THE BATTLE.... Chapter 3

 

I wake in Maya’s apartment to the smell of coffee, feeling warm, safe. For a moment I forget where I am — the war, the prison, the gangs, the holo. Then I see Maya sitting at the small table, hair tied back, reading something on her pad. She looks up and smiles. The place is filled with her degrees in Journalism, then later social work, criminal justice: a host of internet degrees to hide her real role, a spy running the path for refugees to sanctuary 6.

“You slept,” she says.

“I think I died,” I say.

She laughs softly. “Here, put on your scrubs, take this cup of coffee... right here." She sits the cup on the table. "Come on. You need to see what they built overnight.”

We walk through the corridor, past refugees sorting blankets, Panthers carrying crates, Mongrels fixing pipes. The air smells like soap, metal, and cooking. The prison feels alive — humming, purposeful, awake.

When we step into the yard, I am again surprised by how much I like the opposite of chaos.

The Sons of Odin are already out there, building ramparts — massive walls of dirt, concrete chunks, welded scrap metal, old mattresses, anything they can find. They move like a single organism, muscles flexing, breath fogging in the cold morning air. Their tattoos shine with sweat.

Maya gestures toward the far side of the yard. “Look.”

I follow her gaze.

There’s a path — narrow, winding, deliberate — carved between the ramparts. A funnel. A corridor. A suicide lane.

“For infantry,” Maya says.

I blink. “Infantry? Against tanks?”

She nods. “No one expects infantry anymore. That’s why it works.”

I watch the Sons of Odin pack sandbags, weld plates, drag debris into place. They’re building a kill‑zone — but also a shield. A way to get close enough to throw napalm.

Theo walks by carrying a bucket of thick, chemical‑smelling sludge. “Homemade napalm,” he says cheerfully. “Burns like hell. Sticks like guilt.”

I shake my head. “You’re insane.”

“Insane wins,” he says, and keeps walking.

Maya leads me along the infantry path. It snakes between the ramparts, tight enough that tanks can’t maneuver, wide enough for men to run. The ground is packed hard. Footing is good. Cover is everywhere.

“They’ll charge,” Maya says. “If they have to.”

“And die,” I say.

She nods. “Some will.”

A Scout approaches Maya, tells her something, starts to leave, then turns and gives Maya a big Hug.

"Who is she?"

"I don't know."

"She says we have three hours and forty minutes."

"They know?"

Maya nods in the affirmative.

We reach the far end of the yard just as the first tank appears on the ridge. The ground trembles. Dust jumps. The air vibrates.

Adam shouts, “Positions!”

The gangs snap into formation. Panthers on the right flank. Mongrels on the left. Sons of Odin in the center. Diablos behind the ramparts with napalm.

The tank fires.

The round slams into the rampart and explodes in a shower of sparks and dust. The wall holds.

Theo laughs. “Beautiful!”

The Diablos rush forward, hurling napalm. The sticky fire crawls across the tank’s armor. The crew panics. Hatches pop open. Soldiers scramble out, coughing, screaming, dropping weapons.

The Sons of Odin rush in, grabbing the soldiers, pulling them to safety, shouting at them to surrender. The soldiers look stunned — they weren’t expecting mercy.

One soldier struggles against the zip‑ties, eyes wild. “Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me!”

“Settle down,” I say, stepping forward. “You’re safe.”

He freezes when he sees me. Recognition flickers. “You’re… you’re the reporter.”

“Yeah,” I say. “And you’re not dying today.”

Another soldier speaks up, voice shaking. “We’re starving. They haven’t fed us in two days. Officers took everything.”

Adam steps closer. “Where are they?”

The soldier points toward the ridge. “Command post. Behind the old grain silos.”

Theo whistles. “Cowards.”

Adam signals the drone team. A Mongrel launches a small quad‑drone into the air. It zips over the ridge, camera feed streaming to Adam’s pad. Officers cluster near a makeshift tent, eating from crates the soldiers never saw.

Adam nods once. “Hit them.”

The drone drops a homemade charge — a small, precise explosion. Officers scatter like rats. One goes down. Two more dive behind a truck. The rest run.

Theo laughs. “Leadership retreating. Classic.”

But they don’t get far.

The National Guard arrives — old trucks, battered Humvees, men and women in mismatched gear. They move with purpose, surrounding the officers, zip‑tying them, dragging them back toward the yard.

The captured officers look furious, humiliated. One spits at a Guard sergeant. The sergeant wipes his face calmly and says, “You’re done.”

The yard is quiet now — smoke drifting, soldiers kneeling, gangs standing tall.

Maya exhales. “That’s the first victory.”

I look at the ramparts, the infantry path, the napalm buckets, the captured soldiers, the fleeing officers.

“No,” I say. “That’s the first warning.”

She looks at me. “To who?”

“Koch."