This was a piece I wrote after I fell asleep with the news on and had a nightmare. Hope you enjoy it. Mitch Rapoport

The Foxhole

The whistle overhead shrieked as it passed and ended abruptly with a soul-shaking explosion that made the ground under me shiver. “Good,” I thought. “It was at least a mile away.” I found that shaking my head from right to left brought my hearing back more quickly after the explosions. I had been pinned down for about 3 hours now and hoped to see another warrior with a familiar face show up to help me. I was part of a great movement and had joined the ranks of the PW; people’s warrior. Becoming a PW was fairly easy: you had to purchase 5 guns with extended magazines, swear to shoot reporters on sight (unless they were WOLF), learn the correct questions to ask everyone, swear undying loyalty to Jesus and the Chief, wear the official insignia on your hat, and remember what we must do to take back our country with pride and honor - snuff out the non-loyalists. We called the non-loyalists, Z’s; it stood for the very last thing we cared about.

My left knee had been injured badly when I jumped into the hole. A broken root protruding from the ground stuck into my leg and tore my jeans. I had to ignore the pain. I had to stay focused on the mission. This was my country and I loved it for its freedom and its honor. It had to be defended at all costs. I had never dreamed that our country could melt down as it did and force even guys like me to take up arms against its internal enemies, the Z’s. The Chief, the beloved leader of our nation, called them ‘immivaders’ and rats. They were everywhere. They poured into our country through our ports and across our borders for generations. Even an ordinary citizen like me knew this; the Chief had told it to us over and over.

Slowly, I crawled out of the hole, keeping my head low, and dragged my way across the potholed field, pockmarked with crevasses left by the falling bombs. My knee screamed out in pain – ignore it, ignore it – find another hole deep enough to stay safe.

Off, in the far distance, through the fog and smoke I saw the outline of a barn. If I could get there I may find some clean filtered water, maybe even something to eat. Oats perhaps, although I never could get used to eating them raw. You often found them in barns where they were used to feed horses. Most of the horses were long dead and eaten by the PW’s, to keep from starving. My knee cried out again; it had become stiff, and moving it even slightly, caused it to throb. If I could only get to the next crevasse it would bring me nearer to the barn.

Another bomb-shriek deafened me briefly as it flew over and exploded behind me in the distance. The earth beneath me trembled.

“Stop or I’ll shoot!” A voice called out to me from another deep gash in the field. “Who are you? A reporter?”

“Hell no!” I shouted back. “A loyal PW!”

“What is the name of your Gods?” he shouted again.

“Jesus and the Chief, to whom I have sworn my life!” This was the first answer to the “test” that was drilled into us to detect the traitors.

“Do you have weapons?”

“Yes,” I replied, “an AR with 2 full extended magazines. I am wounded, so don’t shoot me!”

“Are you sure you aren’t a reporter?” the voice asked again. “I have orders to shoot them on sight unless they are WOLF. Are you?” (WOLF was the state TV and the Chief’s main communication conduit).

“No, no! Not a reporter, I swear!”

“Meet me at the barn so I can see your face!” demanded the voice.

I began the long crawl to the silhouette of the barn. My entire leg was stiff now and blood soaked the leg of my pants and made it even more difficult to bend.

Through my pain, and the haze that hung over the field, the barn came clearly into view and I saw the giant picture of our leader, the Chief, painted on the side. It inspired me and gave me strength. I felt I was no longer alone, his face comforted me.

I found the branch of a tree lying in the field and I stood, using it to balance me. The pain in my leg was almost unendurable. As I reached the barn door, I could make out the shape of a tall man standing there with a rifle sling wound around his shoulder steadying his high-power rifle pointed directly at me. His face seemed the right color, but with the dirt and mud we had each been exposed to, I couldn’t be sure. Limping, bolstered by the branch, I kept my AR trained on the figure.

“What is the sentence you have to speak?” I asked.

“Make our country great once more, with loyalty to Jesus and the Chief!” he shouted.

I could not detect the slightest hint of an accent, but, with training, the enemy had become proficient in articulating those words pretty clearly.

