Behind the Bastards - Chapters Six, Seven, & Eight

Episode Date: June 19, 2021

This week's chapters from Robert's fiction podcast, "After the Revolution."Podcast Feed: https://www.iheart.com/podcast/1119-after-the-revolution-82966686/Book Website: https://atrbook.com/ Learn more about your ad-choices at https://www.iheartpodcastnetwork.comSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Alphabet Boys is a new podcast series that goes inside undercover investigations. In the first season, we're diving into an FBI investigation of the 2020 protests. It involves a cigar-smoking mystery man who drives a silver hearse. And inside his hearse look like a lot of guns. But are federal agents catching bad guys or creating them? He was just waiting for me to set the date, the time, and then for sure he was trying to get it to happen. Listen to Alphabet Boys on the iHeart Radio app, Apple Podcast, or wherever you get your podcasts. What if I told you that much of the forensic science you see on shows like CSI isn't based on actual science?

And the wrongly convicted pay a horrific price. Two death sentences in a life without parole. My youngest? I was incarcerated two days after her first birthday. On April 4, 1968, Dr. Martin Luther King was shot and killed in Memphis. A petty criminal named James Earl Ray was arrested. Case closed, right? James Earl Ray was a pawn for the official story. Some of the evidence, as far as I was concerned, did not match the circumstances. This is the MLK Tapes. The first episodes are available now. Listen on the iHeart Radio app, Apple Podcast, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hello and welcome to our show. I'm Zoey Deschanel and I'm so excited to be joined by my friends and castmates, Hannah Simone and Lamorne Morris to recap our hit television series, New Girl.

Join us every Monday on the Welcome to Our Show podcast, where we'll share behind the scenes stories of your favorite New Girl episodes. Each week we answer all your burning questions like, is there really a bear in every episode of New Girl? Plus, you'll hear hilarious stories like this. That was one of your things you brought back from a lot, yeah. Yeah, I brought back a poop. Because all professional basketball players. Yeah, it's like a little seven foot poop. Yeah, listen to the Welcome to Our Show podcast on the iHeart Radio app, Apple Podcast, or wherever you get your podcasts. From Cavalry Audio comes the new true crime podcast, The Shadow Girls.

I grew up near the banks of the Green River and in the shadow of the killer that bears its name. Prosecutors described him as a serial killer, so far. But this podcast isn't only about tracking down the killer. It's about the victims. We stayed in the woods. He always liked to go in the woods. Listen to The Shadow Girls on the iHeart Radio app, on Apple Podcast, or wherever you get your podcasts. Chapter Six, Sasha. History is a messy thing, class. Even a question as simple as, when did the Second American Civil War begin doesn't have a clear answer.

Some scholars say the first shots were fired during the failed Montana secession movement of 2040. Others will name the Dallas Water Riots of 2041, or the bombing of the Diamond Building six months later by leftist militants. You can make a good evidence-based case for any of these. Mr. Dane was a good lecturer, with a rich baritone voice and a habit of animating his lectures with vibrant hand gestures. He was Sasha's favorite teacher and one of her favorite people. Mr. Dane was a heathen, of course, but he was still a sweet man. She appreciated his even-handed perspective and his commitment to the unbiased study of history. It broke her heart that no one else in her advanced placement continental history class seemed to appreciate him.

The other 24 students stared ahead with slackened jaws and unfocused eyes. They were all deep in their decks, messaging friends, browsing Snap Vids, or playing whatever game was popular right now. Decks were far too entrenched in modern life for schools to force them off during class time. Instead, the school filtered the Wi-Fi and forced students to download apps that restricted access during school hours. This had led to a thriving underground trade in apps that countered the school's spyware and covertly lifted the blocks. The district IT team was locked in a perpetual, losing battle to spot and crack these programs. But on a practical level, the teachers, like Mr. Dane, just had to accept the intrusion. The students didn't ignore him entirely, but very few of them gave him their full attention.

They didn't give anything their full attention, really. Most of her peers went through their days half reading two or three conversations, playing games and scrolling through several social media feeds, even when they were out in the world, surrounded by people. Pastor Mike called it the death of joy. That was the name of the essay in Revelator that had first turned Sasha on to the heavenly kingdom. He'd railed against distraction culture, which he said not only robbed mankind of a relationship with God, but it also robs us of the little moments, the quiet joys of living are drowned by a flood of data, it's a mosquito bite on the human soul, and the masses have convinced themselves that the abatement of discomfort from scratching this itch is the same as happiness. All around her, classmates scratched their itches while Mr. Dane lectured.

He looked so lonely up there. They all looked lonely. So, Mr. Dane cleared his throat in an attempt to pull at least a few of his students out of their stupor. As we close this unit, I'd like to ask you all a simple question. What should we call the war that split the United States? Your textbook calls it the Second American Civil War. In the Northwest, in the Christian states, they call it the Revolution. By next Monday, I'd like each of you to upload an essay arguing which name is more appropriate. One thousand words, please.

The bell rang. The other students got up slowly and twos and threes and made for the door. Sasha was one of the first up, but Mr. Dane called to her before she reached the exit. Ms. Marion, would you mind holding back a moment? Sasha stiffened. She glanced involuntarily up to one of the government's propaganda posters on the wall. It showed a young man with a brightly colored backpack surrounded by burnt-out buildings and rubble. A green rocket hung above him like the sword of Damocles, an instant away from impact. Next to the young man were the words, think again, step back. Yes, sir? She asked as she approached his desk.

Mr. Dane fixed her with a kind smile. He looked around forty, although that was no guarantee of anything. His eyes and lips were creased with smile lines, though. She liked that about him. You seemed a bit distracted today, Sasha. That's not uncommon for most of my students. He gave a slightly forced laugh. But you're normally so engaged. I just wanted to make sure everything's okay. Over the last year, Sasha had started building up a stockpile of what she called defensive smiles. She had one for when her parents were worried, another for her few friends, and another for the school administrators. The smiles were calculated to reassure everyone that she was still normal Sasha,

and she certainly wasn't planning to escape to the heavenly kingdom. But she'd never worked up a smile for Mr. Dane. She genuinely enjoyed his class, so it hadn't seemed necessary. She just decided to go with her friend smile, and hoped that worked. I'm okay. I'm just, you know, inspiration hit her. The news today is so scary. What's happening down in Texas? I'm worried. Mr. Dane visibly relaxed. Yes, I can see why you'd be troubled by that. I think it's taken everyone a bit by surprise.

He paused and struggled with his words. I expect it must be somewhat more difficult for you than the rest of the class, being a Christian. Her smile faltered a bit. She knew she was supposed to act like one of the tame preachers the government trotted out. The men and women who'd claimed Christianity was all about peace and love. They'd say that the Lord's truth could coexist with the equal truths of other faiths, and with the secular world of the Amphed. That all felt wrong to her, but a little irritation was worth avoiding suspicion.

My faith is stronger than a handful of terrorists, she said to Mr. Dane. There are a lot of Christians in the secular forces, you know. They'll win in the end, won't they? Mr. Dane's smile remained unchanged, but his eyes bored into hers. Sasha was more comfortable with eye contact than most teens, but she found this deeply uncomfortable, invasive even, after several long seconds he spoke. I fear it's going to be a long, bloody fight before that happens. We're very lucky to be insulated from all that madness. You know, he sighed.

An 11th grader over at Jefferson High was killed fighting in Dallas yesterday. The news just broke. Sasha hadn't been aware, but thank God for him, and his sacrifice, she thought. That's awful, she said. I can't imagine what his parents must be going through. No, you can't, he agreed, and then Mr. Dane broke eye contact. He looked down at the ground, and his voice dropped an octave as he asked. Did you know I had a son? Genuine surprise passed over Sasha's face.

No, sir, I didn't. He shrugged and gave up on his smile. It wasn't much more than a ghost now, anyway. I married young, I was a dad at 19, and by the time he was 19, the whole country was coming apart. He reached down to his desk and picked up a small, rather battered-looking red button. It had the letters R.J. printed in lowercase letters across the front. Mr. Dane stared at it, something twitched under his left eyelid. He bit his upper lip. He was silent for a long beat, and he swallowed and looked up at Sasha.

Do you know what this is? No, she said, reluctant, and pretty certain she ought to have known. In the years leading up to the Revolution, there were a lot of different activist movements founded and spread by anonymous radicals. They'd organized flash demonstrations and coordinated direct action campaigns. The pins were one sort of ID badge, so when you showed up for a flash demo, you could quickly identify your comrades. He shook his head, ruefully. It sounds silly now. All I can say is, at the time, it made sense and it felt meaningful.

The anonymous voice I listened to was a guy named Red John. He had all these videos about history, politics. He explained the whole world and what was wrong with it in a way that just felt right. I started playing his stuff for my boy, Mikey, when he was 13 or 14. I just wanted him to know what was going on. I thought I was doing the right thing. Mr. Dane's eyes looked watery and heavy with a ghost of old tears. He seemed to have trouble keeping his voice steady. Mikey grew up believing hard, and when the fighting broke out, he was young and strong

and so very ready to fight for the world he believed we all deserved. Mr. Dane set the pin back on the desk with its cover facing down. His eyes were red. He died in Denver, Mr. Dane said, and his voice broke a little. Shot through the head when the National Guard pushed into Westminster. Sasha put a hand on Mr. Dane's shoulder. It was an instinctive move, blessedly honest. She silently thanked God for this moment of connection to the educator she so admired. He smiled back at her. Thank you. I don't mean for this to be a lecture. I don't think those tend to work.

