Defending the Minnesota Nation

There is a famous quote that describes exactly what happened, “America is great because America is good. When America ceases to be great she will cease to be good.” I can’t remember who said it, back when America was a new country, but it came true. America used to be a place of freedom built on God and moral principles. When those principles were taken out of the picture America fell. Three years ago we slid into the Second Great Depression, which had been building for years. It does not matter now. The war, depression, and blissful ignorance had crippled her, so the enemies of America took advantage of her weakness and attacked. Thousands of troops died and enlistment became required for all able bodied people over twenty. The country fell into fearful chaos. The borders were closed and the entire country was put under martial law. First the terrorists picked off the most vulnerable states, Alaska and Hawaii. Eventually the Pentagon and Washington abandoned them. Our allies abandoned us for they knew we were a lost cause. After gaining control of Alaska and Hawaii the terrorists or Anti-Americans moved to the last forty-eight United States of America. They started with the west coast. The troops defending the west retreated taking the people with them. Washington state, Oregon, California, Arizona, New Mexico, and most of Texas and Nevada fell in December and January of 2018 and 2019. Washington pulled its troops back to defend the eastern sea board but mainly to cover their own backs.
Washington fell on February fourth and America collapsed in anarchy, but new nation rose from its ashes, the Minnesota Nation. I never expected to go into politics. I hate it all, but war and desperation changes a man. I loved my Minnesota and did not want her to die so I rallied my fellow Minnesotans and we elected our own president like a true democracy. I helped write the constitution of the Minnesota Nation. I became an advisor to all important officials of MN since I pretty much founded it. Now, as I lay in the dark on the hard, cold ground here in this musty holding cell I admit it wasn’t one of my best ideas to lead a militia. I had access to all the top secret information of my new nation and I have been captured by the enemy. Now I am in a holding cell located in what once was Chicago. At least that’s what I was told. The door opens and the bright white light burns my eyes. Through my watering eyes I can see the silhouetted shape of a man in the door way and the unmistakable shadow of an automatic rifle. This figure moves aside and another more familiar shape appears.
“On your feet and follow me,” comes a familiar Russian voice from the second figure.
I carefully rise to my feet and follow the tall brown-haired Russian into the hall. I ignore the sharp pain as the soldier behind me sticks the barrel of his rifle between my shoulder blades. The man I am following, General Bartok, is close to my height of six feet. I follow General Bartok into yet another dimly lit interrogation room. He pulls a chair out from the table and waits for me to sit down. I do and he circles around to the other side and pulls out his own chair. In front of me lies a detailed map of Minnesota. Colored lines indicate where different counties used to be. I recognize the familiar land forms like the Minnesota River and at its elbow Mankato my home city. A strong hand obscures my view of the map. It lays a pen down on top of where Duluth would have been.
Every day it’s the same thing. They bring me into a room, sit me down at an ordinary table, and place a map of Minnesota in front of me with a pen. Then we talk, normally about me. I try to steer the discussion toward the fighting and happenings at which time Bartok mutters, “Politics.”
I stare straight ahead and am surprised to see my own green eyes staring back. My clothes are dirty and my dark brown hair has grown long and unruly. There are dark circles under my eyes from the sleepless nights I have endured. Also the hint of a future beard is darkening my chin. The sound of paper hitting wood draws me out of my admiration of my reflection. In front of me is a manila envelope which Bartok just slapped down on the table. Curiosity and paranoia over take me. I want to open it but can think of so many reasons why I shouldn’t. It could be a bomb or poisoned or a really interesting top secret message.
“Open it,” says Bartok, “You’re not afraid are you?” he asks mockingly in his Russian accent.
I don’t trust him but I’m not going to act like a frightened child in front of him. I suspiciously open the envelope and pull out the photo inside. A sense of overwhelming dread spreads through me. The same feeling you get when you get caught in a big lie. In my shaking hands is a picture of my wife, Vanessa.
“Where are your headquarters?” asks General Bartok conversationally.
I look up into his face. His eyes are unsettlingly blue and a smile of pure enjoyment plays on his lips, “I’ll never tell you,” I say through gritted teeth.
“I thought you might consider telling the truth, since after all, we have your wife and unborn child,” Bartok raises his eyebrows waiting for a reply. “You have only one chance, Mr. Reed,” says Bartok, his voice losing its former warm charm and going suddenly cold, “You lie she dies, so I’ll ask you again: Where are your headquarters?”
