The Golden Kingdom: Z (Book 1) 2nd Edition

By Jeremy Jaynes

"Try to save them and get everyone, including yourself, killed" - Some of Gunney's first words to Sam when he became a Law Martial. But, how could he not try?

"Law Martial"... even the name sounded wrong. Something drummed up by the media to explain Marines without boundaries, no laws holding them back, and only their consciences stopping them from going too far.

Sam never had any intention of becoming a soldier, but when these enormous golden domes appeared on every continent, what was he to do? With half of North America encased in a Dome his natural instinct was to help those in need, to stop the inhuman creatures streaming from the Domes, and to keep the human monsters from taking advantage of a world on the cusp of collapse.

Renny, however, never signed up for anything so noble. In fact, she never signed up. She was just a girl, one who knew right from wrong. Granted, she might be a little impulsive and makes for the worst kind of soldier. But together, she and Sam fight to keep the world from falling. They fight to save their home. They fight to make people's daily lives seem just as mundane and normal as before the Domes ever arrived.

But, their story is far from mundane. What they'll learn of the Domes and the wonders inside will become a thing of legends. This is their story - The story of the Martials and The Golden Kingdom - A story which will impact the world for all of time.

This is the Second Edition printing of "The Golden Kingdom: Z" with new editorial content as well as new cover and interior artwork. All for a new low price.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeremy Jaynes
• Release date: Jul 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476309323

Jeremy Jaynes

Jeremy Jaynes is author of The Golden Kingdom: Z and a graduate of Ball State University where he obtained a degree in Professional English with a focus on Professional Writing. He was born and raised in Seymour, Indiana where many of his friends and family still live. He currently lives with his wife in Indianapolis, while working on further projects, including following entries in The Golden Kingdom and Freelancer series.

Book preview

Prologue

The Sound of Silence

The nineteen year-old Martial didn’t want to get out of his sleeping bag this morning. Not because he relived every day in the few dreams he had. No, it was because he dreaded the call on the DigiCom, and it would typically happen right before breakfast. He hated being the bearer of bad news and reporting another of Phoenix – another of his friends – had been swallowed by the black abyss. Sam just didn’t know if he had it in him anymore.

But, his state of mind didn’t matter. The DigiCom was already chirping. Chi-Town was calling.

Good Morning, Sergeant, came from the DC.

The communications device had video as well as audio, so the Colonel could see him. Sam stood at 6’1" with his barely adult frame all muscle and bone. It was a military physique; there could be no doubt. His just-longer-than-regulations-allowed hair flittered in the breeze.

Delta-S-34, sir Sam said to verify he was not presently being monitored by hostiles.

The campsite was a like an oasis in a sea of fields. Located just outside of town, he’d taken refuge in a small wooded area bordering four corn fields. The season had just ended, and the decaying stalks sat in graveyard rows. The likelihood of a casual wanderer-by was nil. The likelihood of something more hostile was not.

I rarely have to worry about that with you, Colonel Riggs came back. We noted your location on the Satellite; however, it’s Lieutenant Herrera’s location that has me worried.

As it turned out, the military could track movements using the subdermal implants in their soldiers’ jaws. Supposedly, it was a happy side-effect and not at all planned by the military. Sam found this about as believable as Big Foot.

Sir, I regret to report Lt. Herrera was KIA. Sam did a good job of not looking affected. Gunny, his mentor, would be proud. I moved his remains to a more suitable location, sir.

The Colonel stopped him there.

Aww… damn it Harry…

Riggs was surprisingly attached to his soldiers. Some brass sat back and thought of their men as numbers or pieces in a chess game they could never hope to win. Riggs, while he typically didn’t engage in front line offensives, felt every death. Sam thought of him as a good man with a horrible job and even worse decisions to make. Even though grieving Harry’s loss himself, Sam felt sorrier for the Colonel.

Riggs collected himself and asked, Was it Rawley’s men?

Sir, yes, sir.

Rawley – a puppet of a regime that had long since vacated the area.

Any HMDs on him?

No, sir, he was stripped of all equipment and weapons, sir, Sam replied. 

I’ll send you the last known coordinates of his DP once you finish your report. 

HMDs – Hand-Me-Downs were what they referred to as their most sensitive and hard to come by equipment. When scouting hostile territory, Martials picked a secluded location to stash the HMDs they did not expect to need at the time. This was a Drop Point. Harry’s last check-in showed he was only doing recon and did not expect to meet resistance. He was waiting for Sam to join him before his next planned engagement. So, chances were most of his equipment was still out there.

After a long pause the Colonel continued, You know I hate it when you start and finish all your sentences with ‘sir’. 