Just he glanced back at the table. Just be careful about putting your faith in charismatic men and their ideas. I will, she said. A minute later, as she left the classroom, a notification pip lit up on the top right corner of her vision. She wink clicked it and saw a message from Brother Andrew. Bust stop 23A, 4.30pm. The rest of the day passed normally enough. In the afternoon, they had an assembly about the suicide of a classmate.

It was the third this year. Principal Hargrave delivered the same platitudes they'd all heard a hundred times. There was a lot of talk about suicide hotlines and chat rooms of all the counseling services the school had available. Sasha knew none of it would help. Almost 20% of teens in the MFED would attempt suicide. Every year, that number ticked up a few tenths of a percent, and the government had no idea how to stop it. Pastor Mike blamed the rash of suicides on the emptiness of secular life, the spiritual hole at the center of capitalism, and the self-worship at FED. Sasha thought he'd hit that right on the money.

Even the United Christian state still engaged in global capitalism, and doing so, that had docked God in permanent opposition to the Lord Almighty. Pastor Mike again. She knew Principal Hargrave's lectures were pointless, but she sat through the assembly and gave the right smiles to the right people the rest of the day. She focused on her studies as best she could despite the growing anxiety in her gut. Two weeks ago, she'd read a Pastor Mike article in Revelator. Don't talk yourself out of heaven.

It had clearly been written for the conflicted faithful, just like her. I've received messages from hundreds of you who say, I'd love to open myself up to martyrdom, but I'm a doctor, or a police officer, or an engineer, and I think I can do more to glorify God where I am right now. Brothers and sisters, these are the doubts of the serpent. Don't be fooled. No one stays in comfort because they want to bring glory to the Almighty. Our Lord does not speak to us from comfortable places.

He spoke to Moses in a desolate desert from a burning bush. He delivered his greatest sermon atop a mountain. Jehovah wants our souls to be so on fire with devotion that our own lives mean nothing before his flame. The heavenly kingdom is that cleansing flame. What a gift it is here, now, in your lifetime. What a tragedy it would be to miss this chance at salvation. She recited that passage again and again, throughout what she now knew would be her last day at school. The words steadied her as she waved goodbye to Mr. Dane at the end of the day.

These are the doubts of the serpent! They calmed her when she looked into her backpack, which held the small go-back she'd put together that morning. It was just a change of clothes and a handful of hygiene items. That seemed woefully inadequate, but anything more would have looked suspicious. Leaving. I'm leaving. It was only now, on the cusp of leaving, that Sasha realized how much she was going to miss Movie Night with her friends. Central heating in the winter. Reliable internet access.

Our Lord does not speak to us from comfortable places. It took her an embarrassing amount of time to find the bus stop. She was scared to use her deck. She'd shut it off as soon as she'd left school. And she didn't know the city bus system very well. She'd taken buses to school for years, but her parents' car had always driven her around the city. She was ashamed of how anxious she felt about riding a city bus. Here she was, on her way to a war zone and possible martyrdom, scared of public transit.

Be strong and courageous and do the work. She recited David's advice to Solomon. Do not be afraid or discouraged, for the Lord God, my God, is with you. That helped a little. Thinking of Alexander's smile, his green eyes, and the strong lines of his jaw, helped more. Sasha didn't like admitting that to herself. It felt too carnal, almost sacrilegious. But she knew that what mattered to God were her actions.

Even if her flight to Zion wasn't done with a completely pure heart, God would forgive her. Her sacrifice to build the new Jerusalem would outweigh the sinful part of her mind that couldn't stop imagining how Alexander's strong arms would feel when they finally wrapped around her. She waited at stop 23A. 4.30 came and went. By 4.45pm, her chest burned with barely restrained panic. She was sure the people passing by all knew her secret plans. A pair of police officers passed her at one point.

One of them, a woman not much older than Sasha, flashed her a smile. For a long time, she was convinced it had been a sign that her communiques had been intercepted and the police or the FBI were on to her plan. But the police didn't come to stop her. And after a quarter hour, that felt like days, a brown sedan rolled up to the bus stop. Its window peeled down and Sasha locked eyes with a care-worn young man in the back. Sasha Marion, he asked. Yes, she said, are you Brother Andrew?

As I was with Moses, so will I be with thee. That was the passphrase Alexander had told her to expect. It was all Sasha could do to stop from bawling right then and there. She got in the car. The man inside was exactly what she'd have expected of a man in Brother Andrew's profession. He had long straw-colored hair and a ragged beard. There were deep pockets of exhaustion under his brown eyes and well-creased smile lines around his lips.

He wore a simple black suit with no tie. Everything about the way he looked and the way he dressed spoke of quiet devotion and humble service. Here, finally, was a man of God. Not a pressed, preening dandy like the pastor at her father's church. Not a hip, young pretender like the Baptist minister who'd given a speech on inclusion at her school last year. Here was a real, road-weary man of the Lord.

I know how you must feel right now, Sasha, he said. You're relieved. You never thought you'd make it this far. You didn't know if you'd have the courage to take the final leap of faith, but you have now, child, and your soul is secure. Sasha melted, the knot of anxiety that had been twisting in her gut suddenly untied itself. Her eyesight blurred and she realized that she'd started to cry. It was all she could do to look over to Brother Andrew and whisper,

Thank you. Together, they drove to a little white-walled suburban house, maybe five miles away from the only home she'd ever known. The car stopped, but Brother Andrew gestured for her to stay in the vehicle while he stepped out and knocked on the door. Another man, shorter and balding, stepped out. They both hustled back to the car, their eyes darting left and right. As soon as they made it inside, the car sped off fast enough

that the acceleration pushed Sasha back in her seat. The new man set a cross from her in the autonomous car's second row of bench seats. He was older, in his fifties if he hadn't taken any juvenile treatments. He had tired eyes with deep bags beneath them. Brother Andrew radiated calm, self-satisfaction. This man seemed nervous and a little frantic. He clutched a small briefcase with white-knuckled hands. Sasha smiled in an unconscious attempt to calm him.

He smiled back. Brother Andrew spoke. Miss Marion, this is Brother Brian. He's going to disable your deck. It's the only way we can get you across the border to our people in the Christian States. Brother Andrew smiled and put a hand on Brother Brian's shoulder. The other man took this cue to open up his suitcase. He started to assemble something small, silver, and intricate.

Brother Andrew kept speaking. All it would take is one phone call from your parents or your school when the police could spot your precise location from the GPS unit in your deck. This car is a dead zone, so you're safe inside it. But as soon as you exit, you'll be back on the map. So we need to remove your deck before that happens. With it hurt, Sasha remembered how it had felt when they'd first implanted her deck. Like having a new tooth forcibly inserted into her jaw.

She'd been four or five at the time. Her head had hurt for days. Brother Brian didn't look up from his briefcase as he answered her. Yes, I've got a topical anesthetic, but nothing stronger. It'll hurt. Sasha not had gravely. She had anticipated this. A little pain was a small price to pay to become one of God's elect few.

She thought of Paul and Silas, stripped and beaten with clubs on the orders of a heathen magistrate. God shows his love through salvation. We show ours through sacrifice. The memory of Pastor Mike's words helped ease her fears. She'd miss her deck, but Alexander had said there'd be replacements in the heavenly kingdom. In another minute, Brother Brian had finished assembling the tool. It looked like a cross between a syringe and a handheld shop back. At Brother Andrew's urging, she moved over to sit on the bench seat next to him.

Now lay across my lap and angle your temple towards Brother Brian. A pang of fear flittered across her heart. These were men of God, but they were also men she didn't know, who were much older and larger than her. She had to fight down the urge to panic and flee. You were trusting these men to smuggle you across a border, dummy. She hesitated for a few sweaty seconds, but eventually Sasha nodded and laid down on Brother Andrew's lap. Her heart beat so loudly that she could hear it crashing in her skull like ocean waves. Brother Andrew put his strong hands on her.

He tightened his grip. He's holding me down, she realized. And although he tried to restrain her in a comforting way, the liquid mass of panic in her chest almost boiled over. There was a sudden sharp pain as Brother Brian plunged the needle in through her temple, and then a dull, throbbing feeling, like a migraine. Sasha felt dizzy, disoriented, and then nauseous in turns. She blacked out for a few seconds. When she came back to herself, she realized she'd been vomiting.

The floor of the car was coated in the remains of her lunch. Some of it had gotten on Brother Andrew's pants leg. Brother Brian looked disgusted, but Brother Andrew was all smiles and comfort. Jesus, here's your suffering, sister. He knows what you are giving up in his name. You will reap the dividends of this investment in your soul. He helped her up and guided her to the opposite bench, where she laid down and continued to clutch her throbbing head. She drifted off, or passed out. And when she came to, the interior of the car had been scrubbed clean,

leaving behind only a brown stain and the lingering smell of sick and antiseptic. Sasha guessed an hour or more had passed, although without her deck it could have been more. They were in the woods now, driving along a country road. Brother Andrew explained that they were just a few minutes away from the border, and almost as far as an automobile could take them. Soon they'd stop in the town of Franklin, right on the border of the UCS, and she'd meet the men who would help her on the next stage of her journey. The main border stations are blanketed with cameras, Brother Andrew said,

but we're right in the thick of the Blue Ridge Mountains here. They can't watch every inch of them. We have some coyotes here who know where the holes are. One of them will spirit you across. Coyotes? Sasha asked. It's an old term, he said. A coyote is someone who helps smuggle people across national borders. Usually the phrase has somewhat mercenary connotations, but the men we work with are true believers, soldiers in the army of God.

