Dale

Dale's heart leaped with joy when he saw the package on his doorstep.  As quickly as he could, he snatched up the box and brought it inside.  His eyes were bright.  The smile on his face was wide.

Inside his garage, Dale tore through the outer packaging.  The package was actually three boxes all wrapped together in plain white paper and plastic to make one big box.  Dale cleared away the detritus of the outer layer and surveyed his findings.

Each of the three boxes was decorated with an American flag and the maker's emblem: crossed cannons over a pyramid of cannon balls.  Dale was giddy.  He opened the first two boxes.  Each contained most of the parts necessary to build a carbine.  All Dale needed to finish these kits off into functioning weapons was the lower half of the receiver.  Dale smiled and clapped his hands together.

The third box also contained parts kits.  These were for pistols, and there were four of those kits.  Like the carbine parts kits, Dale just needed a frame to build them out into functional weapons.  Dale surveyed his treasures.  Impressed with his new treasures, he clapped his hands together a second time.

The problem now was where to store the kits.  Like many American garages, Dale's had been turned into a storage facility.  There was no parking a car in this space.  It was filled with dusty cardboard boxes and the kind of plastic storage totes you find at box stores.  Some of the boxes and bins had labels like, "Christmas Ornaments," "Old Kids' Clothes" and "Easter."  Others had no labels at all.  Some of these boxes had not been opened in years and neither Dale nor his wife and children had any idea what was inside them.

Scattered amongst all this flotsam and jetsam of modern Americana was all of Dale's gun stuff.  A variety of ammo cans were stacked in one corner.  In another corner sat an old metal gym locker, repurposed as a rifle cabinet.  There were more boxes with the cannon and cannonball logo.  They were tucked into various nooks and crannies without any apparent rhyme or reason.  Against one wall stood a workbench.  Its surface was cluttered with tools, gun pieces, and parts of all descriptions.  More of Dale's projects.  He'd been planning on cleaning out and reorganizing the garage one day, just as he'd been planning on finishing off these gun projects one day.  "One day," Dale said to himself.  One day.  But that day was not today.

The gun safe stood next to the workbench.  Its door and sides were covered with stickers from across the firearms industry.  Children's bicycles and a plastic Christmas tree box blocked the door to the safe.  Dale moved those.  Then he spun the dial and swung open the heavy door.

The inside of the safe was much like the outside of the safe.  It was crammed full of rifles, pistols, and shotguns.  Many of those were still parts kits waiting to be assembled.  Others were damaged guns. Dale picked those up on the cheap with a promise to himself that he'd fix them later.  Others, he'd bought just for the sake of buying them.  None were especially high-end.  Dale was a man of quantity over quality.

Dale surveyed his predicament.  He'd have to do some shuffling and reorganizing if he was going to get these latest kits inside the safe.  He didn't want to, but he knew he had to.  He also knew he needed to get off his ass and finish off some of these gun projects.  That, or sell some of this inventory off.  He knew he should be taking some of these pieces out of the safe and actually shooting them.  Some hadn't been fired in years.  Some hadn't been fired ever.  As he looked the contents of his safe over, he realized that just taking all the rifles to the range and zeroing them would be a monumental task, even if they were all functional, which they weren't.

"Oh well," Dale said aloud to his cluttered garage and his collection of guns and gun parts.  He crouched down and began shifting things around inside the safe.


George

George had the opposite problem.  Unlike Dale, George had too few pieces and parts.  He couldn't get the right building supplies to move forward on the family house.  If it wasn't supply chain issues it was labor issues, with too much work for too few willing to labor.

Supposedly the US economy was running at full speed.  Every time George opened his phone, he found a new news article in his feed touting the president's accomplishments.  They remarked on how quickly the president's policies turned the economy around.  They pointed out how the president deeply empathized with common, working-class Americans and how, even though he held the highest office in the land, at heart the president was just another average, ordinary middle-class joe.

George had been all over the world.  He knew what good economies looked like.  He knew what bad economies looked like.  And he knew what he was looking at now.  The journalists could write all the puff pieces they wanted.  Between them and his lying eyes, George knew who to trust.

As frustrating as the house was, getting spare parts for his bikes was equally frustrating.  His bikes were vintage, and thus not easy to find parts for most days.  But now it was even harder, and George blamed California for that problem.

The California legislature was never idle.  One of the latest laws they passed prevented anybody from selling any parts to any internal combustion engine powered device, to anybody but the State of California.  The law covered everything from lawnmowers and chainsaws to semi-trucks and commercial fishing boats.  There were, of course, special carveouts for yachts and private jets.  But there was no carveout for motorcycles.  If a Californian owned so much as a set of hubcaps for a 1958 Plymouth Fury, their only legal option was to sell it to the state for scrap metal prices.

So goes California, so goes the United States, as the saying went.  George was finding that to be true for vintage motorcycle parts.  Oregon and Washington were quick to join in with California on the law.  Colorado soon followed suit.  Before too long, a dozen states had joined in on the war against privately owned internal combustion equipment.  Calling themselves the coalition of Progressively Oriented Governors (POGs), they sought to save Mother Earth from the evils of two-stroke engines and Saturday afternoon car shows.

George had hoped to have a few extra bikes' worth of parts standing by before he began his great cross-continent motorcycle trip.  Now he knew he'd have to settle for what he had.  Even so, things weren't that bad.  The bikes he had ran well enough.  The accident with that damned dog had done little damage to the bike, and what damage it had done, George had already fixed.

George cracked open a beer and guzzled the first half of it.  The cool liquid eased the triple-digit temperature.  The end to the scorching summer heat was nowhere in sight.  October maybe.  Maybe the first week of November even.  But not now.

George rolled up his pant leg.  The wound Lori's dog left him was healing up fine.  George rolled his pant leg back down and finished the beer.  He decided that if he couldn't get the house built, he might as well go for a ride.

Minutes later he was soaring up and down the Texas hills, past the oaks and the elms and the cedars.  When he came up to Evans' place, he saw the old man and his nephew outside the workshop.  George thought about pulling in and seeing if the boy wanted to do some riding.  But just as quickly George decided against it.  Best not to intrude, he thought.

George hit the throttle and continued his race through the Texas countryside.


Kyle

The one and only time Kyle saw his uncle panicked came that afternoon.  He and Uncle Evans were cleaning out the workshop.  The workshop looked clean enough to Kyle.  In truth, it looked more than clean enough.  Still, Evans insisted on cleaning the already clean workshop.

“Something might be hiding somewhere, just waiting for the wrong person to find it,” his uncle said.

Evans was putting an attachment on his shop vac when Kyle accidentally knocked the bucket over.  It was a five-gallon bucket, metal, and labeled, “transmission fluid.”  Kyle hadn’t even seen the bucket.  He was looking at something else and shifted his feet and when he did his heel came around and knocked the can of transmission fluid over.  The can was empty.  It toppled over lightly and landed with a metal “bang” against the concrete slab floor.  As soon as that bang rang out, Evans spun.  Kyle saw his uncle’s eyes lock on the can, lock on the Transmission Fluid label, white letters on black paper.  Every muscle in his uncle’s body tensed, but the man didn’t move.  Evans’  eyes tracked the empty bucket as it rolled across the floor as if it might explode at any moment.  Then, a moment later the old man seemed to realize the empty bucket was just that, an empty bucket.  The tension released out of Evans and released out of the room.

“What’s got you so jumpy?” Kyle asked.

Evans looked at his nephew, then at the bucket, then back at his nephew again.

“I just didn’t want to be cleaning up spilled transmission fluid all afternoon.”

“Huh,” Kyle said.


What little needed to be cleaned in the workshop, Kyle and Evans cleaned.  All the dust and sweepings and the tiniest scraps of anything went into a thick plastic bag.  The empty metal bucket and another just like it also went into garbage bags.  Kyle and Evans tossed the bags into the back of the pickup truck.

“I’m taking this all to dump.  Now.” Evans said.

‘Why?  Why not just put it out with the trash on Tuesday.”

“Too much clutter,” Evans said.

Kyle looked over the collected garbage.  One bag with only a few handfuls of dust, and the two empty buckets.  That didn’t seem like clutter to him.  He shrugged.

“You think you can whip up lunch by the time I get back?” Evans asked.

“Sure can.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Chicken fried steak.  I already have a recipe picked out.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it when I get back,” Evans said.

The whine of an accelerating motorcycle up on the main road made them both turn.  They got a brief glimpse of George racing away on his bike.

“It’ll be ready,” Kyle finished.

You can feel the tension.

Something definitely in the air, cut it with a knife.

This is also here,
https://www.webnovel.com/book/uncle-evans-an-american-dystopia_26373356505909405/the-texas-hill-country.-%C2%A0august-1st._71443630174304184
but not as far along. Bigger print and formatted, may be easier for some to read. Great story, can't wait for the next chapter.

I didn't think anybody was reading it on Webnovel.  It sure wasn't showing much viewership in the analytics.

Working on the next installment now.

If this were GD I wouldn't care about the mistake.

@Bubbles

Thanks.  The editing budget is tight.  Every little bit helps.

I can't imagine what would happen if I posted this in GD.

The Law Students

While Kyle was making lunch, the law students were just waking up.  One of them got a wake-up call in the form of a loud banging on his hotel room door.

“Jamie, wake up.  Time to get going.  Open the door.  C’mon.”

Jamie, a law student from New England, groaned and rolled over in bed.  He was a member of the Student Champions of Legal Equity (SCLE), a team of law students whose sole mission was to provide legal support to the PVD.

The night before had been a long one.  He and his cohort had been up late, supporting the PVD as they rampaged through some small Texas town.

“Jamie, wake up!” the voice behind the door.  Jamie half rose and looked around the hotel room.  Empty alcohol bottles and other recreational items lay scattered about.  The door received another pounding.  Jamie got to his feet, staggered to the door, and opened it.  It was Bobby, a law student from Brown University.

“What is it?” Jamie asked.

“We’ve got to get up and get going.  We just got our location for tonight.”

“So?  It’s barely past noon.”

“It is a long drive.”

“How long?” Jamie asked.

“My phone says it’s almost a five-hour drive.”

“What?”  Jamie said with disgust.  “Five hours?  Five?  How big does this state need to be?”

"C'mon, man.  Duty calls," Bobby said.

Back in May, the SCLE saw their role as assisting with the legal defense of any PVD members who were arrested.  But that role didn’t provide much work.  Local law enforcement and local prosecutors all received the same message loud and clear: the PVD were off-limits.  Very rarely were protestors arrested.  When they were, they were almost always released without bail, and they were never charged.

As the situation changed, so did the SCLE’s mission.  Now, instead of setting up legal defenses for their allies, the Student Champions focused on prosecuting their enemies.  The SCLE accompanied the PVD in their nightly “First Amendment Celebrations.”  They observed, and they filmed everything from a white commuter van decked out with the latest recording equipment.  The van looked like something out of a spy movie.  If Jamie or the others observed anybody interfering with the PVD, they recorded the incident, edited the footage, and then sent the evidence to either a friendly prosecutor or to a legal firm that would take civil action.  Already, Jamie and his friends’ work had led to criminal and civil action against dozens of police officers and scores of civilians: mostly homeowners who didn’t want the houses burnt or their families attacked.   Those homeowners were going to lose everything one way or another, Jamie reflected.  “You can lose it all in the street, or you can lose it all in the courtroom, but you are going to lose,” Jamie said to the nameless and faceless victims of the PVD.  “You can’t stop progress.”

The van and its equipment had all been funded by a private grant.  The donor was an institution that claimed to advance the interests of America’s retired persons.  In truth, it advanced progressive politics and put on a con man’s veneer through slick publications, celebrity endorsements, and corporate discounts.  Similarly, all of the SCLE’s expenses were paid for by corporate donations that got passed and repassed through various bundlers and non-profits before they made their way to Jamie and his friends.  Everything was covered, from travel across the country to all the PVD hot spots, to food, to fuel, to the hotel room Jamie was in right now.  All the Student Champions had debit cards that were refilled with cash every week.  In the event of a big expense, they had a number they could text that would put them in touch with some bundler's bag man.  Money was not an issue.  The PVD and their support network were well-funded.