It was a statement, not a question. Colonel Riggs was visibly punching in information on his side looking something up.

I can have Jeff and Duncan there in about four days.

Sir, no need, Sam countered very coolly. According to my intel, only 36 green level hostiles remain of roughly 102, sir.

That correlates closely to the number of Officers Harry dispatched, but Sergeant… Zeek …, Riggs decided against his own argument. He knew Sam was right. Do you have any civi assistance? Has Collins finally stepped up with some support?

I’m sending you a handful of names for the deputies and officials who will be taking over once I’m finished. Collins included, sir.

That would be a ‘no’ then. Riggs was looking over the information Sam submitted as he replied. Do you think you can handle Harry’s gear?

Sir, yes, sir, Sam advised thinking of Harry’s unique H2O Carbine, which likely awaited him at the DP. Just add water, sir.

Chapter 1

Fortunate Son

It was day 1089. At least that’s what Ezekiel Zeek Samuels wrote in his journal as he catalogued the day’s events thus far. Sam as he preferred to be called. The young man scoffed a little at his moniker. He didn’t know many people with multiple nicknames. It made him wonder if he’d go schizophrenic someday. 

On all counts, it was an odd thing for Sam to bunker himself into the third floor of an old brick building with a bookstore on the bottom floor. The symmetry alone was too good for Regional Administrator Rawley. And, painting himself as an assassin, although it could be argued to fit the definition of the word, didn’t ring true to him. This was not an assassination. Assassinations were for political reasons. This was upholding the law. Therefore, it fell under a different definition altogether. 

This was an execution.

You have to help me, the Officer in the corner gasped with what might be his last breath. Sam thought this an odd statement from a man who would have shot him in the back.  

The nineteen year-old soldier had been setting up a perch in the building across from the old city hall/police station, now an Officers Station/Administrator’s Office, when the intruder happened to find the backdoor ajar – a sloppy error Sam would never make again.

I do? he replied with a puzzled face.

Yes, said the man. You’re a Marshal. You have to help people. 

I help people all the time, the young soldier told the bleeding Officer while continuing his entry. Usually, I help them stay alive, while people like you make it harder.

The man obviously thought he had found a run of the mill thief. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have walked into the room so carelessly. One hand removed the Officer’s gun, then wrapped around the Officer’s mouth, while the other hand plunged a knife into his chest. Sam should have ended the intruder’s life then and there, but for reasons unknown to him, he did not. Instead, he dropped the man into a shadowy corner of the all but vacant room.

The Officer’s wheezing reverberated from the darkness like a saw grating on Sam’s spine. But, the man could not scream nor could he run. So, he posed no threat, and therefore there was no immediate need to kill him. 

No reason to keep him alive either.

What’s your name? Sam finally asked the Officer. He did so to partially calm the man and partially so he could refer to him as something other than Officer Pin-Cushion in his journal.

Creedence, the man coughed out. Creedence Clearwater.

Sam put his pen down and looked upon the Officer’s slumped body. 

You’re kidding, right? The name’s reference was not lost on him. What’s your mom’s maiden name? Revival? He uplinked his Digital Communications Display, or DigiCom, as the man responded. The device was about the size of Sam’s hand, but, while small, the DC was durable enough it could be clipped to a belt or shoved in a cargo pocket and taken into combat. Currently, he had the device propped up on its metallic legs, resting on the table beside him.

No. That’s my sister’s name, the Officer replied. His eyes searched the young man as if looking for help. God’s honest truth.

Sam thumbed through the names linked to the local Administrator’s worker bees. The list was comprised of various men, women, and children who signed up to become Officers, stayed on to become puppets, and then held on when Westlake cut ties and put all his administrative skills into governing the Sovereign States.

Please, Mr. Marshal. You can take me to jail. I don’t care. I just need a doctor.

Sam found the entry.

Name: Clearwater, C.

Known Relation: Clearwater, R.

Creedence wasn’t lying.

Well, you see, Sam said, Now, that’s the problem right there.

Clearwater shook violently as he coughed again, this one much bloodier than the last. The cough would eventually attract attention. Sam was being left with little choice. He shut his DC off, as if he didn’t, it would somehow bear witness. Slowly, he ambled to Creedence and knelt down to look him in the eyes.

An officer of the law is obligated to help his fellow man, Sam said as he placed his hands on the wounded Officer’s shoulders. However, I’m not that kind of Marshal.

His hands moved before Creedence ever saw them. With one quick, clean jerk, Officer Clearwater was out of his misery, and the young soldier was once again alone.

Guilt rarely entered Sam’s mind these days, but the man evoked the Law Martial name as if they were knights of the round. He repaid the Officer’s respect with a broken neck. It was the quickest and quietest method to finish the man’s agony. However, Sam could not help wonder: Could he have lived? Could Sam have tended to the man’s wound, gagged him, and gotten medical attention after the assault? 