You needn't fear, Miss Marion. A few minutes later, they rolled into Franklin. She'd never heard of the place before, but a quick look around told her most of what she needed to know. Most of the buildings were empty, the storefronts were boarded up, the city hall was in disrepair, and the skeleton of a once mighty Walmart Supercenter dominated the south side of town. There was clear fire damage around its roof and entrances.

Twenty or so years ago, when the Civil War had been at its height, Franklin had swollen with refugees. When the war had ended, the refugees had gone elsewhere, and the city had been left gutted and exhausted in their absence. The cars stopped outside of a public park. Sasha noticed that the grass was overgrown, and the sidewalks around it were cracked and broken. She shared a quick prayer with brothers Andrew and Brian.

Then they bid her farewell. The car pulled away, and Sasha was alone. She'd been told to find a park bench and wait just a few minutes. So that's what she did. A few minutes turned into ten, then fifteen, then twenty. Sasha began to worry again. That was when she really started to miss her deck. Normally, she'd have been able to catch up on the latest news from Zion,

read one of her favorite issues of Revelator, and maybe even touch base with Alexander. Without it, she only had the throbbing pain in her head to keep her occupied. Sasha's mind wandered to the rolling mountains on the horizon. She'd never spent so much as a night out camping before. The wildest animal she'd ever seen was a squirrel. And there aren't bears out there. That scared her more than the prospect of being arrested,

or even the fear of what might happen to her nearer to the fighting. Dying alone in a drone strike or from a sniper's bullet would be quick and expected, given where she was going. She'd spent a lot of time thinking about dying from sudden violence. It had acquired a patina of romance in her mind's eye. But dying on some mountain to a slavering monster from another age? Sasha shuddered, seized by a chill entirely at odds with the extreme heat of this August day. It was 109 at least.

Sasha rooted through her bag and pulled out a small, leather-bound Bible she'd received as a Christmas gift from her dad two years ago. She opened it at random and found herself in the Book of Jonah. In my distress I called to the Lord and he answered me. From deep in the realm of the dead I called for help and you listened to my cry. She read on through the rest of Jonah's cries to the whale vomiting him up onto the shores near Nineveh. The word of God calmed her.

She grew so engrossed in her scripture that she was taken completely by surprise when the coyote found her on the park bench. Ms. Marion, a man's voice, weathered in gravelly, said from behind her, you'd service both whale by putting that book away, this is not a safe place. She looked up at the coyote. He was older than she'd expected, in his mid-40s at least. He had a mop of greasy blonde hair, a round face, kind blue eyes, and a slight punch that spoke more to his age than inactivity.

He had thick biceps and forearms that bulged with corded muscle. His thighs were large too. He had the look of a man who spent a lot of time on his feet. Mr., she asked, Jonah, he said, you can call me Jonah. And again, the knots in her stomach melted away. She rejoiced inside. Over and over, her faith had flagged. And over and over, the Lord had sent her signs of his love and approval.

That's what trusting and reason gets you, she admonished herself. Fear and pain. God is watching out for me. Her childish fear of bears faded away. Suddenly the world and her future felt bright and exciting again. After years of delay, she was finally on the doorstep of Zion. Jonah, I'm ready to go. You lead the way and I will follow.

It took about an hour for Sasha to decide that she liked camping, and then two more hours to decide that she never wanted to camp ever again. By the time they stopped for the night, she'd gouged herself open on half a dozen different tree branches, smashed her left toe into a rock, and somehow managed to draw every allergen on the east coast into her nose. The headaches from her improvised surgery and her throbbing sinuses warred for dominance.

She couldn't sleep, food had no taste, and her hands were too grubby and generally snotty to allow her to read the Bible. Jonah was not as talkative as Brother Andrew. He'd given her a brief rundown of things to avoid out in the Blue Ridge Mountains. He'd told her how to recognize timber rattlers, diamondbacks, and copperheads. Although for some reason she had much more trouble retaining that information than she'd had memorizing the Pythagorean theorem or the date and importance of the Battle of Hastings, she was supposed to watch for pointy heads.

She knew that, but every time a snake slithered past her, it moved way too fast for her to tell the shape of its head. Other than that quick lecture and a few admonishments for her to step lightly, Jonah hadn't said much. He'd given her food each night, protein bars and nuts mostly. He'd been kind enough to let her snuggle with the heated blanket he'd brought along. She knew she'd gotten snot on it, but he never complained. When they settled into camp on the second night,

Sasha was surprised to see her coyote start to gather wood and build a fire. He laughed when he saw the dumbfounded look on Sasha's face. He pulled out a small yellow bottle of lighter fluid, squirted it onto the wood, and then lit the edge of it with his lighter. The fire leapt to life, burning away at the pine needles until they caught the smaller sticks and limbs stacked round in a small box. Next he pulled two silver pouches out of his backpack and handed them to her. The labels informed her that one contained chicken and dumplings and the other macaroni and cheese.

Her mouth was watering before the first and. Tonight, Miss Marion, you get a fire and a hot meal. We're over the line. And that was how Sasha learned she'd crossed the border into the United Christian states. She had successfully fled her country and the secular rule of law entirely. The UCS wasn't a true godly state, not by her standards. Its multi-denominational acceptance was a denial of the harsh truth of God's love. Not everyone who called themselves a Christian truly lived in such a way as to earn God's gift of salvation.

But just being in a country that acknowledged the primacy of God Almighty in their law and public policy was enough. For now. There's no abortion here, she thought with awe. No atheists on television mocking the Lord. No callow acceptance of premarital sex. She felt a thrill at being in a place that was so much closer to her conception of right. It didn't even matter that she was still stuck in the woods. Jonah, she asked, do you live here?

Most of the time, yes. He had a quiet, soulful voice that made him seem even older than he looked. What made you decide to start smuggling people out of the Amphed? She stared into the tree line as his hands stuffed thin sticks into the base of the growing fire. Sasha watched his jaw clench and unclench as if he was mentally rehearsing his response before he said it out loud. As a United States Army Ranger once, been a Christian my whole life though. Southern Baptist grew up in a country just as lost to sin and vice as yours is. And when the fighting started, I saw an opportunity to bring my nation back to its godly roots.

Hands emptied. Jonah rooted around his bag and pulled out a kettle. He filled it with water from a heavy fabric bag and placed it on a flat rock near the edge of the fire. Then he stood up, gestured for her to follow, and walked over to a nearby copse of trees. I joined a local militian, Marietta, near Atlanta, he said. Most of us were vets, like me, neither Baptist or Pentecostal. He crouched down next to a tree that had been cracked in half by lightning. It was dead and very dry.

The ground around it was littered with tree limbs and thick slabs of bark. He started gathering up some of the larger pieces. Go on, get down here and help. Some of these are a little damp, but we'll stick them around the edges to dry out. Most important thing right now is to get some middling-sized logs in there so we can build up a little bit of coals. Sasha wiped a runnel of snot from her face and knelt down to help. Jonah continued his story while they filled their arms. Anyway, things heated up.

The army started calling in their deep reserves. Gaslack mead men out for Nagam near Decade. That was after the feds nuked Dallas, so going active duty again didn't sound good to anyone. He lifted away a fallen limb and revealed a massive log, roughly the size of Sasha's torso. Jonah shifted everything he'd gathered over to his right arm and then hefted the log with one hand. He knotted at Sasha's much smaller pile. We've probably got enough, he said. They headed back to the campsite.

She could see Jonah was doing that twitchy jaw thing again, thinking carefully about every word. I grew up real patriotic, you understand? I love my country. I fought for it down south. But I also grew up with a Confederate flag on the back of my dad's truck. I wasn't on board with those Marxists who started the Civil War. So when Governor Galen had his referendum on secession, well, that fell right. I was on board with the UCS back before it was even born.

They sat around the fire again. Jonah started to add in larger branches. He slowly built the fire in a U-shape around the flat stone. Now, I was never a fanatic. I went to church most Sundays, but I had Jew neighbors, a couple of Muslims in my unit. Good guys, wasn't real political, you know? But Pastor Elgins gave a speech. Only time I saw him in person.

He said diversity wasn't making us strong anymore. A melting pot's all well and good, but the quality of the soup depends on the recipe. That made sense to me. He sat back, popped the cattle onto the rock, and looked over to Sasha. The idea was, a Christian recipe would make for a stronger nation. But the UCS wound up being a dagum prosperity gospel pile of nonsense. Better in the Amphib, sure. Maybe we got less queer politicians, less rich Jews running things.

But it's still corrupt here. Sasha wasn't really sure how to handle this disclosure. She'd run into similar attitudes among believers online. Uncomfortable references to Jewish, gay, or gay Jewish conspiracies. That sort of nonsense had always gotten on her nerves. But she'd written its purveyors off as edgelords and trolls. Part of her thought they might be CIA plants, hellbent on making the kingdom look bad. But she knew they didn't speak for the actual heart of the movement.

Sasha wanted to speak up, but she held her tongue. The fact that Jonah had been nothing but kind and respectful to her didn't change the fact that he was twice her size. Who knew what he might do if he got agitated? Sasha fought for calm and recalled a specific passage from Revelator in one of their guides for young women immigrating to the kingdom. No daughters, that our Lord made your brothers and husbands both strong of body and quick to anger. It is your job to soothe, not incite.

