It's been over three years since I released this story. She racked up 3,600+ views, 38 favorites, 57 followers, and 12 reviews. As thankful as I am for all of this, the story's dead in the water as far as the algorithm goes. I kept putting off writing due to college, depression, and overall laziness. Opted to play video games instead. Now that I've found a renewed interest in writing in general, I've decided to just shitcan the entire story and reupload it. The first chapter was pretty decent, but the topic of the chapter was cringe incarnate, so I'm rewriting pretty much the entire thing. Everything else will remain relatively the same, minor edits excluded.
Anyway, here's my third attempt at Stranger in a Strange Land. Enjoy… or don't. I'm an author's note, not a cop.
Stranger in a Strange Land
by Dothurnaax
Breaths were forced. Tears flowed freely. Each exhale was accompanied by a terrified groan of pain. Two gnarly bullet wounds gushed blood out of his side. Rounds ripped all around him, chipping wood and shattering on concrete mere inches from his marked body. His scraped hands death gripped the Kalashnikov he had previously picked off the body of a fallen brother-in-arms. He exhaled with shaking resolve, racking the bolt back slightly to ensure the chamber was live. This is the end.
2026. The two hundred and fiftieth anniversary of America's independence. The two hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the founding of the world's formerly most powerful modern empire. Unfortunately the average lifespan of empires historically also happens to be two hundred and fifty years. Their courses ended for various reasons; unstable economies, vicious plagues, losing wars, crusades, lack of leadership. This empire, however, met it's end not by the hands of a foreign power. No it, in fact, crushed it's Chinese adversary with the aid of the European Union as well as the Russian Federation in 2023. This victory was found in retaliation for both China's development and deliberate spread of COVID-19, its militaristic and bloody takeover of Hong Kong and Taiwan, and it's attempted invasion of Russia and Russian buffer states. Nor did it fall to a plague, rather it seemed to thrive following the passing of the Corona virus.
No, what brought the most powerful country in human existence to her knees was none other than her own people. Political extremes and hyper-polarization not seen since the years leading up to the American Civil War along with unprecedented corruption unearthing became the straw that broke the camel's back. States quickly fell into disarray, more or less turning America into an urban versus rural warzone.
The federal government responded to the initial unrest by establishing Martial Law, and all but declared war on it's own people. It sought to solidify absolute control by utilizing the armed forces to confiscate as many civilian-owned firearms as possible. This attempted power grab turned into a three year internal conflict, resulting in the nation tearing itself apart.
With the majority of the military population either dead or deserting, rival world powers wasted no time subsidizing extremist factions to rise to power in the void that the constitutional republic left. Two in particular reigning supreme over most of the former United States; The New Marxist Party of America and The American Nazi Party. The Marxists were indirectly backed by Beijing and directly backed and supplied by Moscow; ironic considering the damage those two world powers did to each other. The Nazis on the other hand had allies found in Central and South America, as well as mainland and Eastern Europe. The only 'sane' organization that held any sort of significance was the New American Republic; known to those who lived under its influence as 'Naria.' This faction was essentially what's left of the US federal government who attempted to work with what was left of local and state governments to maintain control. The rest were local militias that, for the most part, simply wished to protect their communities and ensure that friends and family survived this American pseudo-apocalypse.
Within a small farming community North of the Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex, a few hundred called home. The name of the town that resided there before the societal collapse is irrelevant, as the townsfolk banded together into an armed trading community known as 'The Texas Faithful.' Given its rural location, the name comes as no surprise. Everyone was Baptist and heavily devoted to God and family. And within The Texas Faithful was a young man named Michael Davis. Michael never really found himself to be particularly religious, instead choosing to take moral lessons and guidance from a plethora of religions. Michael had grown up in this former town. He had plans to join the military after graduating high school, but these dreams quickly went up in smoke for obvious reasons. The Texas Faithful were well aware of his personal choices, and were more than happy to accept them and simply agree to disagree. Right now however, with two rifle rounds buried under his left lung, he found himself questioning whether or not Christ would mind if he cashed in his ticket to heaven last minute.
The Marxists had blindsided his home in a midnight raid. Texas Faithful watchmen were ambushed and murdered before they could sound the alarm. Michael had been sleeping not-so-peacefully when one had broken into his home. "Wake up Michael, you are not alone." The sound of a voice jolted him awake, senses acute and mild firing on all cylinders. His eyes snapped with a skinny-looking man with a hoodie and mask on. They both froze and locked eyes, time seeming to stop for them. "Shit!" He shouted, jumping out of bed and immediately tackling the intruder. Michael tumbled with his would-be killer, fighting to keep the man's hand away from his throat. Unfortunately, due to him being freshly awoken, his body wasn't firing on all cylinders, and the assailant was able to overpower him.