I’m not that kind of Martial.

Law Martials, as they were dubbed – not technically named – were just soldiers on a mission. They weren’t cops. They weren’t even Military Police. Heck, the name Law Martial was a term the press came up with as a not-so-subtle flip of the words Martial Law. What was the government supposed to do when it was suddenly fighting a war on three fronts? It couldn’t afford to pull the National Guard out of the most populated cities. It couldn’t pull the Army from the Southern border or DFL – Dome Front Line. The Air Force and Navy couldn’t exactly tackle the local riffraff in Jeffersonville, and the Marines – well, there was no way they were leaving the fight. So, it was left to a handful of soldiers to travel the free states, each assigned a different region to set-up insurgencies or re-take on their own. And, in Sam’s experience, it was typically the latter.

When he had broken into the bookstore at about 0500, a full ninety minutes before his encounter with Creedence, the young Martial had used the scope on Harry’s BR-11 sniper rifle, or Bring-It as his friend called it, to search for any heat signatures in the building. The owner was nowhere to be found, and no one came to open the store that morning. The books were dusty but not so dusty to indicate no one took care of the store at all. Either the shop had closed recently, or the owner hadn’t shown up today. 

Maybe Officer Clearwater was the shop’s owner. This would explain why he’d have come there. Then, again, Creedence didn’t look like the reading sort.

Day 1089?  Had it really been that long? 

Actually, no. It had been longer. Sam didn’t start his log until sometime after signing up, and he would miss days here and there. The watch on his arm could give him the date, and he could do the math; however, not knowing how long he’d lived in a world of nightmares was for the better.

So, the Domes appeared probably, what, four – four and a half years ago? That was when society fell apart? 

Sam felt as though he should have known the exact date it happened. He figured somebody somewhere must have taken the time to write down, October 4th, the day modern society died. The Martial was certain it merited a note.

When the Domes first appeared, or at least the North American Dome, no one panicked. Sam couldn’t speak for the whole world, although it was his understanding the rest of the world reacted similarly. Everyone was too shocked to panic. People just stopped whatever they were doing and watched the news unfurl. 

Rippling, golden Domes appeared on every continent. There was no grand invasion. No earthquakes or moonships. No demands or warnings. In the blink of an eye, they simply materialized. 

The North American Dome encompassed nearly the entire western United States and most of the Midwest. Only 100 mile slivers of California’s coast escaped, Texas was split in half, as were Arkansas and the Michigan Peninsula. Missouri and Illinois were mostly inside. And, it literally split Chicago in two.

Then, there was Canada and Mexico. Mexico got off easy with the Dome only reaching in a few hundred miles. Canada though, poor Canada wasn’t any better off than the U.S. Ontario only lost a couple of hundred miles, but British Columbia, Alberta, and Saskatchewan were cut in two. Their losses seemed reasonable until you realized the majority of their most populated cities resided within the Dome.

Needless to say, Canada’s economy was crushed, and the U.S. wasn’t far behind. Petroleum reserves ran low and importing oil became too expensive to consider. The United States had virtually no domestic oil to rely upon, half their workforce was enclosed in the Dome, and its allies were too busy with their own Domes to lend the U.S. aid.

No one seemed to know what was inside the Domes, but too many had witnessed the nightmares which crawled out.

Current time on deck was 0712. According to Harry’s logs, this was when Rawley typically showed up for work. Sam’s blue eyes searched the street for any sign of his quarry. 

About this time, most civilians were scurrying off to the local solar plant, many on bicycles or in electric carts. A couple drove by in small solar cars loaded to capacity and then some. Sam was surprised when a hydrogen scooter drove by. He thought the smaller communities hadn’t gotten those yet.

Looking down the street, Sam snorted. His chosen nest was the tallest building on the block, and it was only three stories tall. He questioned if, in fact, it might be the tallest building in the whole little burg.

The young man wondered if the store’s owner recently closed down and went to work at the plant with everyone else. Monetarily speaking, it made sense. The entire region’s, if not entire country’s, economy now revolved around solar power, as well as hydrogen to a growing extent. Since the Domes, small shops didn’t pay the bills unless you had a second income.

The Domes... Sam couldn’t understand why he didn’t hate them. Not as if he would ever discuss the issue.

To say their appearance was unprecedented was to say you’d never seen a dog with wings. The differing footage, which rolled into the news stations and onto the internet, all shared one similar item. The camera’s original subject was interchangeable, but what appeared in the subjects’ place was not. One minute a camera was recording a skyline, a building, a car, etc., and the next a golden Dome which undulated like water. 