And if his wrath falls upon you in a sudden burst, remember the forgiveness and patience of our Lord. Let his example guide your reactions. So she smiled at Jonah and said, Tonight, I'm happy enough to be in a godly land. He smiled back. Sasha hoped God was proud of her for being meek as Mary. When she thought about it that way, the rest of the night was surprisingly tolerable. The food wasn't good by her normal standards, but it was hot and savory,

and after days of protein bars it was exactly what her suffering stomach needed. Sasha wasn't aware of when she drifted off to sleep. Jonah woke her up the next morning, not long after the crack of dawn. She handed her a box of wet napkins and walked off into the woods for a few minutes while she cleaned herself off as much as possible. When she was done, he led her down the mountain and into a small town on the border. It was Sasha's first real look at life in the UCS, and it did not disappoint. In the 20 or so minutes they were outside, she saw nine churches.

There were crosses on every house in a dizzying variety. She saw Bible quotes printed on windows of shops and cafes, and the strangers who passed them in the street all flashed warm smiles. They all offered their blessings. Sasha had never seen such public display of religion. She floated through those first few minutes on a cloud of giddiness unlike anything she'd ever known. The architecture and the environment were similar to what she'd grown up with,

but everything else seemed alien in the most exciting way possible. Sasha felt so light she could almost feel the Holy Spirit lift her up. Her gleeful reverie only ended when Jonah led her up to the door of an unassuming brownstone house. They were taken in by another man, whom Jonah had introduced as Saul. Saul looked a little younger and a lot less weathered than Jonah. He had the thin arms and stooped posture of a lifelong scholar, and his conservative button-up white shirt

made him look more like a youth pastor than a people smuggler. Welcome, sister, he smiled, but his voice was more haggard than warm. You want to get inside, please? There's no sense tempting the law. Saul's house was packed to the rafters with toilet paper, jugs of water, bins of freeze-dried food, and bags upon bags of clothing. The house had almost no furniture and no decorations aside from a large wooden cross above the hearth. There were a couple of stools arranged around a crate on the ground,

which seemed to have served as an improvised coffee table. Saul sat them down, left for a moment, and came back with a hot French press filled with coffee. I'd suggest drinking your fill. It's hard to come by in the kingdom right now. Most things are, I'm afraid. I'm not scared of hardship, she said, a little too loud. You sound like a little kid.

Keep your stupid mouth shut, or they'll think you can't handle it. Saul was conspicuously silent, but Jonah spoke up. She handled herself well out in the woods, he said. Not bad for a city girl, didn't have a lot of woodcraft, but did have an open heart, took well to it, ma'am. Saul chuckled as he began to pour and hand out cups of coffee. First to her, and then to Jonah. Sasha wasn't entirely sure why,

but she waited until both men had taken their first sips to take hers. She didn't know much about coffee, but she was pretty sure this wasn't the beverage at its best. Would you like to pray with us, Miss Marion? Saul asked. Uh, of course. He extended his hands out on either side. So did Jonah.

Sasha took Saul's left and Jonah's right. Heavenly Father, Saul began, bless this young woman who comes to you with a full heart from a land of sin and shirk. She's given up all pretense of control and yielded herself fully to your grace, Lord. Please guide her in this next journey. We pray that she makes it safely to your kingdom and into the arms of her husband to be. Sasha almost peed.

Where did he hear that? She and Alexander hadn't even met yet. There'd been no proposal. Was he just speaking in the general hope that she'd get married, or had Alexander told him something? May she obey him as she does you, Heavenly Father, and may you quicken her womb like Rachel so that she delivers a new Joseph to our cause.

That didn't sit well either. Sasha wanted children very badly. In her future, but not now. Certainly not soon enough that she'd be praying for them already. She was grateful that they had their heads bowed in prayer. If any of this had come up in conversation first, she was sure she'd have reacted in obvious shock. But Sasha calmed herself, thought of her duty to God,

and centered her mind just as the prayer ended. And may I say, my lady, it is a brave thing you're doing, Sasha said as he reached for his cup and took another sip. Even here, in God's country, not many are willing to answer the call. Sure, they'll all tell you it's the drone strikes that scare them. I can do more good by working my job and sending money, as if the Lord asked Abraham to sacrifice a bag of gold in his name.

Saul kept talking, but Sasha's attention drifted. The spot on her head where the deck had been itched all of a sudden. She scratched it, and for the second time, she found herself truly missing the gadget. If she had her deck, she could call Alexander and find out what was going on. But instead, she just squirmed a little in her chair, and hoped the men didn't notice how uncomfortable she'd become.

Miss Marion, you all right? Jonah had noticed. Of course he had. Sasha cursed herself, and then cursed herself again for cursing. Yes, sorry, I'm kind of tired, even with the coffee, and I'm worried about my friend in the kingdom. She definitely stressed the word friend too much. Do you think I'll be able to find a deck once I'm there?

I've heard a lot of different the mam, that was Saul, and his voice had no more feigned mirth. You're about to be smuggled illegally across a heavily fortified border. There are all sorts of worldly goods in the heavenly kingdom. We're not poppers or savages, but as to whether you'll get a deck? Well, that rather depends on what our Lord wants for you. Sasha lowered her head a little in submission. There wasn't the time to press further.

Maybe that time would never come. You knew there'd be sacrifices, she reminded herself. How are you going to smuggle me across the border? She asked. What would you do if a secret cabal of the most powerful folks in the United States told you, hey, let's start a coup? Back in the 1930s, a marine named Smedley Butler was all that stood between the U.S. and fascism.

I'm Ben Bullock. And I'm Alex French. In our newest show, we take a darkly comedic. And occasionally ridiculous. Deep dive into a story that has been buried for nearly a century. We've tracked down exclusive historical records. We've interviewed the world's foremost experts. We're also bringing you cinematic, historical recreations

of moments left out of your history books. I'm Smedley Butler, and I got a lot to say. For one, my personal history is raw, inspiring, and mind blowing. And for another, do we get the mattresses after we do the ads or do we just have to do the ads? The problem with forensic science in the criminal legal system today is that it's an awful lot of forensic and not an awful lot of science.

And the wrongly convicted pay a horrific price. Two death sentences and a life without parole. My youngest, I was incarcerated two days after her first birthday. I'm Molly Herman. Join me as we put forensic science on trial to discover what happens when a match isn't a match when there's no science in CSI. How many people have to be wrongly convicted

before they realize that this stuff's all bogus? It's all made up. Listen to CSI on trial on the iHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. I'm Lance Bass, and you may know me from a little band called NSYNC. What you may not know is that when I was 23, I traveled to Moscow to train to become the youngest person to go to space. And when I was there, as you can imagine,

I heard some pretty wild stories. But there was this one that really stuck with me. About a Soviet astronaut who found himself stuck in space with no country to bring him down. It's 1991, and that man, Sergei Krekalev, is floating in orbit when he gets a message that down on Earth, his beloved country, the Soviet Union, is falling apart. And now he's left defending the Union's last outpost.

This is the crazy story of the 313 days he spent in space. 313 days that changed the world. Listen to the last Soviet on the iHeart Radio app, Apple Podcast, or wherever you get your podcasts. There was a time when it was easy enough to sneak the faithful across on foot, as all explained. But international concerns have forced the government to take a rather hard line. I'm afraid this is the best way to get across the border.

Wait, Sasha's gut went sour. She felt the acid in her stomach churned in a greasy boil. Are you trying to tell me I'm going to be nailed inside a crate? Saul's face turned. There was no pretense anymore. He was disgusted with her. Sasha didn't really know why. All she'd done was ask questions.

But then Jonah was there, with a hand on Saul's shoulder and a calm voice in her ear. Think of this as a blessing, said Jonah. Most people never test the blind part of blind faith. He was right, darn it. And there was something freeing in the idea of just giving herself up to providence. She'd done everything God had asked of her. Now he would either deliver her desire on, or the arms of the law.

Either way, she'd done everything she could to obey the call of her faith. All the little sins of her life, the cursing and the anger and those dark, gnawing desires she still struggled to tamp down, those would all be forgiven. She was truly giving herself to Christ now. So nothing else mattered. You're right, she said. I'm sorry I questioned it.

I'll do whatever it takes to reach the heavenly kingdom. She took another hard look at the cramped wooden box and the piles of aid supplies surrounding it. How was she going to fit in there? Whatever it takes. Listen to the Doctor's Sexy Show every Tuesday on the I Heart Radio App, Apple Podcast, or wherever you get your podcasts. I'm Colleen Witt.

Join me, the host of Eating While Broke podcast. While I eat a meal created by self-made entrepreneurs, influencers, and celebrities over a meal they once ate when they were broke. Today I have the lovely AJ Crimson, the official princess of Compton, Asia, Kid Ink, and Asya. This is the professor. We're here on Eating While Broke, and today I'm going to break down

my meal that got me through a time when I was broke. Listen to Eating While Broke on the I Heart Radio App, on Apple Podcast, or wherever you get your podcasts. Make sure to check out Drink Champs, your number one music podcast on the Black Effect Podcast Network. Host Nore and DJ EFN sat down with artist and icon, Yay, which Vulture called one of 2021's most significant interviews. I literally had to go like Thanos, and I don't want to have to be the villain.

But when I went and did the Donda thing, Yay returned. And everybody had to sit back and watch the real leader. Check out Drink Champs conversation with Yay and many more legendary artists each and every Friday on the I Heart Radio App, Apple Podcast, or wherever you listen to your favorite shows. He wasn't quite as used to being on the losing side of one. He was soon joined by the echoing boom of the lead vehicle's 20mm cannon, and a sparking whoosh as anti-drone rockets arched up into the sky.

Nuts, Reggie yelped as the gunfire jolted him awake. He drifted off a half hour or so into the ride. Manny grabbed onto him and looped his own legs around the bench for stability. An instant later, the transport veered off of the road and into the high grass surrounding the highway. There was a flash somewhere to the left, and when Manny looked back, he saw the smoldering wreckage of one of their escort vehicles. Drones! he shouted into the journalist's ear over the blistering gunfire.

