17 Stories (Updated 4/12/2025

Another book I have been working on.17 Stories (Working title) Feel free to give feedback.

This is a story I have been working on for the better part of 20 years. This book proceeds “One Man’s Revenge.” The main “book” for this is somewhere in my room, which I intend to find as soon as I can. I had started writing what I remembered from the book on July 31, 2024 and found 21 pages of writing from the book later that day. I'm sure you're all sure how excited I am to have found these writings. The first page of writing is torn and tattered as this book has been moved around for 20 years. I'm going to work on getting the book in Google docs before I post anything. I wish I had pictures for you all to see.

17 Stories (formerly Straze)
A tale of the enduring battle between good and evil.

Captain Joseph Russell is a hard nosed Marine and a veteran of two wars and several conflicts. When the United States comes under attack, he is tasked to build an elite squad to eliminate the perpetrators. His plans are changed after the world ends and the government enforces changes that compromise his integrity. Now with a small army behind him and an ailing government official losing his fight, the combat veteran fights to protect his integrity and the clock.In an effort to find a cure for his friend, Russell and his team have to get to the cure, 17 stories up.

The cure for the disease is on the top floor of 11 E Forsyth. The building is heavily guarded and the stairs have become a war zone. The characters have to battle their way up the stairs. C4 to take out the stairs as the plan is to rappel back down.

Medical supplies for the people that are sick are on the 17th floor as well as the ailing government official.


The year is 2235 and the United Nations has crumbled and government as we know it is a thing of the past. The last of the government officials have all but disappeared into bunkers, prepared long before the crumble of the United Nations. A One World Order is being discussed underground in a large bunker. Former Presidents and government officials begin to plan the execution of a One World government.


In a desperate bid to strip the United States of its freedoms, terrorists have infiltrated our nation’s security. Without hesitation, our country rises to face them, staring down the threat with unwavering resolve, daring them to strike again. But soon, the government grows weak, and the military is overtaken. Chaos ensues in the wake of the attack, and World War III erupts. The war is brief, but its consequences are catastrophic. Freedoms vanish, and now, no one is safe from the scourge of terrorism. Hatred blankets the land, and the night skies are lit with the flashes of destructive attacks from those who seek to tear down the nation.
Most buildings have become dark shells, once homes and businesses now reduced to ruins. The United States has been replaced by anarchy and division, where racism festers and any semblance of unity has been shattered. In this new world, nothing can be bought or sold without a computer chip implanted into every citizen’s hand. The President calls for peace and unity, but his words ring hollow in a society increasingly torn apart by violence and fear.
Some still stand tall, fighting back against those who seek to strip away the freedoms once taken for granted. Among them is Mark, a retired Marine who has spent his days holed up in an abandoned hotel. The underground resistance has risen quickly, determined to prevent further desecration of what’s left of the country. Mark, with his combat experience and his deep sense of duty, knows that the time to act is now.
Joseph Russell, once a state senator and a decorated Marine, has also joined the underground movement. He retired from the Marine Corps with honors, but now his service to the country continues in a different form. Together with Mark, they prepare to fight back, their mission clear: reclaim what was lost and resist the forces that threaten to consume their world.




The terrorists has seized control of the White House with chilling precision. In the ensuing skirmish, one unfortunate Secret Service agent is killed as he attempts to protect the President. Among the hostages, Channel 13 News reporter Rhonda Ferguson and her cameraman, George Sanchez, find themselves caught in the chaos. The terrorists, ruthless and efficient, move the hostages to the Oval Office, where they can control the situation. The President and his immediate staff are forced to their knees, their fates now in the hands of these unknown assailants.
Local authorities are quickly made aware of the unfolding crisis. A perimeter is established, and soon, the White House is surrounded by armed officers, snipers, and the full force of law enforcement. Tension mounts as the world watches, holding its breath.
One of the terrorists, his face obscured by a black mask, turns to Rhonda and George with a cold, calculating look. His voice, thick with a Middle Eastern accent, barks a demand.
“Link to a live feed,” he orders, his eyes flashing with a savage intensity.
Rhonda, her heart pounding in her chest, nods and steps forward, the weight of the moment pressing down on her. She takes a deep breath and, with a quick glance at George, begins to speak into the camera.
“This is Rhonda Ferguson with Channel 13 News,” she begins, her voice steady despite the fear gnawing at her insides. “Along with my cameraman, George Sanchez, I am currently being held hostage by a terrorist group. The President of the United States, along with his immediate staff, is also in captivity. At this moment, we are uncertain of the terrorists' specific demands, but they are very clear about one thing: they want attention.”
The camera shifts to the terrorist standing behind the President, his wild eyes flickering with menace through the eye holes of his mask. He pushes the President forward, his gun trained on the man’s head.
The terrorist speaks, his words slow and deliberate, every syllable dripping with malice. “If our demands are not met within 24 hours, we will begin killing hostages, one every hour,” he threatens, his voice cold and unyielding.
The President, sweat beading on his forehead, pleads for mercy. “Please,” he stammers, his voice breaking with desperation. “Tell us what you want.”
The terrorist’s lips curl into a sinister grin as he levels the gun at the President’s temple. For a moment, the room is silent, the tension almost unbearable. Rhonda, struggling to keep her composure, continues to film, knowing that every second counts. The terrorists are playing their game, and the stakes have never been higher.