The desperate, more so than the faithful, tended to believe the Domes symbolized the Rapture upon us. Before long, these holy disciples took to the skies in whatever craft they could find. Robed in white and hovering above the Domes furthest edges, they hurled themselves from the heavens, disregarding whatever hell may lie below. The golden walls absorbed them, but no one knew their real fates, or if they found the peace they so urgently desired.

The only thing, or things really, which kept the economy from completely tanking and sending everyone out into the streets, was the sudden emergence of the Solar and Hydrogen industries. Conspiracy theorists and some more respectable news mediums thought this a little too convenient. The real story, as Sam understood it, was most of the energy consortiums were already sitting on the patents for these technologies and had been perfecting those resources for years. They hadn’t rolled them out because the real money was in oil. However, when their entire fortunes, not to mention the world’s economy, hung in the balance, they stepped up and essentially saved the planet.

There was no doubt the world had changed. People’s priorities shifted and necessity ruled over frivolous wants – a new concept for many Americans. Sam included. Life was no longer about getting your dream house, the nicest car, and the biggest TV. People were more concerned with having a home with running water, power, and a job to keep those things.

The jabbering voices of a few Officers snapped Sam back into the moment. At 0730 once a week, Regional Administrator Rawley held a meeting with all his deputies – those ending their shift, those starting theirs, and those who were off duty. They came from all areas of the controlled region. Sam’s plan now hinged on his friend’s intel that said only 36 ranking Officers remained under Rawley’s employ or Westlake’s – depending on how you looked at it.

Of course the local elected officials will remain in office. This is the United States. I’m not here to supplant anyone. We’re only here to make sure the everyday folk are looked after, while our fighting men and women tend to more pressing needs.

–Grand Administrator Henry Alec Westlake 

Westlake. The man took a divided country and divided it further. If not for him, boys like Sam might never have been needed. He took an already frightened and enraged populace and aimed it at the very government trying to help the situation. When panic finally set in, and lawlessness became the norm, Westlake and his ever-growing private army stepped in. He setup Regional Administrators to uphold law and order in the smaller communities, while the larger cities remained under the care of the National Guard and local police forces.

People loved him. In a matter of weeks Westlake was a folk hero. The media dubbed him The Man Who Would be King. He organized ordinary folk into a large united peacekeeping force in no time. And, why wouldn’t ordinary folk sign up? He offered the best paying jobs in town and nothing but benefits for good service. The fact he recruited kids well below the age of sixteen helped too. No one realized what an insidious game he was playing.

In each non-Domed state Westlake began recruiting every man, woman, and child to become Officers. If anyone thought Officer was a fairly broad term, they didn’t speak up about it. And, no one questioned exactly how much authority these Officers or their Regional Administrators had. 

Heck, when Uncle Sam dropped the recruitment age to sixteen and asked for every last soldier to hit the DFL, it was these Officers – these patriots – who stepped in. Every military base in the country was left barren except for a handful of staff to keep them open. It was Westlake who volunteered to keep the riff-raff and thieves from pillaging our fighting men and women’s resources. All he really did was move to within checkmate. Sam was sick to think his comrades let the wolves right through the gates. Then, again, why wouldn’t they? These were people the base personnel worked with for months. How could they know?

The people in larger cities were blind to what was going on. They were the first to get electricity again, working phones, internet, television, and running water. Anything outside their immediate view and the reach of local law enforcement wasn’t their concern. At least not until these nice metropolitan people started questioning why they hadn’t heard from loved ones outside the city.

That’s when Westlake declared the Sovereign States.

…Thirty-four… Thirty-five… Thirty-six…Sam counted the heat signatures now inside the building. With one Officer already dead, the extra body was a Clerk who worked in the office. She had arrived not long after Sam. She was a bystander, so he did his best to keep tabs on her. So far, it seemed his intel was right. 

Thirty-six left out of one-hundred twenty-five. Harry had been busy.

Sam pushed thoughts of his friend from his mind. They would only serve to remind him Harry was gone, and he had no time to mourn. The young Martial was supposed to be his friend’s backup, not his replacement.

With the BR-11 in place, Sam flipped a switch on the scope. Instantly, the heat signatures changed from red/green/yellow blobs to much crisper images. Each person became a single purple-ish color with lines where their clothing would be, while any metal glowed yellow. This included buttons, zippers, and most importantly guns.

With the push of a button, the scope began identifying targets by placing boxes around their signatures. Sam was careful to identify the Clerk as a non-combatant. He didn’t have to do it. There was such a thing as collateral damage, and when you’re one man verses thirty-five you shouldn’t take chances.

Try to save them all and get everyone, including yourself, killed.