Manny scanned the skies as their transport plowed through the tall grass. Wounded soldiers screamed as the vehicle banked and bounced and sent them slamming into each other. He caught sight of a small drone, maybe the size of his torso. It was matte black and an almost perfect oval. The only break in its seamless form was the bulge of a missile pod on its belly. A red light blinked above the weapon. The drone slowed to a stop maybe a hundred feet above them.

There wasn't time to think. The fixer shoved his journalist hard off the back of the transport and then leapt off himself. He hit the ground with a painful thump that knocked the air out of his lungs and the scents from his mind. For a second, the whole world was stars in shock. Manny rolled to a rough stop against what felt like a large rock. Something cracked inside his chest.

And then there was another explosion. This one louder and closer than the last one. The heat hit him like an ocean wave. Manny was vaguely aware of the scent of burning hair. His hair. He cried out, but he couldn't hear his own screams. Manny's ears rang like the inside of a church bell. It was several moments before the pain and shock subsided enough for him to open his eyes.

He looked down at himself first. His pajamas were scorched and his arms were scraped and bloody from the fall. His backpack was gone, but there were no signs of serious injury. None of his bones seemed broken. What remained of the transport smoldered half a football field away. He saw a few writhing, burning shapes inside. Manny's stomach turned. Reggie.

The pain of the fall had momentarily wiped the journalist from his mind. Manny scanned the field and found the other man curled into a fetal ball a dozen or so feet to his left. He ran over, gave the journalist a quick scan, and determined Reggie wasn't seriously injured either. A small sliver of shrapnel had pierced the other man's bicep. He was just scraped and bloody as Manny, but also basically intact. Except his eyes didn't quite focus when Manny looked into them. Maybe a minor head injury? The journalist said something, a lot of somethings in fact.

But Manny's hearing was all tinnitus. There was no time to talk anyway. He hoisted Reggie up by the armpits, ignored the other man's pained expression, and pulled him along as he beat feet away from the flaming wreckage in the ongoing firefight. Another blast wave rolled over him, this one more distant, and then another, coming from somewhere above them in the sky. The extent of their injuries meant that their run was more like a hobble. Reggie had dislocated his unshrapneled arm.

Manny had fucked his knee up in the fall and done something awful to his ribs. The two stumbled staggered as fast as they could manage, towards an abandoned gas station by the side of the old highway. They reached their temporary salvation and took cover inside the dusty cobwebbed building. Cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt! Reggie screamed as he slumped down against the wall. It took Manny a second to process the fact that he could hear again. You're alright, he shouted, you're fine, we're going to be okay.

Manny had no idea if that was true, but he knew managing fear would be critical to their survival. The gas station had been abandoned for a decade or more. Most of the glass was gone, but the basic structure of the inside counter was still intact. He and Reggie took cover behind it, careful to avoid the piles of shattered glass and shrapnel. There were old bullet holes in the wall all around them. At one time, there had been a plexiglass window on the inside wall behind the counter,

with a little bucket in it so the cashier could do business at night without letting customers inside. Most of the plexiglass had been removed, leaving a gaping wound in the building's concrete hide. Manny stuck his head out of the hole and looked out at the side of the massacre. Both transports had been hit, much of the field was aflame. The six-sweet smell of burning human flesh wafted over them like a dense fog. Manny saw two of the escort trucks still firing into the sky. There was another flash above as one of them hit a drone. It corkscrewed out of the air, burst on the ground, and ignited the dry grass.

What the fuck do we do? Reggie's shout asked. There was panic in his voice and quite a lot of pain, but the journalist didn't seem to have lost his wits. We need to get out of here, Manny said, while those drones are still occupied. The highway was a couple hundred feet away. The civilian vehicles following them had scattered when the attack began. Some of them had clearly been hit by machine gun fire from one of the drones. Others had crashed, ruled into ditches, and been abandoned by their occupants.

Manny spotted one, an ancient white jeep, that looked like it had taken around through the window. He could see blood inside the vehicle, but the engine and wheels seemed intact. The treeline of a sparse forest was just on the other side of the highway, a half mile away, if they could reach it. Reggie, he put a hand on the journalist's shoulder. The two men locked eyes, and Manny tried to force all the fear out of his voice. When I say so, run very fast, straight towards that white jeep. Understood? The Brit brought a hand to his dislocated shoulder, and winced an intense pain.

But then looked back to Manny, and let out a sharp sigh. Fucking, alright, shit, yeah. Manny took that as a yes. He glanced back at the firefight in the field. The fire part was literal now, at least a full acre was aflame. The smoke seemed to have interfered with the drone's sensors. That was probably the only reason their last two escorts had stayed unfucked for so long. Manny watched in horror as a large, beetle-black drone buzzed down low and opened up with a machine gun.

He saw bursts of red as the rounds tore into the escort's gunner and flung him off the truck's bed. Time to go! Manny slapped Reggie's uninjured shoulder and sprinted as fast as his janky ankle could carry him. It was increasingly obvious that his leg was supremely fucked. The middle of Manny's back itched the whole run in anticipation of a bullet. That peculiar sense was even louder than the pain. They reached the jeep. Manny went for the driver's side door, pulled it open, and jerked back as the soupy remains of a pulped human being oozed out onto the asphalt.

He heard Reggie start to retch behind him. It was fucked in there for sure. The man, he was sort of sure it had been a man, had taken a couple rounds from a very large weapon. Manny guessed they'd been 50-caliber mass-reactive bolts because the impact had torn the man apart. He wasn't sure if additional rounds or bone shrapnel had hit the two kids in the back seat, but they were all exceptionally dead. Manny pulled his shirt off and did his best to wipe the corpse from as much of the seat as possible. He hopped in and glanced over to the journalist.

Reggie retched outside. Hey! Get the fuck in! We don't got all! A concussive blast echoed from the field. That was one more escort down. The fight was as good as over. Manny felt a tinge of panic rise up in the base of his spine. Reggie still hesitated. Dude, either deal with some gore in your clothes or stay here and die. Your choice.

The Brit snapped out of it, went for the passenger door and hopped inside. Manny wasn't a great driver, or even a very good one. But this was a simple vehicle, and he was blessed with the motivation of not wanting to die. He turned the car back on and the engine woke up with a rich electronic hum. The fixer flipped the vehicle into drive and gunned for the treeline. The Jeep bounced and swayed over the lumpy grassland terrain. Reggie puked out the window. Manny felt nauseous too.

He honestly wasn't sure if it was more for the pieces of people scattered inside the vehicle or sheer motion sickness. 15 seconds went by. 30. A minute. Manny allowed himself to think they might make it out of this alive. And then he heard the buzz. That sickening, familiar machine hum that every warzone kid knew as well as the sound of their own mother's voice. A drone closing in. Manny jerked his head out the window and scanned the sky.

The Jeep hit a pothole and his head slammed to the top of the window frame. He saw stars and almost lost control of the vehicle entirely. It veered to the right and lifted up onto only two wheels. He righted the Jeep, spun it back to the left and gunned it again as he turned the other way. He stuck his head out again and scanned behind them. There it was, the black, beetle-y fucker buzzing towards them. It was close enough that he could see the glint of its camera optics and the barrel of the heavy machine guns slung underneath it. Manny knew it was picking up speed to compensate for the recoil of its weapon.

It would be low on ammunition now and probably wait to fire until it was too close to miss. The treeline was so near he could almost grab it. Another 15 seconds and they d be there, but the drone was close. They didn t have that long. He looked over to the journalist. Get ready to bail. Get ready to wha- Manny saw the muzzle flash and in the same instant he spun the wheel hard to the right.

The drone s first round chunked through the back of the Jeep, cracked the axle and blew apart the left tire. But the Jeep was in the air an instant later, it flipped over like a drunken dolphin and the rest of the drone shots blasted chunks out of the ground where the Jeep would have been. By the end of the burst, the recoil had robbed the drone of its momentum and brought it to a spinning halt in the sky. The Jeep rolled twice and bounced Manny and Reggie around like rocks in a tumbler. It hurt. It hurt shitloads. But Manny was high enough on adrenaline and fear that he could almost ignore the pain.

Blood streamed from his forehead, something ached terribly between his shoulders. When the Jeep came to a stop, he was deeply surprised to be alive. Let's go! He shouted to Reggie, not even 100% sure if the journalist had survived the crash. Manny pulled himself up out of the open window and then reached his hands back, blind, into the Jeep while he scanned the sky around them. He felt Reggie's small hands grip his own. They were wet with sweat, maybe blood, probably both. Manny squeezed, pulled him up, the two hopped down, quick as they could with their sundry wounds.

The drone had probably veered around and started another loop so it could build up the speed for one more accurate burst of fire. Manny couldn't quite hear the buzz yet, but he couldn't hear much of anything over the sound of his pounding heart. Reggie pulled ahead of him in a lopsided run. Manny tried to pick up speed, but his knee just wouldn't let him. Ah! There it was. He had three, maybe four seconds before that big gun opened up again. The tree line was only about a hundred feet away.

So close. And yet too far for him to possibly make it in time. I really didn't want to die here. I was so close to getting out. He thought of a picture he'd seen of the Bavarian Alps, white snow-filled valleys and rich pine forests. I'm never going to see that. Or anything else. Reggie looked back as he neared the tree line.

Manny appreciated the gesture. It was dumb as fuck, though. Idiota! Run! The fixer bellowed at the top of his lungs. The journalist didn't hesitate this time. He bolted past the tree line and disappeared into the wooded thicket. Manny felt a weight lift off his shoulders. He was about to be torn apart by some nut fuck martyr with an itchy trigger finger and a joystick.

