangerous unknown of Jimmy's backyard and Roger's criminal mischief.

Glass sparkled brightly on the concrete patio in the backyard and the screen was torn asunder with manic glee. Don's eyes bulge from his face and his mouth gapes open like a snake trying to swallow a rodent three times its size. He tried so hard to emit words from his throat but they merely came out as audible chirps and whistles of partial syllables.

Standing there staring at the living room was as traumatizing as the first glance at what the police like to consider 'breaking and entering.' Shards of thick glass laid on the red carpet along with wiry shreds of what used to keep the bugs and vermin out of the house of windy days. The wire didn't withstand rats the size of Roger. The screen wasn't insured for that sort of treatment.
Roger pops out from no where and cracks a huge shard of glass with his tennis shoe, "His parents are freaks!" He laughed out loud. The curiosity had sunk in for Roger and he was far too excited to realize how loud the breaking glass must have been to the rest of the world.

"We need to get the hell out of here man!" Don demanded that Roger stop playing around.

"It'll be okay, bro. No one knows we're here!"

"I think you missed the part where you shattered a door made of glass you fucking moron!"

"Was it loud?"

"Yes!"

"How loud?"

"Very loud!"

"That loud?"

"YES!"

Roger looks over his shoulder and grabs something that looked important. A purple elephant with a crystal held high by the statue's trunk. In reality, this didn't cost more than a dollar at the thrift store.

"I guess we should probably go then?" Roger said while tucking the elephant in his shirt."
"YES!" Don didn't know what else to say. His face was as red as a baker's furnace and his clenched fists were ready to pummel someone like a champion ultimate fighter.

"Get your panties out of a wad…" Roger replies after seeing the fury in his accomplice's eyes, "We still have to load up that basketball goal."

Flamingos seemed to stare at the two boys as they snuck around the side of the house from the backyard. After performing something that is immoral or down right wrong there is often a feeling of dread or paranoia. No one ever raises their hand saying they did it. Even some prisoners serving double life sentences for triple homicide say they didn't do anything. They were framed. They were innocent.

Rome is known for the fine architecture of ancient Greek statues and the astonishing waterfalls and aqua-ducts. Steward may very well be made from granite and marble as the boys exposed themselves to the front yard on their way to the drive way and the truck. The lanky white gardener held the green hose at his hip and the gush of water spewing out from his nozzle looked more excited to be held than not. The dull canvas Mona Lisa staring expression on Steward's face should be a Kodak moment. He watched the boys for a long hard minute trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

Don was an idiot. Last season he had single handedly saved his team from an embarrassing defeat when he scored a touch down in the last quarter followed by an interception and an additional touch down in the final minutes to win his season. The all-star player didn't even know what the score was throughout the game. He was ordered to run. That was all Don did. That's all

Don was good at. Don no care cuz don dad rich.

He waves at Steward with a cheerful disposition. Not only does he reveal his face but exposes other attributes so often asked by the police. He is a six feet and two inches tall with blue eyes, and black hair. The stranger was roughly two hundred pounds. Mostly muscle. This was Don and he drove a vintage truck, white. That is what Steward would tell the cops if they came over asking, that was if anyone called the police on the kids. No one had reason to steal in Brownwood after all. The Beaver would envy this little commune of good faith.

Steward quirks his lip into a faint and dubious grin and waves back to the kids. His long green hose flapping mindlessly about as a breeze picks up. A rainbow shimmers from the water mist uplifted by the wind. The green grass beats happily as the water pellets tickle their blades eager for more of what the gardener had to offer. Suburbia could not be more gay and full of Zen.

Ch. 7

"Help me with this damned thing!" Roger whispers in a roar to Don.

Don was already attempting to open his truck and preparing for their escape while Roger struggled with the heavy load. Sweat beading off his brow he looks over his shoulder to the driver of the truck sitting there turning the engine.

The basketball goal was more cumbersome than it was heavy. It stood eight feet tall and weighed a hundred or so pounds at the base. The plexi-glass board behind the rim had a white silhouette of Michael Jordon slamming a dunk. The goal seemed brand new. Of course it would, Jimmy wasn't the sporty type. Besides, his mother hated the idea of allowing her child to participate in sports. Jimmy's health was far too important to her and to bear the thought of injury. Her little Jimmy would never do something so barbaric.

Instead, the boy became a mock of ridicule and dislike. He was weak and lacked any self-esteem because of his sheltered life. His father wasn't much of a father when it came to teaching him how to be a man and to stand up for what he believed in. His mother was just a paranoid lawyer. They both worked long hours most of the time and Jimmy's best friend was the television. This was the life of little Jimmy, his escape was channel 13 between commercials between the hours of five and six.

He could have gone outside and played with his basketball goal if only his mother allowed him to have a basketball. Mom would not hear any of it and refused to allow him the opportunity. Even as society began to stress the importance of living active lives, Jimmy was not allowed to be part of this cast. Jimmy was destined to sit and vegetate.

"Why do we even keep that out there?" She asked Jimmy's father.

He was sipping coffee and reading the daily newspaper that was thrown exactly at seven each morning. He puts the steaming mug down and then looks to her as she slips a plastic wrapped sandwich in a paper bag.

"Maybe one day you'll let him actually be a boy dear." He was so subservient to her, they both knew who wore the pants in the house. They both knew who paid the bills and kept food on their plates. It certainly wasn't him.

"I want you to get rid of it." She demanded as she rolled the top of the paper bag down crunching a bag of chips within.

"Honey, it was a gift to Jimmy. You know how much he cares about it." He says while turning a page. He continues, "You should really let him use it. It's sentimental for him. You know how important it is for the boy."

She huffs like an ogre hungry for mortal blood and turns around to another room.

Jimmy comes downstairs as he does every morning. His feet stomp on each flank as loud as the last and dad reminds him that grandmother is in the other room sleeping. Jimmy's breakfast was already on the table for him. This was just another morning. This was just the same routine as before. This was their life.

Suburbia - ch. 4-5

Ch. 4

The plan was simple. It consisted of Don's vintage Ford pickup truck and senior skip day. They would find something to cover the bed of the truck as to not scratch the silver paint job. Then they would have to drive to their victim's residence where they would steal the basketball goal in the drive way while everyone else was at work.

Roger and Don would meet up at a busy parking lot about three miles from the house. This is where Roger would leave his mustang and ride with Don to the scene of the crime. From there they would back the truck up into the parking lot and steal the goal.

Don didn't think that was enough and he decided to add a paper bag filled with his dog's shit on the steps of the front door of the house, lighting it on fire as they speed away victoriously. This plan would work like a charm.

Roger was always a misfit. It all started the day of his conception when his mother and father made him out of wedlock. The pregnancy was a nightmare for the couple as well and his mother had thought more than once to abort the baby. Sometimes she thinks it should have been the right thing to do. Unfortunately, for Brownwood, it didn't happen.

He was born prematurely which became a quick burden on his mother. The baby was expensive from the very start. The parents were not ready for this responsibility and his early years were filled with confused messages and lack of attention. He began to slack at school at an early age and was picked on because of his size.

All of this changed in junior high school when he had a growth spurt and instantly became the brawny muscle he is today. For all the times he had been teased and picked on, it was now time for him to share that love with his fellow classmates. Soon everyone at the school would remember his name, Roger Fernandez.

This was another problem he had growing up. He was Caucasian with a Spanish name. This often confused his teachers as well as his peers. "Whitey Chico" was his name growing up and if anyone were to call him that now there would be missing teeth. The ironic thing about punching out someone's teeth for saying that name is that without front teeth the name sounds like "Why Chico?"

Roger and Don were close friends but still had a rivalry over women. Secretly they both wanted the other's girlfriend. They never said it to one another. It was one of those things you just don't tell your friend. They both played on the football team but Roger had quit for his senior year. He said it was a waste of time.

The fact is, the coach kicked him from the star role because he wasn't a team player. Roger couldn't bare the thought and he left outraged telling everyone that the game was stupid, the team was pathetic, and the coaches were mindless freaks. Don knew better and stayed. His team was definitely good enough for state this year.