Mark swung the car into the narrow alley behind the bank, tires screeching against the pavement. The engine rumbled as he brought the car to a stop. He turned to Jack, who was already pulling a black ski mask over his face, his expression hidden beneath it. Mark reached for his shotgun, loading it with swift precision, while Jack grabbed his Uzi, the metallic clink of the weapon locking into place.
Moments later, Captain Russell, Brent, and Jane arrived, pulling up behind them in an armored van. The van’s heavy doors creaked open, and the team exited their vehicles, all except Brent, who had agreed to stay behind the wheel. The others were already in full tactical gear, a mix of black and camouflage.
Captain Russell glanced at his watch, his eyes sharp, scanning the dim industrial complex ahead. He turned to his team, his voice low but commanding.
“We’ll be in there for one minute before the alarm triggers. That gives us a total of three minutes to get in and out.”
He paused, letting the weight of the moment settle in.
“We’re not just lifting crates tonight—we’re taking back what they locked behind steel and signatures. Those meds? They’re sitting in a climate vault while people rot in the outer sectors. You’ve seen the reports—children dying of fevers a century-old medicine could stop. The government’s got it under ‘emergency reserve control,’ which means no one gets it unless you’re cleared by a bureaucrat or bleeding in a senator’s suit.”
He looked each of them in the eye.
“You all know your jobs. We’re not thieves—we’re lifelines. Now move.”
All of them nodded in unison, their expressions focused, their hearts pounding with adrenaline.
The Resistance had been building for years. They had become a shadow of the nation, fighting back against the system that sought to enslave them. The collective of soldiers who remained had become known as “The Resistance,” and tonight, they were about to strike a critical blow.
Inside the bank, Candice sat at her desk, sipping her coffee. She had been working there for a little over a year, and today seemed like any other. Her training for a potential robbery had been drilled into her, but she had never imagined it would actually happen. The bank was secure, and with the presence of local police and National Guard patrols nearby, she felt safe.
Bob, the bank’s security guard, sat in his office, his uniform freshly pressed, always sharp and clean. He sipped his black coffee with a single tablespoon of sugar, his eyes drifting to a framed picture on his desk—a picture of his wife and three-year-old daughter, smiling back at him. Bob smiled softly. He had just found out two weeks ago that he and his wife were expecting another child.
At the same time, Harold, a long-time customer of the bank, walked slowly through the entrance. He had recently lost his wife, and today he was here to place her jewelry in a safe deposit box. The loss still weighed heavily on him. As he shuffled toward the counter, little did he know that he would never reach the safe deposit box, and this morning would be his last.
Up on the roof, Mark, Jane, and Jack waited in the shadows. The cold wind howled around them as they secured their gear. Captain Russell and Brent had already entered the bank. Time was running short.
Captain Russell’s voice boomed as he and Brent stormed into the lobby. “Everyone on the ground! NOW!” His weapon was drawn, the barrel trained on the terrified customers and employees.
The chaos erupted in seconds. Captain Russell’s gaze fixed on Bob, who was fumbling for his firearm. “Drop the piece. Nice and slow.”
Bob’s heart pounded in his chest as he slowly unholstered his Taurus 9mm and, with a shaking hand, kicked it across the floor toward Russell.
“Good,” Russell growled, reaching down to grab the weapon. He clipped a button on his belt.
As he did, Mark, Jane, and Jack crashed through the skylight above, their descent swift and precise. Glass shattered around them, raining down onto the tellers below. They repelled down the ropes, landing with the grace of trained professionals, their weapons aimed at the shocked and frightened bank employees.
Janice, holding her weapon steady, pointed it directly at Candice. “Move it,” she commanded coldly, guiding her toward the vault. Candice complied, her hands trembling as she followed the masked assailant into the secure area where Harold had just arrived.
Inside the vault, Harold stood frozen, staring at the rows of safe deposit boxes. Jim, the other security guard, was standing beside him. As the heavy door to the vault swung open, Janice whipped her gun toward Jim, her voice firm and harsh. “On the ground. Now.”
With a swift motion, Janice pushed a button on her belt, signaling Mark, who immediately entered the vault with an army duffle bag in tow.
“Take your weapon out and slide it to me. Slowly,” Janice barked.
Jim obeyed, the sweat trickling down his face as he passed his weapon to her. “Get to your feet,” she snapped. “Start loading the bag with everything in the main safe.”
The contents of the main safe were highly classified, containing medical supplies meant only for government and military officials. The stakes were high, and the Resistance needed them.
As the robbery unfolded, Tina, a bank teller who had dropped to the floor in a panic, crawled behind the counter. Her trembling hand hit the silent alarm, sending a quiet signal to the authorities.
“Fuck!” Captain Russell hissed under his breath, hearing the alarm’s faint echo. His pulse quickened. “Three minutes,” he shouted to his team, his voice filled with urgency.
The clock was ticking.
Mark grabbed Candice by the arm, the duffle bag bulging with stolen supplies. With Janice covering their backs, they made their way toward the back door. But as they neared the exit, Jim, driven by desperation, pulled out his Taurus 9mm and fired at Janice. She returned fire, a deafening gunshot echoing through the vault.
Jim ducked behind a column as he exited the vault, narrowly avoiding her shot. In the chaos, his eyes flicked to Harold, who had collapsed in the corner of the vault, clutching his chest. The stress of the robbery had triggered a fatal heart attack. Harold’s life had ended in that instant, his final moments spent clutching his late wife’s jewelry in one hand, his heart giving out before any medical help could arrive.
Mark, Janice, and Candice made it to the back door, the sounds of gunfire ringing in their ears as the world outside grew darker, the clock inching ever closer to zero. The robbery was almost complete, but the cost was rising with every passing second.