But he'd done his job. He'd gotten his journalist to safety. Well, not quite safety, he thought. But whatever. Best I could do under the circumstances. The hum grew louder. Manny tried to coax a little more speed out of his wounded leg, even though he knew he was too far away now to make the tree line, even at a dead sprint.

It would have been nice to see Berlin or Paris. Oh, well. He heard the thumping sound of heavy gunfire and braced himself for the instant of agony that would precede his end. But instead, he heard the sound of impact and crunching metal behind him, followed by a high-pitched mechanical whine, something heavy and black crashed into the ground ahead of him. He made it to the tree line, pushed through the underbrush, got perhaps 20 feet into the woods and collapsed against a tree. For a few seconds, he just... Cinematic, historical recreations of moments left out of your history books.

I'm Smedley Butler, and I got a lot to say. For one, my personal history is raw, inspiring and mind-blowing. And for another, do we get the mattresses after we do the ads, or do we just have to do the ads? What if I told you that much of the forensic science you see on shows like CSI isn't based on actual science? The problem with forensic science in the criminal legal system today is that it's an awful lot of forensic and not an awful lot of science. And the wrongly convicted pay a horrific price. Two death sentences and a life without parole. My youngest, I was incarcerated two days after her first birthday.

I'm Molly Herman. Join me as we put forensic science on trial to discover what happens when a match isn't a match and when there's no science in CSI. How many people have to be wrongly convicted before they realize that this stuff's all bogus? It's all made up. Listen to CSI on trial on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. I'm Lance Bass, and you may know me from a little band called NSYNC. What you may not know is that when I was 23, I traveled to Moscow to train to become the youngest person to go to space. And when I was there, as you can imagine, I heard some pretty wild stories. But there was this one that really stuck with me about a Soviet astronaut who found himself stuck in space with no country to bring him down. It's 1991, and that man, Sergei Krekalev, is floating in orbit when he gets a message that down on Earth, his beloved country, the Soviet Union, is falling apart.

And now he's left defending the Union's last outpost. This is the crazy story of the 313 days he spent in space. 313 days that changed the world. Listen to the last Soviet on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Let the pain wash over him. His knee, his shoulders. He could feel something stuck deep in his back, too. Maybe a shard of glass or some shrapnel from the start of the firefight? He had quite a few deep cuts. The trauma nanites in his circulatory system had clotted most of them, but the deeper ones still oozed blood. It was hard to tell just how injured he really was, since his body was also covered in blood and viscera from the jeep's previous occupants. Espera, he thought, how am I alive? His brain gradually spun up to meet his body.

Someone had shot that murder beetle out of the sky. But who? Reggie? Where would he have gotten a gun? And the man was British. He couldn't shoot. Reggie! he shouted. Over here! the Brit called back. He sounded weirdly cheerful. I think we've made some friends. For the first time in his life, Manny found himself face to face with two post-humans. The first appeared to be a lady. She was hunkered up in the branches of a tree, and she cradled a very large gun in her hands. Most of her body sort of faded into the forest. She was only easy to see now because of her smile. The shine of her teeth was quite unlike anything else he'd ever seen. They appeared to be made of some sort of strange, swirling-colored metal. Where a normal person would have had incisors, she had long, curved fangs.

The other chromed was a black man. He was of average height, with a muscular body and a wide build. His head was shaved, and he had a plump, friendly face and round cheeks that accentuated his broad smile. He wore a red kilt and a silver breastplate over his muscular chest. It gleamed in the afternoon sun. His only weapon appeared to be an enormous sledgehammer larger than Reggie's entire body. He smiled and nodded at Manny. His whole body twitched as he stood there, as if a constant stream of electricity buzzed through him. Reggie stood in front of the man. It looked like the journalist had run into the post-humans during his flight from the drone. He looked terrified, in the friendly sort of way only the British could manage. Hey, y'all! Manny said. He wasn't sure how nomadic half-god warrior people preferred to be addressed. Y'all seemed a safe bet.

Hey, guy! said the woman up in the tree. So, said the kilted man. Um, can we help you? Manny asked. The man chuckled. He had a deep, throaty laugh that bounced off the trees and seemed to get louder as it reverberated. No, buddy, you guys look pretty near death. I'm gonna guess you don't have anything I want. Nice pajamas, though. He pointed down to Manny's blood-soaked and burned pajama bottoms. The fixer's face turned red with embarrassment. They might have whiskey, said the woman. Ask if they have whiskey. The big man smiled, lowered his maul and spoke.

The name's Skullfucker Mike, he said. The lady who shot down your drone is Topaz McMillan. Do you guys have whiskey? Manny didn't, but Reggie did. Holy fuck, he shouted. I actually do! Somehow, the journalist hadn't lost his backpack in the chaos. He unzipped the main compartment, dug around for a few seconds, and produced a small metal flask. Reggie passed it off to Skullfucker Mike, who took a belt of it and let out a dog's bark. He didn't bark like a dog. It was the exact sound of a large hound barking. Skullfucker Mike passed the flask up to Topaz. She took a pole and cooed appreciatively.

Alright, Skully, I like these guys. They get a ride. A ride? Asked Reggie. A ride to where? To rolling fuck, she said, to the city of wheels. I call the union hall. I say it's a matter of life and death. I think these people are planning to kill Dr. King. On April 4th, 1968, Dr. Martin Luther King was shot and killed in Memphis. A petty criminal named James Earl Ray was arrested.

He pled guilty to the crime and spent the rest of his life in prison. Case closed. Right? James Earl Ray was a pawn for the official story. The authorities would parade over. We found a gun that James Earl Ray bought in Birmingham that killed Dr. King. Except it wasn't the gun that killed Dr. King. One of the problems that came out when I got the Ray case was that some of the evidence, as far as I was concerned, did not match the circumstances.

This is the MLK tapes. The first episodes are available now. Listen on the iHeart Radio app, Apple podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. From Cavalry Audio comes the new true crime podcast, The Shadow Girls. I always wanted to know what it felt like to kill somebody. He started laughing. Prosecutors described him as a serial killer, savant. Picking up these girls, getting them in a position of vulnerability. When he got a hold of their neck, that was it.

I'm Carolyn Osorio, a journalist and lifelong resident of the Pacific Northwest. I grew up near the banks of the Green River and in the shadow of the killer that bears its name. How many times did you bring the camera to the river? One time. Just one time. He started fantasizing about having sex with his mother. Then he fantasized about killing her. But this podcast isn't only about tracking down the killer.

It's about the victims. We stayed in the woods. He always liked to go in the woods. He was just to all of us, kind of crazy. Do you know how he feels about prostitutes? Listen to the Shadow Girls on the iHeart radio app, on Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. With the writers, guest stars, and directors who made the show so special. Fans have been begging us to do a New Girl Recap for years, and we finally made a podcast where we answer all your burning questions like,

Is there really a bear in every episode of New Girl? Plus, each week you'll hear hilarious stories like this. At the end when he says, you got some Schmidt on your face, I feel like I pitched that joke. I believe that. I feel like I did. I'm not on a thousand percent. I tossed that one out. Listen to the Welcome to Our Show podcast on the iHeart radio app,

Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Chapter 8 Roland So you were there, right? Sardar asked. You saw the White House burn? Sardar was Jim's mechanic. He was a short, slightly pudgy kid with a wide, handsome face and skin a couple shades darker than Roland's own.

This was maybe his 20th question since Jim's aircraft had dropped their transport off two hours ago. The other members of Jim's team hadn't said so much as a word to Roland. They'd all listened, though. He could see the tension in their shoulders and feel the vibrations in the air as their ears twitched and their eyes darted over to watch his replies. The fact that they were all cramped together inside the armored confines

of a Mattis APC made it easy to read the room. Roland wasn't 100% sure if the young Merc had been put up to the task of questioning him, or if Sardar was just an inquisitive soul. Roland smelled a light drizzle of nervousness waft off the boy. He'd cut several glances between Sardar and Bigsby. But neither of those facts were proof of anything. Nervousness was a perfectly natural reaction to hanging out in a cramped metal box with a guy you'd just been trying to murder.

I remember pieces of it, Roland replied, fucking somebody in the Lincoln bedroom, stealing liquor from the kitchens, shitting in the ball return of the White House bowling alley. Sardar shook his head. That's fucking loco. You're like a history book. I bet I read about shit you did back in high school. Probably, Roland said with a shrug.

He had about nine clear memories of his life before the shack on Camelback Mountain, and none of them felt very historic. Can I get your autograph, man? Sardar asked. Bigsby, the post-human Roland had been about to arm club in a submission a day ago, shook his head and groaned in embarrassment. One of the women he'd buried in his collapsed hovel grunted out a laugh. Her name was Nadine, or something with an in anyway. She and her partner, Azame, were both close assault specialists,

like the rest of the crew, except Sardar. They'd been cold to Roland ever since he'd beat the living hell out of them. Something occurred to him. Hey, I got a question for you, he said to Sardar. Yeah? Your crew's been real pissy to me this whole ride, Roland nodded at Bigsby. How exactly did you guys expect that fight to go down? Sardar pursed his lips.

He seemed at a loss for a second. Then he said, Jim framed it as just a standard kill team action. We've done that sort of thing a couple of times. Last year there was this crumbed out Nazi in Idaho, so he tricked you then. Roland interrupted. Convinced you this was just another assassination, when all he really wanted to do was get my attention? Roland looked around and realized the rest of the transport was glaring at him.

