American Jihad Rising

Josh finally was prepared to kill another human being. For the past four months under the expert tutelage of his stepfather he had learned to handle a variety of firearms. Whether it was a .38 revolver, a Glock 19, shotgun or a semi-automatic AR-15 Josh had developed the skill to handle each with deadly accuracy. It had been quite a personal journey because the first time a firearm was discharged in his vicinity, he nearly bawled in fright. As his proficiency increased he grew aware of the yawning disconnect between shooting a static, inanimate object and what would be required of him to target flesh and blood. But the circumstances in which he and his family now lived made his willingness to use these newly-acquired skills mandatory. Josh and his stepfather, Wayne Foltz, walked along the side of the road after searching for food and other supplies. So much of what passed between them now was unspoken; as if living a stripped down life demanded less verbal communication. It was through a series of near imperceptible gestures that Wayne signaled Josh to come with him. It was dangerous to be out in the open because manifest evil was on a rampage. Wayne’s invitation was all the evidence his 17-year-old stepson needed that he had earned his stepfather’s confidence that he could be counted on in an emergency. As they walked by the burned out and abandoned stores of the Capetowne Shopping Center, Josh gave a glance at what once had been the neighborhood Safeway. It was here that he had been totally mesmerized at the sight of lawyers, teachers, accountants and doctors fighting like feral dogs over basic necessities as panic over world events first took hold. By contrast, Wayne had been a model of cool reserve. Of course, the big-as-a-baseball-bat pistol he brandished assured that whatever he wanted; he obtained without argument or resistance. Considering how society was collapsing, Josh was puzzled that no one else carried a firearm. He asked Wayne who just shrugged, “They’ve spent their lives believing the wrong people.” That memory caused Josh to touch the Glock secured in his waistband. He also carried a .38 caliber revolver tucked in a back pocket. Their so-called search for food had largely been unsuccessful because it obviously was not the real reason for this outing. When he asked Wayne why they were so visible his answer was, “We’re hunting.” They were bait. They exposed themselves as prey to lure a mostly unseen and unknown enemy to them. They heard the throaty throb of the engine just before they saw the approaching shiny white sedan with the spinners and no visible license plates. The sedan seemed to slow down, as if its occupants were studying them and assessing the situation. The car would have looked out of place even in normal times. But now its appearance radiated trouble. Wayne dropped the plastic bags he carried. They didn’t break their pace, they didn’t stop and they fixed their attention firmly on the white sedan as they walked towards it. By the way his hands moved under his long coat, Josh knew that Wayne was preparing his pistol grip Mossberg pump action shotgun which was confirmed when he heard the distinctive “click” of a shell being loaded into the chamber. “Get ready,” Wayne said in a near whisper. “Move fast and don’t panic. Hold the weapon steady and take your time firing.” Wayne quickly crossed to the other side of the road. The car accelerated towards them. Josh moved into the nearby roadside drainage culvert, dropped to his knees and reached into his waistband. He wondered if the occupants had a prepared plan of attack. Would they use their car for a series of drive-by attacks or stop and confront them face to face? He flattened himself on the upward slope of the culvert and took careful aim. He’d later recall how steady his hands were. From the sedan came bursts of automatic weapons fire. The shotgun erupted which Josh used as his signal to open fire. He heard and felt ammo slam into the ground around him. Using the roadside ditch as a firing position made Josh a difficult target for even a skilled shooter and these days, Wayne assured him, they were truly rare. The air vibrated from the firefight. The sedan slowed as it closed in. The passenger door swung open and a weapons-brandishing Hispanic male emerged; nearly on top of him. Josh quickly discharged multiple rounds from his 30-round clip and the shooter was flung back into the car. The shiny white sedan languidly drifted several feet and rolled into the drainage culvert and the air went silent. Josh started to approach the now stationary vehicle but the weight of Wayne’s hand on his shoulder made him stop. Wayne loaded more shells into the shotgun and with it at the ready approached the car. As he got closer, he pumped three more rounds into the car. After a measured and cautious final approach, Wayne gave an “all clear” signal. By the tattoos that adorned their bodies, tattoos he had seen before, Josh witnessed two very dead Hispanic gang members in the front seat. But it was the body in the back seat that drew his attention. He was Middle Eastern. Wayne very calmly checked the bodies for money, cell phones and other forms of identification. From the jacket of the Middle Eastern corpse, Wayne removed a notebook and, to his surprise, an old-fashioned compass. He quickly flipped through the notebook pages then jammed it and the compass into a coat pocket. He dragged the bodies from the car and piled them into the trunk. They got into the gangbangers’ car and drove off. They would strip it of anything that might be useful and siphon most of the gas. They would take it to Sandy Point State Park and guide the car down one of the many, now unused boat ramps. It would slowly descend and then disappear into the murky waters of the Chesapeake Bay. From there it was a short walk home. During their return, they would take a circuitous route to conceal themselves from view. “What’s the deal with the Arab-looking dude?” “It’s like I suspected. New players are part of the game.” “Seems like they’ve figured it out and they’re closing in.” Wayne nodded. “Yea…I don’t think it’s a coincidence. By the way, the one gang-banger took several kill shots to the chest. Good work.” Josh smiled. It was better than winning at Madden’s NFL Football.