“Give me time to decided,” I say in desperation.
He raises an eyebrow at me and smiles indulgently, “I thought it would be an easy decision, but I’ll give you an hour,” he says as he stands and leaves.
“Wait!” I call but he doesn’t listen. An hour! That’s all he gives me. Anger and frustration seep through me, “NO!” I yell at the top of my voice and slam my fists down on the table. All I get out of that is a pain in my wrists. I stand and start to circle the room trying to cool down enough to think clearly. The way I see it I have three options: option A is to tell the truth which equals betraying my country in order to save my wife and unborn twins, option B: lie, protect my country, and condemn my wife. I don’t like those at all, but there’s still option C: tell a lie but a believable one, escape, get back to Minnesota and warn my wife before she is killed. C is pretty much impossible which leaves me with A and B. I love my wife and would do anything to keep her safe. I love my Minnesota so much. She is my home and always has been. I would do anything except sacrifice my wife to protect her. If I tell the truth and somehow return to MN, if it is even there, I would be known as a traitor. How could my children ever be proud of their father when he betrayed his country? My sweet Vanessa would be so disappointed in me, but how could I live with myself if I condemned her to death?
I’m so tired I need to sit down. I sit on the table and reach behind me and grab the picture of my wife. I look into her brown eyes which sparkle with love and life. I can hear her silvery laugh; feel the raven curls of her hair. I can taste the cinnamon and crumbling crust of her amazing apple pie and feel her smooth hand in mine. I can feel my face lift in a small smile as tears sting at the back of my eyes. The picture becomes blurred and I blink them away. The flowing edges of Vanessa’s clothes become visible again along with her growing baby bump stomach. A light bulb goes on in my head. I feel so stupid. This isn’t a recent picture! She’s seven or eight months pregnant now. I feel like I have wings and could fly all the way to her arms as I jump down off the table and pick up the pen. I close my eyes, offer up a silent prayer that my wife and baby are safe, and circle the wrong place on the map. Every molecule in my body hopes and trust that the moment I was captured Vanessa was sent underground for protection. I feel happy and like I can endure whatever comes my way just so I can fly back to the loving arms of my sweet Vanessa.
The door flies open and in swaggers General Bartok. He quickly snatches the map from me. He examines it closely his eyes flicking back and forth skimming across the unfolded paper. His eyes light up on Clay County. He flashes me another one of his disgustingly charming smiles, “You have done well Mr. Reed.” He says something unexpectedly in Russian out the open door behind him. I didn’t catch it. I listen carefully, “Ah, Petrov,” says Bartok to a guard entering the room, “Check the satellite images of the circled area,” says Bartok in Russian. He hands over the map, “check it twice and bring back proof of whether there is or is not a secret headquarters there,” The guard nods and leaves. General Bartok pulls out the chair across from me and sits down. He removes his cover and sets it down on the table between us, “I am happy to see you have come to your senses,” he says once again returning to English.
I say nothing but icily return his cheerful gaze.
“It will take time for Petrov to return with proof that you are telling the truth,” says Bartok, “We might as well have a good conversation,”
“All we have had is conversations,” I reply darkly.
Bartok chuckles, “True, but those have all been about you. I am surprised that you are not as curious about me as I am of you,” he says as if we are having a simple conversation over bears. He looks at me intently his blue eyes sparkling revealing some sly plan. His gaze switches to the picture of my wife, Vanessa. His eyes soften and he relaxes in his chair as he turns his gaze back to me, “You know I have a wife like you, Mr. Reed. Her name is Veronika quite similar to your Vanessa’s don’t you think?”
I conceal my surprise that he knows her name, “Yes it is. I think it’s an odd coincidence though,”
The general laughs this time the smile actually reaches his eyes and he seems almost human. I think that if under different circumstances perhaps General Bartok and I might have been good friends, “I know what you are hinting at, William,” says the general using my first name, “I didn’t not make up having a wife,” he holds up his left hand to show the gold wedding band, “nor did I make up her name. The truth is I have a wife named Veronika and we have two children one is three years old the other four months. Again mere coincidence,”
“Interesting,” I reply monotonously. There is along silence during which Bartok simply watches me. His face seems calm and unconcerned but in his eyes I can see him studying me waiting for me to break the silence. I am sure he is a trained profiler and he is profiling me right now. I decide not to betray anything in my body language.