“How hot is it outside?” Jamie asked next.  Bobby rattled off a three-digit number.  Jamie cursed.

“Will we at least be close to Austin?” Jamie asked.  As far as he was concerned, Austin was the only part of Texas worth anything.

“We’ll be close for around here.  It is still over an hour away.”

“An hour?” Jamie whined.

“C’mon man, we got the job of taking the van down and we need to get going.  So c’mon and get up.  do you want to smash the system or not?”

What Jamie wanted to do was hook up with one of the other law students in their group, maybe that girl from NYU, the dangerous, street-smart one with dark skin and darker eyes.  Then he wanted to get out of Texas, with its triple-digit heat, its weird food, and all its dirty working-class people who wanted to pretend it was still the 1800s.

I don’t have to be here, Jamie though.  I’m rich and from a good family.  I could be back in New England, sailing out the rest of the summer.  Or I could be in Europe.  Paris, say.  Or Amsterdam, living life free and easy until school started.

He could be, but he wasn’t.  And Jamie knew that this summer of political activism was a necessary step in his career trajectory.  It would give him the bona fides he needed to prove he was among a certain class of people: wealthy and connected, but not so much so that they turned their backs on the underprivileged.  In another year, Jamie would have his law degree.  Then, he’d get snatched up by a big firm.  Then it would be in through the revolving door: a stint in the public sector, a stint at some non-profit or maybe academia, then back to the private sector again.  He didn’t need to do this, to be sweating his summer away in fly-over country.  He had money.  His family had connections.  He was doing this out of the goodness of his own heart.  He was doing this to help the downtrodden.

And there was no better way for people like Jamie to help the downtrodden than by attacking the middle class.

“Yeah, sure,” Jamie said.  “Let’s go smash the system.  Just let me get some real coffee first.”


Greg

Greg got Teddy’s message.  He got it loud and clear and now he was planning on how to spend what he hoped would soon be a nice windfall.  He was on his computer looking at clothes: Italian suits, French knit ties with matching pocket squares, Tom Ford shirts that would, of course, have to be tailored.  You had to look the part.  Fashion and style were one of the many things that distinguished men like Greg from ordinary Americans.

The money would be nice.  The Gun Safety bounties were high, and if there was one thing Texas didn’t lack, it was guns.  In that one regard, Greg thought, it was good he wasn’t back home.  There weren’t so many guns floating around in his home state, and the people who had them weren’t the kind of people you were allowed to prosecute.

“Somebody do something tonight,” Greg wished aloud as he navigated through various websites.  He’d need new outfits for both the election night parties in November and the inauguration parties in January.  But more than the money, he needed to get his name out in the media.  Greg knew how the game worked.  Every election or reelection brought sweeping personnel changes in the administration.  Cabinet members would come and go.  Senior executives would rotate  Some people would retire.  Others would leave public service to take up the private sector jobs they spent the last four years setting up.  Government posts would open.  The deck chairs would get shuffled, and Greg could find a path that led out of this fly-over hellhole and back to somewhere civilized, like Boston, Baltimore, New York, or maybe even Washington D.C.

Getting one of those posts meant being known as a loyal and productive soldier.  Greg had been loyal and productive, but his name didn’t have the recognition needed to break out to the next level.  That could change though.  All he needed was the right kind of prosecution.  The media loved a good courtroom drama, especially if the defendant was the right kind of bad guy.

The PVD were going to be active in his area tonight.  Maybe one of these fossils could pull a gun on them, like that couple in Missouri or wherever it was.  It would be even better if somebody killed a member of the PVD.  Nothing like a good old-fashioned murder trial to elevate a prosecutor’s career trajectory.  The shooter would have to meet certain criteria though.  First off, it would have to be a man.  A woman defendant wouldn’t do.  Race wasn’t that important.  Some races were more preferable than others, of course.  But race could be massaged in a way that sex could not.  A Hispanic could be rebranded as a “White-Hispanic.”  A black man could be sold as, “The black face of white supremacy.”  Race, like so many other things, could be molded and shaped as the narrative required.

The thing that was far more important than race was veteran status.  In the world of domestic terrorism, military veterans were still the hot thing.  Vigilante-Veteran was a buzzword tailor-made for media soundbites.  A male veteran who murdered peaceful PVD protestors would play in the media.  That would mean national coverage.  In a situation like that, a courtroom win would be a slam dunk, even here in Texas.  After the guilty verdict, Greg would be on his way to bigger and better things; a federal posting in D.C., a deal for a book he wouldn’t even have to write, maybe even a side gig as a paid legal commentator on one of the networks.  All it would take was one yokel with a gun and the right confrontation with the PVD.

Time was a factor though, Greg knew.  The election was the first week in November.  Right now, it was the first week of August.  That didn't leave much time.  If something was going to happen, it needed to happen soon.

Greg also recognized that the above scenario would mean one or more people dying and at least one going to prison for the rest of their life.  But that was life.  Some people mattered and some people didn't.  Some people ran the country.  Everybody else just lived in it.  Greg knew what type he was.

Greg clicked on the search bar and typed in “French Blue, three-button suit, men’s.”  Then he leaned back in his chair and waited for the search results to come up.

See ,,,,,,,, sharpening the knife now.

It is scary how this could relate in real world. Following on Patreon.

Kyle/Evans

“Don't get me wrong, Kyle.  The chicken fried steak was good, but it was kind of odd you made the same dish for lunch and dinner.”

Kyle and Evans stood at the sink washing dishes.

“I didn’t make the same thing.  I made chicken fried steak for lunch.  I made Jagerschnitzel for dinner.”

“What’s the difference?”

“For starters, you wouldn’t serve sauerkraut with chicken fried steak,” Kyle said with a hint of a smile.

“They tasted the same to me,” Evans said.  “Where’d you get the idea of German food?”

“I’m listening to a podcast about Texas cuisine.”

“A podcast about Texas cuisine, and that inspired you to make jager schnitzel?”

“A lot of Germans immigrated to Texas,” Kyle said.

“Yeah maybe.  It was good all the same.  But maybe tomorrow you can try your hand at barbeque, or maybe some chili.”

“Does that chili come with or without beans?” Kyle asked.

Evans was about to answer, but then something occurred to him.  Something dark and upsetting.  The beginning of panic started in his stomach, but Evans pushed it down, deep down and out of the way.

“Kyle,” Evans began.  “All this fancy food you’ve been serving up lately, the tea you made, how are you getting it?”

“I have it delivered.

Evans frowned when he heard that.  He dried the plate in his hand, set it on the counter, then turned to Kyle.

“And when you order all this gourmet food, I’m guessing you do it through some app on your phone?”

“Yeah,” Kyle said.

“And you are doing it through some account you’ve set up, which is linked to you somehow?  Some account that has your name and is linked to a bank account or a credit card or something?”

Kyle looked puzzled.  “Yeah.  Why?”

Evans grumbled a non-answer to that question.  Then he said, “How about this?  Tomorrow, you help set up one of these gourmet food delivery accounts.  After that, I’ll order all the food.  I’ll pay for it too.”

“I don’t mind paying.”

“I don’t mind paying either.  More than that, I’d like to minimize the digital footprint you’re putting out while you are here.”

“Why?”

“Call it a hunch.”

“A hunch, huh?”

“A hunch.  It’s a polite way of saying I have experience because I’m old.  Something else that’s bothering me.  I want you to go call your mom and dad tonight.  School is about to start.  I need to know if I’m enrolling you in a school here.”

“I’m not keen on going to school.”

“I’m not keen on having an uneducated nephew and I’m sure your mother feels the same.  Give them a call, I’ll finish the dishes.”

Kyle headed upstairs.  Evans finished the dishes.  After he put the last one away, he put both hands on the countertop, leaned forward, and thought.  He thought about his old boss talking about chess moves.  He thought he'd made his chess moves.  He thought he'd been careful.  Even so, he’d missed his nephew ordering gourmet food through some digital account.  It wasn’t realistic to expect his nephew wasn’t leaving some kind of digital trail.  The food service would matter even less if he had to enroll Kyle in school.  What bothered Evans was he missed it altogether.  If he missed that, what else had he missed, Evans wondered.  If the PVD came, everything Evans had in mind was an intricate series of moves and countermoves to protect his nephew.  Evans knew that if he hadn’t planned all the moves out correctly, Kyle would suffer for it.

It was all maddening.  He shouldn’t have to be in this position, Evans thought.  The whole country shouldn’t have to be in the position it was, and yet they all were.  The weight and the hopelessness of it seemed to crush him.

Evans went up to the office and turned on the computer.  He immediately went to the riot feeds.  There was a big demonstration in Olympia, Washington.  The demonstrators wanted the governor to change the name of the state from Washington to Evergreen, or Rainbow, or some such nonsense.  They’d get what they wanted.  They always got what they wanted.  The governor already removed the profile of George Washington from the state’s flag and replaced it with an evergreen tree.

Protests had already started in other parts of the country.  Freeways were blocked in Los Angeles.  A box store was being looted in Michigan.  More of the same.  The police stood by and watched.  The media cheered the bad actors on.  Ordinary people turned their heads and prayed they wouldn’t be swept up in the storm.

Evans reflected on the sum of his life.  Decades of service to a country that had descended into this.  His own government hated him.  His best friends had been killed.  He had no family of his own.  His nephew was a refugee.  What had his life been for?

On the computer screen, angry college students waved fists, and white women with purple hair waved signs.  Evans felt a very cold anger start boiling inside his chest.


The Community Organizers

The demonstrators assembled in the parking lot of a non-denominational church, in a city more than an hour from the Silver Springs development.  The community organizers had planned and organized the event.  They were very good at their job, and it showed.

“Before you get on the buses, everybody needs to grab their T-shirt from station number three,” one of the organizers announced to the assembled demonstrators with a bullhorn.  There were at least two hundred people assembled for the night’s political activities.  They moved through a variety of stations, gathering the things they would need for their First Amendment Celebrations.  In addition to the t-shirts at station three, volunteers handed out snacks, bottled water, pre-printed signs, laminated cards with advice for television interviews on one side and all the media-coordinated phrases on the other, phrases like “Veteran-Vigilante,” “Our love is stronger than their hate,” “Suburban Bastions of Mega-Extremism,” and of course, “This is the most important election of our lifetime.  It will decide the fate of our Democracy.”

The community organizers were well-funded.  They ran a "non-profit" that purportedly provided services to the city: drug treatment, counseling for the homeless, and advocacy for the poor and marginalized.  City leaders funded the community organizers generously with taxpayer dollars.  In return, the community organizers donated generously to the city leaders’ reelection campaigns.  The drug addicts never overcame their addictions.  The homeless never got off the streets.  The poor and marginalized remained poor and marginalized.  But the community organizers got rich, and the politicians got reelected.  And the taxpayers kept the money coming.

“Your bus captain will hand out your gift cards once everybody is on the buses and we get rolling,” the bullhorn announced.

The taxpayers weren’t the only ones funding this operation.  Large corporations were doing their share as well.  These corporations donated gift cards to the community organizers in exchange for the promise that they wouldn’t be targeted by any demonstrations.  In turn, the community organizers used the gift cards as an enticement to get people out in the streets and demonstrate for the cause de jour.  It was an extortion racket on one end and a bribery scheme on the other.  It was also something that polite society never talked about, and no reasonable prosecutor would ever investigate.

“It’s a long drive to where we are going tonight, so make sure you get plenty of bottled water and snacks people.”

