5:11 AM, April 20th, 2022

YORK SPRINGS, PA

———

Stanley Rota took deep lungfuls of the clean, unseasonably-cool air. Faintly, he saw his breath. The cloudless sky was reddening in the east, and in a moment of contemplation, he recalled going hunting with his son Michael on mornings just like this, tracking wild turkey early on a Saturday somewhere up in Cameron County. He smiled at the memory. Michael was posted in another unit, somewhere, and although Rota worried about him often, he didn’t entertain for a moment that he was hurt on the battlefield. He knew Jesus would keep him safe. 

He leaned forward and rose from his chair, and with a squeak, it moved back along the weathered concrete. He rose and straightened his gear, adjusting the nylon pouches and webbing that held his equipment. He turned his gaze across the road where his squadmate, a younger guy named John Sherbowsky, had set up camp in the bushy lawn of a once-grand Queen Anne. The two men were on the edge of Mount Holly Springs, a tiny town right where Main Street and Old Harrisburg Road met. They were assigned by American Freedom Command, their militia group, to watch this little post-industrial hamlet and its vital connection to US Route 15. A lot of traffic came through on 15, mostly civilians and some routine supply convoys, or the occasional militia unit on its way to fighting outside DC. Rota’s superiors – the brass over at Battalion – were constantly worrying about a sneak attack to retake the weapons stockpile at the National Guard Armory, and although the main roads were pretty well secured, the backroads weren’t, so here they were. 

While his partner posted up on the east side of the street, Rota picked a spot under the decaying canopy of an abandoned one-pump gas station. With the help of the stronger Sherbowsky, he cobbled together a barricade from some wooden pallets and cinder blocks he found and capped the whole thing with a couple of bags of Quikrete. In a moment of creativity, he used some vinyl-coated cup hooks he found to make a little rack for his rifle – a lightweight M4 carbine he bought a few years back during a $599 Black Friday doorbuster deal at Cabela’s in Hamburg. Originally purchased for plinking and bullseying gophers on the family’s property outside Emporium, now it was his service weapon, always at the ready as he did his God-given duty. 

Rota was pleased that his deployment was quiet and he could get three meals a day, but at times he privately longed to be in the trenches in places like Cincinnati or Winchester or Portland, or even Bucks County, fighting for the spirit of America against the traitors. The Rocky Mountain states had it easier, but the eastern seaboard was a mess. He’d heard stories and rumors from other units posted in war-torn areas like Charlotte or Norfolk. He shuddered to think about what life was like for them – never a moment’s rest, fighting street-to-street, scrounging for food and ammunition, and dodging shrapnel and firebombs. How many were victims of enemy snipers? How many died alone and forgotten on the field of battle? 

Nonetheless, Rota wanted to make a difference, and he shook the thoughts from his head and focused on his assignment – keeping watch on the approach from the highway. To the south of their positions, there was a tiny old motel on the corner, directly across from Sherbowsky’s position. A decrepit Shingle home was directly in front of Rota’s position. Westward, beyond these structures and a pitted, unfinished gravel lot was sparse woods, patchy with pignut hickory and soggy clumps of Karl Foerster grass, and then the road passed over a shallow culvert, settled with chunks of rock to stop erosion, and another seventy yards further the dark tendrils of a highway’s cloverleaf offramps met the local road, a pale gray macadam, worn down over years from the passage of eighteen-wheelers and local dump trucks. The road continued beneath the highway, and on the other side of the overpass, more woods. Rota had never been that far so he didn’t know what was beyond. 

To his left and right, one-lane country roads led off into the pastoral splendor of Adams County. Nothing but fields, scattered farmhouses, and ¾” netting for apple trees, bundled up on the edges of stone walls, yet to be used. 

Behind him, to the north, narrow houses clustered together as the village concentrated; after a handful of churches, the old bank, and the brownstone public library, the density thinned out again. The town was mostly abandoned, though. A few elderly villagers remained, but most houses lay empty, their overgrown lawns and broken windows an obvious advertisement of vacancy. The sad state of these residences was rivaled only by what remained of the storefronts and restaurants, long ago cleaned of any valuables and then left to decay in the Susquehanna breeze. 

