The scene in Lexington, Kentucky was one of chaos and devastation. The DS invasion of the border states had brought open warfare to American soil for the first time in nearly two hundred years. The tanks had rolled in followed by what seemed to be endless waves of infantry and armoured vehicles. Initially, the response had been one of shock, people staring helplessly as the city was over run in a matter of only a couple of hours.
The surrealism soon took on a nightmarish quality as American troops deployed in urban areas and began conducting systematic searches of homes and busineses for what were being called "subversive materials" Among the endless list of items seized were books containing anything that could be remotely contrived to be of a pro southern nature. Flags, clothing, and anything else displaying the "Rebel Jack" was seized without hesitation. Even CD's tapes, and records containing songs that seemed to suggest southern independance, (lists of these songs were provided to the troops prior to their deployment.)
The treatment of those found to be in possession of such items was sub standard to say he least. Due process, Miranda rights, and even formal charges were all but unheard of. Punishments ranged from lengthy interogations, to beatings, and in more than a few instances, instantaneous execution at the slightest sign of resistance. Women stood a decent chance of punishment which some would argue to be worse than death.
The fog and chaos of war has a way of concealing such atrocities, this would have been the case here as well, had it not been for the efforts of WKYM Channel 7 out of South Lexington whose combination of stupidity, luck, and desparation for ratings led them to follow the DS army around a five block area of Lexington while posing as college students out to take in about the closest thing to nightlife that northern kentucky had to offer.
The image which for mostly two hours graced the televisions across the tri-county area was one of shakey camera shots half obscured by darkness and the raspy whispering of Andrea Williams, rooki reporter and recent strep throat victim. That night her face was never seen, it didn't need to be. Sometimes, even in the world of instant information, what you say matters more than how you look while saying it.
It was these signts and sounds which made their way into the studio apartment of Angus McDowell, twenty nine year old college drop out, out of work pizza delivery man turned semi-proffessional conspiracy theorist. In what he thought would be a moment of vindication, he felt scared, hollow, and angry. It seemed now that the conjecture of a thing and the reality of it were indeed two different things. Among the flood of emotions that were flying though his mind, the surprise at this latest revalation was by no means the least.
The stuccato sound of fire from an automatic rifle burst shook him out of the distant wandering moment, his gaze immediately fixated once again on the television, which now shoed a crmpled form on the ground at a distance of about one hundred fifty yards. The scratchy audio preceeding the gunshot seemed to indicate the man expressing his outrage over the seizure of some of his posessions.
He was an American dammit, the man had screamed, he had the right to an attorney, he had the right of free speech, he had protested as he tried desperately to save his stolen property, a box of books as it turned out. In the end, the only right he had was the right to remain silent. A bullet to the head insured that he made the most of this, his final right. Explosions in the distance, startled curses from the news crew as the poor quality digital image -a cell phone?- darted about trying to catch the source of the sounds.
"What the fuck?" McDowell swore in the Scotian accent brought over by his father three decades prior, adding to the similar sentiments being expressed by the news crew, censorship at this point having gone out the window.
Though the news crew and by proxy, their viewers wouldn't find out the source of the explosions for nearly another two hours, the DS soldiers on camera evidently were in the need to know chain, hurriedly they packed into their LAV's and began making their way towards the source of the disturbance, south of the city.
McDowell became aware of the net round of explosions not b way of the news crew, but by his apartment shaking, his ash tray falling off of the table. The shattering sound it made was never heard, over powered by the thunder of the explosions, which were now growing not only more intense, but louder as well.
Clarity in times of chaos is often slowly reached, and lost effortlessly. Be it by instinct of providence, McDowell had gained a leg up on the competition in the awarenes department. A poster above the book case warned...
Fear The Government That Fears Your Guns!"
The irony was not lost on Angus as he reached for the binoculars on the top shelf, only to have the next round of explosions -had to be artillery fire, what else could it be?- shake them from their resting place and into his hand. Clutching them, he rand out the front door a heavy blast, this time causing him to lose his already unstable footing, he fell to the floor, a curse half of surprise half of fear. Good, the binoculars were still in his hand, undamaged.
As he picked himself up from his stumble his eyes cathing another poster, on the wall, next to his door. He'd been seeing it since his youth, a "souvenier" that his father had brought with him from Inglo-Scotia when Angus' mother and father had emmigrated from their home of many generations. It bore the emblem of the Action party and proclaimed...
Action Now! Or Tyranny Forever!
He had asked his dad once as a child, what those words were supposed to mean. His father had promised to explain fully when Angus was older. At the time, the only explanation offered was a lamentful sigh, and the softly spoken, "so I don't forget, so we don't forget." Now in a flash second eight years after his father's death, he knew...no, he felt what the meaning of those words might be.
Scrambling out the door a sharp right to the end of the hall, shoving his way past what seemed like two dozen other people, tennants who either out of fear or superior common sense had made the decision to flee the building. Almost there.
Up on the stairwell, increasingly the increasingly familiar sound of automatic weapons fire now lending it's own soundtrack to the cacophony of madness which now seemed to be enveloping everything around. He flund the door to the roof open he was running now. Both too afraid to stop but more afraid not to, he made his way to the south facing edge of the building.
What the hell an I doing?
The binoculars now to his eyes, the sight before him both made his heart leap with joy and his stomach churn with dread. A Kentucky National Guard detachment had been scraped together and thrown at Lexington in the hopes of driving back or more realistically slowing down the yankee advance. The power grid to the city slowly seemed to be shutting down. Either the DS forces didn't want the KYNG units to see or the latter had some how managed to inflict the same handicap upon the yankees. Either way, the pitch darkness now meant that about the only view of the battle would be coming from the illumination provided by the muzzle flashes and tracers of the now raging battle below. Of that there was plenty.
How many? DS? Kentucky? The latter seemed to have the high gound, coming down from the mountains to the south, using what liminted artillery support they had to pack the yankee filled valley below with as much ordinance as possible. Tanks and other manner of vehicles seemed to be charging down the hill with all practical speed. Dammit, how many?Tow thousand? How many DS troops? The answer to that last question was unfortunately simple enough to calculate. More than the KYNG could throw at them.
Almost as if to prove the thought to be correct, a previously dark section of the valley, to the left of the attacking KYNG lit up as volley after volley began thundering down onto the side of the mountain. Columns of fire erupted from the valley as the Confederate response found their mark. A low steady rumble in the distance signaled the death knell of the KYNG forces. as the DS A-10 Warthogs descended gatling guns blazing. A blind man could have see where this battle was heading. The Confederates seen it as well, their remainder desperately trying to make their way back up to the now blazng mountain road.
Slowly Angus lowered the binoculars, he had seen enough, more than enough. There was nothing he could do, if the KYNG had gotten it's ass kicked with their highly trained one weekend a month, then surely Angus, or any one else around would fare even worse, with one weekend less under their belts. Time to get out. It would only be a mater of time before the DS soldiers made their way to Angus' apartment. No doubt they would be less than impressed with what they found.
The shelling had all but stopped, as Angus made his way back to the apartment in the blackness, air raid sirens commenced with an unholy wail. He braced himself for the bombs which the sirens heralded, but they never came. Grabbing his car keys he made his way out into the night.