Gunny’s words, not Sam’s, but this didn’t make them any less true.

He’d heard the stories of how other Martials took down their RAs. One Martial he knew, Hendrix, worked just outside of DC. To accomplish his mission, he barricaded the doors to the sheriff’s station, and then set fire to it. All the windows were barred, sans one, and this was where the Martial camped, waiting for panicked Officers to wander into his path.

Sadly, Hendrix tale was a happier story than some he’d heard. Another Martial, Dylan, was an explosives expert. After surveying each Officer’s habits, he planted makeshift devices in areas of their daily routine – anything from their front doors to squad cars. Sam heard a rumor the Martial even planted one in an Officer’s refrigerator – although he found it hard to believe. What he didn’t find hard to believe were the reports of civilian casualties. Spouses and children use the front door too.

Some days, Sam didn’t feel Martials were much better than Officers.

He checked his watch. It was 0721. Rawley was running a bit late. He used this time to ensure his dark green, almost black body armor was securely fastened and had not somehow dislocated the fatigues he wore underneath, hampering his mobility. Like the BR-11, the sleek, slender armor was a gift from a friend – a gift he could never ask for but needed most certain. Romanesque in appearance, it carried hard lines where slits had been cut around specific joints and muscle groups, allowing for mobility.

When Westlake took Atlanta, and then most of the Southern States, he declared he would cut ties with his Administrators up north. He acted as though it was a gesture of good will. Really, it did nothing but serve to his advantage. By cutting ties with his other Administrators, who had already provided most of their best Officers to Westlake’s Atlanta campaign, he in effect plunged every small town into chaos. Despot Administrators ran their regions into the ground. Some acted like mobsters, some like gangs, and others like warlords. Take your pick. It just depended on the region. And, the few Administrators who weren’t corrupt, who actually believed in keeping the peace, were promptly overrun by their not-so-peace-loving neighbors.

It was the smart ones, the ones like Rawley, who were the worst. They acted like the benevolent leaders who were the sole reason there was electricity, working phones, and postal delivery. Heck, according to them, they even brought new industry into town. Oh, and the good ones – the really good ones – kept one or two fast food places open and freshly stocked. What they failed to tell the citizens, and people would eventually figure out for themselves, was most of those services were available because the U.S. government stepped in to ensure they kept running. These RAs simply took the handouts. Sadly, the government had no choice but to let it continue or face plunging the country into further crisis. After all, these small communities were the ones supplying food to the rest of the country – even if the RAs were charging a very steep price.

 An informal practice between the government and the Administrators – the communities kept trade going, while the government kept the power on and water running. Each and every government worker sent to a region had some sort of official contact with the RAs prior to setting foot in a region. Upon arrival, they would be escorted around like rock stars. Once finished, they were very kindly taken to the region’s border. No bloodshed.

Sam’s superiors had thought about using those workers as a way to the RAs but abandoned the idea. They realized it could get a lot of innocent people killed. And, no, it wasn’t the moral implication but a logistical one. Once these workers stopped returning, fake or real, no one would sign up to do the job anymore. If only the Administrators had thrown some tax money the government’s way or reduced their prices for crops, this all might have been avoided. Regardless of how many people the RAs killed, with the country in crisis, the government would have probably left them alone.

Of course, it wouldn’t have mattered what kind of kickback Rawley gave the government. Too many people had vanished from his region to turn a blind eye. It was normal for a few everyday citizens to go missing. However, the reports the Martials received were disturbing. Whole townships had gone dark. So, while someone might have eventually taken on Sam’s old hometown, it quickly became a necessity. And, a young man who never thought he’d see home again, nor did he want to, was forced into returning – gun in hand.

Administrator Rawley’s car pulled up to the side of the station facing Sam. The vehicle was a top of the line Solar Eclipse with a luscious, apple red paint job and tan leather seats.

Stupid car name… catchy though. 

The automobile’s decadence, in an all but impoverished town, signified everything wrong with Rawley’s leadership. Sam noted the RA was more corpulent than the pictures in the DC had indicated, but there was no denying this was him. Being in charge had obviously been good to the Regional Administrator. 

About time for you to lose weight.  

Unfortunately, there was already a problem. Rawley typically used the entrance on the east side of the building, directly to Sam’s left. Sam had expected to identify Rawley as he entered the building but take him during the morning meeting. He would then turn his sights on the Officers in the same room. With the RA in the open, outside of the office, and no witnesses, Sam was presented with an extremely tempting target. He wouldn’t get a better shot. 