Rota wondered how many of the residents of this little whistle-stop joined the mass exodus to Canada, but judging by what he saw of the town, he figured most signed up to fight, ended up dead, or made their way to the refugee camps outside Syracuse. 

Rota stepped out from his area to the edge of the road. 

“Hey, John,” Rota called, neglecting to use his subordinate’s rank. He noticed that Sherbowsky stirred, and rose a little. The younger man’s head poked out of his sleeping bag. Instantly Rota felt guilty for waking the man.

“Do you want any coffee? I’m going to make some.” Rota asked, and Sherbowsky grunted in affirmation. A moment later, a metal mess cup sailed through the air, executing a shallow parabola before falling into Rota’s waiting hands. 

Rota turned back to his position and stepped into the old gas station, a relic from a bygone era. The structure was little more than a one-room clerk’s hut and a bathroom; the walls of the clerk’s area were filled with yellowing pegboard that Rota figured once held bottles of motor oil, windshield wipers, and serpentine belts. By the door was a lone red gumball machine, long since emptied. 

Rota had arranged his cooking supplies on the linoleum counter and set up a folding cot behind the register.  He knew the other guys used it when it was their turn on watch – more than once Rota found discarded cigarette butts stubbed out on the floor. Smoking was a sin, as far as he was concerned, and he reported it each time to his commanding officer. Much to his dismay, no action was taken.

While he started heating some water in a metal pot over a tiny Esbit stove, Rota looked through his bag for a snack. He wanted to add some sugar to his coffee, but that was an unimaginable luxury now. Before the fighting started, his doctor warned him to ease off his intake of sugary, fatty foods. He refused. Fourteen months later, his diet consisted of rice, some canned vegetables, and stale oats – plus whatever was in season locally. And, of course, instant coffee. They had the real stuff at Battalion headquarters in Mechanicsburg, but he’d never been. 

Once the water was hot enough, he poured two equal measures of instant coffee into the cups, carefully emptying the steaming pot. After a few stirs, he ambled across the street, looking both ways out of habit. He reached Sherbowsky’s position and handed him the cup, and with minor effort, Rota bent down and nestled on the curb. He cradled his mug.

“Yum, I’ve been waiting all morning for this,” Rota said.

“It’s good, sir,” was the only reply.

Rota had known Sherbowsky for only a few months. He knew that the younger man had been part of another Pennsylvania militia group, which joined the more-powerful American Freedom Command after the smaller organization suffered a handful of defeats along the Ohio River. Rota didn’t know the details, but he knew Sherbowsky’s unit was integrated into his, and when they deployed to support operations on the Maryland border, the pair were randomly assigned together as a fire team. The younger man didn’t say much about his past service, but from what Rota observed, he had seen his share of action – the discipline on patrol, the way he handled his weapon, and his ability to sleep anywhere or at any time. Sherbowsky’s sangfroid made Rota feel more secure, and although he wouldn’t admit it, he had learned a few things from his subordinate. 

The pair sat in silence, sipping their coffees, when Rota noticed a chevron flight of geese making their way north, dark shapes against a navy-blue sky. He thought about the next time he’d go hunting for fowl. Rota longed for those early mornings, sitting motionless in a duck blind, or perched high up in a tree watching for buck. The man lamented that he was a little too old to easily climb up onto a deer stand anymore. 

“We used to go hunting on mornings like this, my son Michael and I.” 

Sherbowsky said nothing and drank his coffee. 

“Early morning was always best. At the start of season or around midway through. Or just before bad weather,” Rota said, pointing to the sky, “because deer can sense the change in weather. They feed more heavily before a storm.” The older man looked out at the wraiths of morning mist clinging to the curves of the road. Rota wasn’t sure when he’d have the chance to hunt for pleasure again. 

“I’m almost done with another letter to Michael,” the older man said, well aware the letter would take weeks, if at all, to reach his son. Rota didn’t have a cell phone anymore, not that the networks were reliable anyways. Especially not out here.