The people came from all over the community.  These were not hard-core members of the PVD.  These were mostly ordinary people.  Some were politically motivated.  Others were motivated by the gift cards and snacks.  The people came in all shapes and sizes.  There were moms demanding action.  There were oldsters, trying to relive their ideas of the glory of the 1960s.  There were families from public housing, children in tow, eager to grab some free snacks and gift cards.  There were students from the local campuses.  There were political activists advocating their own causes that somehow, tangentially intersected with what was going to go down tonight.

Although they didn’t know it, these people were there to provide cover for the PVD.  Their role was to make tonight’s protest appear more grassroots than it was.  They would make the protest appear legitimate, sincere, and a true expression of democracy.  After the fact, when the other side claimed that the PVD came in and looted homes, burned buildings, and attacked innocent people, the mainstream media would show footage of the students, the mothers and grandmothers, and the children all smiling and waving their pre-printed signs, and they would say that the demonstrations had been mostly peaceful.

One of the community organizers stood atop a step ladder with a microphone in hand.  He addressed the crowd.  He spoke of their collective responsibilities as global citizens and the need for non-violent action.  He spoke of oppressors and the oppressed.  He spoke of all the voices, silenced for so long that were now about to cry out and demand social justice. He spoke of all the evils of the United States, past and present, and why the system had to be destroyed.

He finished by saying, “Now let’s get everybody on the bus.  Let's make our voices heard!  Tonight we show the world who we are!”

It took over an hour to get everybody loaded onto the buses.  Once they were all finally aboard, the buses drove west into the setting sun.  They were headed for Silver Springs.


The PVD

Somewhere west of Houston, two other charter buses were on the road.  The drivers were ex-military.  They worked for McMaddis Transportation which was a subsidiary of The McMaddis Leadership Group.  Like everything else, taxpayer dollars paid for the buses.  McMaddis Transportation had contracts with Oregon and Minnesota to provide transportation services to marginalized communities.  That they were transporting the PVD across Texas was just another thing that wasn’t discussed, and would never be investigated.

The air inside the bus was heavy with smoke from cigarettes, marijuana, and vaping products.  Graffiti adorned the interior walls, and trash covered the floors.  The buses would have to be scrapped at the end of riot season, but that was okay.  That cost had been built into the business plan.  Retired General Williams McMaddis was still going to make a healthy profit.

The 38 passengers were all dressed in black.  Black body armor and AK-“Chopper” pistols lay scattered about.  Two panel vans followed the buses.  They were bringing ammo, bottled water, and other supplies to the protest.  After the protest, they’d be filled with loot.  Maybe more than loot.  Some of the PVD were talking about taking captives they could ransom off.  And why not?  All summer they’d been given the freedom to do whatever they wanted.

The PVD convoy had gotten a late start.  They’d arrive at Silver Springs almost two hours after the community organizers.

Hmm ,,,, idiot henchmen are about to meet an experienced vet skilled in the art of urban warfare. Beware the silent man.

"Beware the grey man, the silent man, the man with little to lose, for he shall wait for you in all your sound and glory with open eyes and a closed heart, and shall deliver you into the pits of Hell with no more mercy than shown to a poisonous insect."

[Evans

In California, the Berkeley Student Alliance for Global Justice occupied the Emergency Room of the Alta Bates Summit Medical Center.  They pledged that they would not let any patients in or out of the ER until “Colonist states around the globe dismantled themselves, and their leaders publicly confessed their crimes against humanity.”  Inside the ER, students shouted into bullhorns and banged pots and pans  They blocked the nurses trying to get their patients into surgery.  Doctors shouted.  Students spat.  An assistant dean ran around the ER, unplugging ventilators, and heart monitors.  A nurse followed behind him, desperate to undo his damage.  Security guards stood in the corners with their arms folded, observing and reporting but not intervening lest they get fired or worse.  Outside, the ambulances were stacked eight deep waiting to get their patients to medical care.  Their lights flashed.  Men and women wearing the uniforms of the Berkely Police Department and the Alameda County Sheriff's Office stood idly by at a safe distance.  Evans imagined all the patients, suffering, bleeding, lungs struggling to draw in air, hearts struggling through each beat.  All that pain amidst the student chants and the clanging of pots and pans.

Evans went further down the digital rabbit hole.  He found a recent Sunday show interview with the CEO of Black Guard, one of the biggest asset management firms in the world.  The interviewer led off.

“Now, you have taken a controversial stand against insurance companies who are processing claims filed by these so-called ‘victims’ of the First Amendment Celebrations that are sweeping the country.”

“I certainly have, Candy.”

“Would you care to elaborate?”

“What we are seeing across the country is a true expression of the will of the people.  At the same time, our democracy is under attack by these political extremists who seek to subvert the coming election.  We all know this.  This is settled fact.  So why should insurance companies reward these extremists who stand in the way of progress?  These demonstrators are just expressing their Constitutionally protected rights.  Why should insurance companies provide any restitution to the people who are actively working against the progress?”

"But how would you respond to the claims that some of the peaceful demonstrators have gotten a little bit… over-enthusiastic, and confronted a few homeowners?”

“Candy, all the violence has been one-sided.  We all know these are mostly peaceful demonstrations.  Any acts of arson, if there even were any, were provoked by these extremists who sought to stifle free speech.  They were reactionary.  Reactions to hate and the
obstinance coming from middle America.

“Candy, what happened in Tulsa is a perfect example.  If that vigilante veteran had not violently confronted those students who were just exercising their First Amendment right to protest, nobody would have gotten hurt.  But he did.  Now, this Army or Navy veteran or whoever he was, he had no problem when these demonstrations were going on in the inner cities.  He had no problem when these things were going on in Baltimore, or Philadelphia.  But when the demonstrations were occurring in his neighborhood, on his lawn, on his property, then, he pulled out a gun.  That's racism Candy, pure and simple.  And I don't think any responsible insurance company should reward that kind of behavior."

“Sir, I think you meant Oklahoma City, not Tulsa.”

“What’s the difference?” the CEO quipped.  The interviewer smiled.

“Mr. Rink, what would you say to those who say the insurance companies have an obligation to pay out these claims?”

“What I would say is that we have no responsibility to extremists and domestic terrorists.  The public sector.  The private sector.  None of us.  We have no responsibility to those people in any way.  If they lose their homes, if they lose their businesses, if they lose their
property, that’s the price they pay for rebelling against the will of the people in a democracy.  This is about love, and science, and progress.  It is not about their hate, or their conspiracies or some deluded and antiquated middle-class fantasy about what America is.  I have no sympathy for those people.  None.  You are either with progress, or against it.  And if somebody stands against our progress, they get what they get.  And my company will take very targeted, and very active measures against any insurance companies who want to reward such resistance.  They can pay out those claims, but if they do, I will ensure those companies never get another loan.  I will ensure that their workers will feel the pain in their company pension plans.  I will ensure that their stock prices get pinched down to nothing.
“Candy, I’m sitting on top of one of the largest asset management portfolios in the world.  Yes, I have a fiduciary responsibility to my investors.  But I also a larger and greater duty to use that power and that capital to promote social justice on a global scale.  That obligation is especially acute with the upcoming election.  I’m not sitting on the sidelines.  So yes, I am using my power and my money to influence the upcoming election.  And I make no apologies for it.  As a citizen of this democracy and as a global citizen, it is the right thing to do.”

Evans sat stewing before the screen when his nephew came into the office.  Kyle looked like a man who had just been broken in half.  He collapsed into a chair.

“What’s up?” Evans asked.

Kyle needed to take a moment to compose himself before he could speak.

“I talked to my mom.  I should enroll in school here.  They won’t be coming.  Not anytime soon.  They got delayed again.”

Evan gave it a moment.  He didn’t pry.  He could tell by his nephew’s flushed cheeks and puffed-up eyes that he needed to be patient.  When Kyle was ready, he continued.

“California just passed a new law.”

“Another one?” Evans joked.  Kyle offered a look that let Evans know his joke fell flat.

“I don’t really understand the new law.  What my parents told me is if they sell the condo all the money from the sale goes to the state.  They have ninety days to buy a new home, but it has to be in California.  If they don’t buy another place in California, the taxes on the sale are over 60%.  California takes all the money, basically."

“Yeah,” Evans said.  “Too many people have been leaving California.  Looks like they are doing anything they can to stop it.”

Kyle hung his head and looked at his shoes.  “How can they do this?”

“The strong take what they can.  The weak suffer what they must.”

“It is like our own government hates us.”

“It is not so much that they hate us,” Evans said.  “They do.  But what it really is, is that they take us all for granted.

“They take it for granted that we’ll just sit here and take it.  We’ll keep paying taxes.  We’ll keep obeying the one-sided laws.  We’ll keep putting up with the erosion of our institutions.  They take it for granted that we’ll keep walking around with our heads down,
hoping we’re lucky enough to make it through the day without getting caught up in the madness.”

“Will we?” Kyle asked.

“Will we what?”

“Keep putting up with it?”

Evans shrugged.  "Maybe.  Most likely.  But eventually, they are going cross the wrong person, somebody who is angry enough not to care about the consequences and smart enough and skilled enough to do something.  And a person like that, they will know.  They will know they won’t be given any quarter.  They know they won’t be given any mercy.  They’ll still go, on a one-way mission that goes straight into the dark and medieval and does not come back.  When that happens, who knows?  Sometimes it only takes the right person at the right time to spark the right fire.”

Evans stopped, sighed, and ran his hand over the gray stubble on his head.

“I’ll talk to your mom tomorrow.  There is no point in delaying.  We only have so much time left.  The closer we get to this election the worse things are going to get.”

“What about the condo.”

“Forget the condo.  It is just a house.  A house isn’t worth a family, or your lives.  I know it’ll be tough walking away from all that investment and equity.  But sometimes you must accept a big loss now to score a bigger victory later.  There is no victory without sacrifice.

“I’ll talk to your mom tomorrow,” Evans repeated.  Kyle looked a little happier after that.

“You want to watch the riots?” Evan asked.  Kyle shook his head.

“Why?  It will just be more of the same.  More of them just dishing it out and more of us just taking it.”

Evans smiled sadly as Kyle left the room.  Alone, Evans looked from America’s decline unfolding live on the computer to the window.  The night was out there, dark, and beautiful.  Owls hooted at each other.  The night called.  Evans looked back at his computer and said to it, “I’ve had enough.”

For no reason he could remember, Evans opened one of the desk drawers.  His cheap phone and his pagers were inside.  Without thinking about it, he scooped them all up and stuffed them in a pocket.  He went downstairs, grabbed one of his colas, and went out onto his back porch and into the night.


The sky was midnight blue, clear to the horizon in all directions.  The sky made Evans think about Texas and all its vast wildness, and the eternity beyond.  A cool breeze came up, and Evans thought about the night on the riverbank, after their small victory on the bridge.  He thought back to those times.  Back to when he was young and strong.  Back when Lasky and his other friends were still alive.  Back to the best years he would have.

All those decades of service, what had any of it been for?  His friends were mostly dead.  Instead of a hero, he was a villain in his own country.  He lived by himself in an empty house.  No wife.  No kids of his own.  He was old and tired and the best years of his life had been spent in service to a nation that now hated him.  And his nephew?  His nephew would be saddled with a country that was falling apart.  That was the legacy Evans was leaving Kyle.

At some point, Evan dozed off.  What woke him up was the pager in his pocket.  He could count the people who knew about that pager on one hand and still have fingers left over.  Evans fished it out.

The display had a code word.  The code word meant danger.  After the code word was a URL.  After that were the words, “Acknowledge receipt.”

The pager buzzed again in his hand.  A steady stream of messages.

Acknowledge Receipt
Reply.
Frankenstein.  Wake up.  Check the URL.  Now.

Evans, a man once called Frankenstein by his friends, ran back into the house.  His old legs took the stairs two, three at a time.  He burst into the office and jumped behind a computer.  Seconds later he was looking at a live stream of protestors and charter buses in front of the Silver Springs sign.

Evans didn’t know much about computers, but he knew how to do what he was told.  He’d been told what site to navigate to when things went from bad to worse.  He did just that.  He found himself looking at a familiar face on the computer.