"Dude, where you at?" Don said into his cell phone after Roger picked up.

"I'm on my way, bro. I'm about five minutes away. I got stuck behind this soccer ball mom!" Roger seemed furious over the wire.

"Yeah what ever, just meet me in the parking lot. I'm in Aisle F near Wal-mart."

"See you in a sec."

The red mustang rolls down the aisle like a dream. The V-8 turbo charged engine was growing heavy under the pounding bass vibrating in the trunk. There is something about white urban boys trying to act cool with their thumping rap music and their hat flipped backwards. For this occasion Roger was wearing a giant gold cross. It was a cheap rip off from a music video he saw once.

A hand pokes out of the vintage truck and waves the mustang over. The red beast rolls into a spot near the truck and the hood of the car extracts from its hidden frame. It could rain, always the possibility in Brownwood.

Roger locks the canvas and removes his bling and slips it into the glove department. He slips out of the car and closes the door and pushes a button locking it with a single beep.

"Yo man, never thought I'd make it!" Roger chuckles while walking with a limp, holding the front of his pants as if they were about to fall to his ankles. Don could see his reflection in the black shades Roger was wearing as he leans on the window frame of the truck.

"Get off the truck Roger! What the fuck are you thinking?" Don was always paranoid about the truck. It was vintage after all and it wouldn't be easily replaced.

The two exchanged insults and Roger enters the passenger seat, "Let's get going."

Don shouts a howl and turns the engine of the truck. There was another roaring growl as his truck creeps from its space and into the mess of traffic. Within a few minutes the two of them would be well on their way to criminal mischief.

"Did you get the shit?" Roger asks.

"Yeah dude, it's in the back of the truck."

Roger shakes his head, "Man that's dope."

Trends and fads come and go, dope once meant idiocy and then transformed into a generic title for drugs and apparently now it means that something is outstanding.

The music in the truck blared loudly as they accessed the highway. They ignored the rest of the world as they passed by the "Welcome to ignorance, America!" sign.

Ch. 5

Lockers at the high school were small compartments to conserve space for optimal capacity. This was the blue print that was proposed by the architects and sold to the state under the assumption that the building process would be cheaper and more efficient. Three lockers per column extending as far as the eyes could see. This was Brownwood High School's answer to space saving.

The school board bought the idea and the students suffered convenience in return. It's not as if the state politicians cared about it much. Each student had a price tag and each head would bring lucrative profits into their pockets. This process is similar to breeding and herding cattle in Texas. The only difference between the two tasks is that driving an entire arm into the cow's anus to check for pregnancy was not required for students.

One of the lockers slammed repeatedly as Jimmy fought to conserve the space in his backpack. Jimmy's locker was . Shreds of crumbled paper and notebooks flapped about like a white out blizzard in winter inside the confined space of the locker as he pounded the door closed. The latch only mocked Jimmy with each attempt and tossed the door back out like a used whore.

Rejection was a word Jimmy knew quite well.

Cursing and screaming obnoxiously at inanimate objects never resolves a problem but it certainly makes the frustration a little more tolerable. Jimmy continued on his epic quest to close his locker, his black backpack swinging to and fro on his back was liable to hit an innocent spectator waltzing down the congested hallway between Jimmy's class periods. He had just finished English literature where he received another bloody document with a very low number and he was about to sit in on a government class where he watched the teacher from behind his eyelids. This was the way things went on 'T days.' Wake up, go to school, fight the locker, sleep through class, head to lunch, and go home.

Jimmy stops and looks over his shoulder as an annoying prodding finger pressed into his neck. The nerds would name this the Vulcan choke hold. Rachel called it fun. The frustrated kid spins around and was prepared to curse at this new-found animate object but to his disbelief it wasn't one of the boys. He was taken off guard and began to stutter. Jimmy wasn't much of a public speaker. He rarely spoke at school except to tell people to leave him alone. Besides, she was a goddess to him, Italian beauty, he imagines her profile pinned up on his wall. He imagines her groping herself and her tongue drawn out of her mouth like a hungry tiger. Maybe Jimmy should stop day dreaming so much.

Rachel blinks as Jimmy spins around as though prepared to destroy the world in rage. Half expecting him to speak German and flail his head around spitting she takes a step back and tries to smile but it turns out awkward, "Hey Jimmy…"

Her voice was a chorus of perfect harmony to the anxious and angry boy. His vicious angry face turned into a gentle courteous appreciation. Those manic eyes turn somber and he smiles something just as awkward, "Hello Rachel." He tries to hide the swinging metal door of his locker but fails miserably.

He looks over her shoulder half expecting a prank. He didn't see the boys around and Jimmy stayed on guard as he asks her, "What's up?"

Rachel replies, "Yeah. I just wanted to tell you that I don't appreciate how the others treat you."
Why was she saying this to him? He would question the madness of the world around him, has everything gone to the dogs? Had he missed the nuclear sirens or perhaps he was already dead?

What in the world was going on?

"Well, you can't stop them Rachel," He said back defensively. He was curious and he ask her,

"Why are you talking to me now?"

Rachel quirks her lip and replies, "I just wanted you to know that I don't appreciate it was all."

Yeah, he got that already. He wasn't hard of hearing.

"Okay…" Jimmy said. He didn't know what to say next.

Rachel nods, "Okay, well, I have to go back to class."

That was simple, Jimmy thought to himself. It was strange, he would add. This isn't going to be a normal day is it? He asked himself.

Jimmy turns around and begins to walk to class thinking about what had just happened. He didn't pay attention to his locker door still opened and slams right into it. He falls to the ground and hits his head on the painted concrete and rolls his eyes closed. He drools on himself a little before blacking out completely.

The locker door was just as dazed. Slamming backwards on closed lockers and bouncing off latching closed with a powerful noise which echoed the corridor. Unfortunately Jimmy was unconscious and didn't see the secret of closing it.

The sound of nothing followed by the sound of more nothing becomes an echo inside of little Jimmy's head. This is similar to floating underwater in a pool at the park and there's dozens of people swimming about inside with you. Even though you know they are there and you can hear the faint nothing in their splash or while they laugh above the water, the sound just isn't the same. It's quiet under here. Some would like to stay under in this watery paradise forever but
now and again there's that problem with breathing.

Jimmy was stuck in something similar. The words spoke to him were meaningless and distant. His mind was dark and clouded with thoughts of black and void of wonder. Here Jimmy was with himself and at peace, Zen. Floating pointlessly under water in the deep ocean blue he was sinking. The boy touches his face and feels the soft texture of his own skin. The subtle beating of his heart pulsing blood through his veins became like a melody. Everything was perfect in this pointless world until Jimmy tried to breathe.

Forty-thousand watts of electricity running through every vein in the body and nerve ending should be painful. It should leave a mark; those wretched veins bulge blue from flesh. Nerve endings trigger and synapses fire jolts of electricity from line to line often leaving terrible electrical burns. Stick a metal fork into a toaster that's currently cooking a slice of bread. All of this pain and suffering was something that doesn't seem to bother little dying Jimmy. This shock is like a massage really, the coursing fingers running up and down his body like frantic ballet dancers on stage fluttering their toes in the air and spinning gracefully around on his skin. This was Jimmy's escape from everything.

Burnt flesh has a distinct aroma that is difficult to explain. The smell is somewhere in a rating between sewer garbage and unkempt crotch. Janice was having problems with her self image today and smelled only slightly better on the burnt flesh meter. Janice and her self image, deep down inside she was a Cinderella bought in slavery by a white trash warlord. She simply felt dirty today.

A door opens slowly and in comes a super model dazzled in sparkling jewelry and a silver shimmering evening gown made from the silk in some far off distant unpronounceable country. Her daunting eyes staring out to the end of the catwalk, her hip on her shoulder and her black hair bounding off her shoulders gave a perfect image. Janice was losing it again.

She blinked and shook off Rachel's appearance. She wasn't even wearing a dress, she hated dresses. Rachel hated Janice's taste in clothing. Rachel could explain Janice's taste in a single word, 'skank.'

