by Brian Parker
“Excuse me, Colonel,” Javier cut in once more. “What are heavy troops?”
“Tanks and Bradleys, self-propelled artillery, air defense vehicles, and mechanized engineers. The Army has both heavy and light forces. The light guys can infiltrate into places, but the heavy guys have a lot more firepower and can punch a hole in enemy formations.”
“Okay, I understand,” he said. In reality, he understood the tanks and more firepower part; everything else went over his head.
“We’re moving tanks up from Georgia by plane to Richmond and then we’ll attack over land once they’re in position.”
“You mentioned the other organizations attacking across country and the tanks attacking over land, are those going to be coordinated movements or is it whoever can get into the fight first?”
The colonel smiled without showing his teeth, reminding Javier of someone who suppressed their true feelings. “It will be a coordinated combined arms attack, sir. We’ll use helicopters in the close air support role and they can hide from the Nazi fast-movers. Our tanks will go toe-to-toe with their Panzers and delay their movements further inland. By this time next week, our heavy forces from Texas, Colorado and Kansas should arrive by rail. They’ll act as the hammer against the anvil of the blocking forces.”
“For all of our sakes, Colonel, I hope our men can do as well as you say they will.”
“We’ll mop the floor with those Kraut bastards, sir.”
“I hope so, Colonel. I hope so.”
THIRTEEN
08 July 2025
Anacostia, Washington, DC
“Motherfuckers aren’t gonna come into our city and shoot it up!”
“You right, brother!”
“Motherfuckers aren’t gonna come into our city and bomb everything!”
“Preach it, brother!”
“Motherfuckers aren’t gonna come into our city and murder everyone they see!”
“No, sir!”
Devon looked out over the crowd of men and women seated in the pews of the Union Temple Baptist Church. There were easily four or five hundred of them, including what looked like thirty or so white police officers. Everyone was packed in the church, braving the death squads and the stifling heat and humidity to hear his message. The Nazis were everywhere and they risked being shot on sight just leaving their homes. It was time to send his people forth to wreak mayhem.
He jabbed his finger in the direction of downtown DC, across the river. “Those motherfuckers think they can come into our city and treat us like animals because the color of our skin.”
“They’s racist, Deacon Johns!” a man yelled from the front row causing him to break his thought process.
“I’m sure they are, brother,” Devon conceded. “But don’t you think for a minute that they aren’t murdering all the white folk too. I saw it with my own eyes when Pastor Kelly was shot along with a bunch of Catholic priests and other Baptist ministers.”
The church deacon refocused mentally and continued, “How many of you know about the Second World War? Those Nazi motherfuckers murdered millions of people. People like you and me who were just trying to live their lives and not bother no one. They’re doing the same thing here.”
He paused as people wailed out, crying over the loss of life. “Now, brothers and sisters, our government ain’t never been too good at helping us out, but they ain’t in any shape to do so right now anyways. The president and vice-president are dead, a lot of congress is dead, the Army got their ass whooped and we ain’t heard nothing about ’em coming back. So, it’s up to you and me to fight those Nazi sonsabitches.”
The crowd cheered, many of them brandishing weapons over their heads. He eyed the police officers nervously, but they cheered along with the others. They didn’t want their families to be murdered either.
Devon patted the air. The last thing they needed to do was attract attention before they were ready to strike. When the crowd settled down, he said, “Now I’m just a simple man of God. I don’t know anything about tactics. I don’t know how we change from a group of brothers and sisters into an army of soldiers. I need your help. Who out here in this crowd has been in the Army and can help show us the way?”
He scanned the crowd. Most of the people present were locals whom he’d seen over the years in the neighborhoods, some of them regular churchgoers, some of them street thugs and even a few hardcore gang members. None of them raised their hands, except for three of the white police officers.
“That’s it? None of you except our fine policemen in the back have been in the military?” He waited again and then motioned the three up to the pulpit. “Alright, brothers. Looks like you have the experience we are desperately in need of.” A few boos and hisses accompanied their move toward the front.
“None of that now,” Devon admonished. “These men put their lives on the line for our protection before the Nazis showed up and by being here today, they’re saying that they’re willing to do it again. It don’t matter the color of their skin to me. We need to know how an army fights if we’re gonna attack and not get wiped out immediately.”
He knew what the people wanted to hear, so he gave it to them. “These fine men won’t be in charge, alright? I’m still responsible for what we do—and if the death squad shows up, they’ll take me. Our friends in blue will be advisors.” He turned and looked at the police officers. “Is that alright with you gentlemen?”
All three of them nodded and he turned back to the assembly. “See? They don’t want to be in charge of us. They don’t want to rule over us. They just want to help take our city back from those motherfuckers!”
The cheers fired him up. He loved the enthusiasm and needed to maintain that, especially once they started taking losses. “Alright, brothers and sisters. We need to spread the word. We’re stronger together. There must be a couple hundred thousand of those Nazis and they have tanks and UFO jets…but there are millions of us in this city. We can fight them. We need to coordinate our efforts or else they’re just going to exterminate us block-by-block.”