       “We were headed back down to Paraguay.  When we stopped to refuel, we checked the riot feeds and saw the crap going on back there.  As soon as we finish fueling, we’re heading back.”

“You remember what we agreed to?” Evans asked.

“We do.  They might not head up to your house.”

        “They head up here.  You and I both know that.”

        “You could still run.”

“I’m not running.  I run and what happens then?  A year later it starts all over again.  Only worse.  Because I’m a year older.  He’s a year older.  We’re all a year older.  And they’ve been given another year to get stronger.”

“The boss says…”

“This time I don’t care what the boss says,” Evans said.  “People always say the time isn’t right.  Well, tonight the time is right for me.  You remember the promise you made to me?”

“I remember.”

“Keep the promise.”

“We will.”

“I have to go.  I’m out of time,” Evans said.  He dropped the connection.

Evans ran from the office to Kyle’s room.  He threw open the door to Kyle’s room and turned on the light.  His nephew sat up, half-awake, rubbing his eyes.  Evans spoke.

"Wake up.  It’s happening.  Now.  Just like we talked about."

Got me on the edge of my seat!

TS is about to HTF.
Or to say it another way, the fecal matter is about to hit the rotary oscillator.

Right d--n NOW !!! Hit it !!!!

Evans

Kyle took a moment to wake up.  One moment was a moment too long.  Evans was not playing around.  He wasn't Uncle Evans anymore.  He was back in Marine mode.  He was back in war mode.  One wasted moment was enough to get people killed.  It was enough to get you killed.

“Get your ass up!” Evans shouted.  He kicked the bed.

Kyle jumped to his feet.

Evans didn’t speak.  He barked.  He shouted.  He ordered.  “Get dressed!  Now!  Right now!”

Evans didn’t wait for a response from his nephew.  He went into his own bedroom.  He felt more than a little ashamed for yelling at his nephew, but this was not the time to be nice.  Things had to happen.  Time could not be wasted.

At the foot of his bed sat his old footlocker.  He opened it up.  He’d gotten rid of most of his old things from his time in the service, but not everything.  `He pulled out his old boots and a set of his old Nomex coveralls.  He saw his old Kabar fighting knife in the bottom of the locker and he grabbed that too.  He got dressed.  He dressed the way he'd been taught in boot camp, a flurry of clothing and movement, all performed on the go.  His coveralls were halfway on when he got back into the office.  He shrugged them on as he started tapping at the computer.

When Kyle came into the office, Evans took the carbine off the ready rack and handed it to Kyle.  “Load that,” he said.  Then he grabbed the hammer off the ready rack.  

Evans drew back the hammer and then smashed it into the wall.  A chunk of drywall flew.  A hole appeared.  Evans swung again, and again.  Bits of drywall flew in all directions.  Dust clouds filled the room.  Evans kept swinging, enlarging the hole.  Kyle watched, frozen with disbelief at his uncle’s violence.  The black void in the wall grew.  Evans threw down the hammer, grabbed a ragged edge of the drywall with both hands, and ripped it free.  He tossed the  drywall onto the floor and then reached deep into the hole in the wall.  He pulled out a bundle wrapped in black trash bags and duct tape.  He made a chest pass to Kyle.

“Open that.”

Kyle caught the bundle.  It was heavier than it looked.  While he did that, Evans pulled out a second bundle, a longer one.  Kyle tore into his.  Inside the plastic was a cheap nylon gym bag.  Inside that were three 75-round drum magazines and another four 40-round magazines.  Kyle could tell by the heft that they were all loaded.  He looked up.   His uncle had the second bundle open and now he held a Yugoslavian RPK machine gun.  Evans cycled the action several times.  The bolt glided easily along the rails.

Evans held an open hand out to Kyle.  Kyle instinctively handed over a drum.  Evans slapped the drum into the RPK and cycled the action.

“Okay Kyle,” Evans began.  “Get on that computer and get the camera going.”


Lori


Lori peeked out of her blinds and smiled smugly.  The first of the buses were there.  They'd offloaded their passengers and now about two hundred community activists were standing at the entrance to Silver Springs.  They waved their signs and chanted their chants.  Word had spread on social media, and more people were showing up; some activists, some just opportunists eager for a chance to loot.  Behind the mob, news crews began setting up their antenna masts and cameras.  Behind them, the police sat in vehicles.  Behind them, the PVD buses were just pulling up.

“Yeah,” Lori said aloud.  “You are all going to get what’s coming to you.”


The Police.


Officer Cervantes could retire in less than a year, and he planned to do just that.  He’d given up any idealistic notions about law enforcement long ago.  Now he just wanted to survive his career choice.

He’d volunteered to be a training officer simply for the money.  He couldn’t care less about the department or the community.  The department was led by political opportunists who would throw him under the nearest bus without a second thought.  The community elected and reelected those same opportunists.  And while they suffered more and more under those elected officials, they showed no signs of electing a better class of leaders.

Cervantes also had no real loyalty to the new generation of Law Enforcement officers he was expected to train.  Cervantes didn’t want to be the jaded old man who always said that things were harder/tougher/better “back in my day.”  But they were.  These new rookie officers wouldn’t have made it past the recruiter back in his day, much less the academy.  And yet, here he was, at a high-profile political protest with a rookie in the seat next to him.

“What do we do?”  the trainee asked.

“We don’t do anything.  We sit here.”

The trainee looked at the demonstrators.  He couldn’t tell exactly what the protest was about, but he could tell it was picking up steam.  More and more buses and cars were coming in.  Their occupants were joining in the fray.  The trainee, Macer was his name, could tell these weren’t locals.  He looked from the angry mob back to Cervantes.

“It looks like this might get ugly.”

“It will get ugly,” Cervantes said.

“So, what do we do then?”

“Nothing,” Cervantes said.  “We do what they want us to do, which is sit here with our lights flashing and nothing else.  If somebody messes with the mob, we’ll arrest them.  Otherwise, the mob will tear them apart.  If the mob messes with somebody, we sit and watch, because the DA isn’t going to prosecute any of those protestors.  Even if they did, no judge or jury is going to convict them or send them to jail.  If they aren’t going to let us do our jobs, we aren’t going to do our jobs.  We are going to sit here and that is it.”
Macer looked back at the mob.  Some were lighting torches.  Their embers drifted up into the night sky.  He was about to say something, but Cervantes cut him off.

“The people we work for, they want all this to happen.  They want it.  If we do anything to interfere with what's going on out there, they will come after us.  And they will come after us hard.  Harder than they'll come down on any of those protestors out there, no matter what they do.  This isn’t about the law.  There is no law here.  This is about politics and power.  So, we are going to sit here in this car and hope we don’t have to get out.  If we are lucky, we’ll still have our jobs in the morning.”


Dale

Dale already felt overwhelmed.  He’d spent the last ten minutes scrambling frantically through his house, trying to find the things he needed, yelling at his wife and children.  He moved from room to room and back again, looking but not finding, or finding something he wasn’t looking for and then trying to decide if he needed it or not.

He had all the things he needed; he knew that.  The problem was none of the things he needed were in the same place.  His helmet was in one room.  His NVGs were in another.  The batteries the NVGs needed were in a third.  Dale rushed through the house, gathering things, and looking for things.  He'd ordered a sling for his rifle, but he never put it on, and he couldn’t remember where he stored it.  Was it in the garage?  Was it in the gun safe?  He couldn’t remember.  All the while, the mob at the community entrance was getting bigger and bigger.

And the things he did have, he wasn’t certain they were ready to go either.  He had an optic on his rifle, but he couldn’t remember if he zeroed it.  If he couldn’t remember, then he probably hadn’t.  What should he do then?  Should he try to sight it in with his laser?  He could, but then he’d need to grab his laser.  Should he do that instead of looking for his sling?  He couldn’t decide.

His wife called to him from another room.  He answered her with profanity and instantly felt bad for it.  He was just so stressed out.  Dale had always intended to get all of his stuff ready and staged in one spot so that if things got bad he could just grab it and go.  He always intended to do that, but he never did it.  He spent too much time on the internet buying new things instead of just taking care of the things he already had.  He never tested the gear he had bought and see if it worked.  Things got in the way.  Life got in the way.  Now it was the moment of truth, and the truth was that while he had bought a lot of stuff, he had not prepared.

His wife and daughter screamed from another room.  More buses were arriving.  Dale knew he had to start calling people, and he knew who he needed to call first.


Kyle

“Why are you calling me on your cell phone, Dale?”

Kyle felt panic building deep inside his chest.  He was of course scared.  In the feed from the camera on the roof, he could see the protestors and now the PVD building up outside the development.  He could see the news vans and knew the commentators, the anchors, and the field reporters would revel in his destruction.  He could see the flashing lights of the police vehicles and he knew that they would do nothing to protect him and his uncle.  Seeing it all made the fear worse.  The fear combined with humiliation and despair and together they made his heart quicken, his breaths shorten, and his thoughts race.  But the worst thing of all was his uncle's change of character.  He was no longer the kind and patient uncle he'd spent the whole summer with.  His uncle was angry and frightening, and an aura of violence seemed to radiate off the old man.

“Dale, I told you not to use your fucking phone.  I fucking told you that,” Evans yelled into his own phone.  “If you want to get over here, get over here.  If you don’t, then don’t.  But don’t use this phone again.  You fucking understand me?”

Kyle didn't hear Dale's response.  He didn't even know if his uncle allowed him one.  Evans shut down his phone and threw it on the desk so hard it bounced off and skittered across the floor.  Evans didn’t even give it a second glance.

“What’s happening at the entrance?” His uncle demanded.  This time the yelling was directed at Kyle.  Kyle stammered halfway through some nonsensical answer before his uncle cut him off.

“Kyle, slow down and tell me what you see,” Evans said.  His tone was more even now.  No fury.  His uncle was patient again.  Kyle knew it wouldn't last.  Who was his uncle?  Was he the kind teacher of the past summer months, or this angry old fighter?

“More buses arrived.  I think… I think… they look like the PVD.  They’re all wearing masks and the same body armor.”

“Move aside,” Evans said.  Kyle slid out of the seat and Evans slid in.  Evans tapped some keys.  The camera zoomed in.  The PVD had offloaded from their bus and were headed to the nearest house.

And that house was Lori’s house.

"Spicy" doesn't begin to describe it.

Old "warhorse" comes to mind. Loud boom !!! Ambling along,, head suddenly jerks up,,, nostrils flare,, sniffing for cordite in the air, copper smell of blood,,, the load is heavy,,, but the old gelding knows it has got to get there,,, the men need the firepower he will provide. Go EVAN !!!

Attached File



Lori

It was inevitable that somebody was going to get shot.

Everybody was scared, everybody was confused, everybody was angry, and everybody was screaming.  Worst of all, everybody had guns.  At least, all the PVD agents in Lori’s house had guns.  They waved them wildly; the short-barreled Kalashnikov rifles that were the PVD standard.  Trigger and muzzle discipline were non-existent.  Most of the weapons were not on safe.  The PVD agents shouted incoherently, their voices were all street slang and noise, and Lori wondered how everything had gone so wrong.

Lori had an idea of how things would turn out when she reported her neighborhood to the PVD.  In her mind, the PVD and their escorts would arrive.  They would have headed straight to the houses of all those men, and they would have meted out justice.  Real justice.  Social justice.  Street justice.

That idea, like so many ideas Lori had about how things would go in her life, had been pure fantasy.

The political activists and protestors showed up first, accompanied by the media and a few tokens from local law enforcement.  They poured out of their buses, "singing songs and carrying signs."  They came for political causes and material rewards, but they didn't come for violence.  They weren't friendly.  They were mean and rude.  But they weren't out for blood.