The remaining politicians, once the pillars of democracy, had become openly corrupt and underhanded, their actions no longer concealed behind the facade of public service. They had long since abandoned the ideals of the people they were supposed to represent. Government officials were no longer elected by the citizens, but instead, were appointed to their positions by those in power. The checks and balances of the system had been replaced with a network of alliances built on greed, manipulation, and coercion.
No country was immune to the global wave of unrest, but the United States had found its own unique path to destruction. Before the rise of this new regime, before the onslaught of greed and power, David had been a self-made man. He had climbed the corporate ladder, driven by ambition and hard work, and eventually reached the top, becoming the CEO of the company he had worked for. His success was a testament to the meritocracy that the country had once believed in. But that was before everything changed.
The war had been looming for years. There were whispers, rumors, and signs—too many for anyone to ignore—but for the majority of the population, it remained an abstract concern, something distant and unimportant. Most of the citizens had already surrendered their autonomy without question. They had eagerly embraced the government's promises of safety and security through compliance to the new regime.
By the time the war began, David was already aware of what was coming. He had seen the signs—he had known that the world was teetering on the brink. But for many, the war felt like something that was happening “elsewhere,” something that didn’t truly affect them. It was business as usual for the masses, their lives wrapped up in the daily grind, their eyes glued to the endless stream of distractions from their screens.
That all changed when the missiles started falling.
It began in the dead of night, the sound of air raid sirens cutting through the quiet, a chilling warning that most hadn’t anticipated. The first missile strike was a shock, but it was only the beginning. In the days that followed, several key buildings across the country were hit with precise, devastating missile strikes—military bases, government facilities, and financial hubs. The nation’s infrastructure crumbled in a matter of hours. Panic spread like wildfire as the effects of the war became undeniable.
David sat in his office, staring out the window as smoke rose in the distance. The sky had turned an ominous shade of orange, the city below him now a warzone. He could hear the distant rumble of explosions, the screams of chaos creeping into his consciousness. The war had arrived, and it was unlike anything anyone had prepared for. The world was changing, and Mark knew that his life—his carefully built empire—was slipping away before his eyes.
In those early days of the conflict, as the missile strikes intensified and the government’s grip on power weakened. The government knew who was loyal, who was a threat, and who could be used. There was no longer a choice in the matter. The government was now in control.
David was no longer just a businessman; he was a survivor, thrust into a conflict that he had never asked for. The country he had once thrived in was now unrecognizable, torn apart by the very greed and power he had once witnessed from the sidelines. The government, once corrupt but functional, was now a puppet regime—controlled by the highest bidders and those willing to do anything to stay in power.
As David prepared for what would come next, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the world was slipping through his fingers. The war had taken everything—his career, his home, his family’s safety—and yet, in the depths of this chaos, he knew one thing for sure: the fight was far from over. The stakes were higher than ever, and survival would require more than just power or influence. It would take something far more primal.