“You know you never spoke of your wife or child,” says Bartok conversationally, finally breaking the silence. His face remains the calm and his eyes continue to profile.
“That’s because I didn’t want them used as leverage against me,” I snap back.
“I see,” says Bartok with a smug laugh as he leans back in his chair, “well now they have already been used. Tell me, Mathew Reed, is wife like your western woman or more like our women?” he asks as though it was normal conversation starts.
“What do you mean western woman,” I ask
“Is her head filled with your western Feminist nonsense?” asks Bartok in a serious yet conversational voice, “I mean our woman our equal to us men but they are perfectly content to keep house cook take care of the children. It is said that your women get upset and are offended by such…what is the word…”
“Labeling,” I supply. Bartok nodes and drops back down to four legs with his chair, “No, Vanessa is not like that,” I say because I have an overwhelming desire to defend her, “She likes it when I treated her like the most fragile thing in the world. She isn’t weak though. She’s strong, elegant, and resilient. She is the most amazing person I know. She’s enduring she could grin and bear through the worst pain as though it wasn’t there. That’s why she makes such a good Marine. She’s the best of the best she could disarm one of your men in seconds and yet be able to gently care for a child. She is just…” I stop speaking. Bartok is nodding at me with a small smile on his face. I give a dry laugh and give him a disgusted look, “You manipulate me,”
His eyes widen as though he has no idea about what I’m talking about.
“You have me talking about my wife when to you all she is, is leverage,”
“Very good, Mr. Read, you catch on quickly,” says Bartok calmly.
“Why don’t you tell me about your wife, Veronika?” I ask mockingly.
Bartok gives a short dry laugh, “She is much like your Vanessa. Except Veronika is a gentle soul,”
I have to lock my jaw in order to keep from defending Vanessa,
“She is more like a mother bear,” continues Bartok oblivious to my angry glare, “If you threaten her children or territory, Russia, than you had best be on your guard,” stated Bartok simply. The door behind him opens and the man, Petrov, walks in. Bartok glances back unconcernedly at Petrov and returns his gaze to me, “It has been almost thirty minutes, Petrov,” says Bartok in a mild tone.
Petrov casts a untrusting look at me and says quickly in Russian, “There is no sign of hostile activity in that area, General,”
Bartok shoulders tense and he curls his left hand into a fist on the table his wedding ring flashing in the dull light, “Check again,” he says irritably in English.
“We did, sir,” says Petrov in Russian as his face slowly loses color, “I checked it myself three times, sir.”
“You are sure,” says Bartok also in Russian, “If I were to check myself I wouldn’t find anything?” asks Bartok his tone becoming more and more dangerous with each word.
Petrov feigns confidence, “No, sir. I have pictures to prove it,” he holds out a manila folder.
Bartok shoves back his chair with a screeching sound. He tears the folder out of Petrov’s hands. Bartok opens the cover and flips through the black and white photos inside, “This is the entire city,” inquires Bartok dangerously.
Petrov cannot mange words but gives a brisk nod.
Bartok swears in Russian and flicks a hand at him. Petrov registers it as an order to leave and does so without delay and without uttering a word. He closes the door behind him. Bartok turns to me the folder in his left hand. For the first time I can see why his men fear him it’s as though his blue eyes are lit by an icy flame. In his eyes I can see no understanding, no compassion. His former charm is replaced with detest and I can tell that there will be dire consequences for my actions, but instead of fear I have a sense of satisfaction. I now know that whatever retribution is to come will only happen to me because he doesn’t know where my family is or my headquarters. There is no other reason for such anger unless everything he wants and needs to know is locked safely away in my head.
“You lied,” says Bartok barely above whisper.
“Did I?” I say innocently a foolish idea popping into my head, “You weren’t specific, General. You asked where my head quarters where but which one?” I say. I know I am just antagonizing him and fueling his rage but it is my turn to profile him, to gage his reactions.
“You like to play games, Reed?” says Bartok his English becoming harder to understand as his accent becomes thicker in his rage.
A smug grin spreads across my face, “I thought that is what we were doing,” I say still smiling, “I merely turned your rules against you, Bartok,”
Bartok doesn’t smile he says, “Well I’m changing the rules,” he yells an order in Russian and two guards march through the door both bearing rifles. They stand on either side of Bartok hands on their triggers ready for anything, “We will see how you feel after two days without food, water, and hardly any sleep,” says Bartok. He snaps his fingers and they advance on me. I go without a fight but that doesn’t stop one of them from landing me a hard blow in the stomach. The blow forces the air out of my lungs and for a few moments I cannot breath. Bartok says something in Russian to the guards but I can’t hear over my own coughing and wheezing.