The looters and opportunists came after the protestors.  They came from the nearby urban centers.  Word spread like wildfire on social media, especially when it was fanned on by agents of the Davos Consulting and the McMaddis Leadership Group.  The looters and opportunists didn't care about any political causes.  They that tonight would provide opportunities to storm into these middle-class houses and loot them.  They'd been doing this all summer.  Some of these looters were well organized.  Rented moving vans and trucks with trailers were parked on the sides of the road.  They were ready to steal in just a few minutes what the families of Silver Springs took decades to build.

The last to arrive were the PVD.  On an individual level, the PVD didn't come for any true political purpose.  They came for blood.  They'd been given license to intimidate, injure, and if necessary, to kill.  They intended to do just that.  To the PVD, the political ends their violence was meant to achieve were abstract concepts.  Hurting people and destroying lives were real and immediate things.  That's what got the PVD out of bed in the morning.

When the PVD showed up, they headed straight to the nearest house and smashed in the door.  One of the PVD goons had a small battering ram like the kind some police use.  Lori watched in horror as her door flew open and a river of black-clad PVD poured into her home.
Lori tried to make the argument that she was on the same side as the PVD, that she was a fellow traveler.  She had all the right flags hanging in the windows.  She had the right signs in her yard.  She had all the right stickers on her car and all the right signals on her social media accounts.  She’d even been the one who called the PVD out to Silver Springs.  The PVD weren’t listening.  They weren’t the listening types.  They’d been recruited from the city streets and the county jails.  They’d been recruited from rehab centers and mental health facilities.  They were professionally anti-social.  You couldn’t sit down and have a conversation with the PVD.  They did not trade in logic and reason.  They dealt in raw street power.

“There ain’t shit here!  There was supposed to be rich stuff here.  This place is a fucking dump,” a PVD fighter declared.  She waved her chopper around wildly.  “Fuck this place!”

“Please!  Get out of my house.  I’m not the one you want.  You want them.  Up the street!” Lori pleaded.  He husband sat in his wheelchair.  The nasal cannula hung down from his unshaven face.  He didn’t speak.  His milky eyes darted left and right.  Lori’s sister was hysterical, screaming and crying.

“Fuck these rich mother fuckers,” the PVD girl shouted.  She swept her chopper across the mantel, sending knick-knacks flying and crashing to the ground.  Another PVD fighter rooted threw the refrigerator.  Any item that did not pique his interest he threw on the floor.
“Stop it!  I’m not the one you came for,” Lori yelled.

“Oh, you think you are tough, bitch?” the PVD girl said.  She raised her chopper menacingly and pointed it at Lori.  She didn’t mean to shoot, but she had her finger on the trigger and the weapon off safe.  For her part, Lori didn’t think any of the guns would go off.  She saw the guns the same way as the PVD girl did:  just a prop in some insane performance art.

“Get out of my house.  Please.  Get out!”

Another PVD fighter smashed out a window.  Lori’s sister paused her hysterics to throw herself at a duo of PVD who were pulling the TV off the wall.  One of them pushed her off, roughly.  She crashed into a couch.  The TV fell to the floor and smashed.  The PVD girl spun to see what was happening and as she did, her finger pressed down on the trigger.

The chopper roared.  It spat out a burst of automatic fire.  The first two rounds struck Lori.  The rest studded the nearest wall.

To Lori, it felt like she'd been struck in the shoulder with a sledgehammer.  She was spun halfway around and thrown into a wall.  Her knees gave out.  She slid down the wall, landing in a sitting position.  The room seemed to rock left and right.  The room was quiet, and Lori became aware that everybody in her house was staring at her: her sister, the PVD, and even her invalid husband.  They stared at her, mouths agape as if they'd just seen some horrific traffic accident.

“I’m okay,” Lori said.  But she wasn’t okay.  She tried to get up.  She raised herself a few inches up then she tumbled back onto the floor.  Staring up at her ceiling, she struggled to understand what had happened.  She became acutely aware of how dirty her house was, and how it stank.  That stale and dirty smell.  She thought about these things for less than a minute before she bled to death.

Inside the house, it remained quiet.  The pause lasted as long as it took for Lori’s sister to realize her sibling was dead.  Then a shrill, agonizing wail filled the grubby house.

The tactical leader of the PVD was no genius, but he was no dummy either, and he was no stranger to violence or its legal ramifications.  He'd killed before.  Before this summer, his victims had all been other petty criminals and street people, homeless and drug dealers.  Nobody who would be missed.  He had political protection now.  He was almost encouraged to kill the "right people."  Even so, he was savvy enough to know that only went so far.  He was also savvy enough to understand the power dynamics within the PVD.  It was not any different from jail.  The weak got eaten.  Weak kings lost their crowns.  No was not the time to show any weakness.

"Put away those mother fucking phones," he snapped.  A few had brought out their phones to record Lori's passing.  They quickly put them away.  The PVD leader knew he'd have to grab those later.  But that could wait.  The next thing he said was, "No witnesses."
Lori’s sister was still screaming hysterically.  She didn’t even pause when another PVD fighter raised their chopper and pointed it at her head.  After that chopper barked out a burst the screaming stopped.  Lori’s sister lay dead on the grimy carpet next to her.
“Pick up the empty shells,”  The PVD leader said next.  One of his fighters, the diminutive girl with a mean streak, agreed.

“No evidence,” she said.

The leader ignored her.  “Get all the shells and then burn this place,” he said.  He pulled some of the illumination grenades out of a vest pocket and handed them to his nearest fighter.  “Use these.  Toss ‘em in the back rooms.”

“What about him,” the PVD fighter asked, and she gestured towards Lori’s husband, sitting there in his wheelchair, with his barely comprehending eyes.  “Shoot him too?”

“Naw,” the leader said.  He knew how the court system worked.  He’d been in and out of it his entire life.  “Let him burn with the house.  That way we can say we didn’t shoot him.”

The PVD filed out of the house.  The illumination grenades hissed and sizzled and sparked when they went off.

Lori’s husband was left to his fate in his wheelchair.  The coroner would list the cause of his death as smoke inhalation.


Kyle

From the camera on the roof, and the video coming from streamers on the scene, Kyle and his uncle got to see Lori’s house go up in flames.  The cheap incendiary grenades did their job.  As the flames filled the house and licked up into the night sky, the assembled mob: the political activists, the looters, the opportunists, and the PVD all cheered.  Then, they moved on to the next house.

The police didn’t move.  No firetrucks came, and anybody who had paid attention that summer knew none were going to come.  The people of Silver Springs were at the mercy of the mob.  And this mob had no mercy.

Kyle had imagined how he would feel in such a moment: strong, brave, steadfast in the face of danger.  He didn’t feel any of those things now.  He felt so scared he could barely sit in the chair behind the computer.  He wanted to run.  Cowardly or not, that’s what he wanted to do.  He couldn’t imagine facing that mob.  It was a human throng of malevolence.  It was a purely evil machine.  The mob would answer any appeal for mercy with ridicule.  It would tear Kyle apart.  As scared as Kyle was of the mob, that was nothing compared to what he felt when he looked up from the computer to his uncle.  When he looked into his uncle’s eyes, he saw wrath made manifest.  When his uncle spoke, the room instantly felt so cold that Kyle trembled.

“Kyle.  I want you to fire up the dazzler and I want you to point it right at the mob.”

Kyle did not move.

“Kyle,” Evans said.  His voice was so calm and even it only made things worse.  Kyle felt like he was sitting next to a glacier.  He shook violently.  He couldn’t stop himself.

"Kyle," his uncle said again.  Kyle shook his head no.  On the screens, he could see the mob moving.  It was coming up the street.  It was coming up the hill towards their house.  It seemed to have doubled since it torched Lori’s house.
“Kyle,” his uncle said again.

“No,” Kyle squeaked out.  His voice was like a mouse’s.  He felt so embarrassed with himself, so ashamed of being scared.  His uncle was this tough, strong warrior and here he was, just some scared kid on the verge of tears.

“What do you mean, no?” his uncle asked, calmly.  Too calmy.  His uncle was too calm and now he was too quiet.

“It won’t work,” Kyle said.

“What won’t work?”

“The dazzler.  It won’t work,” Kyle said.  He felt himself starting to break into tears.  His uncle didn’t understand.  He had to make his uncle understand.

“It won’t work.  It won’t scare them away.  It will just make them more angry.  When they see the laser, they are just going to come straight here.  It isn’t going to scare them off.”  Kyle felt the words spill out of his mouth.  They came out fast, too fast.  All the words ran together.  He wasn’t changing his uncle’s mind.  He could see that in Evans’ tired old eyes.  He was making a fool of himself.  The words kept on coming.  “They’re going to see that laser and it is just going to make them come after us.  They are going to skip the other houses and come straight here.  The laser will make them all come here.”

“Kyle, you don’t understand,” Evans said.  And he leaned in close to his nephew, so close that their noses almost touched.

“I want them to come here.  I want all of them to come here, and when they do, I’m going to kill all of them.”

Kyle
      “I want you to stay here at the computer, Kyle.  You put that dazzler on that mob, and you keep it on them.  All the way.  They’ll come up the hill towards us.  When they get here, I’ll take care of the rest.”

Kyle gulped, then managed to utter, "Okay.  I will.”  Evans nodded a confirmation of Kyle’s commitment.

Headlights turned from the road onto the driveway and Kyle and Evans both turned.  They saw a pair of truck headlights followed by the single light of a motorcycle.

“Dale and George,” Evans said.  He faced Kyle and got very close to the young man.  “Listen very carefully.  I do not want them to know you are here.  I don’t want anybody to know you are here.  Nobody.  You stay up here.  Keep the blinds closed.  I’ll go out there and deal with them.

“Now Kyle.  If something happens to me, you disappear and head down the trail.  You remember the trail?”  Kyle nodded.  “Head down the trail to the road and wait there until morning.  Somebody will pick you up in the morning.  You’ll know them when you see them.  Can you do that?”

Kyle nodded.

“Good.  Get the dazzler going.  Stay here.  Stay quiet.  Stay out of sight.  And if anything happens to me, you run and don’t look back.”  Evans grabbed the gym bag full of ammunition and slung it over one shoulder.  Then he took up the RPK and headed out the front door.  Kyle activated the dazzler and swung it on the mob.


The PVD

The PVD leader was at the passenger window of the Law Students van.  He didn’t like the law students, and the law students didn’t like him.  They probably didn’t deal with many PVD types back in their ivy-covered halls of higher learning.  Even so, they were supposed to work together.  They were scouring the internet to see if anybody had posted the execution of Lori and her family when the green laser first sparkled.

The PVD leader was familiar with such lasers.  A previous summer, he used one to try and blind some cops who were defending a federal courthouse in Portland Oregon.  As the laser flashed across the crowd, his anger rose.  That dancing green laser was an act of disrespect.  Out on the streets, acts of disrespect had to be addressed.  The PVD leader knew this.  If it wasn’t addressed, people would think the PVD was weak.  They would think he was weak.  He couldn’t allow that to happen.

He called out to the other PVD members and rallied them.  They were going to go up the road, find who was shining that laser, and fuck them up.  Cheering, waving their choppers in the air, and smiling beneath their masks, the PVD headed straight for Evans’ house.
The law students saw the laser as an opportunity.  They knew it would be hard for anybody to establish a timeline for how things went tonight.  The PVD could say the laser was employed first, and that anybody they hurt, shot, or executed was done because of the people shining the laser.  That wasn’t true of course.  But one thing they learned this summer was that what was true or not true didn’t matter.  What mattered was what the media said, and the media would always say what they were told to say.

Bobby and Jamie agreed that they needed to get more footage of the laser and where it was coming from.  They shifted the van into drive and slowly followed the PVD up the road.


Evans

When Evans opened the front door to his house, George and Dale were standing there.  Dale had his phone to his ear.

“Who the hell are you talking to?”

“John.  He’s in Austin.”

“Hand me that phone,” Evans said.  Without giving Dale a chance to hand the phone over, Evans snatched it away.

“George, where are you at,” Evans demanded.