“Do you have any family?”

“I’d prefer not to discuss, sir.” Sherbowsky replied.

“Nobody, back in Steubenville?” Rota recalled that Sherbowsky was from that area.

“No one, sir. Please.” The younger man looked up at his superior severely.

Rota got the message and didn’t want to pry, although he was genuinely curious about his partner. He let the remark hang in the air, and finished the last of his coffee.

Rota raised himself up off the curb, with a grunt of effort.

“Ok, back to work I guess.”

“Yes, sir.”

He stepped into the street. Still nothing in either direction.

Rota plodded back to his barricade and set his cup down. He noticed Sherbowsky standing up, adjusting some of his kit and rolling up his sleeping bag. Rota grabbed for his canteen, and took a long swig, no longer bothered by the water’s plastic flavor. Splashing a little in his coffee cup, he tossed it over the barricade. The retiree considered going back inside for another cup; in about an hour, he and Sherbowsky would be relieved and catch a ride back to Company CP. There Rota would give his report, grab some chow, then get some rack time. He would be back on the line at nine.

The older man made up his mind after another gulp of plastic water. Turning to the tiny office of the service station, he made it as far as the raised concrete step when the morning quiet was shattered by a sharp peal of thunder, short and fast, somewhere not too far away. Crack-BAM.

The retiree froze, this new and wholly-unexpected occurrence stopping him in his tracks. 

His empty cup clattered to the concrete.

What was that? 

He glanced across the street. Sherbowsky heard the sound, too, and from across the street, signalled to Rota with a closed fist – Stop! Listen!

Rota scrambled to the barricade. Remembering his weapon, he reached down to grab it, fumbling to loop the sling around his arm. No sooner did his hand close around the grip when another calamitous bang, seemingly closer now, split the air – followed by the unmistakable pops and cracks of gunfire. The avid hunter recognized the sound of the shots as from a high-velocity, small-caliber rifle – not dissimilar to the one he was carrying. The shots were too high-pitched to be anything bigger than a .223 or 5.56. 

One shot could be a negligent discharge, but dozens?

He looked back across the street and Sherbowsky pointed southwest, toward the highway. A faint wisp of slate grey smoke was visible through the trees. The younger man had already set up his rifle, a long-range M1A, and was watching the approach.  

Rota scanned both the highway up ahead and the surrounding treeline. The weapons-fire seemed to come from the south, towards the highway, and he knew there was an AFC checkpoint somewhere on the highway itself. He had it marked on his map, which was inside. 

The pair stood at the ready, listening as the pops and cracks of gunfire increased in frequency, and this fact – along with another loud bang – prompted Rota to reach for his radio. He keyed it over, gave his designation, and demanded to know what was going on. In terms of rank, the retired truck salesman was a sergeant, so he expected some deference. E-5s got respect. 

There was only silence. He repeated his request, and waited for a response. Nothing but more distant gunfire. 

Not good. 

He set the radio down and debated leaving his post to get a better look when Sherbowsky let out a sharp whistle. Rota turned to him and the younger man gestured towards the off-ramp half-a-click away: a lone dirt bike had just turned off the highway and was heading their way. 

No one in his unit rode dirtbikes.

What on Earth is going on?

Rota hesitated. They had three choices – let the rider go, stop him, or open fire. 

The bike moved closer. 

He looked over at Sherbowsky, who was holding fast, facing the approaching anomaly with steeled focus. 

The staccato, undulating sound of a two-stroke engine became louder, and Rota raised his rifle. Bracing the butt against his shoulder, he squinted down the axis of the barrel, aligning the little W of the front sight with the tiny circle of the rear sight. The light grew closer, and he moved his thumb to disengage the weapon’s safety. 

Bracing himself against the cover to steady his shaking hands, he thought, oh Father, give me strength. 

The bike came closer. 

Rota didn’t fire. 

Closer.

Hesitantly, his finger moved to the trigger, but it was Sherbowsky who fired first. Rota jumped at the massive report of the .308.