The guards escort me back to my room. One opens the door with a key from his pocket while the other keeps a tight hold on me. The door clicks open and the guards throw me in. I hit the ground hard bruising my shoulder. I hear the sound of a light switch flicking on behind me. Suddenly the room illuminates. I am surprised to see that there is actually a light in here. The room used to be a cavern of black gloom occasionally broken by a ray of white light. It is actually a dry wall room with floor and ceiling painted dark grey.

Finally they let me sleep. I am so thirsty and tired. In a few hours I will spend another in an interrogation room with General Bartok. I wonder if he is still upset. My feet hurt from being walked around the room. My body hurts all over from being shoved and bumped around. I am so tired I’ll just stretch out here on the cold ground. My mind feels like a thick heavy fog. I am too tired to think…I just want to…sleep…
Vanessa is sitting alone in our brown leather chair in the upstairs living room of our house. Her head is tilted off to the side. She is fast asleep. Her hair frames her face with sleek, raven curls that could shame the night sky. She looks so peaceful. A distant echoing cry sounds through the room. Vanessa stirs, her eyelids flicker open and she sighs. She pushes herself out of her chair, and disappears onto the next room. She reappears with a little crying bundle in her arms.
“Hush,” she says sliding back into the chair her voice is a silvery echo, “Daddy I’ll be home soon,” she says cradling the baby close to her chest. Aloud knock echoes through the room. Vanessa’s brown eyes light up and she smiles sweetly down at the baby, “See he is here all ready,” she says her voice still an echo. She walks down the stairs with the baby still in her arms. She reaches out with one hand and opens the door. I stand in the door way. She holds out the bundle to me I try to reach for it, “It’s not real,” she says her voice a whispering echo. She pulls back the baby, “It’s not real. You’re dreaming, Will,” she says putting her fingers to her lips and blowing me a kiss, “We love you and we’re waiting,” she says still just an echo. She waves her hand as goodbye. I start moving away down a tunnel. She just stands there waving in the door way of our house at the end of the strange, dark tunnel, “Wake up Will and find a way back to us,” she whispers but so loudly I can hear it as I walk away down the tunnel.
I force my feet to stop moving and turn back towards the door I try to run back but can’t “Vanessa!” I call. I am surprised to hear a hundred distant whispered, “Vanessa” echoing back at me.
“Wake up Will…You have to come back... I need you to come back…You can’t abandon us,” She whispers to me.
“I won’t. I’m coming. Vanessa!” I call.
“Wake up, Reed!” I hear Bartok shout as I feel a sharp kick make contact with my ribs. I hear a terrible soft crack as all the air goes out of my lungs and my side sears with pain. I hear Bartok laugh somewhere above my head. I pull my head up enough to see a pair of black boots inches from my head and hands resting lazily on knees. Bartok continues to laugh as I see one of the hands extend and disappear above me. Needle points of pain erupt on my scalp as the hand grasps my hair and pulls my head up ward. Now all that separated my face from the downturned, blue-eyed face the Russian general is a few inches of cold air. Bartok smirks at me and says, “You ready to tell the truth yet? Before you answer,” he says stopping me before I could speak, “Sit up,” he says disgustedly and pulls me by my hair into a kneeling position, “Better,” he says releasing my hair, and continues speaking, “You were right. We don’t have your wife and baby but you know. I’m sure my allies, the haters of America, would be more than happy to…donated a nuclear missile to the cause,”
It’s my turn to smirk even through the pain. Bartok is just some modern day KGB want-a-be.
“You find that funny, Reed?” says Bartok bitterly, “Either you can tell me what I want to know now or we can spend another month torturing you slowly until you crack or lose your mind,” says Bartok almost airily.
“Let me ask you a question,” say spitefully, “Why do you care if the Minnesota Nation survives the destruction of America? Russia isn’t even taking over the former U.S. except for Alaska. Why would a sorry excuse for a commie like you, want little old Minnesota?”
Bartok’s face hardens and the back of his fist comes hard across my face. A spurt of blood erupts in my mouth. I can taste the disgusting liquid building up in my mouth. I spit out a glob of blood, “You are an idiot,” spits Bartok, “You dare to insult me and Russia with the same breath. You know what Russia doesn’t want a general like me and I am not a communist. I want America to fall your Minnesota was America and it is all that is left so it is going to fail and you will watch or die trying to save a hopeless excuse for a country along with your family and all you know.”
