Invasion Day: An Oral History of the Veech War by Micah Gurley (good books for high schoolers .TXT) 📕

back then. I thought it was an archaic tradition that kept instruments of death in the hands of the uneducated. Despite everything, I still believe some of that.

Anyway, it was just a matter of time before our house got hit. It was two young men, both covered in jewelry and loot they had stolen from somewhere. I moved my family to our back bedroom, allowing the thieves to take everything they wanted without any trouble from us, but... but that wasn't enough for them. They were having fun. They wanted more thrills, a bigger high, and stealing wasn't enough anymore.

They came into our room, dragged my wife away from my side, and raped her right in front of my daughters and me. I tried to stop them, but they put me down quickly enough. When they finished, they turned to our daughters, and I threw myself at them. I lost it. I became more animal than man at that moment. I clawed, bit, screamed... I don't remember much of it, honestly, because they knocked me out. When I woke up, I was covered in blood, and my family was dead.

My beautiful daughters lay broken and bleeding on the floor like discarded trash. I broke down. I cradled their bodies for hours, then days—crying, weeping at the pain. I felt like I was going to die from a heart attack, and I welcomed it. Anything to make it stop. (He stops talking and sits a minute, looking at the trees.) I eventually came to myself, dressed my daughters and wife, then buried them in the backyard.

It was at that moment things changed for me. My humanity receded before a tsunami of anger and rage at what they did. These thugs, villains, trash, these scum that had taken something so precious from the world for nothing. I only desired blood. Then I would welcome death with open arms to rejoin my family, knowing I had brought justice... No, not justice... Vengeance to those who did this.

I hunted the streets, looking for any looters, any criminals to wet the thirst of my anger. I came to a house that had people outside of it. There was a family on the lawn, not too different from my own, who were begging and pleading to two men who stood in front of them with a gun pointed. No one else noticed me as I stopped my car, grabbed a kitchen cleaver I brought, and walked up to them. The world was theirs, you see, and they didn't think anyone would stop them. I simply walked up to them and chopped the cleaver into the neck of the closest one. He dropped, I pulled my cleaver free, and then put it into the second man who had frozen. I hacked both of them a few more times, grabbed their gun, and walked back to my car.

I repeated this a few more times, all in my neighborhood, when I came to the most prominent house in a community of big homes. It was the house of a city councilman. I knew of the guy, but had never talked to him. His home was more mansion than house, with at least twenty rooms, but none of that bothered me. What set me off, what pulled at my anger, was what surrounded his house. There must have been ten police officers in front of his house. While my wife and little girls were tortured and raped a few streets over, this guy had sat comfortably in his mansion, surrounded by police who could have made a difference.

I would like to say I was mad with grief, that I didn't know what I was doing, but I did. I remember every detail, every decision I made at that point. The man had to die. I walked around the back of the house and easily slid inside a window when nobody was watching. I walked that house casually, not worried about being discovered, not caring about anything except revenge. I found him alone in his study. He was in his mid-thirties and handsome. He saw me and started screaming. I walked up to him and cleaved him right through the head. The cleaver was stuck, so I just let it drop with him and slumped to the floor next to him.

The cops busted in and handcuffed me. I don't remember what happened next, except that I was put into a cell where I stayed for the next year. I was lucky. There were police officers who remained on the job, despite the world falling apart. They kept me safe, gave me food, and turned me over when they could. They didn't need to do any of that. They could have easily killed me and been done with the whole situation.

He stands up, walks to a tree, and picks two apples from it. He offers one to me. We both eat the apples quietly.

I was placed here as soon as they built the place. I think it was the second year of the war, but I'm not sure. I've been told the public wasn't interested in taking care of prisoners, but the president at the time didn't want to see massive executions carried out. He ordered this prison built in this dead city and told us good luck. I imagine it appeased his conscience. Not that I blame him, you understand. The people who were placed here are all murderers, and some are much, much worse. There are many like me, who... well, weren't criminals by vocation, just ended up in a bad situation.

There were initially over 100,000 people placed in these fifty square blocks of death. It soon became a place of nightmares. I often wonder if the president put us here to kill each other? If so, it worked well and was an elegant solution.

The fighting here eventually came from two different groups. One group didn't enjoy killing, and yes, I know the irony in that, and the other group