----------------------------------------- [u][b]Late August: Washington DC[/b][/u] ----------------------------------------- At night, he could still feel his right arm, and it hurt like the dickens. He was in the Senate, a faceless colleague giving a speech about Southern rights. His arm hurt. It was pure pain. He squirmed in his seat, his blood pumping, his face flush. He wanted to use the reclaimed arm against the man. Southern rights! Outside, he could hear the guns. The big ones, that thrummed in the pit of your stomach, like the Lord himself striking the earth with supernatural force. He clinched his fist. His right arm felt entirely like a clinched fist. How could they talk of Southern rights in here, while the traitors bombed good men just outside? The guns thrummed. A vase smashed. But that was a different kind of sound. It was three-dimensional. Real... Milford sat up straight. He felt the missing arm fade from pain into nothingness, remembering slowly it's own absence. He was drenched in sweat, as if he'd just climbed out of the bath. His blankets were twisted around his leg, his pillows thrown to the floor. In the night, his boxer shorts had fallen below his waist. He hoisted them back up with his left arm. There were footsteps down stairs. He pulled himself out of bed, ignoring the ache in his joints. His eyes adjusted to the weak light. Next to a maritime painting, there was an American flag hanging from a four foot steel pole: the essential decorative theme in every room. He grabbed it and carried it like a spear as he entered the hall. The stairs creaked. Someone was coming up. Milford tried to crouch, though he did a bad job of it. A shadowy figure appeared, head first, coming up the stairway. Milford sprang up like a warrior out of the trenches, screamed, and kicked the man in the chest. "Get out of my house!" he roared. The man tumbled down the stairs. Milford chased after him, feet only barely grasping the carpeted steps. Before the man could heed him, Milford was on him, smashing him with the pole, the flag waving full in his face. The intruder scrambled to his feat and burst through the open door. The night was dark and misty. Milford hoped to make out a getaway car, but the intruder hopped his neighbor's fence and disappeared into the murk. -- "Senator, You didn't get a look at this man?" The cop asked. Red light flashed through the neighborhood. Milford was in the doorway, dressed now, spectacles resting on his nose. The lights were on, and hair that was ashy in the dark took on its peppered grey and red. "I know who he was. I've been telling you, you need to beef up security in this town, there are war remnants out there!" "I understand." The officer said slowly. He was a slight man, too much of an egghead to be a proper officer of the law. "But I need a description. We can't find these remnants..." "You can find them! I saw a bar in Georgetown flying the Commiefornia flag! That one! I reported it, but last time I checked..." "We can't tear down flags sir..." "I'd call it probably cause! What, you can't guess what that means? What if some scum murders a kid and flies a flag that says 'Look I killed them and the fucking body is in here?' That's probably cause, right? Well, what the fuck are they flying remnant flags for if they aren't fucking remnants?" "We'll look into it" the officer. "You'll!!!" he was going to scream, but it caught up in his throat. "I'll remember this when you people are asking for donations." he said, slamming the door in the officer's face. He went to the parlor and pulled a bottle of whiskey from the bar, pouring it straight. He kicked it back. What was this country coming to? He looked up at the photos on the wall. He had no wife, or kids of his own, but the Carnahan clan was a large one. He saw the photo of his niece, the young Livy. His rage burned again. He poured another drink. And then another, tossing them down his gullet like fuel. What the fuck was this country coming to?