However, the scope on the BR-11 had a limited memory. If he turned away from his identified targets for too long, they would be cleared, and he would have to start over. It was possible. He could take out Rawley without a sound. If no one came looking for the missing RA for about 5 minutes, he should have enough time to reengage the Officers upstairs, identify them on the scope, then start his assault. This all hinged on whether or not anyone happened to see Rawley’s dead body slumped on the pavement.

Screw it.

Sam swiveled the rifle to aim directly at the back of Rawley’s head. He squeezed the trigger twice. The pellets bored through the former Regional Administrator’s skull as if tissue paper. Their only telltale signs of entrance and exit being a pink mist spurting from the man’s cranium, and a limp, lifeless corpse left to drop on the pavement.

There was no smart quip, no celebration, not even hesitation on Sam’s part. He swung his rifle back to the Officers. They were still carrying on the same casual conversations they had been. No one had noticed the kill, but the targeting had been reset.

Sam quickly began reestablishing his locks. One… two… three… it was tougher now. As the start time for the meeting approached, most Officers had taken their seats. Sam purposely chose this spot because he faced each row of chairs from the side. He could take down six to ten Officers with one good shot. With the Officers sitting, the scope was having a difficult time identifying which purple blob was which, and worst of all, Sam couldn’t find the Clerk. If he could identify her, he would at least feel comfortable with the idea of eliminating everyone else.

Finally, a restless Officer decided she needed a smoke. Sam kept the rifle trained on the targets upstairs and let her go. The smoker had chosen to take the stairs near the west entrance. Sam hoped this meant she would go out the front door where he could see her, but she could not see his handy work bleeding on the pavement only a few meters away.

He glanced at Rawley’s corpse. The body had fallen exactly where Sam intended, between the Solar Eclipse and an Officer’s car, camouflaging it from casual view. It was conceivable Officer Smoker – Sam never could explain why he named everything he saw – would pop out the front entrance, have her cigarette, and never see the former RA’s body lying just feet from her. If the Officer, however, did put herself in a position to notice the body, the nineteen year-old Martial would be forgoing the target locks upstairs, and two bodies would lie on the pavement outside.

He waited. 

By this time, although it was the center of town, there was no traffic. Closing on 0730, the first shift at the plant was about to begin. The bank a block away didn’t open for another ninety minutes, and the post office, while still running – Rawley did keep things efficient – shouldn’t see any workers for another thirty.

Officer Smoker popped outside just where Sam hoped. She lit her cigarette and stood facing the street. It was early. The blond woman looked as if she was still waking up, like so many did this time of morning. Sam found himself watching her, trying to get inside her head, anticipating her movements. She flicked ash from the end of her cigarette, and Sam predicted she’d take a step down toward the street. She did. She then took a step back, which he did not predict, then another forward, then back. She was kind of pacing, almost twirling these two steps as if her soles were magically illuminating the pavement to unheard pleasant music. Her choreographed tango might have been a nervous tick, or simply the body finding a useful wake-up exercise. But, she never wandered from those two steps, and Sam began to question if she was humming along with her imaginary beats. She turned and looked Sam’s direction but did not see him. Her eyes carried a far-off, hazy gloss as if still in morning reflection. 

Even if she was fully awake, her would-be executioner was not worried. He was far enough from the window’s edge he could not be seen. Sam was, however, taken by how pretty she was and especially how, even from such a distance, green her eyes were.

Don’t make them people. 

Again, Gunny’s words not his.

Sam shifted his attention back to the Officers upstairs, while leaving Officer Smoker in his peripheral vision. If he watched too long, he knew the job wouldn’t get done. The meeting should have been starting, and the Officers were getting restless. One took something from his jacket and placed it against his ear.

Damn it, he’s calling Rawley!

Rawley’s corpse began ringing with the familiar chime of a cellular phone. 

Why did those freakin’ things still have to work?

Officer Smoker took a drag off her cigarette, and then peered around the corner toward the cars where Rawley’s body laid. It was the last puff she ever took.

Sam didn’t know why it pained him, but it did. Of all the deaths he’d wrought, even Creedence’s…  but killing her… this woman whom he’d never met, nor would he, just felt... well, that was it. He felt it. Like a sharp stab to his gut, he felt it.

Feel the pain later.

Sam swiveled the rifle back to the meeting room. Some of the Officers were still standing, but most remained in their seats. The ringing corpse and cruelly detoxified smoker had not elicited their attention. Officer Phone Call, having gotten no answer, stood as if to say something. Sam used this as his signal.

The fourth row, out of the six, was first hit. Then, the third, then the first – two pellets fired into each. It was the most efficient method since in those rows sat the most Officers. From the way the bodies hit the floor, and the lack of movement there from, Sam estimated fifty percent of the hostiles were down. This left seventeen and possibly one Clerk. However, he could no longer afford to watch for her.