Before Michael knew it, he was flipped over on his back and being strangled by the wire. He gripped it with all his might, causing the weapon to dig deep into his fingers. His vision was growing dim, and he felt his strength waning. If he didn't do something now, he was going to die.
In a moment of desperation, Michael threw his head back into the assailant's nose, snapping it to the side in a burst of blood. The pressure against his neck subsided, and Michael rolled off the man, taking fast, deep gulps of air while his attacker held his now broken nose. Utilizing the distraction, the Michael crawled on top of his opponent and jammed his thumbs into his eyes, almost instantly puncturing the squishy orbs.
His fingers didn't stay planted for long before Michael was kicked off. Thinking quickly, Michael reached under his pillow and grabbed his knife.
Without even thinking, the fresh adult stabbed the attacker in the throat. Then he did it again. And again, and again, and again. Growing numb to the outside world due to tunnel vision and a blaring ringing in his ears, Michael simply lost control as his fight or flight instincts demanded that he kept stabbing. By the time he came to his senses, there wasn't much left of the assailants face. His skull had caved in, and his face looked like it had been held against a blender. Michael looked himself over and found his chest, face, and arms to be covered in blood and gore. His hands began shaking and he keeled over on his knees, expelling the contents of his stomach on the floor next to the first life he'd ever taken.
He spent what felt like all night bawling his eyes out next to the corpse. All the pent-up emotions and trauma reached their boiling point, with his first killing being the straw that broke the camel's back.
The adrenaline kicked him, however, and Michael quickly wiped himself off with his bed's sheets. I'll wash them later. He thought, opening his closet to get dressed. After throwing on a pair of cargo pants, long sleeve shirt, and flannel overshirt. After tying his boots, he walked back to his bed and knelt down in front of his night stand, looking for two things. The last two things his father ever gifted him; his pistol, and his first responder medic kit.
Michael's father, Johnathan Davis served as a US Army Ranger for twelve years as a combat medic, also known as a 68 Whiskey. After retiring, he worked as a paramedic in Michael's hometown for another fourteen years up until the collapse. With these two gifts, Johnathan instilled a lesson into his son. A proper man knows how to put holes into people as well as plug 'em up. Know how to protect yourself, save those who cannot save themselves, and end those who would bring harm upon those you love.
While Michael wasn't a certified paramedic, he knew the basics well enough to use everything in the medical backpack. It was bright red in color, made from nylon and Kevlar, weighed about twenty pounds, and was a little smaller than your average backpack. Inside the pack was just about everything one would need for injuries as minor as scraps and cuts to severe as lacerations and broken bones. Johnathan had used this pack for the last two years of his ems service, and had restocked it completely before gifting it to his son. There were a few items missing, things he had to use when helping the community doctor, but overall it was still very well stocked.
As for the pistol, it wasn't anything special. Your standard glock with three fifteen round magazines. Michael hadn't put more than a few hundred rounds through it with his father, but it was enough to make him feel comfortable using the firearm for his protection. He slung the medpack on his back before grabbing the pistol and the two spare magazines, stuffing them in his pockets.
His heart pounded as he chambered a round, the subconscious anxiety of holding a live firearm making him hyper aware of his trigger finger placement, as well as the direction of the barrel. Thankfully his father had given him a drop holster to compliment the gun. Strapping it into place on his right leg, Michael took a deep breath and left his room.
Michael slowly cleared the way to the front door, weapon raised yet held fairly close to his chest as he sweeped the few open doors in his home. Finding the front door pried open, he ran through the opening and out into the night.
It didn't take him long to find his armed allies. The young adult sprinted across a street and dove behind a wall of sandbags, landing haphazardly next to a group of seven, hearing bullet impacts just behind him, as well as bullet cracks fly overhead.
"Michael my boy! Late to the party are we? Do you have any snacks in that bag of yours?" An older man laughed, handing the eighteen year old a rifle.
"Always cracking jokes Mr. Moorson? I was a few seconds away from getting strangled by a commie with a garrote wire!" He responded, holstering his pistol before accepting the weapon and looking it over.
The rifle was Kalashnikov patterned. American made by the company logo stamped into the receiver, so it wasn't as good as a true Russian akm, or any of the ar15s that some of the community members that were more well off prior to the collapse, but it would get the job done. Simple wooden furniture, thirty round magazine, slanted muzzle brake, and iron sights.
"Had the Good Lord wanted to meet you tonight, He wouldn't have woken you when He did! Did your video games teach you how to use that well enough?" Michael looked up at him with a smirk and wracked the bolt carrier, chambering a round with a metallic response.