She throws her backpack around from over her should and on the top of the black slab tabletop of the wooden desk before scooting herself into the seat next to her ever friendly wicked Cinderella.

An even more potent smell creeps high on the burnt flesh scale, a distinct odor that can be defined by the color shit-green. The science lab smelled of formaldehyde today in preparation for the mass butcher of amphibians. Janice was quiet as Rachel sat beside her stuck in her own trance as if she were sitting in Tienemen Square. God himself wouldn't be able to budge her in this trance. Paralyzed with fear and wretched crotch, she ignored the world.

"Jan? Are you feeling alright?" Rachel waves her hand in front of Janice's face.

Janice sees nothing.

Rachel blows in Janice's ear and prods at her head, "Wake up!"

Janice hears nothing.

"What got into you today?" Rachel asks her, now feeling concerned.

Janice says nothing.

Suburbia - ch. 3

Rachel clenches her fingers tightly around the edges of her blankets. Her head glistens with sweat as her face is buried into her thick white pillow. Squirming and thrusting her hips eagerly towards the ceiling of her room she begs for more. She moans quiet enough to not wake her parents. She bites her lips when she felt her moaning would wake the dead. Rachel began to bite her lip more often than making noise at this point. Her eyes close tightly as she feels unimaginable needs between her legs and the sweat from her sex tickled down the interior of her thighs.

She gasps deeply and holds her breath before squealing abruptly. Her hips buckle and she jerks back and forth muttering about her orgasm flooding her emotional and physical body all at once. Each climax of bliss was better than the last in the short moments that to her would be eternity.
Her body flails and lays there unmoving and she grins broad and wicked. Her heart was still beating quickly when she opens her eyes and giggles. She snuggles her body around another pillow and she playful purrs.

"Wow Jan… I never knew…" She panted before falling into another light giggle.

Janice pulls her blonde hair from her face and wipes her lips with the back of her index finger. She smiles back and nods to her, crawling up from between Rachel's legs and rolling to her side next to her. She nods, "Yeah, it's kind of fun sometimes. Besides, Roger is being such a jerk tonight."

Rachel shifts and turns her head to look at Janice, "Yeah well, this is much more fun than waiting on those two meatballs!" She tried to cheer up her friend, it was the least she could try and do for Janice's performance she thought.

Janice jumps a little as a loud buzzing rattles the nightstand next to Rachel's bed. Rachel looks over to the stand and eyes it with a little curious thought. The two girls look to each other as if thinking of the same thing and they both laugh a little.

"Shush, not so loud! You'll wake my parents!" Rachel chuckles to Janice and playfully gropes at her breast.

Janice grabs the cell phone that was dancing on the table like a frantic bee. She flips it open, "Hello?"

"Hey Jan! What's up?"

"What do you want Roger?"

"I left my jacket at your place. Are you at the house?"

Janice was quiet for a minute and spat acid through the phone, "No. I'm at a friend's house. You can get your jacket tomorrow!"

"What are you doing at a friend's house at two o'clock?!" Roger was livid with jealousy.
Little did Roger know that Janice was never at her house. She often lied to him about where she was. After all, her home life was far from perfect. It was a secret she was unwilling to share with anyone. Even her friend Rachel was unaware.

Roger's jealous was more in his head. He had imagined Don as a man-whore that couldn't be trusted. The two of them have been meeting quite frequently during lunch at school and Roger even caught the pair of them sitting under a tree studying for a biology exam. They had class together, they were probably studying anatomy. Roger could only guess which organs were discussed during their session.

Rachel could hear Roger's voice blaring from the other end of the telephone as Janice pulled the headpiece a good arm's distance from her head. Janice looks towards Rachel and lip-syncs obscenities about him. He was probably drunk and just wanted to fight. It's what he does on Thursday nights. He always thought he was something special, hanging out with those college frat houses. Janice was growing to hate him a little more each day.

Rachel frowns and crosses her arms over her bare chest concealing her tantalizing once excited body parts. She rolls her eyes and leans over and whispers to Janice that this was a great way to end the evening. She followed her sarcasm with a snort and a lengthy frustrated sigh. It's not that Rachel was a lesbian it was just friendly fun to escape reality for a moment. Besides, it was better than drugs was what she always said.

If you bred two pure blooded Italians with strict Roman Catholic zealots you would produce Rachel. She was as pretty as she was unfaithful. Her parents were ignorant to Rachel's skeletons but they always had eyes on their daughter, a blind eye Rachel would say. She was never allowed to go anywhere and her curfew was well before nine o'clock each evening. She was a sheltered child and had never had the time to be pressured by her peers to perform such sinister and evil things such as smoking, chewing, or injecting drugs into her body. Her body was a temple. This was what Rachel grew up learning and training for. She was prude, at least that's what her parents think. Every teenager needs an escape and hers was by means of the flesh.
Janice hangs up the whiney voice yapping under static like Charlie Brown's mother scolding him mindlessly. She felt weaker after the spat and she buries her body into the mattress and under the thick covers, "I just want to sleep for a little while."

Sometimes escaping from home is healthy for children their age, but Janice never knew where home was. Janice lived a perfect life at school, the latest season of name brand clothing, a perfect white smile and her hair was always combed and shimmering. Her eyes were radiant blue diamonds and she had a body all the girls at school envied. By the time she met friends it was time to pack up and move to the next city.

Besides her perfect little social life she didn't have much. Going home was a nightmare of
drunken fist fights and flying silverware and glasses. A television with foil wired rabbit ears and a floor that constantly smelled like cat urine. The air conditioning unit was leaking something blue and supposedly it's considered unhealthy. The floor of the trailer was rotten and there was a hole in her bathroom beside her toilet. To fix that problem her step-father placed a small oriental rug he had purchased at the dollar store. That seemed to fix everything. The ceiling was always patched with duct tape.

Her mother was a work of art as well. She bounced around man to man like she was working the stock market. Once upon a time she found a decent man with a decent job and a thick wallet. He didn't last long once Janice's mother sunk her fangs into the man's neck and leeched a chunk of his savings to spend on her secondary boyfriend. He wasn't too bad either if you liked the druggy long-haired biker type with a record that spans the distance of the Nile River.

If there was a wreck tonight on the way home from Rachel's place, she was certain that her parents wouldn't find out or care for a week. That's about the time it takes for the house to clutter with dirty clothes and dried chunky dinner plates in the sink. That's when she would be missed. Janice was a modern day Cinderella. Too bad glass slippers were no longer in style.
Statistically, Janice fit the numbers for a fourteen year old drug abuser that should be three months pregnant with her first child. Of course daddy would often be several years older and he wouldn't stay around. Starting a franchise in every city was his goal. Reaping was not part of his plan.

Fortunately Janice was no statistic and she lived a decent life when she could forget her home life. Her friends' parents adored her and with enough friends she could play off that she was spending the night and that her parents had let her. With enough friends she could cycle through the pattern. Janice's parents would never find out, there was no telephone at home to confirm the truth. With her award winning act and perfect pop-star smile, Janice could pull off the innocence of Whitney Houston. There was no doubt in her mind she had won the hearts of all parents. This was why Janice was over at Rachel's house tonight, eating carpet and playing phone tag with her supposed boyfriend.

Rachel was combing through her black hair and was wondering why Roger called at such a strange hour, it wasn't like him, well, that's what Janice said. She was perplexed and instantly reminded about the plan the boys had chalked out earlier. Rachel didn't like Jimmy but she didn't dislike him either. Live and let live she always said.

"Seriously Janice, you don't think they plan on hurting Jimmy do you?" Rachel asks with a small shake in her voice. She was dreaming of situations if Don got caught. What if things went terribly wrong, what if she some how managed to get involved? What would her parents think if they had to bail her out of Juvenile hall? Would this be the end of her at Brownwood High?

Janice shrugs as she shrugged in the Mustang earlier today, "If I know Roger, they'll find him outside or lure him out and then tease him a bit. They'll probably beat on him a little and call him names. Maybe take his lunch money and steal his bike. It's fine."