The bike spun out of control and the rider – dead, or soon to be – hit the pavement. A single shot, clean, concise, and accurate. Good hit, John.

The two men held their ground, scanning for a new threat or hostile target. Nothing. As the ringing in their ears subsided, they only heard the sound of distant gunfire and the bike’s idling motor in the morning air.

The two emerged from their positions and cautiously moved forward to where the bike lay on its side. Sherbowsky was there first, and cut the engine. They moved a few meters, and with some effort, Rota flipped the body over. He was mid-thirties, windblown brown hair, and was wearing a faded faux leather jacket and heavy blue jeans. A Chinese SKS carbine, previously slung over the rider’s back, was now a few feet away from the body. The man’s left arm had a blue, orange, and green armband tied around it. 

“What’s this?” Rota asked, gesturing to the armband with his foot. 

 “I have no idea, sir,” Sherbowsky said with a long shake of his head. Not even the guys at Battalion intel could keep track of all the different militia units.

“Could this be…?” Rota asked after a moment of nervousness, well aware his partner didn’t know if the dead man could have been an ally. Sherbowsky said nothing.

Another moment passed, punctuated by more distant gunfire, and Rota reached for his radio. His hand found only the stiff fabric cavity that once held the device, and before he could curse his own carelessness for dropping the radio, Sherbowsky pointed to the south. 

The amber running lights of several trucks crossing the overpass northbound on 15. This, like the rider, was highly unusual.

“We better get this stuff off the road.” Sherbowsky grabbed the corpse by the hands and started dragging across the gravel of the motel parking lot, and Rota turned to take care of the motorcycle. The older man grasped both handlebars, and in a huff, he tried to haul the dirt bike off the road. He pulled and grunted and pushed the ungainly machine off the macadam and onto the gravel, the tires digging ruts and furrows into the ground. Sherbowsky had finished hiding the body and moved to assist Rota when they caught sight of the pale orange running lights making wide, sweeping turns, coming down the off-ramp, just as the rider had. One turned left and another turned right, continuing on the road, heading right towards them. 

“Leave it, sir!” Sherbowsky shouted, his peremptory tone enough to settle the matter.

Rota cursed under his breath and dropped the exposed bike, hustling as fast as he could back to his barricade.

Each man reached his respective position and watched the truck approach. Repurposed from some old delivery truck, this beast was a makeshift armored car reinforced with spot-welded sheet metal for defense. The truck slowed, pulling off to the right shoulder and continuing thirty or so feet where it ground to a halt on a patch of plain gravel, ten feet from where the motorcycle lay in the gravel of the motel parking lot. 

With the sound of metal on metal, the back hatch of the truck opened. Five people climbed out; four men and a woman, all armed. 

Rota then noticed the truck was painted with the American Freedom Command crest on each door, and the hood. 

“They’re ours!” he whispered out of excitement, and pointed. Sherbowsky acknowledged. Neither man noticed the speckling of fresh bullet holes in the passenger side door, however, nor the fresh traces of blood in the cabin.

The five who had disembarked from the truck began to fan out; two approached the motorcycle and knelt down to study it. Another took a defensive posture by the front of the truck, and one lit a cigarette. Rota scowled, and from his vantage point behind the barricade, he tried to make out their faces. He didn’t recognize them, but assured himself that wasn’t unusual with all the recent troop movements in the area.

He looked to Sherbowsky, who had shouldered his weapon and emerged from his position. He held out his hand to Rota as if to say, I’ll take point.

The older man held his ground behind the barricade as Sherbowsky raised his arms in the universal sign of non-aggression.

“Hey!” one of the newcomers shouted, raising his weapon upon sighting Sherbowsky. The others turned and followed suit.

“Whoa, whoa, I’m with you,” Sherbowsky said, hands still up. One of the newcomers, an older man with a shaggy topknot and grey beard, walked toward Sherbowsky. 

“Prove it,” he said. 

Sherbowsky pointed toward the motorcycle. 

“That was me; I got him with one shot at 50 yards. Moving target,” Sherbowsky said with a chuckle.

