No More Flags

Day 11 – The First Move

Malcolm Reese sat in the passenger seat of a stolen military transport, watching the world die around him.

The convoy had been on the road for hours, moving west through the Appalachian foothills, where civilization had already begun to rot from the inside out.

Towns they passed were either burned-out husks or choked with makeshift barricades, where the last stubborn survivors clung to order that no longer existed.

Malcolm knew better.

There was no order anymore.

Only the people too weak to admit it—and the ones strong enough to take advantage.

He turned to Captain Travis Cole, who sat behind the wheel, cigarette clenched between his teeth.

"You sure this place is worth it?" Malcolm asked.

Cole smirked, eyes still on the road. "You’ll see soon enough."

Malcolm exhaled slowly, gripping his rifle.

The first real test of their new army was about to begin.

And there was no turning back.

Jackson Ridge was barely a town—just a collection of old brick buildings, a gas station, a hardware store, and maybe forty or fifty people still trying to pretend society wasn’t gone.

Malcolm watched from the ridge, binoculars in hand, as the citizens of Jackson Ridge went about their pathetic, dying routines—checking their defenses, rationing supplies, guarding their children like that would somehow save them.

It reminded him of every doomed village he had ever seen in a war zone.

Cole crouched beside him, resting his elbow on his knee. "Easy target. No real fighters. Just scared civilians."

Malcolm lowered the binoculars. "Then why hasn’t someone hit them already?"

Cole smirked. "Because most raiders are dumb. They rush in, guns blazing, get themselves killed. We’re not raiders."

Malcolm nodded slowly. No, they weren’t.

Raiders burned through what they stole.

Cole was building something.

He had plans, and Malcolm was starting to see exactly what those were.

Cole gestured to the town below. "We don’t just take from them. We take over."

Malcolm tightened his grip on his rifle.

This wasn’t just a raid.

This was an occupation.

They approached the town under a white flag.

The illusion of diplomacy.

Malcolm, Cole, and four other men walked down the main road toward the barricade, where the town’s self-appointed guards—two middle-aged men with hunting rifles—stood watch.

One of them, a wiry guy in flannel, narrowed his eyes. "State your business."

Cole raised his hands, all friendly smiles. "We’re not here for trouble. Just travelers looking for a safe place to stay."

The guards weren’t buying it.

"We’re full," the man said flatly.

Cole sighed, shaking his head. "See, I don’t think you are."

Malcolm watched the guards shift uneasily. They knew.

Some part of them knew exactly what was happening, but they didn’t want to believe it yet.

Cole leaned in slightly. "You let us in, we can help protect this place. We know how to handle bad people."

Flannel hesitated. "We can handle ourselves."

Cole chuckled, then turned to Malcolm. "Reese, what do you think? You think they can handle themselves?"

Malcolm scanned the half-collapsed barricade, the tired faces peeking out from behind closed windows, the guards with shaky hands.

He sighed.

"No," he said simply.

The first gunshot rang out before Flannel even had a chance to react.

One of Cole’s men shot the second guard in the head, his body hitting the dirt with a sickening thud.

Flannel barely had time to lift his rifle before Malcolm stepped forward and put a bullet through his chest.

The town of Jackson Ridge belonged to them now.

By sundown, Jackson Ridge was under new management.

The resistance hadn’t lasted long. A couple men had tried to fight back—an old veteran with a revolver, a teenager with a baseball bat.

Both were dead now.

The rest of the town had surrendered without much of a fight.

Cole and his men moved in, establishing control.

They seized the food supply, rounded up the remaining guns, and dragged the bodies outside the town limits.

Malcolm stood near the center of the town, watching as survivors were forced to their knees, their hands bound.

Among them was a woman in her thirties, clutching a little boy to her chest.

She looked up at him, eyes filled with pure hatred.

Malcolm looked away.

Cole strode into the middle of the gathering, hands on his belt. "Congratulations," he called out to the prisoners. "You’re under new management now."

Silence.

Cole sighed. "I know, I know. Change is hard. But you’ll find we’re fair people. We protect those who follow the rules."

He gestured to the men standing behind him. "But if you break the rules, well…"

One of his men, Grady, casually raised his rifle and executed one of the kneeling prisoners.

A sharp gasp of horror swept through the crowd.

The woman holding the boy let out a strangled sob, pulling him closer.

Cole’s smile never faded. "Consider that an example."

Malcolm felt something unsettle deep in his chest.

He had been a soldier. He had done terrible things in the name of war.

But this?

This was different.

Cole turned to him. "You ready for your new role, Reese?"

Malcolm forced himself to meet Cole’s gaze. "And what role is that?"

Cole grinned.

"You’re gonna be the one who keeps them in line."

Malcolm felt the weight of the rifle in his hands.

The weight of the choice he had made.

He had left Fort Bragg thinking he was escaping a dying nation.

But he hadn’t left it behind.

He had become something else entirely.

And he wasn’t sure if he’d ever come back from it.