Everything wasn't fine though. Rachel felt there were going to be problems if they harassed that poor freshman. Janice might be use to Roger beating on kids and playing a bully and maybe Rachel was new to this game, something told her that it was much darker than that. Something in her stomach twisted and told her to get out. Get out while she had the chance. Something wasn't right, she thought. Maybe it's nothing, she consoles herself, but she wanted Janice to help.

Suburbia - ch. 2

"Jimmy, get down here, it's time for dinner!" A loud obnoxious jolly voice demanded.
"I'm coming!"

Jimmy's slender body slithers through his room like a ballerina on ice. He weaves to and fro the mangled heaps of dirty clothes and half finished model airplanes and closes the door behind him as he exits into the hallway.

He hears his mother's voice. She too was anxious to eat apparently.

Jimmy rolls his eyes and yells, "I'm coming!"

It hadn't been a minute since his father called him down. What was the hurry and couldn't they just start without him? It's not as if they hadn't done so in the past when father worked
extensive hours and mother paced back and forth assuming he was having an affair. This was no different to Jimmy.

He pounds his feet down the stairs to the dining room where the lighting was a mild yellow from a chandelier with terrible bulbs in the glass frame. It was gaudy, that's what father said about it.
Beautiful like angels was always mother's reply.

The chairs were made of a cherry wood and glossed in a deep wood finished to preserve the intricate details of each carving running down the legs of the chairs to eagle talons clutching orbs. The showcase of precious china was always looking in the opposite corner of room and Jimmy often wondered why they never used it. Why have dishware that wouldn't ever be used. It makes very little sense, Jimmy would think to himself.

Mother is carrying a giant pan of something covered and sweating with steam. She was wearing her pink fluffy iron mittens today with that bluebonnet flower white apron that father got her last Christmas. Her hair was tied back and she still wore her make-up from this morning. She often performs charity work at the school and at the local church. She says that it's her release from the house.

Dad thinks she's having an affair with the minister, so does everyone else in town. He is just too afraid to admit it or to seek the right question. Maybe he's simply afraid of the answer. Ignorance is bliss he always liked to say. The town's motto "Welcome to Ignorance, America."
"How was your day at school, son?" Father asked Jimmy while he was scooping peas from the bowl already on the table. Mother removed the steel iron cover and revealed a massive hip of ham, roasted generously in its own fat and mixed with seasoning Jimmy couldn't place.

Father smiled just long enough to watch his son leap over the table and kick the large ham off the plate towards the floor for the dogs. Jimmy's father smiled something confusing and scared just before blood poured from his throat while gagging on the thickness of his own tongue.

The young boy was digging deeper into his father's throat while cursing at the dying man with a cold eagerness, "Die! Just go on and die!" Mother fell out of her seat and as she frantically grabbed air on the way down her plate of mashed potatoes flipped over and into her lap. Gravy stains were always so difficult to get out of silk and she would have thought of that if not for the stains of blood on the carpet from her husband.

Mother gets up and tries to pry her lunatic off of her dead lover but Jimmy had latched into the corpse like a Vietnamese leech. She screams in pain as she feels a white searing pain burn the side of her head. She claws at the young boy who was biting into the flesh above her breasts, a fork driven into her neck and blood showered over the two like Old Faithful.

She rolls her eyes into the back of her skull, her flesh turning blue and clammy. Her pigment turns pink to white to red as she is drenched in her own blood. She raises his arm weakly as if to climb her way up to her feet but instead she pulls down the table cloth, plates of food showers down on her. Her final breath came to her like the sound of a hairball out of a domestic cat. She didn't have much to say after that.

"I'm fine, Dad," Jimmy smiles innocently to his father while receiving the plate of mashed potatoes from his mother, "I had a long day but I finished my homework."

There wasn't much discussion afterwards. Jimmy was fishing for a compliment but his parents quickly went on to other discussions. Jimmy finished his food quickly and he said very little during the family discussion. His parents were in their world of politics and economics. Things Jimmy could care less about at his tender innocent age. He was focused on his plate and tried his best to get his mind cleared from the savage and bloody day dream he just had. He was afraid that he enjoyed the images he had dreamed a little too much. His favorite color was red after all.

"May I be excused?" Jimmy asked. His parents allowed him and then they continued with their ever so important discussions and ignored their child for the rest of the night. For Jimmy this is common.

Suburbia - ch. 1

Ch. 1
A small suburb outside of a forgotten town near a busy intersection that leads to the metropolitan capital of international trade would seem to be a perfect place to raise a family. A local school was nestled in the center of the town near the community church. The neighbors were friendly and generous and they often helped with your groceries if you needed. After all they had coffee together every Sunday after communion. Everyone knew each other by their first names here.

The streets had always been clean and everyone's lawn was dressed with pink flamingos and American flags. Children often played in the streets until dark and even when dusk settled, there was never a worry if the children would make it to their beds at night. It was a perfect little suburb in every way and in a perfect place for middle-class working Americans. It was also a perfect place for an imperfect maniac. It was only a matter of time until the citizens of Brownwood awoke from ignorance of their perfect utopian order.

Jimmy was a young boy who had skipped kindergarten. His parents always had high expectations for him and they were impatient. Drawing between the lines and finger painting was not in Jimmy's future. The cookies and milk during nap time was certainly out of the question. Jimmy was a year younger than the rest of his peers from here on out, he wasn't smarter than his peers nor was he stronger than them. In fact, Jimmy wasn't good at much of anything except screwing up. He never worked well under pressure and still his parents continued to demand things from him that he simply couldn't perform.

This was Jimmy's second year of high school and it was a challenge from junior high. Maybe the freshman year of high school is a fluke, maybe it gets better. Jimmy's thoughts put to words, written in his small diary that he kept hidden under his bed at home in his perfect house, his perfect room. His sophomore year was going by slowly and Jimmy didn't make it on any of the athletic teams again. He was even laughed away by the chess team. How low can it get?

Rejection, this is a word Jimmy knew all too well.

Every day was like the day before it. You wake up and go to use the bathroom. You come storming down the stairs where your father reminds you not to make such a ruckus because grandmother was still sleeping. You go to the kitchen where your mother has already prepared a bowl of cereal, one egg cooked sunny side up, and two slices of toast. Then after breakfast there's a shower, cleaning your bed, picking up your homework from the night before and stuffing everything into the backpack.

Get on the bus where the children mock you and say your mother is the town whore. You evade the jerk in seat 6B that tries to trip you every day. How annoying, Jimmy would question if that kid ever got the hint. You find a seat, you sit down, you look out the window and feel the bus bouncing underneath you and from time to time there's a jolt in the rear of the bus as the vehicle slams into a pothole where B Street and Main intersect. This is often the highlight of the day.
Then there's school where you go to class, you get your hard work returned with bloody marks smeared about as if your assignment had been used as a napkin to clean up after Sharon Tate's untimely end. Jimmy never appeared shocked by this ritual, by now this is a custom habit and now he was never fazed by the sight of blood. He only shrugs, stuffs the paper in his bag and goes to lunch.

High school is just another term for popularity contest. The best time to witness the high school phenomena is during the lunch period. No one ever really knows anyone and everyone is trying to be someone else they admire because they believe that person is someone they aren't. Sometimes these particular people come together and have things in common. Sometimes commonalities were navel piercing, black hair and trench coat or the nerds. Sometimes the jocks beat the crap out of each other but they remained together if only because they wouldn't be able to fit in with the pot-head section that stared into space contemplating the efficiency of a piece of string.

Jimmy though, he had no group and couldn't find anything in common with anyone else in the school. So he often just ate alone. Another two years of this, he thought to himself. Another two years and all of this would be over. Jimmy was never too bright.

French fries pummel the back of Jimmy's plaid button up shirt. Salt shines on the fabric as he looks over his shoulder and gives a vicious stare at the group at another table near him.
He pushes his glasses up against the bridge of his nose and with his most intimidating voice he roars at the kids that attacked him, "Stop that!" The sound from his voice was as intimidating as a dying mouse.

