Patriots Under Fire: The District Trilogy, #3

By Branden Holder

As the smoldering embers of war quickly die out among the tattered ruins of America, a fire rises in the heart of its capital. Now under occupied Russian control, the District faces the threat of martial law and ruthless oppression at the hands of its enemy.

Politicians and public officials elected to “protect and serve” eagerly accept handouts, while permitting atrocities to be carried out against the District’s denizens. However, a resistance is growing beneath the D.M.D.C. that no force can silence.

In a clash between power and the people, broken men will come together to combat abysmal corruption until the only choice left is to stand and fight. Learn the true price of freedom in "Patriots Under Fire", the explosive conclusion to "The District Trilogy".

• Language: English
• Publisher: Branden Holder
• Release date: Jan 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507082836

Branden Holder

Born and raised in the Midwest, Branden Holder is a writer and artist from central Indiana. He currently resides in the city of Noblesville with his wife, Samantha, and his adopted feline daughter, a mischievous yet well-meaning calico cat named Calypso. In addition to writing, Holder occupies his time making artwork while operating a graphic design and marketing business. He also possesses a fondness for copious amounts of good coffee, video games, comic books, and reading.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Dead...or so they thought. At least that’s what the official report says. Thing about being dead, though, is nobody expects to see ya anymore. But there have been a whole helluva lot of people seein’ me lately who didn’t want to.

The name’s Frank Dawson.  If you’d known me a while back, I would’ve told ya I was one of the good guys, fightin’ for justice and all that bullshit. Now, I’m just a man with no soul and a gun, lookin’ for my next victim. Don’t worry, it ain’t the good ones I take, only the bad. The very bad ones. Unfortunately, that’s practically every damn bastard in this place...except maybe one or two.

For twelve months, I haven’t set foot in this godforsaken wasteland, and damn, has it been nice. I’m surprised they didn’t change the name already, seeing as how the "Demilitarized District of Columbia" no longer rings true. Then again, freedom doesn’t exactly ring much here either, but they’ll sure as hell pretend it does.

Guns, tanks, and crude barbwire barricades pollute every street in the nation’s capital. ‘Til six months ago the rest of this country looked the same way, but when gunshots started in Washington, everywhere else went silent. The shining utopia amidst the warring United States was no longer secure.  In a matter of days, any petty opposition was put down and the Soviets seized control. I don’t know what happened, but I’d bet my life that the Pinkos had help openin’ the doors from inside. I’ll make sure to ask before I blow their fuckin’ brains out.

Luck would have it that I missed out on all the early fun, though. I was a little busy havin’ my ass kicked three times a day by some second-rate police academy dropouts to even notice. Then, before the Ruskies emerge in full force, I get relocated to California of all places, with a bullet to the knee. Damn beatniks and their ‘modern’ ways of handling things out there—I shoulda volunteered to take that bullet in the head, ‘cause it sure as hell would’ve beat listening to their rambling.

A grandmotherly dame by the name of Juliet took me into her San Francisco home and fixed me up right. I was broke all to shit, but she did her damnedest to put me back together. Told me she had a son about my age who bit a bullet during the second War, a high-ranking military officer or something like that. Some of us were never made for war; some of us never have a choice.

In time, I gathered my stuff and headed back to the only life I’d ever known, or at least the only one I cared to remember. Perverted truckers, worried families, and resistance militia carried my ass from city to city. With the States’ War at a standstill, road travel was easier than a girl at her senior class dance.  Even so, the journey back came with the heavy toll of witnessing pure devastation first-hand. Landscapes wrought by hate, violence, and hunger left a scar in my memory I’d rather forget.

The rage in my gut grew to an unbearable level during these moments, but it only got worse when I finally made it to Maryland.  Standin’ on a hilltop overlooking the District’s northern border, the smolderin’ clouds of a city in strife burned my eyeballs.

Every now and then I’d sneak inside the walls to visit old ‘friends’ for a reunion or two, but the iron grasp of martial law started choking off my escape routes with armed guards and other obstacles weeks ago.  But that’s the beauty of cloggin’ your city’s arteries...eventually your heart gives out on ya.

Pfft, if only. It’ll take a whole lot more to bring down the District than a couple roadblocks and some artillery. That beast is just too big, too powerful to fall.

Now the whole country is sitting on its ass, scratchin’ its nuts and trying to figure out what to do next. All the while, Russia gains a foothold in the District’s society and politics.

And we fuckin’ let ‘em.

Sure, there’s plenty of food and money to go around, but no tellin’ when you’ll get a share. Permitting those murderous wolves into the country unchecked—we would’ve been better off slitting our wrists and letting the vultures pick our bones instead. Fortunately, I like myself too much to do something so foolish.

No, there’s only one solution to this mess and it requires drivin’ a stake into the heart of a bloodthirsty monster hellbent on power and control. It’ll be a struggle, that’s for damn sure, but who better to deliver the killin’ blow than a phantom?

Just call me Frank Dawson, the Unholy Ghost.

Damn, I love bein’ dead.

RESURRECTION

A shadow. The moonlight bleeds around me like fingers over a wound. Rats scurry beneath my dusty shoes. This is it, I think to myself. Time to become a citizen of the District once again...and a ‘model’ citizen at that.

Steppin’ into the mud below, I exit the rotten concrete bowel—a sewer pipe, my only remaining point of entry. My feet move through the sludge like there’s cinder blocks tied to each one. Eventually, I make it to solid ground and my achin’ dogs thank me for my troubles.

A soldier stands guard nearby. Not your lucky day, son.  I grab a charred two-by-four resting beside the pieces of a bombed-out building. Behind the soldier, I raise my club like the Neanderthal I am, driving the plank into his skull. The bastard crumples like a piece of paper.

Back in business. First things first, I’ve gotta find my last remaining friend here...Price.

Wiping my loafers in some grass and brushing the ash off my hands, I try to get my bearings. Judgin’ by the smell, this shit hole can’t be anywhere other than my ‘favorite’ place in this city, the South End. A baby cries somewhere down the street. What kinda broad would have a baby in this place?  Hell, like she probably had a choice in the matter.

I’d be a fool to try hitchhikin’ in this part of town at night, so I better find a car before morning. I’ll be damned if I’m walkin’ all the way to Police Headquarters. Winding through a series of chain link fences, I turn the corner to find an empty street awaiting my arrival. A few salvageable vehicles sit along what’s left of the sidewalk.

I bust out the glass windows of a ‘53 Chevy, my eager fingertips searchin’ for the keys. One flip of the visor and down they fall. Abandon a fine piece of craftsmanship like this in a hurry, but you remember to hide your damn keys. Need to work on your priorities, bud.

The key slides into the ignition with a grace that can’t be found in church. Let’s see what this baby can do. Much to my satisfaction, the engine roars to life and I let the horses run.

Unseasonably cold wind pushes through the forest of hair camouflaging my criminal mug. Never thought much of facial hair, but these days, anonymity don’t come cheap.

The buildings of a once great nation speed past as I make my way to the District’s core. Banners donning the hammer and sickle garnish the monuments of old, a crimson stain on their virgin marble facade. This Russian occupation of America was only meant to last until the States’ War ceased and stability was restored—a diplomatic maneuver. We would be so foolish to believe that bullshit.  Can’t focus on that now, anger comes later.

My mind’s foggy when it comes to directions in this city, but I fumble through some unguarded streets until I find solace in a familiar alley and