Six figures immediately ran to the stairwells flanking both sides of the room. Two more were writhing on the floor in obvious pain, while four were pressed next to the windows attempting to find the sniper, and five… Sam wasn’t sure. He could see some figures, Officers ’Fraidy-Cats, cowering behind chairs and office furniture, but he couldn’t be certain how many.

 Officer Peek-a-Boo was the first to chance a peek out the window, hoping to find the angel of death before it found him. When Peek-a-Boo did not find a scythe wielding monster outside, he returned his head to the sanctuary of concrete, thankful his skull did not split open. His wall of comfort crumbled before him as his friend’s skull, which had been securely huddled against the wall, ejected a pellet and brain matter across the floor. Officer Peek-a-Boo was only terrified for so long though, as Sam’s next shot tore through the wall, and then his right temple. The two remaining Officers hiding by the windows, realizing they were not safe, darted for the stairs like their friends before them. The ‘Fraidy-Cats followed.

None made it to a stairwell.

Zooming out as far as he could on the scope, Sam brought the gun down to shoulder level and lifted it from the perch. He swung to the bookstore’s front entrance, then the back. Two hostiles were entering from the back door. Four were entering from the front. Sam braced himself and hoped if the store’s owner had insurance, the company hadn’t gone bankrupt.

The explosion shattered the bookstore’s front windows and raised the floorboards beneath Sam’s feet, making him believe the second floor must have been in shambles. For a millisecond, he had the distinct feeling of weightlessness just before he and the boards violently crashed back down to earth. A lightning strike of pain shot from Sam’s ankle when he landed, but his young adult frame held like the building around him, and neither toppled. His ears were ringing, and the front door was in splinters, but there was some good news.

Only two left.

The remaining Officers were quicker than Sam had anticipated. When he swung his camera to the bookstore below, they had already moved on and were entering the stairwell. He had wanted to catch them prior to reaching the stairs. His scope, while a great aide, had difficulty with all the metal and layered walls the stairwell presented. He would be wasting his time if he tried to pick off the Officers there. And, unlike the front door, he didn’t set any traps in the stairwell for fear they would collapse his only means of escape.

Let’em come to you.

Sam picked this room for not only its vantage point, but because it had only one door. Knowing he had plenty of time, relative to combat anyway, Sam grabbed the table he had used to perch his rifle, and drug it to the corner closest to the door. With a little shove, it toppled over and made for a nice barrier. He leveled the BR-11 on the table’s edge. It wasn’t exactly sturdy, but he didn’t need it to be at this range. Sam liked this spot. From this angle, when the men entered, they’d have to turn ninety degrees before they found him.

The Officers finally made it to the third floor, but they either weren’t very observant or were being extra cautious. They checked three different rooms on the floor before coming to Sam’s. He was almost bored by the time they made it to his door. Not to mention he was a little disappointed in himself. If he’d angled his perch better, Sam could have taken them in the hallway using the scope. 

Oh well, live and learn.

The Officers simultaneously burst through the door as if crazed Monty Python outcasts auditioning for The Spanish Inquisition. One trained his gun toward the windows where Sam had been. The other spun toward the most visible corner in front of him – amateur moves to say the least. The Officers had not so much as glanced his direction when Sam squeezed the trigger. One pellet blazed through both men, dropping them to the floor in lifeless, tandem heaps.

The firefight, or lack thereof, was over.

*           *           *

Sam, I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Collins said. Rawley and his men have been strong-arming every person in this town since, well, about the time you left.

Mr. Collins was an unassuming man to look upon, the type most people walked past without a second glance. He wasn’t frail or incapable, just plain and unimposing. His demeanor carried with it some authority though, and his voice always sounded convincing and sincere, even if it was a bit nasally and pompous. He’d used such talents as Sam’s high school social studies teacher a few years ago. Currently, he was the closest thing to an ally the young man had in the region. He’d pointed Sam in the direction of people who might be sympathetic, as well as found him food and shelter. Plus, Collins had a history with the Regional Administrator. They used to be business partners and friends. He was a plum asset almost too good to be true. It just so happened he was also Sam’s favorite teacher in school.    

 Heck, I’m somewhat surprised the people at Lentico didn’t hire hitmen to take Rawley out long ago, Collins mused.

The nineteen year-old Martial was staring into the street where the bodies were being loaded into a coroner’s van like trash on collection day. Collins’ volunteers were fairly efficient and organized for locals. Roughly two hours had passed since the assault, and they had already cleared out half the bodies. 

Lentico… Sam had almost forgotten the name of the plant making the small solar parts that funded the region.  It had been a long time. 

Who says they didn’t? Sam countered. You’d be surprised at how many mercs and contract killers have been retired or co-opted these days.

