Invasion (22 page)

I’m that man who reads every sign and sees the soft target.

It’s a wet dream for the dude with a criminal agenda. I know men who’ve followed you home, knowing that tonight he’ll rape your daughter, then you, and when you’re dead he’ll put her onto a private coach reserved for the military and ship her into the underground of slavery. You advertised her on your car. That’s why women are victims, we enslaved your minds, you became property, and now we openly exploit you.

Chivalry is dead, and eighty percent of your sons don’t know they’re fighting in a war that ensures your daughters have safe passage to snuff films, daily rape, where she is a vessel for pleasure because there’s so much fucking money in it.

Money.

If you are part of the system you have never been free. You’re a stepping stone for powerful men to walk over. You accept cameras in every mall and bank, every major place of trade, offices where you work, attached to your new computer so you can Skype, on your phone, and the silent drones, and yet the blind are shepherded so successfully that they do not question why so much surveillance is necessary?

Do you benefit from it? Have you?

If not you, it’s time to ask yoursel
f‘
who does’?

Laws change constantly and you’re not invited to contribute to the outcome of policy. Check the law books and see the definition of terrorist, because
everyone
qualifies. A military state is three steps away in a country which fosters such fierce patriotism and acceptance for its veterans.

A country which has been at war perpetually since 1776 has generations conditioned to sending the men far away, leaving the woman alone at home with the infirm, fragile and powerless. Generations where might is right, where enlisting is a source of familial pride, a legacy.

War by any other name is murder. You raise your men to slaughter and then wonder why your enemies want your daughters? If you desecrate the foundation of other nations, and do so for over two hundred years, eventually the numbers will be stacked against you.

A parent has one role, protect your children, but they’re raised for exploitation, for minimum wage, haggling for employment because the government ‘owns every mineral’ of our great empire. You are made of minerals. If the legislation isn’t specific, and you don’t contest it, then do not be surprised to discover that you are owned, right down to your bone marrow and blood.

I did the dirty for money, because money can buy an island, to belong to no one. I have no daughter that I know of, and I view women the same way my peers do. The second I hit puberty all I wanted to do was fuck, and before that the fascination to see down shirts and up skirts was a full time hobby. It’s a rite of passage, and since Eve was
made
for Adam and
given
to him for free, and In God We Trust, we expect God to hand over our God given birthright.

If you take me to church, I will preach. I will preach that women are to be silent and if they seek counsel - to ask their husbands, because it’s in that black book.

And they have. They remain silent even though they outnumber us.

Divide and conquer.

Raised in cliques, disparaging each other from preschool, no ten women can stand together to agree on anything. Men do it all the time, watching sport. We band together in huge crowds, backing our cause, but women are meek and subservient. They accepted this system, and it will only get worse.

My gut tells me I know why, but I can’t recall the fucking details.

There is a storm of catastrophic proportion coming, and men will not suffer the rain or the clouds. And neither will the president. Even Hitler escaped prosecution.

Convenient.

Look to history.

I recall hearing: If you want to know the future, look to history.

I am the man your mother warned you about. And like the leaders of our great nation I’ll never state my agenda, I will simply manipulate to conquer.

Women are called a conquest for a reason.

Mark
:

Reaching the house, I’m in shock. There are so many tire treads in the snow that it looks like a truck layover. The windows are dark, the front door boarded up, bits of cedar scattered all over the snow on the path and surrounds to the front door.

My key won’t open that board. I really hope the back door key is where I left it, on the lintel where Carly can’t see it.

What the hell happened here?

It’s that thug! I’d bet my retirement fund on it.

Exiting the safety and warmth of my Jaguar, I rush to the ‘door’, knocking loudly. “Carly! Are you in there?!”

Nothing moves, nothing stirs, and a terrible sense of doom embalms me. She’s gone to the cabin.

I know a shortcut. If I make it there before her I’ll do a quick scope for dinner.

I love hunting.

The urge to kill something is blistering my blood.

David
:

Opening the door to the cabin, the barrier from the incessant wind is instant relief.

Making short work of sweeping each room for occupants, I’m certain I’m alone. I’m being prudent now, not allowing myself the luxury of thinking I’ll be safe for any length of time, so hide my gear in the cavity behind the water heater.

