United States. On the Red River.
Bodies that hadn't been retrieved floated by, some wearing the tan uniforms of the Louisiana Federation, others in the cowboy boots of the Texas National Guard, blood dispersing in the river and drifting towards the Mexican border with the current.
The bustle of the past was long gone from the riverbank.
Old John, who once sold barbecue from a stall on the Red River Bridge, was now clutching a canvas bag full of cans, one hand tightly gripping his grandson's wrist as he ran south. His truck had its gas tank blown open by stray bullets last night, billowing black smoke as it leaned on the roadside, the unsold barbecue in the truck bed still sizzling with grease, yet no one dared to look back.
"Grandpa, my toy!" Little Jack cried out, his voice tearing, the plastic cowboy in his hand dropped on the raised field path they had just crossed.