This was one of the groups that took a liking to Jimmy. Not in the way one might think, but they loved to pick fun at him. He could never dress properly and it was never in style or the latest fashion. The popular kid group, no, it was more like the fashion East California group; the anti-Jimmy group.

Why the kids never listened to the demand was beyond Jimmy's understanding. It's not that Jimmy was autistic or anything, he was just sheltered and never belonged. These childish pranks were foreign and alien to him. Little Jimmy grew up into bigger Jimmy and bigger Jimmy was still learning how not to be so little.

After school the schedule remained the same. You wait in the auditorium that was also the cafeteria as well as the street brawling arena. This is the part where you wait for the number of your bus to be called out and to exit in a calm and respectful manner. There was nothing calm about a herd of wild stampeding hormone driven teenagers escaping the confines of the dreaded education system.

By the time Jimmy finds a place in the herd after his bus is called and by the time he gets pushed aside by the bigger kids at his bus site, there were never any seats left. He was always stuck sitting with another outsider. Jimmy hated him more than his little hate group at lunch. This kid was a disgusting waste of air and a lard ass that smelled like wretched vomit or soggy diarrhea drying in the afternoon sun in summer.

Tomorrow would be a different day though. Tomorrow would be filled with excitement and adventure. Maybe he'd find a treasure map and explore the depths of a cave being chased by the mob or perhaps he would climb down the side of a chasm and plant a strange rare bonsai tree. Maybe Jimmy should stop watching so much television.

The giant slob seated next to Jimmy took most of the seat and Jimmy was hanging by a mere thread with his left hand clutched to the top of the green canvas of the bus. His knuckles were turning white and he asks "Lard Ass" to scoot in a bit.

Lard Ass just smiles a toothy metal smile. The colored bands on his braces were multiple colors and chosen by a blind orthodontist apparently. He shrugs and attempts to scoot over but with that much blubber it would take a miracle. He shrugs and picks his nose instead.

What took like forever was only a short thirty minute drive from stop to stop until reaching the corner to where Jimmy lived. He practically flooded out of the seat like an avalanche trying to escape the grotesque thing seated beside him. He nearly trips over his own excitement, but he recovers beautifully as he tries to play it off as if it was intentional. The children still laughed at him.

Another day at school was completed. Jimmy looks up to his parent's perfect two-story house and he spins around the mobile basketball goal in the drive way. He didn't play with it much but he did enjoy the thought of having it. The goal was the last present given to him for Christmas by his uncle. He passed away soon afterwards. Uncle Joseph was probably the only person that Jimmy could relate to; his only friend.

This was not the normal evening for Jimmy when he was staring out the window of his room. He noticed a red convertible mustang cruising by his house. He paid little mind to the cruising kids at first until that same vehicle made a third and fourth pass around the block. Like any good kid that had wonderful overzealous parents, he aimed the lens of his high powered telescope at the license plate and zoomed closer to gaze at the kids in the backseat. The anti-Jimmy club was up to something tonight and it was a safe bet that it wasn't another food fight.

"Man that kid is such an idiot!" Roger said he drove with one hand on the mustang's steering wheel. His other claw was rubbing on Janice's bare leg. He desperately hoped to hit a bump and accidentally grope a feel on her more delicate parts.

Janice slaps at Roger's greedy paw and frowns at him, "Stop it Roger, that's not appropriate. What the hell are you thinking?" She acted as if she disliked the affection but between her legs there was a different urge.

Janice pulls her platinum blonde hair up into a pony tail as Roger chuckles and shrugs at her question, "Hey Don, what do you say about tomorrow?"

Donald Travis was a rich kid that had his college of choice primed, chosen, and paid for. He was a senior and the star player on the football team. If they were lucky, the team would go to state this year, all graced by yours truly, superstar 'Donny T.'

"Man, I'm with it, Roger. Love to see the look on that kid's face! It'll be classic," Don falls into a barrel of laughs as Rachel rolled her eyes and helped tie back Janice's hair.
Rachel leans over and whispers to Janice, "Think they'll really do it?"

"I don't know," Janice replied, "I really don't care."

Rachel is the light hearted one in the group and she only chose to hang out with the anti-Jimmy group because of Janice. Janice was the first person to talk to her. The two of them instantly became friends and Rachel was introduced to Don soon after. Rachel had been having second thoughts about their friendship these days. This little group was becoming more trouble than what it was worth, so she would think.

Don looks over to Rachel and notices her dislike for their devious plan, "What's wrong baby?" He gave her those puppy dog eyes and rolled his lower lip down.

"Oh just shut up," She said to him. "I'm still not talking to you," She reminds him.
Rachel looks over to Roger and places her hand on his shoulder affectionately to make Don jealous. She asks him to take her home, it was getting late and the weather was beginning to grow colder and all she had to wear was her slinky blue jean mini-skirt filled with holes and a halter top three sizes too small for her breasts.

Some parents dislike the fashions their children pick up. The new trends and fads were always alien to the generation before them. Sometimes a generation gets lucky and they notice bell-bottoms back in style. Unfortunately, this time of year the trend was mini-skirts again. No father wants their daughter dashing outside looking like Jimmy's mother, the town whore.
Rachel was well prepared for this. She was relatively smart and knew that her parents would never approve of her current appearance. She always packed a more conservative set of clothes just in the event she saw one of her parent's cars parked in the drive way.

Roger looks over his shoulder and winks to her while flashing a million dollar grind, "Alright Rach." How could he deny her, she was one of the cheerleaders and for all Roger knew, he was going to score with her before prom.

Don punches Roger in the opposite shoulder, Don was far too jealous for his own good and Rachel knew it. Rachel thanks the driver and smirks deviously knowing that Don's blood was boiling. She turns away from the two men and looks at the speeding road near the tires.

Rachel's parents hadn't made it home yet. There was no need to change. She never liked sneaking around undressing in the blackberry bushes. Even though this was Brownwood she tried to be less ignorant than the rest of her town. At least there isn't a threat of thorns driving into her ass today.

Final War - Moments - Soldier

It’s a funny thing this thing they call life ye know? It’s one of those things you really don’t think about until you have a heart attack or someone you know meets the reaper.

I don’t know, I’ve been through a lot in my day. Hell, I’ve served twice in Iraq and once in Desert Storm. I’m no stranger to death but I’ve been the lucky one to survive to tell the tales of my buddies that ate shrapnel or took a bullet.

At least I put myself into those positions, I elected to pick up a rifle and fight for my country. I knew damn well what I was doing but I did it anyways. The pay sucked, the benefits are wonderful when I argue and yell at the Veteran’s Affairs department to get what I rightfully deserve.

But this, this is entirely different. In Iraq I had some control over my fate. I could have been blind and drove right on one of those insurgent high way bombs or I could avoid them. I had the ability to hide behind my humvee during a fire fight. Seems there isn’t any hiding or avoiding anymore and ironically there isn’t even an enemy to shoot back at this time. I feel cheated really.

I was sitting at the VFW when I heard the news on the television. The reception was shit and the damn smoke irritated my eyes but I could hear over old Jim telling his story about Vietnam. Like I haven’t heard that a hundred times before! Anyways, the anchor was behind some NASA building over in Houston and said something about the end of the world.

Hell, I was already three sheets in the wind and like everyone else I didn’t pay much attention to the report. Doom saying was obviously the new trend this millennia. I ordered another beer instead of going home to order supplies for surviving armegeddon.

Like most people during the ‘Y2K’ scare back in 1999 I ran around frantically to make sure I would survive the end of the world but that end never came. Some bubble popped and people lost money but it didn’t affect me and I was out of pocket for a good while. This report was just like the others but this time I wouldn’t be fooled by it. Market ploy I said.

Wouldn’t you know it that I was absolutely wrong this time? The end was real but it took most of us by surprise. I’m in no condition to really go into the details about the actual event, it was almost instant and the good lord only knows how many survived.

I can tell you about what I would have done different though. Hell, I was a soldier in the United States Army. If anyone would be able to survive such a catastrophe it would be me with my basic combat knowledge. I just never saw the signs. I figured I would be dead anyways.