Bigsby spat on the ground in front of Roland's foot. We'd have iced you if he'd given us another minute. Roland just laughed and turned his eyes back to Sardar. It's clear you and the other guy, he gestured at the young man next to Sardar, are the only smart bastards in the unit since you didn't get back up when I beat you down. Sardar squirmed a little, clearly uncomfortable. Me and Pedro, he gestured to the other man, we're just engineers, we don't go toe to toe with whatever you are.

All this conversation, the most he'd had in years, made Roland feel uncomfortably lucid. He rooted around in the tattered old backpack he'd brought with him. It contained one rusty Mateva auto-revolver that he'd found under the floorboards of his collapsed shack and 5.087 kilograms of assorted narcotics, mostly opiates. Roland remembered how fun it was to watch things explode while high on oxy. He pulled a pill bottle out of the sack,

delotted, and poured half of it into his mouth. Roland swallowed, then guzzled the second half. Jesus, said Will, the man he'd stabbed in the throat with a piece of wood yesterday. This is the guy who kicked the shit out of us? I am sorry about that, Roland said. If I'd known we were going to wind up sharing an APC, I probably would have just choked you out. Mortar fire, incoming.

Roland's hind brain ran the calculations, estimated it at around 8 miles out. He sat up straight, since his focus towards the sound of the fire. Biggsby and Azame reacted the same way. They'd clearly splurged on the good ears. The rest of the team didn't seem to have heard. They're shooting ahead, Azame said. 60 millimeter mortars.

Get up, folks! Biggsby added as he pulled his own S-30 Barrett assault rifle from its resting place on the wall behind him. The fuck was that? Azame cocked an eyebrow. Her left ear twitched. Her tan, lean face flushed red with excitement. I don't recognize that one.

Me either, Biggsby grunted. The other post-human looked to Roland with clear frustration. You recognize that? Roland did. It's an M-142, he said. Mobile rocket artillery, antique US military issue. Will looked over to Biggsby, confused. I've never heard of anything like that in the SDF's armory.

It's not the SDF, Roland explained, slurring his words more than a little. The opiates had just started to hit. Holy shit, I loved allotted, he thought. That's incoherent. Can't you tell? He said. Not from this distance, Azame answered, she glanced awkwardly over to her partner. Nadine put a hand on her thigh and squeezed.

Could you not be monstrously fucked up when we're about to go into battle? Biggsby asked. He seemed angry. Roland debated offering one of his handfuls of pills. He decided he'd much rather save them for later. First off, I didn't sign up for battle. He explained as he popped and chewed a pair of morphine tablets. Second, we still got about almost eight miles before we hit the front.

Plenty of time to sober up. Eight miles? Asked Sardar. The Richardson line is 15 miles out. More mortars crumped in the distance. Roland heard blossoms of heavy machine gun fire, too, and the hums of dozens of assault drones. Hey, Biggs.

The voice of the APC's driver crackled over the vehicle intercom. There's a lot of craziness coming in from the main SDF channels. It sounds like a major assault. The martyrs have pushed all the way to Deep Ellum. Some of the field commanders are talking about a full retreat. Jesus. Shit. Christ.

Will, Biggsby, and Nadine all cursed at the same time. Roland thought it was cute. It tugged at his heartstrings a little. He missed being part of a close-knit team. Some of his stronger memory fragments involved really good times he'd had during and after the war. He remembered blowing up an armored school bus with a guy named Mike, throwing rotten oranges as a government sniper with Jim.

His brain also brought up snatches of late night drinking sessions and watching cartoons on an old projector in the desert. When he closed his eyes, he could smell the burning manzanita smoke of their campfire. Pain tugged at his heart, but he was jerked out of his reverie by the sound of an explosion. It was big and close enough that everyone in the APC heard it, even though Roland's hindbrain put the distance at over seven miles away. VBIED, Biggsby and Azame said at the same time. Real big one, Azame nodded.

Roland could tell that the explosives rigged vehicle had been an E-Series Mercedes truck, but he didn't bring that up. No one liked to know it all. VBIED's mouth opened and closed, the telltale sign of someone having a sub-vocal conversation through their deck. Roland could have read his lips, but that would have been rude. Instead, he looked over to Sardar. If the gig gets called on account of war, you wanna get shit-faced in Austin with me?

The kid blinked, then replied, I mean, of course, but I'm pretty sure Bossman's gonna want us to do the job, even if it's hot out there. Roland growled a little without thinking, and Sardar cringed. I did not sign up to defend against an act of invasion. I'm here to fuck up property, not people. Jim says that's still the plan. You fuck up the property, Biggsby grunted. My fam and I are here to fuck up the people.

A red-hot cherry of anger bloomed in Roland's heart. That wasn't the deal, he said, and Jim knows it. One of you call him and loop me in on your screen. I'll set this right. Call him yourself, spat Biggsby. He can't, Sardar pointed out. He's got a dead deck. No signal at all.

True gnoll. Why the hell would you go gnoll, Azame started to ask? Biggsby interrupted her. It doesn't matter why this ass copters gnoll. I'm on with Jim, and he says you're under contract still. We'll make sure you don't have to cack anybody. For a moment, Roland focused his attention outside the little APC. His hindbrain correlated the bursts and vibrations that echoed out around the battlefield.

It compared them with his petabytes of stored combat data, and the last map of Dallas he downloaded before severing his deck. In a couple seconds, he had what his hindbrain assured him was an 80% accurate projection of the current fighting. It didn't look good for the defenders. And what if it's too much for you guys out there? Roland asked. You gonna expect my ass to murder a bunch of strangers to get you and your fam home safe?

Biggsby rolled his eyes. It's a bunch of fucking martyrs. Maybe they caught the SDF with their pants down, but they'll lose steam soon enough. Those savages are all baseline sapien. We got chrome on our side. Roland shrugged. If you're wrong, I'm gonna take one of your nipples home with me. Just a heads up.

The other post-humans face turned purple. It grew purple-er still when Sardar laughed at their remark. Sorry, Biggs. It's fucking funny, man. It wasn't a joke. Roland assured them both. They hit Dallas proper ten minutes later. Their arrival was heralded by the sounds of car horns, squealing breaks and frustrated

shouts, the songs of a city at war. Flashes of memory from this same city in a different war shot through Roland's mind. They kept him occupied while Biggsby and his squad prepped their combat gear. There was something almost comforting about the sound of men and women arming for battle. He remembered the way Mike ran through the lyrics of Eye of the Tiger before every op, and the careful way Jim had loaded his pre-battle meth pipe. The crump of mortar fire and the boom of heavier artillery grew louder and louder. The sour sense of gamma-amino-buteric acid, cortisol and epinephrine filled the cabin.

Biggsby's team had good game faces, but they were nervous. Biggs, the driver's voice crackled over the intercom, I'm seeing a shitload of hostile drone activity. Skye's fucking angry right now. Might be best to dismount, hit! Roland smelled the fuel burning off in the wake of the Hellfire missile, roughly a second before it hit. He knew the archaic munition didn't have the ability to penetrate a mad-ass APC, but

he still warned his fellows. Missiles are coming. What? Sardar asked. And then it hit. Roland rocked the vehicle on its axles and bounced its hapless passengers into the hard metal edges of the cabin. Roland bounced with them, although, for him, the pain of impact was more curiosity than

actual discomfort. The driver braked hard, Roland heard and felt as the APC collided with what sounded like the outer wall of a large concrete building. He smelled blood on Sardar and Nadine. From the sound of the blast and the resulting crash, he guessed the APC's front axle had splintered. Ryan, the driver, was unconscious. He'd hit his head hard enough that the trauma nanites in his bloodstream had knocked him

out while they worked to stop the swelling in his brain. Out! Out! Move it, motherfuckers! Bigsby shouted. There was a hiss as the rear-inside exit hatches of the APC fired open, lights streamed into the vehicle. Bigsby was out first, his very large rifle at the ready.

Nadine and Azame followed behind him. The former had a juggernaut auto shotgun, the latter had an M14 sniper rifle. There were no infantry nearby, not yet, but Roland closed his eyes, concentrated, and after a second his hindbrained guests that the nearest ground troops were about a quarter of a mile away. Six men in Ares patterned powered armor followed by 50 unmodified human soldiers, a half-dozen technicals, and two drone carriers. The men in the Ares suits were the only thing that concerned him.

Powered armor couldn't make an unmodified human into a true match for a god-fucking monster engine like himself, but it could give a squad the firepower they needed to do some real damage. If they could hurt Roland, they could kill Bigsby and his team. His hindbrained told him that the power-armored soldiers would be in weapons range within two minutes. Just enough time to roll a blunt. He grabbed a blunt wrap and a bag of ground weed out of his backpack and started to roll

as he walked out of the abandoned APC. Sardar and Pedro had taken cover behind the vehicle and started to administer basic first-aid to their wounded driver. Will was a few meters ahead, on overwatch, covering them all with his heavy M94 belt-fed grenade launcher. The others were nowhere to be seen. Roland heard them, though, about 15 meters west of the stricken transport. He felt them take up firing positions.

Should I warn Bigsby about the armored guys? Roland wondered. He shook his head and said, nah, out loud. Sardar stared at him. The weed was dry and slightly yellowed with age. Roland had certainly smoked better, but he'd smoked worse often enough not to complain. He drizzled the crumbled herb into the blunt wrap and rolled it between his fingers. He licked the seam and sealed it as he watched Sardar shoot a stim capsule into Ryan's neck.

The driver started to regain consciousness. Roland lit his blunt, took a hit, and offered it to the man. Welcome back to the land of the living, he said with a cheerful grin. Pop! Sardar gave him a stern look. Is this really the time? The screech of a rocket propelled grenade filled the air. Outgoing fire.

