Vaughn Heppner - Invasion - Colorado

How much longer could he go on? He thought about it all the time. His grandfather used to read him Louis L’Amour novels, westerns about incredibly rugged individuals. Jake realized he would have never made it back then. Those settlers and explorers had been plain tough. America could use some of those old-fashioned types about now.

Jake stopped. He had his M-16 and three full magazines. That was it. His canteen had water and he had one final Chinese ration packet left. As far as he could tell, he’d made it west of the Chinese lines. It had been two days since he’d seen any evidence of enemy patrols.

This was an empty land, and the farther west he traveled the steeper and more rugged the Rocky Mountains would become.

Jake had stopped just now because he heard an engine backfire. Was it an American engine or a Chinese vehicle? The noise came from upslope.

He should go check. If it was Chinese, though—

Have I come this far only to fail?

His mind shied away from the thought of all the dead Americans who had begun the journey with him. It was crazy he would be the one to have made it this far. He’d like to think that meant something, but he knew better. It was stupid dumb luck. He wasn’t better than the others, nor did Fate or God have anything in store for him to do.

“Heck! My own country hardly likes me,” he said aloud to himself. “They put me in the frigging Detention Center.”

Jake took a deep breath and decided he would be like his grandfather and his father. They had looked up to Louis L’Amour characters, the Old West Americans. If nothing else, he had a story like one of them. He’d made it through miraculous odds. So maybe if it meant anything, he was supposed to act like an Old West American.

What would one of them do?

Jake knew the answer. He would check the backfiring engine. He’d be brave. He’d take a chance when life called for taking a chance.

Putting one foot ahead of the other, Jake kept trudging uphill. It was hard with all these slippery pine needles. He went slowly but he went steadily, and he made it to the top of the slope.

He stared down at a dirt road thirty feet below. He’d seen an old movie as a kid: The Wizard of Oz. This dirt track was the Yellow Brick Road to him. No more slipping on pine needles.

He worked his way downslope and soon trudged on the rutted road. There had been an engine cough. How far had the vehicle traveled already from where it made the sound?

Jake walked, and after two turns in the road, he heard voices ahead. He froze, because some of the voices spoke Chinese. Then he realized two other voices were American. One of the Americans pleaded and begged. The other, a female, said to stop because there was no use anymore. It was over.

Over?

Jake’s heart began to pound. What did “over” mean? He had feeling he knew. The Chinese were going to kill the two Americans. He’d seen hanging corpses before. He’d—

Hanging!

Jake checked his M-16, and took it off safe, selecting the three-round burst option. It was ready with a bullet in the chamber. He began striding down the road, picking up speed. With his heart pounding and knowing what he planned to do, he took out his last Chinese ration. Tearing it open with his teeth, he devoured the rice and half-cooked chicken one-handed. It tasted wonderful.

Is this my last meal?

He felt stronger with food in his belly. If he hadn’t heard the voices, he would have only eaten one quarter of the meal. He downed the whole thing now, and he broke into a trot.

A man screamed, begging and pleading, and suddenly his voice stopped with a gurgle.

The woman laughed, but there was no humor in it, only bitterness and rage.

Jake closed his eyes, and then he opened them wide. He found himself sprinting down the dirt road. The air came in hot torrents down his throat and his side began to burn. He’d been hiding like a rabbit for weeks, a frightened, hunted thing, and he was sick of it. His booted feet thudded on the dirt road and gravel shot away.

Rounding a sharp bend, the sight impinged upon him with a shock. Three men dangled by their necks, with placards tied to them. I CARRIED WEAPONS, they read. To be armed was considered a mortal sin by the Chinese invaders.

Five Chinese soldiers stood near the last American: a woman. Her hands were tied behind her back. A loop of rope rested tightly around her neck. The rope went up to a high evergreen branch. Four of the Chinese soldiers gripped the other end, no doubt ready to pull the woman up to her death. The last Chinese was an officer. He had his hands on his hips as he regarded the woman. All five invaders had their backs to Jake.

He saw their truck parked on the road. He didn’t see any other Chinese soldiers.

Sliding to a halt, Jake knelt deliberately on one knee. With a heaving chest, he lifted his M-16, and from fifty feet away, he carefully sighted the first enemy soldier. Jake’s arms were steady, his aim true and he shot the first soldier in the back, placing a three-round burst in a neat little pattern. He did the same to the next soldier. The others turned. Jake shot the third in the face, blowing him down.

The officer was calmer than his men. He drew a sidearm and began lengthening his arm to aim at Jake.

Jake switched targets and emptied his magazine into the officer, squeezing the trigger repeatedly until he was out of ammo. The Chinese officer did a little jig backward, dropping his gun and flailing his arms until he thumped onto his back. With a coolness he’d never felt before, Jake popped the empty magazine out of the assault rifle and slapped in the next.

Two Chinese soldiers still lived. One raced into the woods in fear. The last held a gun and reached for the woman. She kicked him in the balls, surprising the man. He dropped his gun and crumpled onto his knees. She kicked him in the crotch again, savagely. He toppled sideways, clutching his privates. Next, she kicked him in the throat, brutal and efficient, as if she knew what she was doing. She did it two more times, then with her hands still tied behind her back, she picked up one of the pistols and shot the man in the head.

During part of that time, Jake emptied his next-to-last magazine after the fleeing soldier. The bullets clipped leaves and spat bark, but missed the enemy. The man got away.

Jake stood, switching to his last magazine.

The woman dropped her gun, and she began twisting her wrists, trying to free herself. She had long blonde hair and wore lumberjack-style clothes. The first three buttons were open and Jake caught a glimpse of cleavage. Maybe it was because Jake hadn’t seen a woman for a while, but she looked stunning. She was older, though, maybe twenty-seven or something. Finally, she ripped one of her hands loose, brought the knotted rope around and began working it off.

Jake walked toward her.

As she flung off the rope, she looked up at him. “Thanks,” she said.

He nodded.

“We need to get out of here,” she said.

He nodded again.

“We’ll use their truck. First, help me cut down these patriots and load them in the truck. We’ll bury them later, but we’ll have to move fast whatever we do.”

Jake glanced at the dangling Americans, each of them freshly strung up. If he’d felt bad about killing the enemy here, the feeling vanished. This was a battle, yeah, to the freaking finish.

Soldier Rank Zhu Peng rode one of the newly-modified Z4A “Battle-taxis.”

The Z4As were strange helos with a bubble canopy for the pilot and two swept back poles on either side for the Eagle Team commandos. They were constructed to give each jetpack-flyer easy and quick access to the air.