The military tactics for attempting to survive a nuclear strike is to drop to the ground, plant your helmet in the dirt and aim head first into the direction of the flash of the explosion. Hopefully you’d survive the initial impact explosion and the fire blast that would happen just afterwards just long enough to take your objective before your teeth and hair start falling out.

The army didn’t care what happened to you afterwards. They say that they’d take care of family and the government only hoped that it would be single boys and girls that got struck by the attack. It would save millions for pocketing to private industry like Halliburton.

I got home that night and my girlfriend had her friends over. Their noses were powdered with cocaine but they said it was powder. As if I was born yesterday and as if I didn’t know what the hell they were doing. I should have gotten rid of her months ago but I didn’t. Figure I just needed someone to talk to when I got home. Desperation makes a man do stupid things I guess.

I asked her if she saw the latest developments on doomsday and she was totally oblivious to all of it. She was too busy powdering her nose. Her friends were already blitzed and staring off into space somewhere. I went to the kitchen and grabbed another beer and turned the channel to CNN.

I never cared for CNN but it was the first that came to mind. I was already drunk and she was stoned off her ass. I figured no one would care about political agendas when the world came to an end but I was wrong. Even as the world was going to hell in a hand basket the reporters were asking how the president could fix it and who would be best for the job to bring us out of this dark time. I remember reading the ticker tape on the bottom and recall the fact that Britney Spears got herself a boob job and liposuction. Good for her.

Someone started bitching because I changed the channel from some stupid reality show. I threw my beer at her. I don’t think it hit her but her nose started to bleed out like a faucet. I didn’t even ask if she needed a tissue. She was scum anyways. I just told her not to stain my carpet with her runny nose.

They said that the impact was going to happen in less than twelve hours from now and it was already nearing midnight. Guess that would make the impact noon the next day. What shit timing though, I think I had plans to go fishing, now instead I had to worry about what where the hell the next fishing hole would be after the world ended.

It was funny that they never said what would impact the planet. Was it an asteroid or an Iranian missile? Was it something else entirely? There were so many questions and the government wasn’t even around to give a comment. I don’t think I even heard remarks from the president or any of his cabinet. Go figure that they would continue to screw us as they have been right? I never asked the question, where I could get my next drink. I’m sure someone would make a bar called, “New World’s End” or something just as cynical. I’m still looking for it.

My girlfriend and her crack-head friends were just as skeptical as I was and instead of paying mind to the reports we all crashed where we found a spot. I managed to find my bed though I hadn’t slept in it for ages. Hell, I didn’t even know if those little speckle spots on the blanket were mine or not anymore.

I woke up dead early to the sound of yelling and screaming. I heard cars moving around and gunshots in the distance. It was more dangerous outside my house than any camp I was stationed over in Iraq during the conflict. I went outside in my underwear and scratched my fat white ass and laughed at all the people going ape shit. I looked at the sky and it had turned a color of red that reminded me of sunsets over in Baghdad.

Red skies in the horizon of a sunset look beautiful but they aren’t natural. It’s reported that the red and orange hues in the sky are merely refracted light from molecules of poisonous gases such as carbon monoxide from oil plants and industrial complexes. I’m no scientist but I figure they might be on to something there. The entire sky here was red and there weren’t any plants for at least fifty miles. Maybe they needed to do more research.

In the event of a major catastrophe it is expected martial law would be ordered by the federal government to bring order and peaceful evacuation of civilian personnel out of the hostile or endangered regions. None of this happened of course and no one really expected it after Katrina down in New Orleans. Just another instance where the FEDS failed us yet again I suppose. I couldn’t help but ask myself where was my speech from our president? He was probably on a plane 35,000 feet above the chaos and was watching Washington turn into a microscopic dot as he zoomed away at 400 miles an hour to some location we’ll never know about. These things happen.

I decided to go back inside to wake my girlfriend up but she was no where to be found. I guess she woke up and ran into the mass of people freaking out. I did manage to trip over the bloody bitch on the way to the bathroom to see if my girl was throwing more powder on her face. She turned a little but other than that nothing. She wasn’t there. She was definitely gone and out on her own. I knew she would anyways.

I went into my room and grabbed a couple shirts, some underwear, pants and military gear I had left hanging around. I locked and loaded my AR-15 assault rifle and went to the kitchen to grab some canned foods and several military rations I kept around for when I went hunting.

Some folks would have thought I looked a lot like Rambo walking out with belts of ammunition over my shoulder and a rifle in my hand with a camoflauged backpack on my back. I don’t think they noticed though, too busy saving themselves from whatever the hell was going on. I sparked a cigarette and walked casually down the sidewalk. I was avoiding the people as they dashed around knowing not where to go. It was sort of funny.

According to the reporter last night I had another two hours to find myself a good hiding spot to go die in. I knew just the place to go and I was hoping I could find a spot there. I’d be damned if some kid took my spot and only hoped that their gun was bigger than mine because at this point it was survival of the fittest. I be damned to survive two tours in Iraq and a campaign the first time to get my spot taken by some snot-nosed dweeb that listened to crap this day and age puked out from the radio stations. I was out for myself, mankind was on their own.

Final War - Moments - Honeymoon

We stood there on the cliff and we overlooked the red skies over the horizon. The clouds were as black as coal and the wind burned our faces like the scorch of hell itself. All of this didn’t matter to me because we were together. Her hand in mine and mine in hers, this was paradise even in the final moments of our life on Earth I knew it was meant to be.

I remember this moment like it was my last. Ironically, this was my last moments but those few last seconds were the longest time of my life. Time seemed to stand still and as the crows burned and incinerated, screaming in terror and pain there was a moment where everything was perfect and simple. I didn’t notice when the house in the horizon shattered like building made of match sticks falling apart from the winds of a hurricane.

Her sundress was as radiant as the red hanging sky and more brilliant than the wall of fire blazing the horizon quickly moving our direction. She was so strong and though I could tell we were both afraid, we were comforted by each other.

In the end of all things, I never had expected it to end this way. I vowed to protect her and to be with her, in sickness and in health. We would always be together. I had plans. I was about to get a promotion and we were about to move out of the trailer on Fifth and Main street.

She found out she was pregnant only days before we got received the news. My unborn child growing in her womb was the most beautiful thing but now I will always be left wondering what the baby would look like. Would I have been a good father?

The sky didn’t turn dark until hours before it came and we had already made our peace with God. Sure, we spoke of trying to save ourselves but the thought of living in a cave for the rest of our lives would have been just as certain of a death as the initial cremation. We weren’t rich and certainly those hideouts in the mountains would have been crowded with thousands others just like us. Traffic was terrible in the last hours. We never would have made it out of town anyways.

Not a word was said between either of us as she packed her picnic basket. It was a gift from her mother. You know the kind, the hay strung and laced basket with the two lids set on simple hinges to tuck food inside. The handle was long and laced with pink ribbons. I remember a tiny plastic flower was sewn on the side of the basket to give some color. I don’t even remember the color anymore.

She looked at me and I looked at her as she finished packing the basket with sandwiches. We never did get to eat them. I’m nearly certain it was ham and cheese. She always made ham and cheese when we had picnics. This was a special occasion but I would venture to guess that she wouldn’t change her ways now.

When we looked at one another we exchanged a smile and she came to me and held my hands. Her body was chill to the touch and I knew she was afraid. There was nothing I could do for her but hold her. Words were unimportant now. I held her and cherished her with all of my heart.

Our house wasn’t anything to look at but it wasn’t terrible either. It could have been better. We needed new furniture but all of that was going to change when I got my job. A new life with a new house, a new car and new leather furniture would have been nice. It was almost a reality. None of that matters now.

I led her out of our home and before I closed the door I took one final look into the living room. The smiling photos from our wedding day reminded me of better times. Our wedding was outside and in the back of the photo was the arch we had been married under. It was wrapped in flowers and beyond that there were blue skies and white clouds. I must have gained thirty pounds since that photo. She fed me well. That photo is almost a year old now.