He turned back to the police officers. “Alright, brothers. Teach us what we need to know.”
*****
08 July 2025
Virginia Hospital Center, Arlington, Virginia
Another soldier walked by the doorway. Sweat poured from underneath the helmet he wore, and the grey uniform was stained with wetness across his back and in his armpits. The air conditioning had been cut to save as much electricity from the generators as possible, making the hospital unbearably hot since the windows didn’t open, for safety reasons.
Once the Nazi had passed, Gloria leaned back down to the bed and whispered to James. “He’s gone. Are you sure you’re up for this?”
“No, but we can’t stay here. It’s only a matter of time before they discover who we are and then we’ll get a bullet to the back of the head.”
Once Gloria had finally made it back home after the Nazi attack on the airport, she’d sat alone, waiting for James’ return. The hours stretched by with no word from him as she watched the television footage of the attacks. After living and working in the District for almost twelve years, everything the networks showed was like a piece of her soul being shattered.
Then the call from the hospital came. James’ building had been hit and he suffered a spinal injury. He was scheduled for surgery two hours after the nurse called her.
Gloria had to pay triple the normal cost for the taxi over to Arlington because the driver swore that going across the bridge made him a target to the flying saucers shooting at everything from above. By the time they finally made it to the hospital, James was already in surgery. His spinal cord was severed and there was nothing they could do except remove the sharp vertebrae segments and stabilize everything to avoid further internal damage. He’d be paralyzed from the waist down for the rest of his life.
She gripped her husband’s hand and kissed his fingers. Leaning forward was uncomfortable for her, but she didn�
��t care. “If they suspect we’re trying to skip out…”
“Who cares?” he countered. “If we’re leaving the hospital, that’s just two less people that they have to keep track of. To be honest, they probably won’t even notice.”
Gloria leaned back and nodded. “Okay, James. I trust you.”
“I know you do, babe. We just have to get out of the city before the counterpunch comes.”
The counterpunch, as he called it, would be the military’s response to the Nazi occupation of the capitol. It had already been four days, the Army couldn’t afford to let the invaders dig in and set up a proper perimeter. If they did that, it would take a lot more firepower to dislodge them.
Of course, they had no way of knowing how extensive the attack was. It had been devastatingly fast and brutal here in DC—were they only here or was New York under attack? What about the coastal Florida cities where they’d attacked before? They’d set up some type of jamming equipment, effectively blocking all cellular signals, data transfers, and television and radio signals. They were blind to the outside world.
James pushed himself up on his elbows, the pain of the effort clearly etched on his face. “Help me,” he asked.
She grasped his hand once again and pulled his upper body to a sitting position, then helped him swing his legs over the side. The bed was too high for him to transition to the wheelchair she’d procured for their journey, so she rushed around to the opposite side and pumped the manual foot pedals to lower it.
“Okay, that’s low enough,” James whispered.
She stopped pressing the pedal and came back around. Between James’ upper body strength and Gloria’s legs and sore back, they got him into the wheelchair. She began to push him from behind when he gave a yelp of pain.
“Stop!” he gasped. “The catheter.”
The tube of his Foley catheter ran from the collection bag on the side of the bed, along the rail and disappeared under his hospital gown. “Sorry,” she muttered, unhooking the bag and tubing, dropping it unceremoniously onto his lap.
“Grab a couple more bags,” James said. “They’re in that cabinet, third drawer down.”
Gloria complied, pilfering five more of the fluid collection bags and stuffing them behind James’ back. They’d need as many of them as they could get their hands on. James may need to use a catheter for the rest of his life, it would all depend on how much feeling he had internally once the swelling went down.
She pushed him out into the hallway where the realities of the war truly hit home. Injuries of every kind were evident amongst the city’s residents and tourists who’d been in town for Independence Day. There were the injuries she expected to see in a war-torn area, the gunshot wounds, and missing limbs from explosions, burns, and so on, but the kids were the worst.
As a student of history, she knew children were often caught in the middle of conflict, but seeing it firsthand instead of in pictures broke her heart. Halfway to the exit, she happened upon a group of three children sitting on the floor along the wall. They all looked similar, probably siblings or cousins. They were dirty, their little faces covered in soot and grime, layered on so thick in places that it was nearly impossible to tell where their clothes ended and the dirt began. While none of them appeared to be physically injured, the vacant stares on the faces of the two younger ones told her that they’d seen far too much for children of their age.
She stopped and knelt awkwardly beside them. The oldest, a small African American child of seven or eight, jumped to his feet and stepped in front of the two girls. He planted his feet wide, thrusting his chest out, and balled up his fists at his side.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Gloria stated.
“You’re not a doctor,” he replied. His hard eyes stared defiantly back at her, daring her to contradict him.
“No. I’m not a doctor. Where are your parents?”
“Dead. The apartment fell on us.” He glanced at the wheelchair and then back at Gloria. “What do you want?”
“I’m sorry about your parents.”
“White people don’t care about us. What do you want?”
“I—Well, I care about you. What’s your name?”