Rhonda sat quietly in the Oval Office, the air thick with tension. The room, once a symbol of the nation's power and authority, now felt like a gilded cage. It had been nine long hours since Franco and his men had stormed the White House and taken control, turning the iconic building into a fortress of fear. The terrorists, cold and methodical, held the President and his staff hostage, and though the media had been allowed some access, it was all tightly controlled.
Her hands were cold, but her face remained composed. Rhonda had been a journalist for years, and she knew how to keep her emotions in check, even when the situation seemed hopeless. But her mind raced—her thoughts were a whirlwind of plans and possibilities. She had been careful so far, toeing the line between being a hostage and a reporter. She was being watched, monitored with every move she made, but she had learned long ago to use any opening to her advantage.
She glanced at the guards, their eyes cold and unwavering, their weapons always in hand. They never spoke, never looked away for long. They were professionals—trained for this kind of operation. But Rhonda was no stranger to danger either. In her line of work, she had covered war zones, political scandals, and hostage situations. Still, this was different. This was personal. This was home.
After what felt like an eternity, she finally broke the silence. “I need to go to the bathroom,” she said, her voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of urgency. One of the guards nodded, wordlessly signaling for her to stand.
Rhonda walked toward the door, feeling the weight of every set of eyes on her back. She held her head high, maintaining the air of composure she had perfected over the years. The guard followed her, the sound of his footsteps echoing down the hallway. She had only a few precious moments before the world outside this room closed in once again.
As the bathroom door clicked shut behind her, Rhonda’s heart raced. This was her chance.
She pulled out her cell phone, trembling only slightly, and unlocked it with swift fingers. The constant surveillance in the Oval Office had made her cautious, but she had thought of everything. She had learned the system’s patterns, and in these nine hours, she had spotted an opening—a moment when the guards might be distracted. She quickly dialed the number five, the emergency number she had set up with her contact back at Channel 13. The line rang once, twice. And then, before it could connect fully, she hung up.
She exhaled slowly, her chest tightening as the weight of the decision set in. That call would get their attention—get her message through. But now, there was no turning back. She had alerted her station, and if they acted quickly, they might be able to mobilize help.
Rhonda glanced at the mirror, smoothing her hair and reapplying her makeup. She wasn’t just preparing for the rest of the day; she was preparing for whatever would come next. Her mind worked furiously, considering every possible outcome, every contingency. There was no time to second-guess herself now.
After a moment, she took a deep breath, pushed the lingering fear to the back of her mind, and walked back out into the hallway, making her way back to the Oval Office. The guards didn’t acknowledge her, but she could feel their eyes following her every move. She returned to her seat, hoping, praying that the small action she’d just taken would be enough.
With her heart pounding, she forced herself to appear calm, to appear like just another hostage caught in the grip of chaos. But deep down, she knew that the real battle had just begun. The next few minutes—hours, days—could change everything. She hoped she had made the right choice. And she hoped her call had been received.
Now, all she could do was wait and hope that someone, somewhere, was listening.
It had been a busy day for John. His life had taken a turn that morning, and he wasn’t quite sure if it was for better or worse. He had just been released from prison, a result of some well-placed influence and money. He had used my connections—paying off a judge sympathetic to the freedom movement—to get him out. It was a small victory, but one that carried weight. After all, John had been a key figure in the fight for justice, though his role had been hidden in the shadows for far too long.
That same day, John found himself at Rita’s Pub, nursing a drink while trying to make sense of it all. The pub was quiet enough, with the low hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses, but John wasn’t really there to relax. He was meeting with Eunice, a fierce and vocal leader of the freedom movement. She was known for her sharp mind and even sharper tongue, a woman who wasn’t afraid to speak out against the corrupt establishment. John had always respected her, even though their relationship had been strained by the years apart.
Earlier that morning, he had reconnected with Rhonda Ferguson. She was a reporter, one who had interviewed him in prison a few months back. They exchanged contact information then, but we hadn’t expected their paths to cross again so soon. When he called her, he could hear the surprise in her voice. They spoke for a few minutes, catching up on what had happened since he had been locked away. She had her own set of problems now, working in a world where truth was becoming increasingly difficult to find, but he knew she still had that fire in her. That spark that had made her so tenacious during their interview.
He gave her his cell number before they hung up, just in case something came up. Little did he know, the connection he made that morning would soon become more than just a casual conversation.
The pub had a strange vibe that night. A few patrons were scattered around, but the atmosphere was tense. Everyone had an eye on the television, which was showing the latest virtual sports competition on ESPNV, a game where participants entered booths to compete in real-time simulations. It was the latest craze—like the strip clubs and casinos of old Vegas, but with a darker twist. There was no escape from the booth, and the security was relentless. Those who played were trapped in the game until they either won or lost.
John ordered a drink, not really caring what it was. His mind was elsewhere, lost in the noise of the virtual world on TV. He spent the next hour distracted, his gaze flickering between the game and the conversations around him. The pub was the same as always—nothing special, just a temporary respite from a world that was falling apart at the seams.
As the clock ticked past 11 p.m., the usual clinking of glasses and murmurs of conversation began to fade into the background. John’s phone buzzed in his pocket, cutting through the haze of thoughts and distractions. He pulled it out and unlocked it, half expecting a message from Eunice. But it wasn’t from her.
The text that appeared on his screen was simple, but it sent a chill down his spine.
#911
Rhonda.
The urgency in the message was unmistakable. John’s heart raced as he quickly typed out a reply, asking if everything was okay. But as soon as he hit send, his mind began to race. What did it mean? Was she in danger? What had happened?
Before he could process it further, the sound of a door slamming open at the other end of the pub snapped his attention back to the present. The pub had always had a certain atmosphere of danger—just enough to keep things interesting—but tonight, there was something different in the air. Something darker.
John stood up, his thoughts on Rhonda and the strange text message. He didn’t know exactly what was happening, but something told him he needed to move fast.
The night was far from over, and it seemed like the storm was about to break.
They were all outlaws now. The world above ground had descended into chaos, and the last remnants of order were fading fast. With the government corrupt and the military fractured, those who still fought for freedom had no choice but to live in the shadows. Underground was their only refuge, a place to hide from the prying eyes of a system that had turned against them.
Nick and Mark had spent days gathering what little resources they could, piecing together enough non-perishable food and supplies to keep their underground bunker stocked. The supplies were low, but they had enough to survive—for now. The bunker, though modest, had become a home of sorts for their ragtag group of resistance fighters. It was hidden beneath the city, away from the reach of the government’s surveillance, but also isolated from the world they once knew.
The decision had been made to move the entire team into the bunker, not just for their safety, but to have a secure place to live and plan. The constant threat of enemy raids and infiltrations left little room for error. And with everyone forced to live off the grid, their every move had to be calculated carefully.
Mark, who had long relied on his network of old military connections, had called in a favor from a few former Navy SEAL buddies who were involved in the black market trade of arms and supplies. The deals were risky, but necessary. There were weapons to acquire, but there were also other, more practical needs. The women in the group had their own concerns: sanitary supplies, food, and clothing. Life in the bunker wouldn’t be easy, but at least it would be safe for a time.
Melissa wasn’t thrilled about cooking, but with no other choice, she and Janice had agreed to divide their responsibilities. Janice was a vital member of the strike team, and her skills couldn’t be wasted. Melissa, on the other hand, along with Brenda, took on the role of heads of the supply team. It wasn’t glamorous work, but someone had to do it. David, as always, would be in charge of handling trades and overseeing the selling of anything they could spare—anything that would give them the edge.
After a lengthy discussion, one that included everyone in the room, they made a unanimous decision: Joseph, formerly Captain Russell, would be promoted to Commander. His experience, leadership, and unshakable resolve made him the natural choice. The team needed someone who could not only lead in battle but also make the tough decisions that would ensure their survival in the long run.
With Joseph now in command, the rest of the team fell into their roles. Mark, Janice, and John would take on dual responsibility, overseeing both the strike and extraction teams. These teams would be tasked with pulling off high-risk missions, whether it was sabotaging enemy operations or extracting valuable intel. The stakes were high, but the team was more than capable.
Now, the planning had to begin. They had intelligence on Doctor Nedson, a former high-ranking scientist who had defected from the government’s inner circle. It was rumored that he had stored a cache of crucial medical supplies on the seventeenth floor of the Nedon Towers. The supplies were vital—everything from vaccines to antibiotics, things that could turn the tide of the resistance’s struggle. But getting into the towers wouldn’t be easy.
They needed a way in, a way to gather the supplies without drawing attention to themselves. After some discussion and with David's connections, they decided to take a different approach: infiltrate Nedson Towers under the guise of hired security. David had some old friends in the business who owed him favors. They could pull a few strings, get some people hired on the security team, and slowly gain access to the building. It was a slow burn, but it would give them the best shot at getting what they needed without raising suspicion.
Janice and John were chosen for the mission. After careful background checks and some creative paperwork, they were hired as security guards at the towers. The facade they presented was that they were a married couple—an unlikely pair, but one that would allow them to slip under the radar. They were assigned to the day shift for now, but the plan was to eventually move them to the night shift when security was looser, giving them more time to search the building and plan their extraction of the supplies.
The team had a plan. But plans always come with risks. As the days passed and the team prepared for the heist, each member knew that failure wasn’t an option. They had no choice but to succeed.
And so, with their roles clearly defined and their mission in place, the resistance readied itself for the next step in their fight—one that would take them deep into enemy territory, into the heart of the enemy’s stronghold, and hopefully, toward the salvation of the underground world they had built.