I’ll be having cold showers until further notice.

They seem to have found my location every time, no matter where in the world I was at the time. If I can trust the first memories I’ve recovered it seems I’ve been on the run since October.

Checking the stocks indoors I find mostly non-perishable items. I need protein, I need to store up energy and carbs in case I have to flee into this unholy wilderness.

If they come for me again I’m heading for Canada. I’m so close now, an hour away at most, and I’ll go straight to their embassy and demand asylum in return for information on how Elizabeth Markham met her end.

Leaving the cabin in darkness I head back out with my Glock and knife, the night vision goggles on my head, and the M249 in hand. One good thing about this relentless cold is it’s stopping my wound from pissing out. Basic survival first, then I’ll clean up, eat, and check the damage Carly inflicted.

It makes me smile again, shaking my head and chuckling at the spitfire.

She’s my perfect mate. She’s got the fire without the burn. I love that she’s so feral when she’s horny. I hope she never loses that.

God damn I miss her.

It’s going to be a long day without an Angus or Carly at my side, sharing body heat and slithers of dinner.

I’m beginning to think that life sucks. I’m the man who had it all … and lost it all. Heartache is a shadow not behind - but before me, staining my world monochrome, leaching all the color from my canvas. The world is black and white – finally.

Only now am I a decent soldier. Finally the gray is obliterated. It’s me or them.

My money’s on me.

I’m praying I can find a wild animal to slaughter. I can smoke the excess in the chimney to preserve it longterm. The place is stocked well with wood, plenty of kindling and firelighters, so I can prepare my own protein as jerky for my indefinite and uncertain future.

Locking the door behind me I head back to the bike, wheeling it under cover of spruce and other evergreens, covering it with branches far beyond the cabin, then using the final branch to backtrack, covering my footprints with scattered snow, walking backwards covering my path until I’m at a decent distance. If anyone snoops there now it’ll seem deserted.

Turning my attention to my immediate surroundings I engage night vision, looking for a heat signature in a frozen wilderness.

I need a real dinner. I need supplies.

Let something finally work in my favor.

Carly:

I haven’t stopped crying since he fled. My body is suffering, pangs of dejection crippling as my cries deafen the atmosphere which is forever altered since he left me.

My heart has been ripped out of my chest, the ribs that once protected the organ that beat only for him are soft and pliable, at risk of breaking until the cure is found; him. He is the Linctus to my heartbreak; the comforting medication to soothe my ridged hurt and neutralize the poison from my pain.

I will drink up every drop of him because he is only for me, and I for him. Here I am, vacant and hollow, fraught and insane. I am bleeding him. Every drop of salt water that leaks from my orbs is a plea. My insides feel like they could combust, severing bits of blood and bone, staining the stark white snow with proof of my madness. Even in death, I’m certain I would still beg for his mercy. For his love.

My grip tightens on the steering wheel, tighter than an anaconda killing its target, as my blue Prius barrels through the snow falling heavily from the sky, pirouetting magnificently through the icy air. My vision blurs and begins to tunnel, decrepit and barren without him I become obsessed with the idea of adoration regardless of the riddles and invasion in my life.

My small foot pushes the pedal to the floor-board, the back end of my crossover fishtailing on the desolate road which leads me to my cabin. I try to respire, to supply my body with what it needs, but as the seconds tick by, I fear when I come up to the drive of my used-to-be solace, he won’t be there.

I can’t stand the thought and I scream, blood curdling in my throat as sweat erupts through every pore of my skin. I strain to swallow, to declare my reverence for him and pray he can hear me wherever he is, but my idiom can’t function without corroboration of my future and his.

I need my heart to sing again! I have to feel alive another time, even if that means leaning over the precipice of death. I don’t care where he came from, what he did, or what I don’t know. The chemistry between us is indomitable. I am the stone and he is the sword, I will let no one take that away.

His eyes were made to stare into mine. His body was created to love me.

Engulfed with ire, panic and the possibility of everlasting barrenness, I drive as fast as my little car can take me, noting the cluster of baby pine trees I planted last year. I slam on my brakes, the tension in my muscles unnerving and painful but soon dismissed. I turn right into the long drive that leads me to my cabin.