I lowered my gun and he did likewise. “Friend,” he said and offered the correct salute with his arm raised skyward. He was wearing the brown hat with the initials LJC (Loyalty to Jesus and the Chief) on the front that we PW’s wore. We were called brown hats by most people. I saluted back - collapsed to the ground - unconscious.

When I woke, through a brief mental haze, I felt the stranger pouring some liquid into my mouth. I drank it down and once again became aware of the throbbing pain in my leg. I squinted at his face again trying to be sure who and what he was. My AR remained at the ready just in case he turned out to be another Z. I had to stay alert enough to detect any possible indicators of his true loyalty.

I asked him what the safety words were. “God, Guns and Country!” he announced proudly. He was one of us.

He helped me to a small bench leaning against a stall. I asked him if he had any food and he replied that he did and would only charge me a small amount to share it. The Chief told us repeatedly that we didn’t have to give anything we owned to anyone, unless they could pay for it. Sharing without compensation was the root of all evil. It was socialism.

“You have a piece of wood sticking out from under your knee cap. If you hang onto something, I’ll pull it out,” he said calmly. Before I could answer, he jerked the wood out of my leg and I screamed in pain. Blood spurted all over his shirt. “That’s OK,” he smiled, “it will strike more fear in the hearts of the Z’s that see it. But you’ve got to be quiet now, the enemy of our people might be nearby.”

As he stood up I saw it! Dangling from a rusty chain around his neck; the six-pointed star that many of the Z’s secretly wore hidden under their clothes. He covered it quickly, but it was too late, the muzzle of my AR spat a load into his chest and he crumbled to the ground dead.

I never got his name, but it would have been a phony one anyway, they usually disguised or changed their names, so they weren’t recognizable. The acrid odor of burnt gunpowder clung to the air and the report from my AR resonated against the barn rafters. I ignored the searing pain in my leg, stood, saluted, and proudly said the words, “Make our country great once more, with loyalty to Jesus and the Chief!”

I had done my loyal best work. As the Chief instructed us, “Kill first, ask questions later.”

I searched his body for the food he said he had and found several small bars of K-rations. Even though he was dead, I punched his face for trying to deceive me.

The barn shook from the impact of another bomb that landed nearby. Dust and debris fell from the hayloft and rafters.

I limped to the door of the barn to better reconnoiter my position. Just a small distance away from me was the outline of a farmhouse. I took the weapon from the body of the dead Z, slung it over my shoulder next to mine, and using the branch I had found, painfully staggered towards the house. The front door was wide-open, and I made my way to a sofa and collapsed on it, catching my breath. I tried the lamp on the table next to the sofa and to my surprise it lit. It was a pleasant room, a little messy, but nicely appointed. There were papers and anti-Z flyers scattered around the floor, and some furniture upended. A large media screen hung over the fireplace. This must have been a happy home at one time, I thought. I could not let myself harken back to the pleasant days of my own family and home. I had a mission to complete for the Chief. I had to keep my family safe from the immivaders, the Z’s.

I looked at my watch; it was nearing the time of the day when the Chief would address the nation. Could I even hope that the media screen would work? I needed the inspiration; it was the fuel that kept me going through the pain, the dirt, the separation from my family, the killing, the smell of death that forever hung in my nostrils – the media screen turned on - the familiar face of the Chief filled it radiantly!

“You, the true patriots of this nation, the defenders of our homeland from the immivaders and rats, you, the proud nationalists, that understand we must keep our nation purged from those that seek to destroy us. Bless you!”

The crowd around him shouted, “Death to the Z’s! Death to the Z’s!” He smiled his comforting smile and said, “God and Jesus bless the brown hats, the people’s warriors, for doing our difficult work.” The crowd bellowed blissfully again. “As many, many people have told me,” he continued, “we are winning, we are winning, and don’t believe anything else you hear! As I look at the wonderful faces in this vast audience, I ask again; who are you? Who are you?”

The mesmerized crowd broke into another wild chant; We are not Z’s! Not Z’s! Not Z’s! Not Z’s, Not Z’s…