Bartok is insane. “We were Minnesotans before we were Americans. Minnesota is not America. Minnesotans are survivors. That’s something you need to know. We have survived wars, depressions, even the failing of the government, but more than that we can survive winter. I will tell you our winter is damn cold h and it is right now for our country but after the coldest winters come warm springs and hot summers. Minnesotans survive we answer the call to action and we endure. Don’t goad us.” I retort just as passionately as he did.
“Love of county has condemned you and your family, Reed. You might have survived if you had just surrender to foreign rule. Instead you fight. This ‘winter’ is only going to get colder and it won’t end, not for you. You have a choice, Minnesota can survive if you give up your headquarters or its land and people will be destroyed in one of the worst wars the world had ever seen,” Bartok says and leans in closer to me, “it’s your choice,”
“Minnesota is more than its lands its of all it is the people, cultures, and government who abide in them,” I say images of the serene peacefulness of the north woods in my head and the busy peaceful suburbs of Minneapolis, “No I will not betray my country.”
He straightens up and leaves me kneeling on the floor. He says, “Your choice,” and in Russian, “give me a knife,” suddenly gunfire echoes outside. I hear mingled voices yelling in Russian, an Arabic dialect, and English. English, no accents, just the long A’s and O’s of my childhood. My heart brightens. Bartok glares at me the dangerous flame once again burning in his cold and accusing blue eyes. I know what he is thinking: somehow I informed my people were I was. Either way they were here because of me. I shake my head and attempt to shrug my shoulders to show my ignorance but shrugging only increases the pain in my side. Bartok doesn’t take his condemning eyes off me but begins to shout orders in Russian, “You two keep the Americans out of here,” I see two guards dressed in black run out of the room guns in hand, “Petrov give me your rifle,” Petrov removes his rifle and tosses it to Bartok with a charge of ammo. Bartok expertly inserts the ammo and turns off the safety. He raises the rifle to his shoulder. He turns the barrel towards Petrov instead of me, “Dasvidanya,” he says and squeezes the trigger with a loud bang and the body of Petrov slumps to the ground, “Imbecile,” mutters Bartok. He removes his own pistol from his side and points it at me, “Last chance to live,” he says returning to English.
I can help but smirk at him, “There is no way in hell I’m going to crack to save my life. Good-bye, General, or rather dasvidanya,”
Bartok smirks in return “Dasvidanya, Reed,” just as his finger moves to pull the trigger a smoke bomb erupts behind him throwing off his balance. The shot echoes in the room. Bartok doesn’t wait to see if he had a killing shot but sprints out of the room as the bullet tears through flesh and muscle of my left arm. I push myself over to the body of Petrov and remove his side arm, knife, and extra ammunition.
I decide not to leave the room but hide to the right of the door. If Minnesotans come through I am saved. If not I will take some terrorists with me. I hear more gunfire and indistinguishable shouts in foreign and familiar languages. All of a sudden through the smoke screen emerges a group of men. I move to the corner and raise the pistol.
“He should be here,” whispers one of the men. Another turns in my direction. I recognize the dark face and brown eyes of my best friend.
“Jamal,” I say quietly,
“Reed, man,” he says moving towards me. He moves his rifle to the side it is attached to him by a strap, “Are you hurt?” he asks kneeling next to me, “You’re bleeding,” he reaches towards my arm but I move it away.
I smile and clap him on the shoulder, “Just a scratch, man. I’ll live,” I look towards the five other men grouped in the middle of the room all guns pointing at the door. I recognize few of the faces, “Do you guys have any extra weapons I could use a rifle,”
“I brought yours,” says Jamal removing one of the two rifles he has slug around him, “I see you all ready got yourself a pistol,” he smiles at me and hands over the rifle.
I take it with my right hand ignoring the pain in my arm. I use my left and to sling the strap over my head, “I’ll follow you out. Where is the pick up?” I ask in business like tone trying to adjust my grip so that the pain is less but I could still have a good shot.
“Helio will be here soon, sir,” replies one of the men.
“Helio, how did you get a helicopter out here?” I ask Jamal who just smiles in return.