The alley was shrouded in darkness, the only light coming from the occasional flicker of distant streetlights, barely able to pierce through the heavy curtain of rain that poured relentlessly from the cloud-choked sky. The storm was unforgiving, but John had become accustomed to such weather. It offered cover, and in this city, cover was everything. He pulled the collar of his black trench coat higher, its fabric slick with rain, as he approached the worn and forgotten backstage door of what was once the grand Florida Theater. The venue, a symbol of cultural life and entertainment, had long since fallen into disrepair, its glory days swallowed up by the relentless tide of political and social upheaval.
The theater had been shut down when the interim government took control of the country. The once-vibrant space, filled with the sounds of live performances and bustling crowds, was now just another forgotten relic in a city that had lost its soul. Like everything else in the world, it had become a shadow of its former self—silent, hollow, and repurposed for something far darker than anyone could have imagined.
John glanced around, ensuring no one was watching, before slipping into the shadowed opening of the backstage door. Inside, the musty scent of mildew and decay clung to the air, a reminder of how far the nation had fallen since the peace agreement had been signed. He could still remember the day it had happened, when the United States, tired and broken from years of civil unrest and war, had agreed to a treaty that reshaped the world. The President, the office once held with such dignity and power, was no more. The country, now ruled by the whims of a single man, had lost its identity. The one leader—Jerry Nelson—was now the sole figure at the helm of a new, twisted world order.
Nelson was a man of incredible influence, a puppet master who had positioned himself as the embodiment of global unity. Under his rule, nations relinquished their autonomy in exchange for empty promises of peace. It didn’t take long for the people to realize that peace under Nelson’s regime came at the cost of their freedoms. The government’s grip had tightened, the military had been consolidated under one centralized force, and resistance was systematically crushed.
John’s fingers brushed the cool, rusty handle of the backstage door, the sound of the rain pounding the roof echoing through the dilapidated space. He took a deep breath, the tension in his chest growing as he prepared for what was to come. This wasn’t just a trip to retrieve information, or an easy rendezvous with someone from the underground. No, tonight was different. Tonight, he was about to take a calculated risk—a risk that could change everything.
The resistance was growing, but so was the government's control. It was only a matter of time before Jerry Nelson's reach would extend too far, suffocating anyone who dared to stand against him. And John? He had a personal stake in this fight. Too much had been lost. Too many lives had been destroyed in the name of Nelson’s peace.
A soft creak echoed as he pushed the door open. He quickly stepped inside, blending into the shadows of the theater’s abandoned backstage. The darkness here was familiar—an ally in the ongoing war against a government that had forgotten what freedom meant.
The plan had been simple enough: meet with his contact, retrieve the intel they had gathered, and disappear into the shadows once again. But John knew that simplicity was a luxury no longer afforded to him. Things had changed. The underground was no longer just a group of rebels fighting for survival—it had become a symbol of resistance, the last flicker of hope in a world that had forgotten how to fight for itself.
The walls of the theater creaked with age as John moved deeper into the building, his steps silent but purposeful. His eyes scanned the dim surroundings, always alert for any sign of danger. The days of open conflict were gone, but the enemy was still everywhere, lurking in the corners of the city, watching, waiting for any sign of rebellion to crush.
It didn’t take long before John’s contact appeared from the shadows, a man dressed in a dark suit that seemed out of place in such a dilapidated setting. His face was partially obscured by a hood, but his eyes—sharp and calculating—betrayed a sense of urgency.
“John,” the man said in a low voice, glancing nervously over his shoulder. “You’ve got to get out of here. It’s not safe.”
“I know,” John replied, his voice steady despite the tension building in his chest. “But we don’t have time. What do you have for me?”
The man handed over a small, sealed envelope, the contents of which were more valuable than anything they could have obtained through normal channels. Inside was the key to their next move—plans for an attack on one of Nelson’s key facilities. It was a long shot, but it was their best chance.
“Make sure it gets to the right people,” the man said, his voice barely a whisper. “And be careful. The government’s tightening the noose. If they catch wind of what we’re planning, there’ll be no escaping.”
John nodded grimly, slipping the envelope into his coat pocket. “I know the risks. But this isn’t just for us anymore. This is for everyone who’s lost everything under Nelson’s rule.”
The man stepped back into the shadows, disappearing as silently as he had arrived. John remained motionless for a moment, letting the weight of the situation settle over him. He was no hero, no champion of the oppressed. He was just a man trying to survive in a world that had been turned upside down. But every step he took, every mission he carried out, brought them closer to the possibility of something more—something that could restore the world to what it once was.
With one last look around the deserted theater, John turned and disappeared into the night, the storm still raging above him. In the shadows, the fight for freedom was far from over.
The city of Jacksonville, Florida, once a bustling hub of commerce and culture, had now become a dystopian nightmare. Abandoned by all forms of law enforcement, it was a lawless wasteland, overrun by gangs—ranging from petty criminals to the more savage and terrifying factions of cannibals and murderers. The streets that had once been filled with the hum of traffic and the chatter of pedestrians were now eerily silent, save for the occasional distant gunshot or the haunting wail of an unseen victim.
City Hall, once a symbol of power and governance, had been reduced to a crumbling ruin. The grand façade was now a hollow shell, its windows shattered, and its marble floors stained with the remnants of violence. Inside, the once-pristine chambers were little more than a graveyard for the unlucky souls who had once worked within its walls. The skeletal remains of former officials lay scattered, some still sitting at their desks, others collapsed mid-stride as if fleeing from some unimaginable horror. The stench of death lingered in the air, mingling with the decay of what had been an institution built to serve the people.
The few remaining citizens who hadn’t succumbed to the brutal chaos of the new world order had been left to rot in the alleys and forgotten corners of the city. Starving and desperate, they were hunted by the packs of cannibals that had long ago forsaken their humanity. These gangs, whose cruelty knew no bounds, scoured the streets for anyone they could capture, using them as prey for their insatiable hunger. It wasn’t just food they sought—it was power, control, and the domination of the weak. To them, the city was a jungle, and they were the apex predators.
The alleyways, once crowded with vendors and the promise of a thriving community, were now home to the desperate and dying. People clung to the last vestiges of life, some begging for scraps of food or clean water, others simply waiting for the end. But even in this dismal landscape, death was not always the final fate. Packs of emaciated, starved dogs roamed the streets, their eyes glowing with hunger as they attacked the weak and the sick, tearing them apart without hesitation. The once-loyal companions of humankind had become vicious predators, scavenging on the fallen bodies of those too frail to defend themselves.
As the chaos unfolded, the city became a ghost town, its once-proud structures crumbling into oblivion. The remnants of old civilization, of a world that had once functioned and thrived, were now nothing more than shattered memories. The signs of human civilization were vanishing, replaced by a savage, primal existence where only the strongest survived.
Yet, even in the heart of this despair, a spark of resistance remained. In the deepest corners of the city, pockets of survivors—resilient, hardened by their trials—had begun to organize. But they were outnumbered, outgunned, and up against a system that had long since lost its grip on humanity. The gangs ruled the streets with an iron fist, and any attempt to challenge their reign was met with swift and brutal retaliation.
The city of Jacksonville, once a vibrant hub of activity, had become a place where hope was a distant memory. The only thing that remained was the struggle for survival. And in that struggle, there were no rules, no boundaries—only the will to endure, no matter the cost.
What seemed like a dim light in the distance to his right grew larger and louder with each passing second. The sound of the engine roared, unmistakable in its power. It wasn’t long before John realized that the approaching noise was that of a motorcycle. He couldn't help but chuckle to himself. It was an odd kind of meeting, but then again, this was Thomas—his old supervisor from his previous life, the one man John never expected to see again. Yet, here he was, now the leader of the Southern States Resistance Core, a ragtag group of 20 soldiers who had banded together after the fall of law and order.
The Resistance Core had been one of the few functioning groups left in the chaos, and John had been a part of many discussions involving their future. Just a few days ago, he had been part of a strategic meeting where they’d sifted through a list of 135 potential candidates from the now-defunct branches of law enforcement across Florida. Desperation had brought them together, but Thomas had a way of pulling together those who needed a cause, no matter how unlikely or dangerous.
John's eyes narrowed as the motorcycle came into view—a black shovelhead, its engine growling through the night air. As the bike got closer, he saw Thomas’s familiar figure, sitting low in the saddle. Thomas wore his signature look: traditional goggles perched on his face, a backwards cap pulled low over his brow, and, for some reason, a smirk that was always hidden beneath his thick brown beard. Thomas may have been small in stature when seated—no taller than 4'5" on his bike—but when he stood, he was an imposing figure. Standing at 6'2", with broad shoulders and a fiery, muscular build, he looked like someone you’d expect to lead a revolution, not a resistance.
Thomas skidded his bike to a stop and slid it into an open space. He removed his goggles and shook the rain from his hair, his voice booming through the damp air.
"Whew!" he exclaimed, grinning ear to ear. "Nice night for a ride, huh?"
John laughed, shaking his head. “You’re insane, you know that, right?”
Thomas chuckled as he swung off the bike. His clear rain poncho hung over his leather vest, keeping the downpour at bay. He grabbed a small bag from behind his motorcycle’s windshield, but before John could say another word, Thomas's demeanor shifted. The smirk faded, replaced by a cold intensity. The bag dropped to the ground, and within a split second, Thomas pulled a 10mm pistol from inside his jacket and aimed it directly at John’s forehead.
John’s heart raced. He had seen it coming for months, the tension building with each passing day. Thomas had changed, and not in the way John had hoped. But it was too late to back out now.
Before John could react, he heard the unmistakable sound of a pump-action shotgun being cocked behind him. Instinct kicked in. He dove to the side, rolling across the slick pavement to take cover. His hands moved quickly, drawing his twin 10mm pistols as he slid behind an old concrete pillar. His eyes never left Thomas, who was now standing tall, the rain streaming down his leather vest.
A shot rang out from behind him—louder, closer. The sudden deafening blast of gunfire mixed with the hiss of the rain. John fired a shot, aimed at the gas tank of Thomas’s motorcycle. The bullet pierced the metal, and a split second later, the bike erupted in a fiery explosion. The blast sent John crashing to the ground, his body thrown like a ragdoll by the force of the blast.
For a moment, everything went dark.