“Gloria,” James urged from behind her.
She ignored her husband and repeated her question. “I’m Gloria. What’s your name?”
“D’onta,” he admitted.
“D’onta. Like the football player for the Redskins?”
The boy smiled. “Yeah. I’m gonna be famous like him one day.”
“I bet you will be,” she agreed. “Are these your sisters?”
“Yeah.”
“Are any of you hurt?”
“Phelisha got hit by a brick in the back.”
“Can I see?”
He reached down and hauled the youngest to her feet by an arm. She may have been three or four; it was hard to tell with all the grime—which must have been from the apartment building collapse. D’onta spun the listless girl around and lifted up her shirt to show a discolored area on her skin. It would be extremely painful for her to move around for a few days, but she should be alright.
“Thank you, D’onta. I’m sorry about your parents. Do you have any aunts or uncles, maybe a grandma who lives in town that you could stay with?”
Finally, the little boy’s tough exterior cracked and he began to cry. “Everyone was over for breakfast. We were gonna eat then go to get a place to watch the fireworks. We,” he indicated the two girls, “were outside playing.”
“Fireworks?” she asked in alarm. “D’onta, that was four days ago. Have you been sitting here since then?”
“No. We was outside playing in the alley and the wall fell on top of us. We got stuck under a bunch of bricks.”
“Oh my God. I’m sorry.”
He ignored her comment and continued. “They rescued us and gave us some food, then brought us to the hospital. Nobody’s talked to us since they told us to wait here for a doctor.”
“Are you—D’onta, would you like to come with us? We’re going to our home in Dupont Circle to get some clothes and food, then we’re leaving the city. You and your sisters can come with us. We’ll keep you safe.”
“Why? White people don’t care about us. What’s in it for you?”
She changed her mind. D’onta must have been at least ten years old, his naturally small stature was likely diminished further by lack of nutrition and sleep, and the stress of being trapped inside a collapsed building.
“D’onta, I know that’s what your parents told you, but not all white people are bad. I’m not bad. James, my husband in the wheelchair, he isn’t bad. We’re people, just like you, trying to survive. I’d like to take you with us.”
He looked down at his sisters. Phelisha stared down at her feet, the other girl looked back at him hopefully. “I don’t know…”
“If you don’t have any family, D’onta, nobody is going to get you out of this hospital. They’re going to be so busy with everyone else, they’ll forget about you, like they already have.” She took a deep breath and eased down all the way to her knees. Crouching hurt her belly. “I’ll tell you what. You can come to our house, get some food and water, get cleaned up, and if you decide that you don’t want to stay with us when we leave the city, you can take your sisters to wherever you want to go.”
Phelisha pulled at D’onta’s arm, nodding enthusiastically without saying anything. “Okay,” he answered. “We’ll go get cleaned up, but no promises that we’ll stay with you.”
“Deal,” she replied, holding out her hand.
He shook it solemnly and helped his middle sister up. “This is Lakeisha. She hasn’t talked since the explosion, so don’t expect anything from her.”
“Hi, Lakeisha. We’ll take good care of you for as long as you decide to stay with us.”
The little girl stared back at her, but didn’t say anything, which Gloria understood would take time.
She used the handles of the wheelc
hair to pull herself up and was surprised when D’onta added his little hands to her armpits to help her up. “Thank you. This baby makes it hard for me to get up and down.”
“Oh, you have a baby in your belly? I thought you were just fat.”
She laughed. “No, my job makes me stay skinny normally. But thank you for not saying anything.”
After introducing the children to James, they made their way out of the hospital. The Nazi guards didn’t stop them as she’d feared they would.
Instead, they tried their best to avoid any eye contact whatsoever. Gloria wondered if the men—boys really—had a change of heart about the war now that they were seeing the results of their actions up close. She doubted it, but there was hope.
They walked several blocks from the hospital before they were finally able to hail a cab to take them to Dupont Circle. The driver told them that the bridges into the district were bombed out, except for Memorial and 14th Street Bridges, which were for the occupying force's use only. He could get them to the Rosslyn Metro station and they could travel underground through the tunnel to Foggy Bottom and then walk the rest of the way to Dupont.
It wasn't ideal, and Gloria certainly didn't relish the idea of pushing the wheelchair through the metro—let alone figuring out how to get down the stairs since the power was out to the elevators. It’d been a long time since she'd been on the Orange Line, but she seemed to remember the Rosslyn escalator as one of the longer ones. She hadn't ever gotten out at the Foggy Bottom station, so she had no clue about the escalator there. It was a daunting task.
“What if we didn't go home?” she asked suddenly. “We could just turn west and drive until we were out of the occupied area?”
“The Nazi perimeter was out in Leesburg yesterday,” the cab driver offered.
“What about north?”
“I haven't driven there myself, but I've heard it extends all the way to Rockville. Honestly, your best bet is going to be going south into Anacostia. The 11th Street Bridge is still open and they allow people to move back and forth on that one. Word on the street is the folks down there are mobilizing for a fight though, so you may find yourself in a heap of trouble if you go that way.”