"I'll manage." Moorson chuckled and patted Michael on the back. "Then let's arrange a peer review meeting between these gentlemen and the big ma-" The older man was cut off by a scream of another man next to him.
"GRENADE!" The two didn't have the opportunity to react before the explosive detonated. Michael was thrown back multiple feet, ears ringing and eyes closed. It took a few seconds for the orphan to regain consciousness enough to open his eyes. And by the Gods, he wished he hadn't.
The mangled remains of Mr. Moorson were all over him. Michael concluded that the man and his gear had taken the majority of the shrapnel that would have otherwise ripped him apart. He started hyper ventilating and half-screamed as he frantically thrashed around, pushing himself back into the street while trying to push the body off of him.
His jeans and dark grey flannel shirt were covered in gore. A chunk of Mr. Moorson's hand was stuck between the flannel and his undershirt. All Michael could taste and smell was blood.
He quickly realized that he was exposed to the street, and quickly crawled back to the mostly-intact sandbag wall. The rifle that Moorson had was torn apart, but thankfully the akm that he had handed Michael seemed to be in tact aside from a few scrapes to the metal and wood. Michael picked it up and pulled the bolt back slightly to check for a round in the chamber. After confirming, Michael took a deep breath, counted to three, then rolled over into a kneeling position, resting the barrel of the rifle on the sandbags.
He took multiple shots at any face he didn't recognize. The majority of engagements were but a few dozen meters at most, making body shots easy and headshots doable. Strangely, while Michael put down foe after foe, he didn't find himself sickened every time he watched a person fall to his fire. Not up close and personal I guess. He thought.
Before he knew it, he felt a faint click. Didn't hear it, as the grenade along with the gun fire ensured his unprotected ears couldn't hear anything. But he felt it. His blood drained from his face, and he took cover behind the wall once more.
He frantically looked around for another magazine. His eyes returned to his fallen friend, more importantly, however, five magazines around him that appeared too curved to be for an ar. Michael set his rifle down and peered over his cover. He saw a few attackers, but they were occupied with Faithful militia in a different direction. Taking the opportunity, he crouch-ran over to the body.
In the blink of an eye, Michael had five fully loaded magazines in his hands. As he ran back to cover, hands full, he dropped to the ground as his side exploded with pain.
The magazines fell from his hands as he let out a shriek. Both palms shot to his side, putting pressure on the source of the unbearable pain, but also confirming his worst thoughts. He had been shot. Thankfully, his momentum carried him the last bit of distance, so whoever shot him wasn't able to finish him off. Yet.
Tears poured down his cheeks as he propped his head up against the sandbags. He looked down at the magazines, and felt his heart drop.
Three of them were torn apart. And the other two, he couldn't tell the condition of. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the rifle and dropped the spent mag, rocking and locking one of the two functional replacements.
The pain was so overwhelming, Michael didn't notice when he clenched his hands that one of his fingers had been on the trigger. The gun went off, jolting the injured man in surprise. Seeming to forget his pain for a moment, he looked down to where the stray bullet had landed.
Directly in the one remaining functional and loaded magazine. The round tore through the center of the mag, severing the spring and creating irreversible damage to the steel shell.
The young man began absolutely screaming every curse word under the sun. Blood loss was already getting to him, as his mind was following a more and more delusional path.
"Michael." He snapped out of his rage-induced tantrum and immediately shouldered the rifle, looking frantically for whoever spoke.
"Your time is coming to a close Michael." His head was snapping around, confused and scared. His ears were still ringing to the point that all he could hear were faint cracks of gunfire. How was he hearing a voice crystal clear.
"WHO ARE YOU?!" Michael screamed, fear and a second wave of adrenaline overpowering his sense of reason, as well as his sense of pain, fortunately.
"Who I am you will soon discover. You are out of time. With this I give you two options: You can succumb to your wounds and ascend to your kind's afterlife, or you can take my offer of a second chance and return to where your soul belongs."
The voice sounded cryptic and intentionally vague, which pissed off the young man more than it confused him.
"What do you mean? A-am I going to die?" He felt more tears welling, finding himself hugging the rifle out of desperation for consolence, not noticing that the hot barrel was burning his forehead slightly.
"There will be time for elaboration if you take my offer. You must make your decision now. Time is up."
Michael gritted his teeth and cried. All the emotions that have been building since the death of his family, all the nightmares he had been suffering through, and now the knowledge that he was on death's door, it was all spilling over. "F-fine! Just please make it all stop!" He cried, not noticing the duo of communists standing behind him, weapons pointed at his head.
"All will be made clear, Michael. You've served your world to the best of your abilities. But now, it is time to serve a new world. We will see each other soon."
And with that, Michael let out one last sob before everything went dark.