John awoke to a blinding white light above him. He groaned, his body aching from the impact of the blast. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the haze from his vision. His head felt heavy, his senses overloaded with confusion and pain. Slowly, his surroundings came into focus. He was lying on a cold, metal surface. The sharp smell of antiseptic filled his nostrils, and the faint hum of machinery echoed in the background. His eyes darted around, trying to make sense of his new environment.
Where the hell was he?
His hands instinctively moved to his sides, feeling the cold, sterile environment pressing against him. A sudden wave of panic hit him as he realized he wasn’t alone. He wasn’t even sure if he was still alive. The memories of the explosion and the moments before it all came rushing back. The shot. The blast. The intense heat. The pain.
But now, all that remained was an eerie silence and the feeling of something far worse than just physical injury. Something was terribly wrong.
There was never any promise that Henry would go back to being a beat cop. It wasn't the department’s decision to pull him off the streets—it was a personal one. But that decision, as liberating as it felt at the time, didn’t come without consequences. Henry stirred the coffee in his Police Department mug absentmindedly, watching the steam rise as his mind wandered back to a night five years ago.
It was a rainy August evening, Saturday, August 7th. The storm had been brewing for hours, and by 9:20, the streets were slick with the heavy downpour. Henry had been on duty when he received the call. A domestic disturbance at a house on the outskirts of town—nothing out of the ordinary, at least on the surface. But what followed would change everything.
By the time Henry arrived at the scene, it was already in full play. Sarah, the girl at the center of it all, was only seventeen—just two weeks shy of her high school graduation. But tonight, she stood in the driveway, her hands gripping a Colt revolver, her body frozen in place. She was staring down at her mother’s lifeless body. The gun trembled in her grasp, a deadly weight in her hands.
Henry stopped just at the edge of the driveway, the headlights of his squad car cutting through the sheets of rain. He pulled his poncho tight around his shoulders, the fabric heavy with water. The downpour was relentless, each raindrop feeling like a hammer against the pavement. He knew he had to move carefully; the last thing he wanted was to startle the girl, especially not in this state.
He took a deep breath and made his way across the driveway, his boots barely making a sound despite the inch of rain that had already fallen. The rain masked his movements, his body hidden in the shadows, making him less a man and more an instinct. As he reached the grass, the quiet of the night seemed to swallow him whole—no sirens, no yelling, just the soft patter of rain.
Henry's gaze never left Sarah. She was a child in the body of a broken woman, the gun a strange symbol of her grief and rage. There was no telling what she would do, no predicting how this moment would end. The situation was delicate—one wrong move, one wrong word, and it could all fall apart.
The air around him felt thick, charged. Henry had seen his fair share of violence, but this—this was different. This was not a suspect, a criminal to arrest. This was a girl who had lost everything. And now, Henry was the only one standing between her and the abyss.
His heart beat in his chest, steady but unsure. This wasn’t how he’d imagined his career would end—not this moment, not this girl. Henry wasn’t the hero type, never had been. But there was something about Sarah that made him want to save her, to pull her back from the edge before it was too late.
He took another step forward, his voice calm, quiet. "Sarah," he called softly, trying to get her attention. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel cornered. "I need you to put the gun down, alright? We can talk about this. Just… talk to me."
The sound of rain hitting the ground was louder than her response. She didn’t move, didn’t speak. The tension in the air was palpable, the kind that made every breath feel like a burden. Henry could see her hands trembling, her shoulders shaking, but she didn't drop the weapon.
"Sarah," he said again, his voice steadier this time. "Please. We don’t need to make this worse. You don’t need to do this."
For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of rain. Then, without warning, Sarah lifted the revolver, pointing it directly at her own head.
Henry’s heart skipped a beat. His instincts kicked in, and before he could think, his hands moved. "No! Sarah, stop!" he shouted, taking a step closer, his hands outstretched in a gesture of peace.
But she didn’t seem to hear him. Her eyes were distant, clouded by grief and confusion. The world around her had crumbled, and all she had left was the cold metal of the gun in her hands.
With every step Henry took, his mind raced, trying to figure out the right words, the right approach. But no script existed for this moment. He was on his own, in the rain, with a girl who had just killed her mother. And somehow, in that chaos, Henry knew he had to be the one to keep it from unraveling completely.
Brandon stood outside the soup kitchen, same as he did every day around this time. The line stretched down the cracked sidewalk, full of worn faces and tired bodies, but he’d managed to work his way to the front. He kept his hood up, eyes low, shoulders tense. After all, it didn’t pay to stand out down here. Not anymore.
When his tray was finally filled with lukewarm stew and a stale roll, Brandon nodded a quiet thanks and made his way to the closest open table. The place buzzed with murmured conversations, clinking spoons, and the low hum of the flickering overhead lights. He took a seat, scarfed down a few bites, and offered polite nods to the familiar faces that passed by—old men who still talked about better days, single mothers with sharp eyes, and the young ones who looked far older than they were.
But one face he refused to look at—William.
Everyone in the street called him Renegade now. It was a name he wore like armor, like pride. Brandon used to know him as a brother. They’d grown up on the same block, run the same scams, survived the same fights. But all of that had shattered three months ago.
One night. One too many drinks. One act of monstrous betrayal.
Renegade had raped Suzie.
And now he walked these streets as if nothing had happened. He joked. He laughed. He nodded at Brandon like they were still boys from the block. But Brandon saw red every time he laid eyes on him.
Suzie had stayed. Somehow. She didn’t talk about that night, but her eyes said everything that her lips wouldn’t. She had picked herself up, gotten a job at the local supermarket, and together they had scraped enough to rent a one-bedroom apartment two blocks from the store and a half-mile from the soup kitchen. Brandon washed dishes here during the day, picked up whatever odd jobs he could at the community center, and came home to a woman who flinched in her sleep.
He hadn’t forgotten.
And tonight—tonight was the night Renegade would pay.