I closed the door and I’m not sure but I think I had locked it. Why I did that I didn’t know. We both knew that this was the last time we would be stepping over the threshold. I put the keys into my pocket and we both headed down from the porch. The wood was old and rotting and I had always meant to replace that two by four that creaked every time we stepped on it. None of that really matters now though, dry rotted wood burns easier anyways.

It wouldn’t take long to get to our picnic area. It was past town heading the opposite direction of the traffic. There was a line of cars and bright headlights as far as the eye could see on the other side of the high way. Even as our last moments ticked closer I had to find excitement in the moment. Where else would I be able to drive as fast as I could without fear of police or other cars getting in my way? I exploited this a moment. She didn’t seem to mind. We both had our seatbelts on and I always drove safely anyways. I think she almost enjoyed it as much as I did.

Twelve miles later we stopped and took the turn off into the woods and drove on to an old trail that winds up on the mountain ridge that overlooked the city we lived in. I parked the car and for whatever reason I turned the car alarm on. I don’t know why I did it, maybe it was habit.

The snow began to fall but it wasn’t snow. It was dead summer and the snow had melted. The black clouds were not for rain and the snow was ash. As it fell on me I couldn’t help but think that this would be our final demise. As we walked to our picnic spot I would be covered in grey suet, some of it was probably charred flesh from other people. I wondered if I would need to wash the shirt to remove the stains. As if any of that mattered. I wasn’t thinking. I was still stuck in my old habits.

I followed behind her and we climbed up the steep trail. The sky was dark and red and it made the trail dim as though we were walking it at dusk. It almost would have been romantic if we could ignore the fact that we were about to die.

She still looked as beautiful as the day that I met her and I was more in love with her now than when we first got together so many months ago. Her raven black hair shined brilliant and it always smelled like some sort of fruit. Her skin was flawless and pale; perfect to me and even though she felt she could always look prettier she was everything I had always looked for in a companion. No doubt it was destined for us to be together and I was happy I could be with her in these final moments.

We made it to the final destination on top of the cliff where the grass weeds were blowing wildly from the brooding wind that would creep out our final breath. The grass was covered in the white ash but we pretended it was only snow and I think she giggled saying something about Christmas in July. I don’t remember anymore.

The blanket she threw down was her Mother’s. It was stitched for my wife when she was a baby. Every year there was another patch sewn on and every year there was something else on the blanket that would symbolize a milestone. I personally hated the rag at first because it looked so awful but she loved it and so by default I grew to love it as well. She always brought it to picnics but those outings became less and far between because of my job and her own.

I kissed her neck and she shivered and she turns over and looks me in the eyes with her brilliant blue eyes. She grinned and kissed my chin and asked me if I loved her. I said that there was nothing more than I loved than being with her right here, right now. My heart plummeted into my gut much the same as the day I proposed to her. I was as scared as I was then but I was also more excited and never was I more overwhelmed in love than I was right there with her when I said those words. I might have cried a tear but I don’t recall.

We spoke about our childhoods and we laughed about the things I screwed up when I was trying to be romantic. She spoke about the tiniest bits that I had forgotten and I was all over swelling with admiration. The more she spoke the more drawn I became.

A thundering cry struck the moment and the bellow of thunder roared like a marching army pounding to sack a city. The whistle of something massive screamed through the red skies and shifted the snow from the grass. It all happened so quickly. The black clouds that hung over our heads turned into wakes like a speeding boat on calm water in a lake. The giant object racing in the heavens went unseen beyond those thick clouds and from the wake of its movement the red sky had hints of blue before it bled over.

The ground shook like I had never felt before and the city became as bright as a welding torch. Neither of us screamed but she clutched to me so tight I was barely able to breathe. She shivered and cried lightly and I held her and tried to comfort her. What is a man supposed to say when the world was ending? I might have said that everything was going to be okay. I don’t recall, it was a moment of tragedy and I think many things were said. Either said or thought in my head. It doesn’t matter now.

Final War - The Forgotten

They say the shackles that bind us are emotional, and until they are broken we are all slaves to him. That in this dark place, there still remains hope and through time, the light shines brightly. They tell us that it can't rain all the time and that one day the sun will emerge from the clouds.

In the mean time, we wander in the ash and darkness among the ruins of great cities and the twisted spaghetti of jungle gyms and swing sets. In the mean time the thunder rolls in the heaven of black clouds and the rain is white and it floats down to the surface like snow. In the mean time, the scars of our actions continue to bleed the earth. In the mean time, we wait for a bird to chirp and we wander around to get a glimpse of a weed in the dirt below us.

We were God's chosen. Those who He loved were the first to leave this world, they were the lucky ones. We are God's chosen, so the priest told us. We were chosen and we served a purpose. Some of us believed the chosen the priest spoke of had already left this world. We were forgotten, left behind, that was the belief many had in the congregation. The endless landscape of death and destruction, the infinite night, the darkness among us reminds us of our hollow life. Our soulless purpose in the scars of war reminded us that we were not God's chosen. God has abandoned us. We are the forgotten.

This is my confession for the sins I have committed, the evil I am doing, the things that I will do. In a world without hope, there isn't much to live for but selfishness, self preservation. This is not the world you remember and this is beyond nightmares you could possibly imagine. I do not live in your shoes, but if I did, I would envy and look away. This is a world unlike yours and it is better to be ignorant of it. Leave us forgotten. We are God's abandoned for a reason. Amen.

My name is Nathaniel Harris but after the world ended, my name was merely Nate. After the world came to its knees and the blue sky forever hid behind black clouds, I still believed. I believed there was purpose for me, I was hopeful and I was proud. I could make a difference, so they told me. I joined with several survivors of the end and we became known as Saint Paul's Apostles. Our leader was a devout Catholic who brought us in to his church. The basement was massive and protected from the elements of the darkness in the end times. It was here that he preached and understood the teachings of Christ and the revelations that were among us. It was here Father Morris told us that he had seen all of this in a dream.

"My children, we are God's willing and able. We are to bring peace around the world and await the rise of our Lord and Father," Father Morris spoke to us from his platform, a soap box.

He was modern, cultured and intelligent. He didn't wear his robes like you would expect. What is the reason for all of the rituals when the world has ended? He would tell us that he hadn't ever enjoyed wearing the stole around his neck. The wool was itchy and left a rash. He was an older man, mid 50s with a full head of white hair. He worse glasses that had cracked on its left lens, and they were always dirty. As he spoke, he became a different man, he became holier than man. He was idolized by the members of Saint Paul's Apostles.

Father Morris raises his frail brown spotted fingers toward the ceiling of the damp crowded basement. The tightly packed survivors grab each other's hands and we came together. We closed our eyes in deep thought. They pray.

"Father, Lord of heaven and earth, we await your salvation. The demons walk among us, but we remain strong. Stalwart and prepared for your holy battle, here on earth, we remain servants of the Almighty. Thank you for your protection and for choosing us to be your holy soldiers in this battle against evil. We pray for your strength and love. Amen."

Amen. They say. While I'm holding everyone's hands, I can't help but consider that God did not listen to us. Laughing at us and taunting our misleading ideas. I do not understand why the world ended so abruptly or how everything came down to this. In the end, we're all dead and empty shells. We just haven't realized it yet.

The Christ spoke to his apostles about his return to the world of the living. He spoke to them about how he would one day come back to his people and bring peace to all man kind. He spoke this to them but he pointed out that we would not know the time nor the place of his rising. What better time than now? What better place than here?

Suddenly, the sounds of explosions rumble the walls of the church above us. The wooden frame of the old basement wasn't built for earthquakes. A rotting rafter cracks and smoke envelopes the small clustered congregation. I hear screaming, coughing, crying. Some pray for God while others use His name in vain.

The silhouette of the priest in the dust motions his body to keep his disciples at ease. They do not listen. His sheep run out of control. I stepped on something squishy and unlike that of a rock or broken furniture. I look down and yell at the person I unexpectedly crushed with the heel of my boot.

"Take my hand, Damn it, now!" She could barely see me in the grey smoke. I had trouble breathing. The second volley of explosions bring more chaos around me and something massive breaks through the ceiling of the basement.