Sam was answering, even listening, but his attention was outside. There was this girl – this cute blond girl standing next to the bookstore across the street. She was a little dirty, and her clothes were mussed, but she was very pretty. He couldn’t say she was doing anything specific to draw his attention. She did look vaguely familiar, but that wasn’t it either. It was her face. The girl stared at the dead Officers with a soulless gaze, and for the life of him he couldn’t understand the expression.

True, but still, thank you, Collins said. Rawley and I were friends for years, so I understand this couldn’t be easy for you either. After all, many of these young men were your classmates not that long ago.

Standing in the middle of the meeting room where a half-dozen bodies still laid, Sam nearly didn’t comprehend what Mr. Collins had said. He was too focused on the girl.

Girl?  A couple years ago, she could have been my prom date.

Sam did have a habit of thinking of himself as much older than everyone else, even though he wasn’t much more than a boy. How he treated Mr. Collins was no exception. 

It’s what I do. I’m just glad I was able to help you folks out, came the rehearsed line.

The look on Collins face was of suspicion or possibly something else – hard to tell. Sam had been close to him in high school, but that was over three years ago. A lot had changed since then. However, Collins was merely a footnote in his current state of mind. Sam’s primary attention still drifted to the girl. While familiar, he didn’t recognize her from school, and in a small town you knew everyone in your class. She may have been a grade or two below him. 

Have all the men you contacted come in? Sam asked.

Collins seemed a little put off when he replied, Most. A few more are on their way.  They’ll be here shortly.

"Good. Make sure you have every weapon, every radio, every badge, every car, in short – everything in yours and your men’s possession before 5 p.m. today, Sam explained. People will want to know they are once again in charge, but above all, they will want to know they are safe, and that’s your job. You have to assure them, while the RA and Officers are out, a new police force is on the streets and local government will be established shortly. It’s the best way to avoid riots. They need to know they won’t go missing in the night like many of their friends have."

I’ve already set a date for the new elections, Collins advised stoically. He faced the body of the Clerk Sam was unable to save. The look in his eyes told of some inner turmoil bubbling below his calm surface.

Have you spoken to your people in the surrounding area? North Vernon, Brownstown, Columbus? Sam pressed. This entire region was under Officer jurisdiction. If even one of these town’s get it in their heads they are now in charge, you’ll be going through this all over again, and I might not be back to help you.

Again, most of the replacements are here. I’ve got more than enough coming from the surrounding areas. We should have roughly one-hundred people before the day is out, Collins said with some agitation.

One of the men loading bodies outside moved to the blond girl. He put his hand on her shoulder like he was trying to move her away – like she shouldn’t be witnessing the refuse being swept from the street. She immediately knocked the hand off and stood firm. The man resigned himself and left without any further challenge. The confrontation seemed to shake the pretty blonde from her frozen state. Her gaze finally left the bodies and wandered up the building until she found Sam staring back at her.

As Mr. Collins continued to relay the finer points of how the transition would take place, Sam completely tuned him out. He was transfixed by the girl’s eyes. He saw equal parts love and hate in them. Sam couldn’t be certain, but he felt as if those feelings may have been aimed specifically at him.

I see you weren’t able to save Linda, the Clerk, Collins said with a bitterness he’d obviously been suppressing. Even though you had assured me you would do everything… had you told me when you planned to attack…

Sam knew where this was headed and wanted no part. It was fairly easy for people to start blaming a Martial for the all wrongs that came before and after. Besides, it really was starting to sink in he knew half the people lying dead on the floor, and he was getting a little queasy – which bothered him even more than Collins’ attitude. The young man had stood in a dozen rooms full of corpses before, corpses he created, and never had a problem with it. He couldn’t understand why today should bother him.

You knew what would eventually happen. You could have pulled her out at any time, Sam said with equal bitterness but thrice the force. Telling anyone when I plan to attack only compromises its effectiveness. Besides, I said I would do everything I could. I made no promises. You never know the way these things are going to go. If it was an easy thing to do, then your people should have done it by now. If you try to save everyone, you save no one, and get yourself killed. 

Also a rehearsed line, but one he meant. Collins didn’t reply, and Sam had no patience for critiques of his work. His eyes went back to the girl. She still watched him with her pretty green eyes.

They stared right through him.

Chapter 2

The Rooster

Only nights after an operation did Sam truly sleep. Sure, he slept on the road but not deeply, not soundly. He couldn’t. Too many things could sneak up on you. Not to mention the fact it was uncomfortable as hell. Tonight though, after weeks of crisscrossing the Midwest, he was asleep in the most comfortable bed he knew. His own.

When Sam’s parents