The bearded man turned back to the cluster of four, who looked at each other, and then to Sherbowsky. It was only then the younger man noticed that each of the newcomers had on blue, orange, and green armbands.

A beat passed. 

The bearded guy reached for his waistband. 

In one quick motion, Sherbowsky drew his pistol and shot dead the bearded man. Bang, bang, bang. Three shots, point-blank. Mozambique method. More than enough to ensure the right outcome.

Sherbowsky spun to his left, ducking behind a metal dumpster, as the air erupted with gunfire. Rota, still in cover behind the barricade, was startled by the sudden action. He recovered and brought his weapon to bear, aiming at the group beyond Sherbowky and opened fire. The shapes scattered, unsure whether to follow Sherbowsky or address the new threat, and no sooner did Rota move to adjust his aim when they turned their attention to him and fired. Incoming rounds splintered the dry wood of the barricade around him, forcing the sixty-two year-old down low, stumbling and crawling towards the side of the service station. He was stung by shards of bullet-shattered brick falling around him. Spiderweb cracks appeared on the windows where stray rounds pierced the service station. 

Stooping, he made it to safety on the other side of the structure, and he quickly picked himself up, doubling back and swinging his rifle around the corner, popping off ten rounds toward the fighting before turning and dashing along the side of the building. 

Running on adrenaline, he edged up against the far corner, and after quickly glancing behind, nosed up, hoping to flank the enemies on the road. Fifty yards ahead, he caught sight of two dark silhouettes behind a row of bushes, and in response he raised his weapon and opened fire on the shapes. 

The shapes returned fire, and Rota was forced back into cover. He turned to his right, back towards the town, and decided to reposition behind a white aluminum tool shed in the backyard of the house next to him. He would have better sightlines there, and a tall slatted fence, running down a long and narrow yard, would offer good cover.  

If he could make it into the next yard and across the street unseen, he thought, he might get some solid cover and join up with Sherbowsky.

He took a moment to catch his breath, and through the ringing in his ears, could still hear gunfire on the road. Moving forward, he ducked a three-string standing clothesline, past an upturned wheelbarrow and trampled through a patch of pachysandra. He covered his retreat with a few poorly-placed shots in the general direction of his last targets, and huffing and puffing, he ran the length of the fence and made it to the tool shed. 

He checked his weapon and noticed the bolt was held open – the magazine was empty – and with a flick of his finger dropped the spent magazine. His hand dropped to his belt pouch and he produced a fresh, full magazine, jamming it into place and smacking the bolt catch with his left hand.

30 more rounds, ready to go.

Rota got low and moved along the fenceline, gingerly, and when he reached the edge of the fence, dropped to one knee, and peeked around the corner, scanning the adjoining yards.

No movement.

He dashed forward to the house, clad in white chamferboard and slate-grey trim.  He reached the side, and after a moment, he checked behind him – no one coming – moved forward, nosing up to a raised porch and using some upturned wicker furniture to break up his outline.

It was only then he noticed the shooting had stopped. 

Rota froze and listened intently, waiting for the sound of gunfire which might give him an indication of where his partner was engaging the enemy. Hearing nothing, he got as low and small as possible and inched forward, hazarding a look through the vinyl lattice of the porch. He looked down the street. 

Stanley Rota could barely draw breath. 

John Sherbowsky was facedown, lying dead in the road, fifty yards away. Blood had already pooled around him, a dark stain covering most of his back, and his pistol lying next to him and the M1A still on his back. 

A half-dozen enemies stood around the younger man’s body. 

Through gritted teeth, Rota watched in stunned silence as one bent down and began to empty Sherbowsky’s pockets. Another picked up the late man’s weapon, taking it for himself. 

A wave of fear washed over him, a heady mixture of rage and temerity, and he slowly inched his way back behind the house. 

It was one-on-six, at least.

What can I do?

He spent a few moments in panicked indecision. His hands, trembling, found the familiar polymer of his weapon’s grip. 