“Compliments of the navy,” he says his smile broadening at the look on my face, “Move out we’ve got two minuets to get to the LZ or we wont have a ride out here,”
I follow the men into the hall ready to shoot. The hallway is clear so we continue on. We stop at the corner one of the men checks for hostiles while Jamal and I cover the rear. Just as we start to move forward again I see Bartok at the end of the hall along with the two guards, “cover!” I yell raising my rifle and starting to shoot. I get hit in the leg, “Shit,” I curse as my leg collapses beneath me, I try to crawl to where Jamal and the others are ducked behind the wall, but my right arm won’t support my weight. I can see Jamal’s brown face peeking around the corner about three feet above the ground.
I hear him say, “Give me suppressive fire. I’m getting him out of there. Keep the shots shoulder high,” Two of the men jump out from around the corner and start to lay down suppressive fire. Bartok and his cronies stop shooting and take cover. Jamal kneels down next to me, “Come on, Reed,” he says. He reaches out and hooks me under the arms and drags me back behind the wall. Two of the men move forward to make sure the rest of the hall is clear while the other three keep Bartok and the other two at bay. Jamal leans me up against the wall ten feet from the corner so he can examine my leg, “Can you stand?” he asks. I shake my head as he takes out his knife and cuts a strip of cloth from the bottom of his undershirt. He takes off his belt and wraps it around my upper thigh above where the bullet entered. He pulls it tight cutting of the circulation to my leg, “Ow! Damn it, Jamal!” I yell, “That freaken hurt!”
“Sorry,” Jamal laughs as he wraps the strip of cloth around my leg and pulls it tight with a quick knot, “I had to. The built might have hit the major artery in your leg. Can’t have you bleeding to death or this mission would have been a waste of my time,” I can’t help but feel somewhat comforted to see that Jamal still has his never ending sense of humor, “Its nice to have you back, Will. Been a while since I heard you curse,” at that even I can’t help but laugh even though it just made my lungs hurt and my head spin. “I should check your shoulder too as long as I’m down here,” he said.
“No,” I say propping myself up, “We have to get out of here,” I say sternly, “Where’s the LZ?” but my voice is lost in a cascade of firing bullets.
“What,” asks Jamal loudly over the noise.
“The landing zone,” I shout back.
The firing ceases Jamal replies “Just outside,” he replaces his knife in the pouch on his left thigh, “Helio won’t touch down, to save time. It’ll hover and we’ll get you on,”
“All right then move out,” I say attempting to stand but my leg just gives way beneath me again.
“I got you,” says Jamal and he lifts me over his shoulders the way we were taught, “Move out,” he yells to the others and he runs after the two men at the end of the hall while the other three follow on our six.
We get out side and a helicopter comes down and hovers about three feet off the ground all six men help get me on board and then jump on themselves and the helicopter takes off. I can hear bullets bouncing of the armored sides of the helio. We clear the city and the pilot takes us down close to the water of Lake Michigan to avoid being spotted easily. “Barge is ahead, sir,” says the pilot,
“Gears down,” says the copilot
“There’s a medic on board, Mr. Reed,” says the pilot. Now all is quiet.
We land and the men jump out and then help me get off the helicopter. I land on my right leg. I can’t seem to keep my balance. I’m woozy from the flight or loss of blood. I can feel myself tipping. I am going to fall. A strong arm catches me. I look to see Jamal supporting me, “I like the new aircraft carrier!” I say loudly over the sound of the helicopter blades turning.
“I said it was compliments of the navy,” says Jamal just as loudly. The engines turn off on the helicopter and the blades slow down and stop whirling, “Barges are inconspicuous and they weren’t expecting and attack by land. Now let’s get you cleaned up,”
“I’m fine,” I say with a careless smile.
One of the other men comes up behind Jamal and I and says, “You can’t walk, sir, and your losing blood fast. Get him to the medics!” he orders. Two men come up and stand next to me, “Sir,” he says to Jamal, “You have to oversee the clean up and phase two of our mission,” Jamal nods and claps me on the shoulder. He walks away. The two man move closer to me and I put my arms over their shoulders. They help me over to a big red shipping container. The man on my right opens the container and walks back to help me inside. What should have been an empty space except for some cargo is instead a make shift doctor’s office. They help me two a seat and the doctor starts to examine me. She takes a quick look at my shoulder.
“The bullet missed the major veins in your arm. Your leg on the other hand the femoral artery has been nicked. I can sew you back together again though.” She says and picks up a syringe, “We don’t have any proper anesthetics the morphine should help with the pain though.”