Prologue

July 15, 2020

He folded his uniform with care before placing it in the trash barrel. Eight years of service in the United States Air Force were about to go up in flames and the thought turned his stomach. He reached back into the barrel to smooth away a wrinkle and adjust a button, realizing what he was about to do would be saying goodbye to an old friend. A friend he would never see again.

"Don't back down," said Jason. "They'll kill you if they catch you wearing that. Go on now. Do it."

Bryan nodded, hating himself. He felt like a coward and a traitor. "I can't do this."

"Listen to me. It's over! The Resistance is dead and it ain't coming back to life. Now let's get this done so we can get on with what's left of our lives."

Bryan stared at the barrel, disgusted it had all come down to this. He grabbed the can of lighter fluid and doused the fabric, emptying its contents and dropping in the can for good measure. He flipped open the lighter, irritated his hand trembled. He knew when the uniform went up in flames it would signal a milestone. It meant they won. Them. The invaders. The aliens.

"Gimmie that if you can't do it."

"Jason. You touch that lighter, I'll break your wrist. This is something I've got to do."

Jason backed away, palms up. "Hey, no problem. But you better do it fast or I'm hitting the road and you're on your own."

The lighter flared and Bryan held it to the soaked clothing, jerking his hand away as the fireball blazed to life. He watched for just a moment before turning his back on the life he had known before and walked to the Jeep. He felt like someone had gouged out his insides leaving him hollow and defeated.

They drove south through central Illinois down US 51, the heat escalating with each passing mile. The air conditioning in the Jeep had long ago given up the ghost and sweat rolled off the both of them in rivers. The aliens had somehow manipulated the climate and none of the few scientists remaining alive could determine what they had done or by what means they had done it. This brought a whole new meaning to the term "global warming."

Miles later they came to a checkpoint where a man toting a rifle over his shoulder waved them to the side of the road. He was eating what appeared to be a burrito, one of epic proportions. A stray grain of rice clung with tenacity to his unshaven face bobbing along with his chin as he chewed. The odor of the food wafted through the window and into the Jeep. Bryan realized after a moment it may not have been the burrito producing the smell after all when he noticed the rings of filth caked around the man's neck and arms. Three other equally grimy men with weapons materialized and surrounded the Jeep.

"Where you men heading?" was the question.

"South. We're heading south, maybe into Texas," answered Jason. "We hear they might have work."

The man with the rifle snickered. "Yeah, I guess you could call it that." He gave a cursory glance at both Jason and Bryan and his eyes swept over the meager cache of supplies in the back without so much as a raised eyebrow. "Either of you military?"

"Nope."

"Law enforcement?"

"Nope. We're in construction."

Rifleman did raise an eyebrow at that. "Construction, huh? You two look military to me, you got that look about you. Specially you," he said, gesturing with the burrito at Bryan. "Let me see some ID."

Jason coughed and cleared his throat. "Look, we pretty much had everything stolen last week. They got everything including our ID. So we got no choice but to head south. No ID equals no work and no work equals no food. You know how it is."

Rifleman drew a deep breath. "Hey, I don't give a rip what you do or where you go. You wanna kill yourselves in them mines, that's your business. We're just on the lookout for military or cops, get it? Now hop on out of that Jeep and let's see what all you got in here."

Bryan spoke up cutting Jason off. "Dude! We got nothing! Why else would we be volunteering for the mines? Besides, they already killed off all the military anyway. Months ago."

Rifleman pushed the last of the burrito into his mouth and chewed before answering, reminding Bryan of a cow working at its cud as if it had no other care in the world. "Yeah, I getcha. Haven't seen any uniforms for weeks."

He stepped back and waved them through. "Careful south of the river," he called after them. "The Visitors are a lot more active down there. They like it hot."

Jason hit the gas and Bryan was left pondering the term "Visitors." It sounded so benign. So harmless. Not at all like ruthless invaders who slaughtered billions of humans and turned the survivors into squabbling scavengers fighting over whatever scraps remained.

"Visitors" was the new politically correct way to refer to those who destroyed everything and everyone. Don't dare call them murderous, invading, scumbag aliens because we sure wouldn't want to offend them!

Neither spoke for miles with each lost in his own thoughts. Besides, it was just too hot to expend the effort to talk. Jason had even given up telling his stupid joke about the Jeep having 2-60 air conditioning. You know, roll down two windows and drive sixty miles per hour! He would cackle as if it were the funniest joke ever told.

"Cairo, Illinois. Thirty seven miles ahead," said Jason, indicating a sign already disappearing behind them. "Thirty seven miles then we're done. Right? That was the deal."

Bryan grit his teeth. "Yeah that was the deal. It was the best I could do at the time. But what gets me is that you're willing to give up and just let them have it. To let them have it all!"

"How many times have we gotta have this conversation? How many? The army is dead, the marines are dead, and nobody's heard a thing from the navy since the invasion. And for all we know, you're the very last member of the United States Air Force left alive in this country. The federal government collapsed almost immediately and whatever remains of our feeble "Resistance" is sitting right here in this Jeep. It is over! You've got to understand that."

"But we can still win!"

"Bryan! Listen to yourself! We are alone. And when we get to Cairo, it'll just be you. 'Cause that's as far as I'm going. There's no way I'm crossing the Mississippi."

The discussion came to a halt when they crested the next rise. Ahead, a semi rig rolled over onto its side had blocked the entire width of the road. Jason slowed the Jeep to a stop, far enough away to observe but out of range of all but the best of marksmen.

"What do you think? It could be an old wreck, but looks a little obvious to me," observed Bryan. He grabbed the binoculars and scanned the truck and surrounding area. "Yeah, something just doesn't feel right about this set up." He handed the glasses to Jason.

"I don't see any movement," he said after a few moments. "Tell you what. I'm gonna walk up there and scout it out. You cover me from here."

"Wait a min..."

Jason interrupted. "No Bryan. You're way better with that rifle than I am. We both know it. I'm going."

Bryan nodded. There really was no sense arguing because Jason was right. He nodded and Jason began the walk toward the wreck, pulling his Sig-Sauer P228 from his belt and holding it close to his hip.

Bryan slid the Winchester M24 SWS sniper rifle from under the blanket in the back seat and settled in on the open Jeep door. It wasn't quite as steady as he would have preferred but he had no time to get properly arranged. He adjusted the scope and scanned the truck rig once again watching for any signs of movement, even a bird taking flight or a rabbit breaking from cover might indicate human presence.

Nothing.

Jason reached the rig, his pistol at the ready. Bryan watched as he scouted the wreckage and moved toward the brush on the roadside. He crept forward with caution, his head swiveling in an attempt to cover all directions. But there was nothing.

Jason turned back to the Jeep where he knew Bryan would be watching and shrugged. False alarm. Bryan could see his posture relax as he started the long walk back.

He'd taken exactly three steps when the left side of his head disappeared in a shower of tissue and blood. A fraction of a second later, Bryan heard the shot.

And then they were coming for him.

Thus starts the tale of Bryan Mitchell, quite possibly the lone surviving member of the United States Armed Forces. This chapter takes place in the not so distant future and the weapons and other details are as authentic as I know how to make them.

If you enjoyed this, how about taking a second to push that vote button! It won't hurt... I promise.

This chapter is dedicated to sdfrost61 who is in the midst of writing a killer sci-fi called 'The Rock' and I would recommend you check it out!