He glanced to his right – across the road – and decided he couldn’t make it there without being seen. To his left, the south, small clusters of houses gave way to sporadic buildings and patches of fields. He knew there were thick woods beyond, maybe a mile deep, with a lot of underbrush where he might hide – or even the odds.

Shouts from nearby broke his reverie. He could hear more voices, and what sounded like another truck, so with a prayer, Rota stood up and brought his weapon to bear. 

 Acts, chapter 3, verse 19, he thought.

Rota found the strength to fire, and he saw the figures scatter. It was hard to tell how many he hit. 

Turning from the porch, he moved as fast as his legs could carry him, retracing his steps back to the tall fence, zigzagging between bushes and a standing clothesline, finally rounding the corner of the white toolshed. He checked his weapon and found the bolt was held open – empty, again. Rota dropped the expended magazine and fumbled for his pouches, only to discover he had no spares for the M4. He realized the few extras he had were in his rucksack – at the barricade, he woefully recalled. That was impossibly far now.

He drew his sidearm from the holster and was grateful he already had a round in the chamber.

The man noticed a stone wall, about twenty feet from his position, that coursed through the backyard and towards the fields. He looked left, then right, and hustled forward, leaping over the wall and making himself small. 

He waited. No incoming rounds, no pulverized rock. 

Slowly, through the grass slick with dew, he crawled forward, his gear riding uncomfortably high on his waist. He rolled onto his back and unclipped the buckles, shedding the black nylon webbing and wriggling out of the straps. Freer now, he moved his way along the wall, keeping as low as possible. 

He was only twenty feet from the edge of the wall, where the ground sloped down into a narrow drainage ditch running the length of the yard. After the ditch there was a field, probably some subsistence family plot, now overgrown with wild grass and fiddlehead ferns. Rota crawled closer, negotiating a loose stone that created a low place in the wall. Finally, at the edge of the wall, he drew on his last reserves of energy and hauled himself up, down into the drainage ditch and up the other side, passing through a tall patch of ironweed. Ahead of him was a disused tractor, rusted with age and lack of care, and the man ran forward, keeping low, and used the machine’s bulk to hide. He was so winded all he could do was steady himself behind the weathered piece of farm equipment.

The weeds broke up his outline, which was good for camouflage, but also made it hard to see much beyond the immediate area. Weapon at the ready, he peered between the tractor’s wheels and around the side to catch a glimpse of his pursuers. He heard shouts now, and he figured they were closing in – but didn’t know where he was. A small blessing, for now. If they moved into the field, they’d spot him for sure, but for now, he was in luck. 

Rota glanced behind him, beyond the fields to the dark ocean of trees in the distance. Past the farmhouses and fields there were thick woods, maybe a mile deep, with a lot of underbrush where he might hide – or even the odds. Acts, chapter 3, verse 19, he thought.

With Sherbowsky gone, his radio missing, and only his sidearm, he came to the crushing realization that he had few options left. None of the training or planning had prepared him for this outcome. 

Rota peeked around the big wheel. 

He could see more outlines now, moving about. Dark shapes moved beyond the weeds, sinister black outlines only thirty feet from him, searching with deadly purpose. 

Rota readied his sidearm, but found his hand was trembling too much for any accurate fire. 

Abruptly, commotion from somewhere near the road distracted them, and the shapes melted away back the way they came. Rota listened intently, and overheard the shouts of an enemy who had apparently discovered Rota’s discarded rifle. He heard several voices talking. They were distracted.

Although he was still winded, now was the time. 

Rota drew on whatever strength he had and hauled himself up from his hidden position, bolting across the uneven ground of the fields. 

He made it twenty, thirty, then fifty feet before hearing frantic voices behind him. His breath was ragged now, guttural gasps punctuated by sharp wheezes. 

They were on to him, but he had distance now.

He tore through a line of wild rose bushes, and with thorns catching on his pants, he crashed through a flimsy wooden fence leading to the fields and the woods beyond. No sooner did he pass into the fallow field, ragged and uneven and dry, when he heard whip-cracks of high-velocity rifle rounds passing inches from his head. 

He ran, and ran, and ran.