As it hits the ground, it brought dust clouds and debris around us I felt a sudden pain my shoulder. The grey smoke begins to settle long enough to see the marble statue of Jesus with outstretched arms on the crucifix where he died. Now, it's leaning on its side, slouching, and apparently by the expression on the statue, uncaring.

Jesus was clearly disappointed by his followers. The arm of Father Morris was the only remaining part of his body that wasn't crushed or hidden under the rocks and marble. A common reflex action happens when nerves are severed quickly and the father's hand twitches excitedly.

I grabbed the frightened girl, her name was Lady Magnolia. If this wasn't the end of time and the bringing of destruction, I would have asked her to dinner. Now there isn't even a warm slice of toast. Only canned beans and vegetables tease our appetites. We took refuge in a small alcove inside the tumbling basement. She wanted so desperately to run, but who knew what was happening on the surface? It was the last place we needed to be.

I yelled at the top of my lungs for others to stay down but they were like lemmings. Running around in a chicken farm without any escape, there was no exit strategy. I eyeball Mark Antwuan. He was a stout, heavily set black man who was often looking for a fight with those of the opposite color. Now he's like a baby, lost in this world without reason or remorse, he posed no threat to me or Lady Magnolia.

"Mark, get over here!" I screamed and offered my hand out to him. My other arm wrapped around Maggie almost as if I were protecting an infant. Mark's hand was thick and sweaty. It was roughly twice as large as my own palm and his fingers wrapped around my hand as if it were merely a rope. He pulled himself from the debris; his leg was covered in red mud. His eyes were as big as a deer and his thick black lips shivered in fear. He looked at me and I looked at him. Maggie was hiding her face in the sleeve of my bleeding arm.

The sound of tracks rolling over us was not the sort of greeting we expected at our church. Who would demolish a church anyways? It was obvious to me that whatever was up there was not here for prayer. Something told me it wasn't Jesus.

Mark looks to Maggie and asked if she was alright.

I was thinking to myself if that wasn't the stupidest question I had ever heard. No, she was not okay. Yes, she's about to be buried alive, the world has ended, everyone she knew was probably dead and there was no fast food, only beans. I wanted to say this to Mark, but it was not the appropriate time for it. I looked at Mark and nodded my head, "She's okay."

The stout Black man crept closer to our cove, he smelled terrible. We all did. What water we had was rationed out for our survival. Bathing was infrequent. Water was the most important resource we had. Part of me was happy that everyone ran out to the surface to die. My survival rate just increased exponentially.

I looked up and I heard the whining noises of gears and track grinding against metal. The cracking concrete floor above us and the sudden pummeling shake of another explosion rumbled and brought more of the roof down on us. We were below a fire fight and from the sounds of it, it was a rather large engagement. I couldn't help but wonder how much weight the structure could hold and how much the tank above us weighed. If it were a tank, I wasn't going to find look for myself.

The dirt had settled and I broke from my imagination, caring for the wounded man beside me, and trying to console Maggie in my arms, I was too busy to realize everyone else had vanished from sight. The place was quiet, except for the battle above us, but the screaming of people, I couldn't hear. I imagined only one thing. I imagined lemmings. Amen.

We waited for what seemed like hours in the collapsing building. We hadn't a choice. We could bear the hostile environment where men with machines and guns were destined to kill one another, or we could remain here and be crushed alive by concrete and rebar. There wasn't much of a choice and I left my chances up with whatever might occur. I imagined a game of poker, maybe blackjack. I wasn't very good at gambling, so my odds were stacked against me. I didn't tell the two others I might have brought them to their grave. Better to die on holy ground than to be shot down somewhere else, I figured.

The whining churn of metal parts above us began to fade. The explosions ceased and echoed in the distance. It seemed like it was over, that we survived their attack. The unlikely combatants of Saint Paul's Apostles were slain in a massacre, so I suspected.

"I think it's over now, guys," I wasn't sure of myself and my voice was shaken. "I'm going to take a look outside."

I told Mark to stay with Maggie while I scouted the area, but Maggie's fingers clenched around me like a leech. She was a frightened puppy that couldn't be left alone, whimpering for attention. It reminded me of my two year old son, I had left behind. The babysitter always told me that he cried for hours at the door when I left. I now see why. He was afraid he would never see me again. This time it was true. He never did see me again. I don't know where they are or if they were still alive. My son and the sitter, my wife and her boyfriend, they were all dead. For the most part of I sad, but I didn't care much if her boyfriend was taken out, I almost felt pleased by it until I came here. When I came here and I was told he was chosen by God to meet him in the kingdom of heaven, I hated him more.

I push several boulders from our little hide away and peered out into the congregational hall of our little basement. There wasn't much of a sight to see. The walls were destroyed and fell in on each other. The rebar poles were twisted like the playgrounds, bricks of concrete were blackened by fire or explosions, I couldn't tell. I could see the dark sky above me and the ash fluttering like snow to cover the apathetic looking Jesus who happened to have crushed our leader. Maybe Father Morris wasn't forgotten after all. Amen.

Mark whispers what the situation was out here. I looked around and raised my hand for him to be quiet. I put my finger to my lips and hushed him quickly. Above me I could hear foreign tongues yelling orders out to their subordinates. The marching of boots crunching the earth above me was getting closer. They were coming to clean out the rats. I looked around for a place to hide and found it behind Jesus.

"Quiet down, I hear something! Mark, put those rocks back up, hide Maggie!" I demanded in the best officer voice I could muster. I wasn't a born leader, but I heard once that leaders aren't bred as much as picked under circumstance. Maybe that was true. Captain Harris of the Saint Paul's Apostles.

I slipped behind the status of the crucified martyr and put a few bricks over my legs. I was already covered in ash and dust, I was certain I would be easily camouflaged from the enemy. I was slouched nearly upside down in an angle. I looked up at the face of the statue and it looked back at me mockingly. It watched me without blinking and it apathetically denounced me. I felt unworthy. I was forgotten, I understand this, but it didn't need to be rubbed in my face.

Foreign voices were yelling loudly now. I could see two men wearing some uniforms I was unaware of. Their faces were hidden under black helmets and they spoke something that was foreign. I couldn't place my finger on it, but it sounded Chinese. It was certainly Asian.

Beams of light shot down into the hole of where the foundation of the church used to be. The flashlights were mounted on assault rifles that looked a little more like cannons than your average hunting rifle. I'm certain these guns weren't built for dove shooting. I remained quiet and unmoving, unflinching. I prayed they would move on and continue with their mission.

Several other foreign soldiers arrived around the crater. They spoke for what seemed like an eternity and then two of the men jumped into the hole. I turn my cards and expected blackjack. I busted, dealer wins.

I looked at the alcove, Mark did a fine job covering the small tunnel I burrowed to get out, but I feared it wouldn't be enough for these soldiers. A soldier walked towards the statue of our Lord and turned around to speak something to his comrade. Whatever he said to him made the other soldier laugh loudly, I'm glad I didn't understand him. I might have laughed my position away.

The soldier looks passed Jesus and behind the statue, where I laid in plain sight. He peered back and forth but he didn't flash his light that direction. I remained unmoving. I watched a boot stomp the ground right before my eyes, inches from my nose. He stepped in something wretched before coming this far. I couldn't place the smell but it was certainly rotten. I took a look at the weapon slung on his left shoulder and the writing was certainly some Chinese, maybe Japanese. They look the same to me.

My heart raced loudly and I feared that it would burst from my chest. The pounding of my pulse was so heavy that I'm surprised the soldier couldn't hear it. He looked around and stepped back to speak to his fellow soldier. He looks up and yells to the others that continued watching inside the crater where the three of us hid. Their guns pointed down as if to shoot fish in a barrel. They climbed out of the hole and marched off into the distance.

I took a deep breath and I couldn't say a word. I was paralyzed. I didn't know who they were or what they were wearing, but they certainly weren't friendly. What were these men doing in the heartland of America? When did they invade us and why are they winning? I was raised knowing that no one could defeat American technological warfare. So I was lead to believe. I'm not surprised I was wrong, the government had always found ways of lying to their people and giving them false senses of security. God bless America. Amen.