A few miles across town, Becky tapped her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. A veteran Uber driver with more five-star ratings than she could count, she’d seen traffic in all forms. But today was something else. The damn drawbridge was up again, and everything was at a standstill. She sighed, shifted the car into park, and turned the ignition off—leaving only the radio running.
With a flick of her wrist, she tuned into her favorite heavy metal station. The guttural growls and distorted guitars poured from her speakers, a perfect contrast to the chaotic stillness outside.
She rolled down the windows and lit a cigarette, letting the wind slap her face with humid city air. Behind her, the line of cars stretched for blocks, their horns an occasional punctuation mark of frustration. Then, a white church van pulled up beside her. Windows down, all of its passengers—men and women in modest dress—were belting out gospel songs in perfect, cheerful harmony.
Becky gritted her teeth.
The driver, an old man with a halo of white hair and a face like someone’s grandpa, leaned over and gave her a wide, joyful wave.
She forced a smile and waved back. A hollow gesture. She had no patience for cheerfulness, and less for organized religion.
As the group’s hymn swelled louder, Becky rolled her eyes and cranked her own music louder, drowning out their chorus with brutal riffs and pounding drums. She could feel the thrum in her chest and nodded along with satisfaction.
The side of the van read in bold red letters: Mt. Zion Faith Temple. Beneath it, an address, a phone number, and a message painted across the back: Jesus loves you.
Becky flicked ash out of the window, her lip curling at the words. As the bridge finally began to lower, the van pulled ahead.
Without hesitation, without even a flicker of thought, Becky raised her hand and casually gave the van the middle finger.
Let Jesus love that.
John had finally made it to the ammo supply room in the basement of the abandoned hotel. The dim emergency lights cast everything in a hazy red glow, like the guts of a dying machine. He leaned his back against the steel shelving unit, caught his breath, and reloaded his Remington 12-gauge.
“Six shots in the twelve gauge,” he muttered to himself, voice low and steady.
He reached for the twin chrome 10mm pistols holstered beneath his arms, slid in fresh mags with a satisfying click, and slammed them back into place. His hands moved with muscle memory, quick and sure—even as the pounding in his wounded shoulder reminded him he wasn’t made of steel.
Above him, boots crunched broken glass. The soldiers were closing in, fast.
They’d hit the front of the hotel just as he expected. The entrance was long boarded up and rigged to stall any enforcement unit that didn’t know the Resistance’s backdoor protocols. But they still had battering rams—and when those didn’t work, high-yield breaching charges did the trick.
The explosion had rocked the old lobby an hour ago, and that’s when John knew the game was on.
Standard procedure: robots first.
The Enforcement’s android units rolled in with precision, programmed for rapid assessment and non-lethal detainment. Too bad for them, John’s booby traps didn’t differentiate between silicon and flesh.
A thunderous boom upstairs signaled the last of the droids had found one of his tripwire surprises. Screams followed. Chaos. Then silence—until the crunch of boots resumed.
The human soldiers were moving in.
Downstairs, the air was stale with dust and gunpowder. John left the ammo room and crept through the narrow passage behind the kitchen, weaving his way to the derelict hotel bar. Everything in the hotel was wreckage and ruin—except the basement, where he had held ground. Bookcases, furniture, and overturned tables blocked the stairwell, and the elevator hadn’t worked in years.
They’d have to come to him the hard way.
He ducked behind the mahogany bar just as three Enforcement soldiers entered the room, sweeping their lights across the dusty space. Their rifles were drawn and tight to their shoulders, beams dancing across every dark corner.
John stilled his breathing, crouched low. The bar still smelled faintly of old whiskey and spilled blood. One of the soldiers stepped close—too close. His flashlight beam sliced through the darkness, scanning just inches above John’s head.
It was now or never.
John rose up with explosive speed, his 12-gauge barking thunder as he fired a slug into the soldier’s chest. The impact threw the man backward, crashing into the back wall in a heap of armor and blood.
The second soldier pivoted and fired—his round catching John in the right arm, spinning him halfway around. Pain shot through him like fire. He clenched his jaw, bit back the scream.
Without hesitation, John turned, gritted his teeth, and fired again. The second soldier dropped, lifeless. Before the third could react, John had leveled his shotgun and pulled the trigger. Another blast. Another body hit the floor.
Smoke hung heavy in the air.
John barely had time to catch his breath when the bar door burst open behind him with a violent crash, splinters flying.
More boots.
More guns.
They were coming in waves.
He grit his teeth, rolled over the bar, and ducked into the next room, already reloading the twelve-gauge.
This hotel wasn’t just a hiding spot.
It was a trap.
And John was ready to spring it.
Jack looked over the rim of his chipped ceramic coffee cup at Becky, a sly grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“What’s a nice girl like you doing in a dive like this?” he asked, voice low and smooth with just the right touch of teasing.
Becky rolled her eyes, but a reluctant smirk crept onto her lips as she shook her head. She set down the coffee pot she’d been carrying and placed a hand on her hip.
“You know, one of these days you’re going to meet a girl who actually falls for those tired lines,” she said, playfully narrowing her eyes at him.
Jack chuckled, the sound low and gravelly, and took another sip. “I could only be so lucky.”
Becky stepped over to his booth and topped off his coffee. The smell of cheap roast filled the air, mingling with the faint scent of grease from the nearby kitchen.
“So,” she asked, keeping her tone light but her eyes serious, “what happened at the factory? Why did Ben lay you off?”
Jack shrugged, dumping more sugar than was healthy into his cup. Three little creamers followed, swirling into the dark liquid like a storm.
“Downsizing, I guess,” he said, his voice edged with bitterness. “Apparently they lost a big account and had to trim the fat. Guess I was lucky enough to make the list.”
“Who else got the axe?” Becky asked gently, sensing there was more to it than he was letting on.
Jack took a sip before answering. “John and Rosemary.”
Becky blinked, stunned. “Rosemary? But… she only had two years left until retirement.”
Jack nodded slowly. “Yeah. Not exactly raking in the big bucks either. You’d think twenty-something years would count for something. But I guess loyalty doesn’t balance the books.”
Becky slid into the booth across from him, momentarily abandoning her shift. She folded her hands in front of her and studied him, her expression softening.
“That’s messed up,” she said quietly.
“Tell me about it,” Jack muttered. He stared into his coffee like it held some kind of answer. “Feels like the whole system’s just... unraveling.”
The dull hum of the diner wrapped around them—silverware clinking, the low murmur of conversation, an old country song crackling through a dusty jukebox in the corner.
Becky leaned forward slightly. “So what’s next?”
Jack smiled faintly, but there was something tired behind his eyes. “Hell if I know. Maybe I’ll take up fishing. Or crime.”
Becky laughed, but there was concern behind the humor. “Well, if you rob a bank, just don’t forget to tip your waitress.”
Jack raised his cup in a mock toast. “To loyal employees and better coffee.”
She clinked her pot gently against his mug, and for a moment, in the middle of a broken system and a dive of a diner, they shared a rare and quiet connection.