“Austin.  I’m in Austin.  I went to see my girl.  What’s happening down there?  What are you going to do?”

“Listen to me.  Don’t come here, stay there.  Get to some public place.  A bar.  A diner.  Anywhere with people, and cameras.  Use your credit cards.”

“But…”

"But nothing.  This whole thing will be over before you get here.  The best thing you can do to protect yourself and your family is to establish proof that you were never here.”

“But I want…”

“No buts, John.  Stay away,” Evans said.  He cut the connection.  Then he took Dale’s phone in both hands and crushed it.

“I told you, no phones.  From now on, you do what I tell you.  You don’t ask questions.  You just do it.  What’s about to happen is more serious than you can imagine.”

Evans looked George and Dale over.  George had a lever action rifle.  He wore a canvas work jacket.  The pockets bulged with what could only be extra boxes of ammunition.  Dale had a rifle, a good one but with more accessories on it than Evans would have liked.  They both looked scared.  That wasn't necessarily bad.  George looked scared but resolute.  Given Colombia’s history, Evans guessed that George had a decent idea of their situation.  Dale looked scared and nervous.  He wore a vest loaded with pouches.  He fiddled with one absent-mindedly.  They were a far cry from Lasky or Fraser.  They weren't Marines, but they were what he had.

“If you are in this,” Evans began.  “You are in it all the way.  Your lives up to this point, all you’ve done, all you’ve accomplished, all you have saved: all of that will be undone if you stay and fight.  All of it.  Your worlds will be undone.  You will never be able to be who you were before if you stay here.  Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Dale and George nodded.

“I need to hear you say it,” Evans said.

“I understand. I’m staying and fighting.”

“We understand.”

“Oaky.  Go get your vehicles and move them behind my house where nobody can see them.  Then meet me at the workshop.  Got it?”

“Where’s your nephew?”  Dale asked.

“He left.  He’s back in California,” Evans answered.  George looked left and right nervously.  He knew Kyle wasn’t back in California.  He saw him earlier that day.  But George wasn’t about to contradict Evans.  One look at Evans was enough to convince George that was a bad idea.  Evans pressed.

"We don't have time to waste.  Get your vehicles moved.  Now.  Then meet me at the shop."

Evans got nods of understanding.  They headed for their vehicles.  He headed straight for the workshop.  Inside, he grabbed two plastic fuel cans full of gasoline and set them outside.  He went back in and tore through the cabinets, grabbing specific things he needed.  He heard the engines rumble outside.  Good, Dale and George were doing what he told them to.  In a few minutes, he had what he needed.  He stuffed everything into a paper grocery bag and headed for the door.  George and Dale were outside waiting for him.
Evans pointed at the gas cans.  “Grab those.  Follow me.”  They all set off at a trot.  Gear clattered.  Slings bounced.  The gas sloshed in the cans.  Evans stopped them at the brush pile.

“Put down the cans.”

They did.  Evans pointed across the driveway and up the slope.

“There is a hole up there.  A big one.  Find it, get inside, and keep your heads down.  I’ll be there in a minute.”

Evans took the gear out of the bag.  He had a mechanical contraption he set in the brush pile.  He had several jars filled with different colored liquid.  He put those inside the brush pile beside the contraption.  He had a spool of parachute cord, the same color as the Texas dust.  With one hand he tied a bowline and looped it onto part of the contraption.

Next, Evans went for the gas cans.  He unscrewed the cap from one and let it fall into the dirt.  He drew his Kabar, stabbed the fuel can full of holes, and then tossed it on one end of the brush pile.  He did the same thing to the other can and tossed it onto the opposite end of the pile.  Then he grabbed his spool of parachute cord and played it out as he made his way back to the hole.  Dale and George stood inside, looking up at him.  Evans jumped in between them.

“What do we do now?”

"We wait," Evans said.  He added, "It won't be long."

Good update man.

I am riveted, great story.  
Tried logging into Patreon, they want $5/mo.

I don’t mind paying for anything and this is worth it.  
However I don’t do subscriptions.  

Point me to a direction where I can make a donation.  

From what I read, it is worth it.

Too late to flush now, it's in the air.

“George John, where are you at?” Evans demanded.

Minor glitch in role?

I hear what you are saying about subscriptions.  I do.
From where I'm sitting as the writer, the subscription thing is a good deal.  I'll make more off Patreon in 2-3 months than I'll make from Amazon all year just because of the way Amazon structures the royalties.
I'm playing around with something called Draft2Digital to make this a real Ebook when it is done.  I don't really want to sell that on Amazon though for reasons I listed above.  If riots restart 5/25/2024, and I expect that they will, then I might change my mind just to get the story out to more people.  We'll see.

For subscriptions, I know I've got to keep fresh content going to make it worth people's money.  I've got four stories in the works for when this is done.  These will be more mainstream and less politically charged.  I'm going to keep working on the first chapters of these and then post them once Uncle Evans is done and see which one you all are the most interested in.

Been a fan since “The Spartan”, purchased from Amazon when it came out.  

May make an exception if that other venture doesn’t work out.  

Don't become beholden to Draft2Digital or anyone else for content creation. Doing it yourself is easy. There are a large number of open source ebook creator app's out there. Create sales-ready content yourself, maintain complete control, and then decide where and how to sell it.

Update was awesome. On Paetron for,those that are on.

Agreed.  Have been following on another site and wouldn't mind some kind of donation but I just don't do the subscription.  
Outstanding work! For sure.

Attached File


Kyle
From his vantage point in his uncle's office, Kyle could track the progress of the different groups of invaders.  The political activists remained near the entrance to Silver Springs.  They waved their signs, and they chanted their chants and they put on a mostly peaceful show for the cameras.  In the background, the looters and opportunists did their thing.  They came from the nearby urban centers to get a quick score, and they weren't going to leave empty-handed.  They'd gone after the houses near Lori's.  They smashed into any car or truck not parked in a garage.  Several sheds and outbuildings had been ransacked and set afire.  On a live stream, Kyle watched as a pack of youths loaded Lori's old golf cart into the back of their truck.
The real worry was the shock troops of this new American revolution: the PVD.  They left their fellow travelers behind and made their way up the road towards Evans' place.  Kyle tracked their progress from the camera and kept the sparkling green laser on them.  He wanted to throw up.  He wanted to run.  He wanted this whole thing to be over, or to just go away.  But most of all, he wanted to keep faith with his uncle.  Evans told him to stay at the computer and keep the laser trained on the PVD.  As much as he did not want to, Kyle did just that.


John
John did what Evans told him to… kind of.  He found a public place.  He used his credit card and made sure people saw him.  But he used his phone, frequently.  He sent over a dozen texts to Dale and George before he accepted the fact that they weren't going to text him back.  He texted other people in the neighborhood, with mixed results.  The last person he tried to contact was his wife.  He didn't text her.  She got a phone call.  John knew that a text message was not enough to drag her away from the TV.
Her phone rang, but she didn't answer.  She just sat on the couch.  The glow of the TV reflected in her blank, staring face.  She sat mesmerized by whatever was on the screen, so placid and still she might have been lobotomized.  She didn't even notice the small army of PVD fighters outside the window, marching past her house.


The PVD
For all their faults, the PVD were motivated.  They headed straight for the source of the laser, which of course was Evans' place.  They didn't slack.  They showed no signs of tiring.  All of them were veterans of this new war.  They'd been doing this all summer.  Many had done similar things in summers past, though never to this degree.  They'd never been as well organized or as well supported before.  They'd never been given as much latitude to commit violence either.  Over the years, the PVD had steadily prepared for war while the political leaders on the opposite side of the spectrum slept at the switch, preached about their high-minded principals, or hocked reverse mortgages and gold-backed IRAs.
The laser was a new thing for the PVD though.  It was a manifestation of defiance they had never seen before.  Certainly, they'd met some resistance that summer, but nothing like this.  Most of the opposition they encountered had been weak and ad hoc; just a lone defender here or there.  Most were rightfully scared.  Most looked meek, like they didn't really want to fight.  Whoever was operating that laser was different.  They weren't meek.  They were disrespecting the PVD in front of the whole world.  They were asking for a fight.  Well, the PVD members thought, if the person controlling that laser wanted a fight, they were going to get one.
One member began an angry chant.  The others joined in.  They raised and shook their fists.  One raised his chopper a fired a celebratory burst into the night sky.  Another followed suit.  Angry, marching, shouting, firing their guns, they made their way to Evans' place.


