Ashland, the former North America, Red River Republic, Capital city of Dominion 2119 CE, 45 NE (New Era)
General Maddox Crane stood on the keep’s ramparts, his polished boot propped on an ammunition box, gazing out over Dominion at dawn. Yellow and orange bled into columns of smoke rising from factory stacks over a city of a quarter million. In the distance, the Iron Ring encircled the capital—a barrier against the ruthless wastes. A rusty haze hung in the dry air. It would be another hot one.
At sixty-four, he’d seen it all—a hero of the War of Reckoning, protector of the fledgling Red River Republic, champion of the Old Religion, and now Chief General of the Iron Forces.Many steps along this road, he thought as the sun peeked over the horizon.
Today was an important occasion—the thirty-fourth birthday of the Republic—Founding Day. His troops would be on parade, bands would play, flags would wave, and he’d occupy the podium with his commander-in-chief, President Luther Irons. He should be proud, ready to celebrate, wave to the crowds, and bask in the applause. But things hadn’t turned out as he had expected. They never did.
Maddox was tall and broad-shouldered with ropey muscles hardened by decades in the field, the kind that still dropped a man in hand-to-hand. Deep-set hazel eyes stared out from a weathered face, lined like the landscape of one who’d seen too many campaigns and outlived too many friends. He kept his salt-and-pepper beard and short-cropped hair, old regulation style. The scar carved across his cheekbone served as a constant reminder of his own mortality—a couple of centimeters over, he’d have lost an eye, the one permanently bloodshot from the old shrapnel wound. He was all grit, power, and restraint—iron to the core.
Finding himself in a contemplative mood on the morning of the big celebration, Maddox recalled the history of this place. When he was a boy, his family brought his grandmother to Mineral Wells, Texas, to receive restorative health treatments and bathe in the famed mineral waters. It had been a small, quiet town that catered to the wellness industry and fostered the growth of the New Religion. He grew up, joined the army, fought in distant lands, survived the bombs. Dallas and Fort Worth? Radiated craters. Austin and Houston? Death traps. Red zones. People scattered. Frightened. Leaderless. The old nation had been smashed—along with the rest of the world.
Texans were proud, defiant. Iron tough. Despite the fallout, the devastation that turned millions of acres of cattle country into a scorched high desert, a remnant persevered. He had joined early leaders in unifying refugees, gathering resources, and deciding on a location for their new capital city. Old Mineral Wells was reclaimed and renamed Wellspring. But as the reality of postwar contamination set in and the once-fabled hot springs proved fatally toxic, the second Congress renamed it Ironwell, marking the rise of a coal-fired industry. They renamed the old Fort Wolters Fort Resolute, symbolic of their determination to rise from the ashes.
I was damn proud to be a part of it, Maddox thought. Many battles were fought against Burnt Plains dustbloods, gangs of raiders, the Cowboys, and horrifying mutants. He supposed they were just all trying to survive. About twenty years after the Reckoning, groups of people who’d bought tickets to stay in underground shelters emerged and joined the Republic, bringing with themold-world knowledge. The dust began to settle, and citizens felt safer to go about their business. The government became careless. Defense received less funding. Morals grew lax. The Unity Coalition had good intentions—but failed to act. That failure birthed the Dominion Party.
Being a lifelong military man, Maddox didn’t join a political faction. His duty was to the people, regardless of who won elections. But he secretly favored the Dominion Party, believing they would fully fund the Iron Forces and keep the Republic safe from outside invasion. He never dreamed his homeland would one day become the aggressor.
As the sun rose, workers began leaving their houses, walking or taking trolleys to their shops or factories, reminding him he should be getting ready. The parade and gathering at Unity Stadium were still hours away, but he had many details to attend to. With a silent farewell to the dawn, Maddox pivoted, marched down the empty wallwalk between the battlements, and passed through the steel door into the keep.
General Crane stood along with everyone else on the dais—Vice President Randall Reagan, Minister of Internal Order Beatrice Graves, Reverend Abram Quell, President Luther Irons, First Lady Amaretta, and their sons, Colt and Jace. Colonel Vexler, the sadistic warrior wannabe who ran Luther’s secret police, was off supervising stadium security.Good riddance!Maddox thought.Guy would be scared off his ass if he found himself in an actual war situation. Their rivalry was mutual.
A local celebrity songstress led the national anthem from behind the podium, dressed in Republic red and black, while an honor guard raised the flag—a crowned hammer atop an anvil, encircled by flames, on a coal-black field bearing a vertical red stripe. Next, Graves stepped to the microphone—gray suit, stern asa religious school principal, pale face pinched, golden-blonde hair yanked into a severe bun.