It must have been from a nearby SDF position, engaged with the advancing martyrs. Of course there's time, said Roland, we got a solid 90 seconds until they're here. Might as well get high. The kid rebuffed his offer. Roland would have been a little hurt if he hadn't secretly hoped they'd turn him down. It took a lot of pot to get him high. One whole blunt was about the right amount for where he wanted to be. Bigsby opened up with his heavy machine gun.

A vague worry started to grow inside Roland. The armored martyrs had moved faster than anticipated. Am I going to have time to finish smoking? He was thankful that he'd at least loaded up on painkillers before reaching the front. The machine gun was joined by the sharp crack of Nadine's sniper rifle and the rich bellow of Azemay's auto-shot gun. It sounded like she was firing tungsten core penetrators rather than the explosive dragon's breath rounds she'd loaded during the assault on Roland's shack.

That was probably smart. Are you going to do something? Sardar asked. Roland could smell his fear wafted off him like a fine mist. He heard the heavy hum of a suit-mounted rotary chain gun and then another. Incoming fire. A few rounds arced and ricocheted off the body of the APC. Sardar and Pedro dove for cover and pulled Ryan with them.

Roland didn't move. His hindbrain had plotted the trajectories of the air and rounds as soon as they'd left their barrels. There'd been no danger. Well, no danger to them. By the sound of it, the power armored martyrs had pinned Bigsby down. Roland could smell Nadine's blood in the air. She was alive but injured.

Will started to fire and pumped a steady stream of explosives out in a high arc in front of the martyrs. Roland felt as the men scattered. He also felt the footfalls of dozens of normal infantry, 200 meters behind the power armored vanguard. He heard the rich thunk of recoilless rifles being bolted into the ground. Roland puffed on his blunt as he considered the tactical situation. Bigsby and his team seemed to have knocked out one of the armored martyrs, but they were

alone and unsupported. The SDF was in full retreat and the small squad didn't have the firepower or the chrome to hold off what was coming. Roland did. Bigsby very much disliked the idea of murdering several dozen brainwashed idiots. These kids weren't responsible for anything beyond buying into artful propaganda and lofty promises. He didn't see them as worse than any other gaggle of armed 18-22 year olds in the history

of war. Hey Sardar, you get a wrench? Roland asked. What? Yes? Sardar replied. Can I borrow it? Um, the young mercenary raised an eyebrow in confusion.

It's not a sex thing, Roland assured him. I, uh, never assumed it was, Sardar said. Then can I have it? Sardar stared at him for a long beat and then said, OK. He handed over his wrench. It was nice. More than two feet long and made from 15.4 pounds of stamped steel. This is perfect, Roland told Sardar.

Perfect for what? Sardar asked. Wounding, Roland replied. And with that, he was off. Roland could break 30 miles an hour at a dead sprint, but with all the painkillers and weed he'd just taken, that didn't sound super fun. So he strolled along at a brisk 18 miles per hour, darted by Will and zigzagged his way past a few hundred errant rounds the armored martyrs fired to suppress Bigsby's squad.

Two of the big recoilless rifles fired their giant explosive tip munitions. Roland reached Nadine and Azame's position. The former was down, bleeding from multiple gunshot wounds. Her luffer fired from cover. Roland felt as one of the explosive rounds arched towards their position. The other was headed towards Bigsby. Roland's hindbrained guests that Bigsby would survive the hit. Nadine and Azame wouldn't.

He jumped forward and grabbed them both while still airborne. In the second before missile met masonry, he threw them back out of the blast radius. He knew the landing would hurt, but both women were chromed enough to survive. After he tossed them, Roland slid to a stop on top of the pile of ruined bricks they'd hidden behind. The rocket-propelled munition hit about three feet below him. The 75-millimeter round contained a half kilogram of hexagene, enough explosive power to tear a hole in the side of a small tank.

It detonated and turned the pile of bricks into a shrapnel volcano. Roland hopped again. His hindbrained made it clear that he wouldn't avoid all, or even most, of the shrapnel. Metal and brick tore through his biceps, his gut, his legs, and his pectorals. Most of the shrapnel stopped at the subdermal carapace that protected his vital organs. A few pieces went further. They tore one kidney in half and pierced one of his hearts. But Roland had multiple redundant backups for every important organ.

His medical nanites had already started to purge the foreign matter and repair the damage when he hit the ground. The battle high rolled in, and Roland's synapses flooded with endorphins, serotonin, and enough morphine to kill a middleweight elephant. The chemical elation of imminent combat filled his senses. Roland wasn't just high on war. He was tripping balls. Sweet shitting fucks I've missed this.

Roland flipped a jaunty salute to Bigsby as he sprinted forward, past the man. This time he let his legs pump as fast as they could, and rushed towards the five advancing armored martyrs. In the quarter-second before contact, Roland had his first solid look at the enemy. Their suits were definitely some iteration of the basic Aerie's design. They had the familiar insectoid helmet with its bulbous eyes and heavy nasal sensor blister. The shoulders, chests, groin, thighs, and shin were all heavily reinforced. These were breaching suits, meant to lead in advance and absorb an enormous amount of

incoming fire. The armor was painted the dull yellow of a Texas grassland. Roland could see red and blue on the edges of the pauldrons, Republic of Texas colors, but the suits had clearly been painted over, repurposed by their new owners. Two of the men had large, white crosses dobbed across their chests. One man had a cross painted over his faceplate. The paint job seemed new. These suits had been captured, or handed over, recently.

Their wearers moved like competent fighters who weren't used to the capabilities of full powered armor. Two of the martyrs had shoulder-mounted missile pods with angry-looking rockets inside them. Three of them mounted rotary chain cannons. Between their targeting systems and reflex augmentation hardware, they could have hurt him if they'd had their shit together. But they didn't, and he hit the point man like a bag of concrete thrown by a gorilla. Roland didn't even bother to swing the wrench yet.

He just let his substantial body weight turn him into a post-human battering ram. The first soldier hit the ground, Roland atop him with a whine of pistons and internal motors. He tried to bring his assault cannon to bear on Roland, but the barrel was too long. Roland slammed Sardar's wrench into the man's crotch eleven times in the space of a second. The suit's groin armor was rated to stop a.50 caliber rifle round. It caved in on the third hit. Stop! He shouted inside his own mind.

Stop! You're going to kill him! Roland pulled back with considerable effort. His brain wanted more, and every impact fed a few more endorphins into the hopper. But he managed to stop himself before he did a reputable harm. His hesitation made him a target, though. One of the armored martyrs shot him four times and ripped deep gouges in his torso. Roland rushed the man and slapped his weapon aside.

The drugs flooded into him again as he swung his wrench up, underhanded into the poor fellow's chin. Bones shattered on the first swing. Biggs be fired. Roland felt one of the other armored martyrs go down, kneecaps and throat shot out. The two remaining martyrs opted to retreat, but it was a fighting retreat. They bounded backwards and launched a flurry of rockets towards Roland as cover fire. These he had to avoid.

Roland could eat small arms fire all day. Rockets were not small. He shoved the wrench into his waistband and threw himself into an elegant backflip. He may be wanted to impress Biggs be a little. He landed 14 feet back from his prior position. In the same continuous motion, he picked up two fist-sized chunks of concrete off the ground, flipped back again, and launched both improvised missiles at the retreating martyrs. The rockets impacted, one after the other, and spaces Roland had been a millisecond before.

Shrapnel from the detonations tore at his skin and penetrated his less critical organs. Roland's hindbrain registered at least 30 new injuries. None of them were serious enough that he felt actual pain. He back flipped again, definitely showboating, and landed 8 feet ahead of the last rocket and right in front of Biggs be's fighting position. Right as he landed, the chunks of concrete he'd thrown impacted the faceplates of both martyrs at around 1100 feet per second. That impact wouldn't be enough to kill Men in Aerie's armor, probably, but it was enough

to break most of their suit sensors and shatter a lot of the bones in their faces. Roland fixed Biggs be with an evil grin as the last two power armored men staggered back, wavered on their feet, and collapsed. Son of a... Biggs be started to curse in a low, odd voice. Guess I'll be taking that nipple now. Hey everybody, Robert Evans here. I hope you just enjoyed the chapter you listened to.

I hope you enjoyed the chapters to come. If you would like to read the text version of this book, either on the web or on your e-reader as an e-pub, you can find those on the website atrbook.com. So again, the free, ad-free e-pub and the text of every chapter will be on atrbook.com. Thanks! Mama, what does the chicken say? Uh... Dog.

Cat. Giraffe. Giraffe, really? Giraffe! Uh, giraffe! You're not going to get it all right. Just make sure you nail the big stuff, like making sure your kids are buckled correctly in the right seat for their age and size.

Get it right. I'm Tanya Sam, host of the Money Moves podcast, powered by Greenwood. This daily podcast will help give you the keys to the kingdom of financial stability, wealth and abundance. With celebrity guests like Rick Ross, Amanda Seals, Angela Yee, Roland Martin, JB Smoothe and Terrell Owens, tune in to learn how to turn liabilities into assets and make your money move. Subscribe to the Money Moves podcast, powered by Greenwood, on the iHeart radio app or wherever

you get your podcast and make sure you leave a review. The Alphabet Boys is a new podcast series that goes inside undercover investigations. In the first season, we're diving into an FBI investigation of the 2020 protests. It involves a cigar-smoking mystery man who drives a silver hearse. And inside his hearse look like a lot of guns. But are federal agents catching bad guys or creating them? He was just waiting for me to set the date, the time, and then for sure he was trying to get it to happen.

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