Sometime in the past near future…

a once powerful country is riddled with infection and close to death. No shots have been fired, not in the usual sense, not on a foreign battlefield sense. Most of the citizens have not seen a war close up. They know only rumors of war... it won't happen here. But Americana has been infiltrated - and is now silently scrutinized by a shadowy figure. Jorge Söze Sorach, using various front groups, has developed assets in amongst the ranks of many warring factions. Some domestic - some international - the front groups, the factions, the moles - none are aware they are ‘owned’ by Sirach. They war on - against whomever. It doesn't matter. It keeps them busy. It yields more data. Only Sorach and her trusted advisors, The Hot Club, understand the grand strategy. They watch the chess pieces from a room far from sight, waiting to nudge them in the right direction - at the right time. The Pawn's dreams are colored by the rhythms of Sorach and the Pawn doesn't even know her name.

If journalists (in The Media) can be trusted, one third of Americans believe their country has been stolen, and many of those suspect it’s being held hostage by George Soros, Communists, Clintons, ANTIFA, or the voting machine hackers. Maybe all of them. At least one of them. Maybe more. Identifying the players is very complicated and best left to experts. One thing is certain...

A frightened man sits in a car. He takes a long breath. His heart pounds. His head spins. He tries to understand why, without warning, thoughts of imminent death and fear for his family have arisen.

If journalists (members of The Media) are to be believed, a virus has been attacking the country, grinding down the gears of free commerce, strangling justice and liberty. At first it was like watching a drop of dye drift in the swimming pool, or hearing the initial discomfort of crabs tossed in a Bayou Boiler. Now, as if caught by surprise by a raging pandemic, hospitals report record numbers of emergency room visits. Body temperatures soar just short of human endurance. Unable to breath, hoping for attention, victims pack the emergency room. The suffocating are admitted, most are turned away. Overwhelmed with critically ill patients, the hospital has no beds. The one in the next town... has no beds. We learn what a respirator is. There are no respirators. When a bed or a respirator becomes available - it’s immediately taken. Prayers turn to pleadings, “please just shove the tube down my throat.” A panicked government orders bars, restaurants, churches, mom and pop gift shops to close... indefinitely. Whole towns are devastated by new laws and restrictions. There is no baseball. Replacement statistics have been provided, the web page is bookmarked. Peanuts and cracker-jack are out of the question and an empty space grows in the heart of Americana.

The car starts down the driveway. The man is separating himself from his family. They will be safer without him. This scene repeats itself across the world, the whole planet... everywhere.

Through television screens, computer monitors, VR headsets, radio speakers, and earbuds around the globe you hear reports of exponential growth. The killer looks like a naval mine. Feeling helpless, dying to be comforted, you buy toilet paper before your neighbors get it all. It makes you feel better. You're still part of a tribe. It'll be alright. But... do you have it? Every sneeze, every cough reminds you - you don’t have a thermometer. Testing centers begin to open. There is a shortage of test kits. You're finally scheduled, you get a test, you get a number. You wait for results and then you have the virus. Wrong number? Eventually it sinks in. You’re on your own now. You’re alone. It’s well known - you’ve heard it for weeks - the now too clear threat cuts off relationships. Family members infected with the plague must isolate themselves from loved ones they were caring for - who had cared for them. You move towards your pups and the leash pulls you back. You’re not the strong one anymore. And you must do the right thing. You say your goodbyes - from a distance. From six feet away. You hadn’t really thought it through. It was always happening to someone else.

Pulling out, the man looks carefully down the street. He travels far from home. He hides. He must not be seen. He has disguised himself... the car is not his. The man is Eric Coomer (now Max Goodman) and the horrible threat to his family is not the COVID virus, it's Oltmann and the UADF.

In the name of liberty and inspired by God… Joe Oltmann has crushed Eric Coomer. The UADF is ready for a fight, Coomer sees more coming so he's on the run. Any news organization who writes, anyone who welcomes, anyone who speaks with Eric... had best be on their toes and ready to run.

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