Joann crushed out her cigarette as she pulled up to the military outpost that was once a police station. She turned the car off and stepped out of her enforcement vehicle. With the wake of the war behind them and some officers abandoning the force, Joanne had been named commanding officer of what was now the Jacksonville Enforcement Agency. With that came the responsibilities that she didn't particularly care for. For instance, a week prior, she found her best friend Mike, looting a local business and had no choice but to arrest him.

“Morning Janice” Came the greeting from Henry, who had been the intake officer for five years now since he had shot a young girl. The story was well known around town and the Agency. Young Sarah Blackman had shot her mother then pointed it at Henry just before the Enforcement Agency had time to answer Henry's call for backup.


When the cell phones were purchased, they made a code for an immediate call back. All the phones had a homing device that could only be tracked by their computer. But with hackers working for Franco, they knew it was inevitable that we would soon be found. John looked at the phone and informed his friend Robert that he was on hard times. “Ah,” he said, “its only one drink. Take it easy, and don’t be a stranger.” John walked out to his car his cell phone beeped. It was Rhonda again, with the same page. Rhonda had made arrangements and had a car , cell phone and $5000 cash. John turned the GPS on his phone. Rhoda was in Washington, D.C. This was going to be a long drive

Mark hung up the phone after a lengthy conversation with an old friend from their time in the service. They had everything in place and planned out.The only problem was getting into Nelson Towers undetected. Later that night Mark approached Commander Russell and John about the plan of attack. Marks friends had two air gliders. They had made friends with James, an old friend of Marks from the service. He took them to the basement of the hotel and led us to a door. “This is where the underground begins. Once you pass through here, you’ll find my supply shop.” He said with a grin.