Evans
"I told you to stay down in the hole, now stay down in the hole," Evans said.  He didn't shout, but he spoke forcefully.  The tone of his voice made it clear that he didn't want to repeat his orders.  "There is nothing to see.  If there is, I'll see it for you.  Besides, you'll hear 'em long before you see them.  Are your rifles loaded?"
George and Dale both nodded.  Evans asked if they had a round in their chambers.  Both had to check.  Once both men had a round chambered, Evans got their rifles on safe.
"George, how much ammo do you have?"
George pulled a couple of boxes out and showed them to Evans.
"Dale, how many magazines do you have for that rifle."
Dale rattled off a number.  Then he asked.  "Not all the magazines are loaded.  Should I load all of them?"
"Yes, Dale.  Load 'em all," Evans answered.
Dale began rummaging into his backpack.  He looked up at Evans and said, "I’ve got this thermal scope for my rifle.  Should I put in on?"
"Leave it off.  You won’t need it."
"I’ve got more gear in my truck."
"You won’t need it."
Dale fumbled with loose rounds and a magazine.  He asked, "Are you going to blow them up?"
"What?"
"Are you going to blow them up?  A bomb?  Claymores?  Are you going to set off a bomb and then we start shooting?  That's how we do it right?  Detonate a bomb first?"
Evans took a second to answer.  "You see that house up there?  That's my house.  These people coming up the road, they're only pawns.  I'm not going to set off a bomb and blow up my own house just to get a few pawns."
"But…"
"But nothing, Dale.  Just get those magazines loaded and listen.
"When the PVD march up the driveway, they're going to come in close order, one big mob, a thick cluster of people.  I'll do most of the shooting.  I need you two to get any squirters…  that's anybody who tries to run out of the zill zone.  George, you get anybody who tries to run from the back of the mob back out to the road.  Dale, you get anybody who tries to run for the house.
"George, your rifle is slow to reload.  Once you run dry, I want you to just hand me ammunition when I ask for it.  Start with the big drums.  After we run through all of those, pass me the magazines.  Can you do that?"
George nodded.
"Both of you.  It is night.  People tend to shoot high at night.  The PVD are wearing armor too, so aim low.  Aim for the belly or the pelvic region.  A hit there will work.  When you shoot, don't just shoot once and then look to see what happens.  You shoot until whoever you are shooting at is on the ground.  Once they are all on the ground, they'll be easy enough to deal with.
"Now, this is the most important thing: stay in the hole until I start shooting.  In the hole.  Safety on.  Finger off the trigger.  If you fuckup and make a noise, the game is up.  When I shoot, then you start shooting.  Until then, you stay down in this hole.  Got it?"
They both nodded.
"Repeat it back to me," Evans ordered.
"Stay in the hole.  Don't shoot until you shoot," George said.  Dale stammered out something similar.  Evans gave a nod.  They waited.
To George and Dale, it seemed like forever, but the wait wasn't that long.  Evans had worried the PVD might miss his driveway and keep on walking.  But they found it.  They turned off the main road to his house, a loud, angry, and confident mass.  Evans scanned the road for any police vehicles.  He saw none, just an unmarked van, the kind a person could rent anywhere.  Then he crouched down deep into the hole so that his eyes just cleared the parapet.
As the PVD made their final approach, Evans thought of other Marines, in other places, with other machineguns: water-cooled .30 calibers at the Tenaru River and Henderson Field on Guadalcanal,  M2 Brownings on the hills around the Chosin Reservoir, M60s on the streets of Hue City.  Every war is different.  Those wars were fought in faraway places.  Evans looked towards his house and his nephew.  His war would be different still.
The PVD kept marching.  Closer now.  Louder now.  They shouted towards the house and the laser.  One fired a burst in the general direction of his house.  All the muscles in Evans' face tightened.  The PVD might have been angry, but Evans was angrier.  Evans had been trained to channel his anger.  He'd been doing that all summer.
When the first members of the PVD came alongside the brush pile, Evans grabbed the end of the parachute cord.  With one hand on the RPK, his other hand tied another bowline knot.  He looped the knot over his hand.  The main body kept coming.  All the PVD kept coming.  When the center of that destructive mass aligned with the center of the gasoline-soaked brush pile, Evans grabbed the line with both hands and pulled it as hard as he could.  Dale and George watched breathlessly to see what was about to happen.
First, there came the sound of breaking glass.  A split second later came the hiss of a chemical reaction.  And then…
The center of the brush pile came alight.  A sputtering, guttering fire boiled up.  It was a chemical fire.  Unnatural.  Dante-like in its sputtering brilliance, as if it were bubbling up straight from hell.   The PVD mob froze in their tracks and turned to face the fire.  It took only a moment for the fire to spread but spread it did.  The chemical sparks fountained out and touched gasoline.  The gasoline caught.  There was a whoosh and a boom of air being displaced.  The PVD stood with flat feet and opened mouths as if they were looking at just another 4th of July fireworks display.  Evans set the bipod of his RPK on the edge of the parapet, shifted the selector to automatic fire, and squeezed the trigger.
The RPK's noise surprised everybody there except Evans.  Evans swept it across the PVD from back to front, pressing in on the butt of the gun with his shoulder.  When he got to the front of the column, he traversed his fire back again, pulling the weapon this time.  The RPK roared.  It thundered.  Its action hammered back at forth.  Steel cases flew.  Down on the driveway the PVD fighters, most frozen with shock, tumbled to the ground.  Others turned to run, but run where?  On one side they were pinned in by a wall of burning brush higher than they were tall.  From the opposite side came death at a rate of 600 rounds a minute
Changing the barrel on a machine gun is a necessary element of machine gunnery.  During sustained fire, changing out the barrel prevents overheating and damaging the weapon.  The barrels on RPKs cannot be changed.  Thus, most RPK gunners were taught to fire short bursts, a take pause between firings.
Evans wasn't having any of that.  He emptied his first 75-round drum in one long burst.  When the weapon went dry, he moved with the smooth efficiency of a machine.  The empty drum went out.  A fresh drum went in.  He worked the action.  He paused in reloading just long enough to tell Dale and George, "Start shooting."  The Evans depressed the trigger again and delivered another long burst of traversing fire across the kill zone.
George and Dale had been mesmerized by the initial display of violence, but when they were ordered to shoot, they shot.  George popped up from the bottom of his hole and scanned his front.  The PVD were backlit, silhouetted by the burning pile of brush.  They were flailing black shadows against a field of orange.  It looked like most were already down.  One tried to run back to the road.  George raised his rifle.  His target contrasted with the orange wall of flame.  George couldn't miss.  He squeezed the trigger, levered the action, and squeezed again.
Dale saw three PVD members run for the house.  He aimed in on them.  Squeezed his trigger, and nothing happened.
"Safety," Evans called.
Dale looked down at his safety, flicked it, brought his rifle up again, and fired.
For all his imperfections, Dale was a decent shot.  They were close to their targets and silhouetted as the PVD were, the shooting was easy.  Dale's rifle had a sight with a red dot for a reticle.  He put the red dot on his target, fired, and fired again.  He kept firing.
Evans swept the kill zone in a "Z" pattern, spraying everything.  The PVD that still stood, the PVD that were already down, it did not matter, Evans fired on them all.  He intentionally fired low, putting the center of his cone of fire at groin level.  When the second drum was empty, Evans dumped it and grabbed a third.  His motions were as mechanically smooth as before.  No fumbling.  No rushing.  No wasted effort or wasted motion.  He got the next drum in, worked the action, and sighted in.
The PVD fighters who survived the initial fusillades were starting to react.  Some ran back down the driveway for the road.  Others ran up the driveway to Evans' house.  Evans let George and Dale handle those.  He focused on the main body in the kill zone.
One PVD raised his chopper and, one-handed, fired up the hill towards their hole.  He didn't have a chance of hitting them, but Evans put a burst right into that gunman's center mass.  The PVD fighter's arms flew up.  The chopper went spiraling through the air.  The man tumbled back into the bonfire.
Another PVD fighter rushed towards their position and dropped behind a small lump in the ground.  Too small.  Evans repositioned the RPK on its bipod and went after that one with searching fire.  He started near, then worked his bursts out towards the fighter.  Clouds of dust and dirt rose with the impacts.  The searching fire found the PVD agent, and the cover he'd taken was insufficient.  A burst nearly ripped him in half lengthwise.
"Out on the road!" George yelled.
Evans turned to look.  Up the road, the van was pulling forward and shifting back into reverse, trying desperately to make a multi-point turn.  Evans leaped out of the hole and onto the parapet, angling for a better shot.  He moved the selector lever to “semi” twisted his support hand into the RPK’s sling, aimed, and fired from the off-hand.  The rifle barked and a half second later came the “slap” sound of bullet impacting sheet metal.  Evan fired again, and again.  Semi-automatic shots, but faster now.  Slap-Slap--Slap-Slap-Slap.
The van went into reverse, stopped, shifted into drive, then accelerated hard.  Slap-Slap-Slap.  The van veered to one side, too fast and too hard.  It went off the dirt road and onto a steep embankment.  The embankment was too steep.  The van's angle of approach was too sharp.  The engine revved.  The van accelerated.  The van toppled over onto its side.  Its wheels went into the air.  The engine revved again and with its wheels in the air and running resistance-free, it howled into the night and still Evans kept firing away.  Slap-Slap-Slap.  Slap-Slap-Slap.  Something flared.  The gas tank.  It ignited.  It wasn’t like the movies, with a huge fireball rolling skyward.  Fire, orange with oily black smoke, bubbled out of the van.  Evans jumped back down into the pit.  He untangled his arm from the sling and swept the selector lever back to automatic fire.
Back at the burning brush pile, some of the PVD tried to surrender.  One girl threw down her weapon and raised both arms in a "Hands up-don't shoot" pose.  Evans wasn't having that either.  In his mind, if the PVD didn't give quarter, they didn't get to ask for it.  He rattled off a burst and sent the surrendering girl pirouetting backward into the fire.
The drum ran dry.
Evans turned to George.  "Ammo."  Evans' voice had less emotion in it than a robot's.  George dropped his rifle and grabbed frantically for a magazine.  He handed one to Evans.  Evans went through the reloading process and then opened fire again.  The RPK chattered away.  Spent cases flew.  Evans traversed his fire back and forth across the kill zone, sweeping the bodies until the weapon went dry.
"Ammo!"
George grabbed one of the long, curved, 40-round magazines out of the bag.  Evans already had the empty magazine out when George handed the fresh one over.  Evans got the new magazine in, worked the bolt, and fired.
Even above the din of the weapon, a few muffled screams could be heard amongst the PVD.  None stood.  They were all just crumpled balls of clothing and flesh.  Evans fired on them all.  Dead bodies jerked as the RPKs' heavy rounds thudded into them.
"Ammo!" Evans called again.  George handed over another magazine.  Neither he nor Dale fired now.  They just looked at Evans with dread.  Evans worked the action, then fired another long, sustained burst.  He traversed his fire across the kill zone and back again.  This time, when the magazine went dry, Evans didn't ask for another.
The silence was deafening.
At the bottom of the gentle slope lay a stretch of crumpled, black-clad PVD fighters over 100 feet long, with even more straggled out at either end.
Nobody spoke for what seemed like a long time.  Evans dropped his empty magazine. It made an empty, metallic, clattering sound when it hit the ground.  Evans grabbed his last magazine.  He rocked it into the magazine well, worked the action, then moved the selector lever to safe.  He climbed up out of the hole and stood on the top of the parapet.  George and Dale followed.
"What do we do now?"  Dale asked.
Evans answered, but he didn't look at Dale or George.  He kept his gaze locked on the kill zone.  Not all the PVD were dead.  Some of those black-clad lumps moved and moaned.
"Now," Evans began.  "Now you go home.  You grab your family and anything you can, and you run.  Anything you leave, you aren't seeing again.  Ever.  Your old life is gone.  You will never get it back.  You need to accept that.
"Head south.  You can be across the border in three hours if you move.  Before you cross the border, you could try cleaning out your bank accounts.  I wouldn't risk it.  Once you get into Mexico, keep heading south."
"I'm not running.  This was self-defense.  They were coming to burn our homes.  They would have killed us."
"That's true, Dale," Evans said.  "But it does not matter.  No judge or jury will care.  They won't be allowed to care even if they want to.  A message will be sent before you step foot in a courtroom, and you can bet that message will be received.  It’s a big machine that's turning right now.  All of us just got caught up in its gears."
A moan rose from the kill zone.
Evan said, "You two need to get going.  You don't have much time."  Then he moved the selector lever from safe to semiautomatic, and he walked down the slope towards the kill zone.

Wow...

Good.

Uncle Evan just gave the PVD leadership a "pause moment" I think.

1 that I caught " Its action hammered back at forth "  "an" ?

Thanks for the writing assists.  I'm not sure how "zill" made it through.  I ran this thing through an editing app many times.

@Currently
@00BuckH

I think you can make a donation through my Substack page.  You don't have to set up a paid account/subscription there.

https://seanbastle.substack.com/p/uncle-evans

Gracias.

I got on Patreon … see how that goes

I joined and am glad I did.  I figured I could contribute at least something for the enjoyment I get from reading shark man’s stuff.  Small amount, but it’s something.

Update on Paetron was awesome. It is out now.

Attached File


The Texas Hill Country.  August 6th.

Evans walked down to the driveway.  Behind, he heard Dale and George scrambling to leave.  Ahead, the brush pile fire had mostly gone out.  A few thicker pieces of wood still burned.  The orange flames wavered and shimmied, casting off ominous light and shadows.  All over the drive lay crumpled bodies.  Most had been hit low.  Evans saw shattered knees and exploded thighs.  He saw legs bent at the joints at impossible angles.  Many femoral arteries had been ripped open and thick black pools of their flow shined in the firelight.  But not all the PVD had been killed outright.  There were wounded here and there, still alive… for now.

One of the wounded PVD members sat up amongst the bodies.  This one tried clumsily to get a tourniquet around his leg.  Evans could tell the man didn't know how to apply the tourniquet.  Evans could also tell the man didn't need it.  Evans approached the PVD fighter and stopped maybe a pace away.

"Help me," the man said.  His voice was panicky.

"You don't need that," Evans said.  "If your femoral got clipped, you'd have bled out by now."


"Help me.  You got to help me."

Evans pondered that for a moment.  Then he said, "No."

When he heard the refusal, the man looked up.  His mood changed from desperate to petulant.

"I said help me.  I'm hurt.  You got to help me.  You hurt me, now you have to help me.  It’s the fucking law.  You can't just stand there.  That's a fucking war crime."

Evans looked right through this PVD fighter's eyes and into his soul.  It was a black, venal, and spiteful place.

"That ain't gonna work on me," Evans said.  "And I didn't come here to help you.  I came here to kill you.  And that is what I'm going to do."

Now the wounded PVD man looked into Evans' eyes, and his mood changed again.

"Please.  Don't kill me."

Evans shook his head once, slowly.  "No," he said.  He let his words hang in the air for a bit before continuing.

"There's nothing in it for me, letting you live.  I'm in this all the way, up past my neck.  You came here tonight to ruin my life, and you did just that.  There ain't gonna be any mercy for me.  No ruling of self-defense.  No innocent verdict.  No time off for good behavior.  No parole.  Nothing.  I can die here, or I can suffer through some show trial and die in jail.  That's it.  That's all I'm gonna get."  Evans shook his head.  "Not matter what, I'm paying the full price.  So, I'm gonna get my money's worth.