“Remain standing and join me in reciting the Pledge of Allegiance.” Graves’s voice sounded sharp, cold, and unyielding. Her blood-red lipstick always looked out of place on the woman. Still, Maddox had to admit she was frighteningly efficient at her job.
The crowd of thousands hushed and repeated the words with her.
“I pledge allegiance to the flag of the Red River Republic and the nation for which it stands. One strength, one will, one dominion, with liberty and justice for all.”
The part about “one dominion” had been added when President Irons took office six years ago, and the capital was renamed—again. It didn’t matter. The people loved it. The idea of reuniting the continent under the Republic’s rule excited folks, made them feel powerful. He supposed that after all the years of suffering, they could use a boost.
Reverend Abram Quell took the stand next, his tailored suit and walnut-brown hair both cut in the latest fashion. He lifted his clean-shaven chin to announce, “Let us pray,” before lowering it in some form of humility. Maddox bowed out of respect, but he wasn’t buying it. Every decade, the tenets of the Old Religion changed, sometimes slightly—a new revelation by a modern prophet, an ancient text discovered, a more accurate translation of the scriptures circulating in print. So few of the pre-war Bibles remained that most people had never seen one and had no clue what lay within the pages. Quell’s religion was certainly closer to the truth than the Core Cultists, followers of the New Religion, or nonbelieving atheists who used the War of Reckoning as proof that no God or gods ever existed. Still, it wasn’t the message he recalled from his youth and childhood. Love, generosity, and mercy had been replaced by power, privilege, and patriotism. Only those who toed the line were worthy of heaven. Not exactly how he remembered it.
“In the name of the all-powerful God, Amen.” Quell’s voice—fervent, messianic, resonant—ended on a dramatic note, his hands raised toward the sun-soaked, cloudless sky, the crowd echoing, “Amen.”
Maddox’s billed army cap, embroidered with four gold stars, shaded his eyes from the brightness as the Iron Youth Choir stepped forward to perform one of the president’s favorite ballads, “From Ash, Dominion.”
Waste of resources, Maddox thought, his granite expression unaffected. A few years ago, despite his mad scientist crackpottery, Minister of Advancement Dr. Rourke Venz engineered the opening of Dominion’s first operational power plant since the cataclysm. So far, only the keep and the surrounding government buildings had electricity, Union Stadium being too far from the plant to benefit. Therefore, the old loudspeaker system and lights ran on diesel-powered generators.Need the fuel for trucks and Jeeps, not prayers, songs, and speeches.
When President Irons stepped onto the platform, positioned above the fifty-yard line in the redesigned press box, surrounded by a clear, bulletproof shield, the crowd erupted. Cheers echoed. Flags fluttered. Cowbells jingled. It was as if they were at a college football game fifty years ago, before anyone suspected the world would end. A banner flew above him with the slogan, “Unity Is Strength.” In the end zone, the battered scoreboard was covered with a large, full-color banner of the president’s bust, superhero-style, his right hand over his heart, gaze skyward, and the words: “Truth. Sacrifice. Unity.”
Bunch of useless hype.
It took a full ten minutes for the whistles and applause to quiet, Irons soaking it all in, a winning smile dominating his ruddy face. He was average height, a little on the heavy side, and just shy of sixty. The only truly notable features were his strawberry-blond pompadour and the thick sideburns framing his face. His suit was expensive, but less flashy than the reverend’s. He lacked the political pedigree of his V.P. or the intellect of the doctor, but none of it mattered. Irons had something they didn’t—command of the crowd.
“For the Republic!” he yelled, fists in the air, winning smile on his lips.
Finally, the people sat, pulling children into laps and finishing off popcorn and beer.
“All right, all right,” Luther acknowledged with a smirk. “I love you too.” A short round of whoops and hollersfollowed.
“Today, our great nation celebrates its thirty-fourth birthday. How many of you were around to help build it—stand up! Let’s recognize you.” As people began to stand, Luther turned toward the others on stage, waving them up. Maddox rose, adopting a parade rest posture. The other officials, all over thirty-four, stood, proud faces beaming. The remaining two-thirds of the audience, along with the entire Iron Youth Choir, clapped for them. They sat back down.
“Now that we have a great republic, a free and proud nation, a place of refuge from wildlings and raiders, it falls to us, to this generation, to protect it. We have reclaimed the desert. We forge iron and bend it to our will. Our factories have created the supreme war machine on the continent. Look at our symbols.”
Irons raised a hand dramatically, gesturing to the flag. “The hammer for industry, power. The anvil for forging a new order from the ruins. The black banner for pride and defiance. The red stripe for our blood, the price paid in war for our freedoms. And the flames, the crucible in which we are proven worthy. Strength remakes the world!”
As he shouted the motto on the national seal, the crowd roared once more.
