every war ship they had in stock.
The secretary, at the time, tapped his assistant lookout. “Look, ye.” He pointed. “I can not believe they’re this determined. That’s over 400 war ships.”
The assistant stood still in shock as the first round of cannons fired from the boats.
“Round the men up. We’ve gotta fight.”
The assistant ran from the room calling out to the group of men waiting for call.
There was a silence—a muting moment—as the cannons hung mid-air hurling towards Manhattan at an unprecedented speed. Suddenly, without a thought in the secretary’s brain, the cannons reached land with a ground shaking eruption.
`As the militia of men charged to the coast, sounds of smashing wood and concrete mixed with an earthquake sensation and human’s screaming in pain.
This continued for minutes as the ships approached. The secretary picked up his gun, loaded it, said a prayer, and charged through the desolated field.
Explosions to the right and left of him caused him to zone out while he charged as fast as he could. Although he had been screaming the entire charge, he couldn’t hear himself. He didn’t know what he was going to do when he reached his unknown destination—in fact, he was almost certain he’d die before he did anything.
Suddenly, an explosion behind him singed his entire backside, lifting him off the ground, throwing him dangerously close to the harbor’s water. He landed in a huge wooden barrel which cracked open and tipped over. He rolled, in the barrel, to the tip of Manhattan’s island.
When his vision zoned back into focus, he and the barrel were partly into the harbor water. He looked up to thousands of British soldiers storming onto the land, from Staten Island, killing everyone in their paths. A few of them held torches and they tossed them into windows.
Within minutes of Washington’s secretary watching this, the entire lower portion of Manhattan was on fire. Soldiers wearing three-cornered hats and deep brilliant red coats continued to flood out of the ships. Manhattan was under attack.
The revolution had started and it didn’t look pretty for the colonies.
In fact, it looked downright ugly.
Wednesday, September 5, 2001
Jason heard heavy breathing on the other end of the phone. “Have a good night, angel. I love you.”
He hung up. Back to work.
VIII
Saturday May 24th 2003
Jason's head lay flat on his keyboard when he finally opened his eyes. Waking up for Jason was a very disappointing feeling. Whenever he would wake up he would wonder if all the past events were a dream -- and for a brief moment, he would experience the euphoria of anxiety relief; his wife wasn't cheating, he didn't have a funny feeling about the most powerful group of men on the face of the planet, and sometimes—she was alive.
It all felt like a bad dream for those few tiny seconds. Then, with the force and speed of a freezing cold, rumbling, avalanche, reality would surge back into his consciousness.
As he cleared his vision to set eyes on the c omputer, he noticed the Tameka files were still active. Quickly he exited, but it was too late. He had been tracked.
A message stood still, bright red in color -- threatening in its loiter -- in the lower right corner of the screen.
::Current position has been tracked.::
He noticed a few shadows flash pass the front window of his home. They passed and disappeared behind the obstruction of his door.
He heard the front door open and close.
Someone, or a couple of people, were in his vestibule.
Silence.
Jason waited and listened for a knock, a doorbell, or anything that indicated someone wanted his attention, being that they
The secretary, at the time, tapped his assistant lookout. “Look, ye.” He pointed. “I can not believe they’re this determined. That’s over 400 war ships.”
The assistant stood still in shock as the first round of cannons fired from the boats.
“Round the men up. We’ve gotta fight.”
The assistant ran from the room calling out to the group of men waiting for call.
There was a silence—a muting moment—as the cannons hung mid-air hurling towards Manhattan at an unprecedented speed. Suddenly, without a thought in the secretary’s brain, the cannons reached land with a ground shaking eruption.
`As the militia of men charged to the coast, sounds of smashing wood and concrete mixed with an earthquake sensation and human’s screaming in pain.
This continued for minutes as the ships approached. The secretary picked up his gun, loaded it, said a prayer, and charged through the desolated field.
Explosions to the right and left of him caused him to zone out while he charged as fast as he could. Although he had been screaming the entire charge, he couldn’t hear himself. He didn’t know what he was going to do when he reached his unknown destination—in fact, he was almost certain he’d die before he did anything.
Suddenly, an explosion behind him singed his entire backside, lifting him off the ground, throwing him dangerously close to the harbor’s water. He landed in a huge wooden barrel which cracked open and tipped over. He rolled, in the barrel, to the tip of Manhattan’s island.
When his vision zoned back into focus, he and the barrel were partly into the harbor water. He looked up to thousands of British soldiers storming onto the land, from Staten Island, killing everyone in their paths. A few of them held torches and they tossed them into windows.
Within minutes of Washington’s secretary watching this, the entire lower portion of Manhattan was on fire. Soldiers wearing three-cornered hats and deep brilliant red coats continued to flood out of the ships. Manhattan was under attack.
The revolution had started and it didn’t look pretty for the colonies.
In fact, it looked downright ugly.
Wednesday, September 5, 2001
Jason heard heavy breathing on the other end of the phone. “Have a good night, angel. I love you.”
He hung up. Back to work.
VIII
Saturday May 24th 2003
Jason's head lay flat on his keyboard when he finally opened his eyes. Waking up for Jason was a very disappointing feeling. Whenever he would wake up he would wonder if all the past events were a dream -- and for a brief moment, he would experience the euphoria of anxiety relief; his wife wasn't cheating, he didn't have a funny feeling about the most powerful group of men on the face of the planet, and sometimes—she was alive.
It all felt like a bad dream for those few tiny seconds. Then, with the force and speed of a freezing cold, rumbling, avalanche, reality would surge back into his consciousness.
As he cleared his vision to set eyes on the c omputer, he noticed the Tameka files were still active. Quickly he exited, but it was too late. He had been tracked.
A message stood still, bright red in color -- threatening in its loiter -- in the lower right corner of the screen.
::Current position has been tracked.::
He noticed a few shadows flash pass the front window of his home. They passed and disappeared behind the obstruction of his door.
He heard the front door open and close.
Someone, or a couple of people, were in his vestibule.
Silence.
Jason waited and listened for a knock, a doorbell, or anything that indicated someone wanted his attention, being that they
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