"Besides, I help you and let you live, and then what?  Are you going to have a change of heart?  Are you going to appreciate my magnanimity and change your ways?  No.  I let you live, and you'll turn right around and go fuck up some other person's life.  You couldn't change if you wanted to.  You're a scorpion.  But I ain't no frog.  I'm a scorpion too."

The PVD man said something.  Evans did listen.  He went on.

"I used to wonder what I'd do if I had a time machine time.  I always figured I'd go back and try to change things.  Try to get to a bomb earlier.  Warn those guys about the bridge.  Maybe I'd go back and change places with somebody in that truck.  Take their place so they could get to live their life.  That's what I used to think I'd do.  Now, I know what I would do.  

"If I had a time machine, I'd give myself just one more day here.  So much about him I don't know, and I'll never get to know.  So much I could still teach him, to make him a better man, a better man than me.

"But there isn't going to be any time machine, and there isn't going to be another day.  Not for me.  And not for you.

Evans raised the RPK.  The injured PVD fighter raised his hand as if it could ward off the bullet.  Evans shot the man through his hand and through his head.  Other PVD fighters, the ones that were wounded or playing possum screamed and whimpered.  Some tried to crawl away.  Evans calmly spun on his heels and walked over to the nearest PVD fighter.  He put the RPK's slant muzzle break against the downed woman's temple and fired.  Then he moved on to the next.  And the next.  And the next.


Kyle
Kyle had the presence of mind to shut off the laser when the shooting started.  Now that the battle was over, He went to the window.  He cracked the blinds and watched as his uncle used single shots to execute all the remaining PVD.

The Police
The rookie set down his cell phone and lowered his window.  The fire had been going on for a while.  First, it was the high-speed chatter of automatic fire.  Now it was slow, paced, single shots.  The rookie turned to the training officer.

"They're still shooting up the hill," the rookie said.

"They sure are."

The rookie looked from his trainer to the sound of the gunfire and then back again.

"Maybe we should go check it out."

"Why?  Those are our guys firing."

"How can you tell?"

"The PVD carry AKs.  That's AK fire."

"How can you tell?"

The trainer smiled.  "The AK-47 makes a very distinctive sound."  The rookie looked confused.  He obviously didn't catch the reference.  The trainer felt a little disappointed.

"Look, like it or not, the PVD are our guys now, and it's our guys shooting.  So, we sit here.  If we hear somebody shooting at the PVD, we step in.  Otherwise, we sit here and let the PVD do their thing.  That's what they pay us to do now.  If dispatch needs us to go up there, they'll tell us to go up there.  In the meantime, we wait in the vehicle and hope we don't get caught up in this mess."

The rookie took one last look in the direction of the gunfire.  Then he shrugged and went back to playing on his phone.


Evans
After he fired the last anchor shot, Evan reached down to a dead PVD and pulled the rifle magazines out of the man's gear.  As Dale's truck and George's motorcycle sped past, Evans dropped his own magazine and reloaded his weapon.  He looked back down at the body.  The dead man had a couple of illumination grenades on his gear.  Serbian.  Evans could tell just by looking at them.  He looked up towards the main road and saw the overturned van there.  One of its turn signals was still blinking.  Evans grabbed the illumination grenades and walked to the van.

When he got to the crash, he leaned down and looked in through the passenger window, bringing the muzzle around in unison with his eyes.  Two college-aged kids were inside.  The one in the passenger seat was undeniably dead.  His head was twisted around at an impossible angle.  The driver was busted up and bleeding, but not dead.  He'd been pinned by something and couldn't get out of his seat.  He saw Evans and mumbled.

"Help me."

Evans ducked back from the window but kept the muzzle of his weapon pointed inside.  He fired a burst into the driver.  Then he shifted the weapon and fired a second burst into the passenger just to be sure.  That done, he went to the back of the van and found the fuel tank.  He drew his Kabar and slashed the fuel lines.  Then he stabbed holes in the tank.  Then he walked a safe distance from the van and tossed the grenades onto it.  Sparks from the illumination set the gas on fire and soon the whole van roared with fire.  Evans turned and jogged back to his house.

Kyle stood at the front door.

"You got five minutes to get packed.  Bring me your phone and computer  Bring that carbine too.

Kyle went to work.  Evans got his own computer and all the phones and pagers he kept.  He took all the electronics to the cement pipe by the front door.  He kicked off the cover and threw everything inside.  He unloaded the RPK and threw that inside too.

When Kyle came back down, he had a pair of duffle bags, a big backpack, and all the other items his uncle told him to bring.

"Break the carbine down and stuff it in your bag.  It is yours now," Evan said.  He grabbed Kyle's phone and computer and put those in the cement pipe.  Then he grabbed one of the metal cans he had set aside, tore off the lid, and dumped the contents inside.

"What's that?" Kyle asked.

"Magnesium," Evans said.  He grabbed a second can and did the same thing.  "Magnesium.  Powdered aluminum, iron oxide, and a few other things.  Step back, and don't look at the fire."  Evans produced a road flare, struck it, and then threw it inside the pipe.

There came a hissing sound, and then another chemical fire erupted.  This one burned blindingly white.  It filled the whole cement pipe.  Sparks snapped and hissed like they were living things.  Kyle could smell the plastic and the metal burn.  Everything inside the pipe turned to slag.  The phones, the computers, the RPK, everything.  The chemical fire crackled and spat, hungry for more.

"Do you have anything else in your room?  Anything else of yours in the house?"

"I didn't bring that much."

"I know, but we have no room for mistakes here.  Is anything of yours still inside?  Toothbrush?  A stray sock?  Paper receipt?  Anything?"

"I'll check."

"Go quick.  We don't have long."

Kyle went inside.  Evans went back to the fighting position for the parachute cord.  He found that, and Dale's thermal scope.  Dale must have left it behind.   Evans grabbed both.  He used the parachute cord to lasso the dazzler and camera off the roof.  That contraption went into the crucible too.  Kyle came down with a handful of things.

"Do you need any of these?" Evans asked.

"No."

"Toss them into the fire."


Kyle tossed the items into the fire.  The flames flared when they touched the new fuel.

Evans handed Kyle the thermal.  "Put this with the carbine.  It is yours now, and so is this," Evan handed over his Kabar knife too.

"Now listen, Kyle.  This is what's going to happen.  You are going to grab all your stuff and head down the trail.  When you get to the road and the sign, wait in the bushes.  Stay out of sight.  The cops are going to come flooding in soon.  All the cops in the world.  Maybe more PVD too.  If they see you, they will arrest you or worse.  So you need to stay hidden.

"Eventually a car will pull up by the sign.  You'll know it when you see it.  Get in and go with the men inside.  They're old friends.  They'll take care of you."

"What about you?"

"There is no me.  I'm staying here."

Kyle shook his head.  

"Kyle, somebody has to stay here and account for this.  If we both run, then they get both of us.  So I'm staying here.  I stay.  You run.  That's the way it works."

"No," Kyle said.  He felt too many emotions welling up inside him.  He started to shake.  "No," he repeated.  No, we both go."

“We can't.  I just killed dozens of politically protected people.  They are going to come down hard on this, with everything they got.  The fallout on this will be worse than if we shot a bunch of cops.  Anybody they can tie to this they are going to destroy.  Anybody and everybody.  If that's going to be me, fine.  I can take that heat.  I've planned for that.  But it can't be you.  You understand?  It can't be you."

"We can fight.  Together," Kyle said.  He was pleading, almost sobbing.  "We can fight them together."

"And what?  We both die in some meaningless last stand?  I've seen too many die for nothing.  That's what would happen.  That, or they'd get you and throw you in jail.  That can't happen either, Kyle.  If they put you in jail, it would destroy me.  Do you understand?  There would be nothing left of me.  I didn't live my life up to this point just to see you get murdered by some government thugs or thrown in prison forever."

"No," Kyle said.  He shook with emotion.  He was crying.  His eyes watered and his nose ran.  "No.  We're in this together.  We'll stay.  We can fight or we'll do something.  I…  I won't just let you…  I won't…"

Evans grabbed Kyle by the shirt and shook him.  He pulled the younger man in close, so they were nose to nose.  He didn't want to, but he knew he had to.  There wasn't time to be nice.  He had to protect Kyle, even if it meant protecting Kyle from himself.  Otherwise, it was all for nothing.  He yelled at his nephew.

“I’m your uncle and you'll do what I say.  It is my job to protect you.  I told your mom I’d protect you and that is exactly what I’m going to do.  I tell you to go and you go.  Now grab your shit and get going down that trail.  Now dammit."

Kyle stepped back from his uncle, he looked at the man like he'd never seen him before.  Kyle's emotions turned to revulsion, disgust, disappointment.  Slowly, he shouldered his pack.  Kyle moved slowly.  He looked like he wanted to say something.  There wasn't time.

"Go.  Move, your fucking ass," Evans yelled.

Kyle moved.  He got his gear and his duffle bags, turned, and headed down the trail.  Evans watched his nephew disappear into the oaks and elms.  Kyle didn't look back, and Evans felt sad about that.  But that was it.  That's how their summer together ended.


The sun broke over the eastern horizon and washed the world with the golden light of a new day.  Evans watched the sunrise and considered what to do next.  He thought about burning the whole house down, but he decided against it.  Too much, he thought.  Overkill.  But there was something.  He went into the house and grabbed up all his mementos from the walls: the plagues and paddles and certificates.  Even the mounted bomb disposal helmet with his old teammates' names on the back.  He flipped it over to the back and took one last look at the signatures.  His old team.  Gone now.

"You don't get these," Evans said aloud.  "You can take my house.  You can kill me, but you don't get these."

He threw the armloads of mementos of his military service into the crucible and watched them burn.

And then there was nothing left to do.  Evans watched the road.  Nobody came.  Evans went inside and headed for the kitchen.  He started brewing up some chai but stopped midway through the process.  He'd never get another cup of chai, not where he was going, and he decided his last cup would be the cup Kyle made him the day before.  That seemed fitting.  It wouldn't get any better than that.  He put the tea away and grabbed his colas out of the fridge.  He headed for the front door, took off his shirt, sat down, and opened a can of cola.

Evans sat like that for a long time, sitting and drinking colas, just like he did on the river bank, waiting for the police.

The first cruiser came alone.  It turned down his drive, got halfway down, then it stopped.  It seemed like the occupants were so shocked by the bodies that they needed to sit for a moment and figure out what to do.  After a few minutes, the cruiser turned around and headed back the way it came.

When the police came back, they came in force.  They didn't know what to do with this shirtless old man and the heaps of dead PVD fighters.  They handcuffed Evans and asked him questions.  Evans told the police he wasn't answering any questions.  Some officers poked at the smoldering crucible.  Others rummaged through the house.  Others still walked amongst the bodies, both horrified and impressed by the carnage.  Some would huddle together, deliberate and cast sideways glances at the handcuffed Evans, then deliberate some more.  A TV van showed up.  Then another.  Evans heard the thump-thump-thump of circling helicopters.  Patrol officers strung crime scene tape.  Detectives arrived and asked Evans more questions to which they got no answers.  One officer looked at the mangled bodies and vomited.  Another looked at the bodies and burst into tears.  On and on it went.  After a few hours, Evans was loaded into the back of a patrol vehicle and driven off to his fate.

On their way out of the Silver Springs community, Evans saw an armada of police vehicles parked in front of John and Dale’s homes.

I hope you teo ran, Evans said to himself.  Then he sank back into the cruiser’s seat.  There was nothing to do now but to wait.

He knew how to wait.

Very nice work Shark.  Very nice.  Thank you!

Very enjoyable read Sharkman... thank you for sharing!

Is that the end?

Not at all.

About 5 more installments.

Very, very nice, sir.

Good update, thanks man.

What can I say,,,awesome.