The Patriot Pickup limped into the Rustbucket Riviera like a hungover uncle crashing a family reunion—smoking under the hood, axles groaning like a filibuster on life support, and Eddie the eagle riding the roof rack like a hood ornament with abandonment issues. The heartland heart of Shitholia unfolded before them: endless cornfields genetically tweaked to yield ethanol for the elite and empty promises for the rest, dotted with silos that doubled as cell towers beaming "rural broadband" (speeds rivaling carrier pigeons on vacation). Billboards loomed like judgmental bill collectors: "Cal's Back—Bigger, Tannier, Ballot-ier!" and "Recount This: Freedom Fries for the Fallen."
Jax Hawthorne nursed the wheel, his Hawaiian shirt now a Rorschach test of stains—gator bile, mink fur, and what he prayed was just salsa from the post-eclipse burrito run. The holo-call from Cal still buzzed in his brain like a bad ringtone: Phase Three's my phoenix, ronin. And you're the kindling. "Kindling? Please. We're the whole damn bonfire—complete with s'mores and schadenfreude. But zombie voters? That's a new low, even for a guy whose platform's built on quicksand and quarter-pounders."
From the passenger seat, Lila Vargas scrolled her burner phone, feet propped on the dash in a tangle of sequined boots and stray feathers. The screen glowed with #BaldEagleBounty fallout: fan edits of her gator-riding glory set to polka remixes, conspiracy threads claiming they were "deep-state deep-fried," and a petition for "Official Samurai Status: With Tax Breaks." "Guys, we're at 50K followers! Some grandma in the Riviera knit us balaclavas—'Eagle Eye Embroidered.' Ooh, and Cal's trending too: #CombOverCoup. His latest tweet? 'The eclipse was rigged! Like the polls! Fight back with fries!' Lame. Needs more lasers."
Theo Beaumont, buried in the back with his laptop balanced on a precarious pile of snack wrappers, adjusted his fogged glasses and cross-referenced Murray's latest napkin dispatch. The clerk had gone full underground—texts routed through a VPN disguised as a bingo hotline. "Not lame, Lila—calculated. Phase Three: 'The Recount Reckoning.' It's a 'resurrection rally' in Cornhole City, ground zero for undecideds. Cal's tech bros from the Savanna cooked up 'Zombi-Vote Serum'—a nanite cocktail in the rally's 'free flu shots.' Pumps the veins with loyalty loops: See Cal's face, hear his voice, and boom—you're shambling for the 'Freedom First' line, chanting 'Walls and Whoppers' till your mortgage is foreclosed."
Big Bubba O'Malley, shotgun to the laptop (and occasionally the flask), grunted from the truck bed via the open rear window. His gator bite was bandaged with duct tape and denial, and his cigar smoke trailed like a contrail of cynicism. "Nanites? Back in my day, we called that 'gerrymandering with a chaser.' But zombies? Fits the Riviera—folks here been dead inside since the factories ghosted for cheaper ghosts overseas. Rally's at the old Harvest Dome: half football field, half revival tent, all rigged with holo-pulpits. Cal's preaching 'eternal incumbency' tonight. We crash it, we cure the horde. Fail? Shitholia's got a new mascot: The Walking Ballot."
The pickup wheezed into Cornhole City's outskirts as dusk draped the dustbowls in sepia suspicion. The town was a time capsule cracked open: main drag lined with "Cal's Corner Stores" (formerly Ma's Mercantile, now slinging slogan tees and serum-spiked sodas), a courthouse with a clock tower stuck at "Tax Time," and pickup trucks circling like vultures at a potluck. Overhead, news drones droned the pre-rally hype: "Tonight: Cal Rises! Will You? Free Shots and Second Chances!"
Jax parallel-parked between a rusted F-150 ("Don't Tread On Me—I'm Already Flat") and a minivan plastered with "Honk If You Hate Holograms." The crew disembarked, disguises refreshed from the glovebox of gimmicks: Jax in a "Rally Volunteer" vest (stolen from a laundromat lost-and-found), Lila as a "cheer squad captain" (pom-poms hiding her slingshot), Theo with a "Pollster Pro" clipboard (loaded with hack codes), and Bubba as "security" (bat as a "crowd control prod," overalls swapped for a hi-vis jacket reading "Cal's Muscle—Literally").
"Operation Undead Undecided," Jax murmured, Liberty's Edge sheathed but humming under his vest like a sixth sense for bullshit. "Infiltrate the dome, spike the serum with Theo's antidote— that 'truth tickler' nanite he whipped up in the diner bathroom. Lila distracts the horde, Bubba herds the heavies, I slice the holo-lines. Easy as apple pie laced with arsenic."
Lila twirled a pom-pom, fluff exploding like premature confetti. "Distract? Honey, I'll dazzle. Half-time show: Samurai slingshot symphony! Debtzilla's hyped—says the zombies smell like expired votes." Her hamster poked its head from her pocket, sniffing the air with beady-eyed judgment.
The Harvest Dome squatted on the fairgrounds like a deflated dirigible: corrugated metal patched with campaign banners ("Recount? We Prefer Resurrection!"), floodlights buzzing with patriotic fervor, and tailgates tailgating—RVers grilling "liberty links" while swapping stories of "the good old days when deficits were just dinner tabs." Crowds milled: farmers in flannel fatigues, factory ghosts with haunted eyes, and undecideds shuffling like extras in a low-budget apocalypse flick—flyers in hand promising "Vote Cal: Or the Commies Get Your Cat."
They slipped the perimeter—Theo flashing a spoofed wristband that chirped "Welcome, Brother in Bullshit"—and wormed into the underbelly: catwalks creaking above the arena floor, where the stage was a scaffold of screens and spotlights, central podium etched with "E Pluribus Unum... Except for the Poor." Below, med tents hawked "Protect Your Patriotism: One Shot to Slay the Doubts!" Nurses in "CalCare" scrubs jabbed arms with syringes that glowed faintly blue—zombi-serum, fresh from the Savanna labs.
Theo knelt by a vent, plugging his laptop into a junction box. "Antidote deploying—looks like Kool-Aid for the conspiracy crowd. It'll flush the nanites, leave 'em with a killer hangover and a sudden urge to fact-check. But the mainframe's upstairs, guarded by... oh. Goon squad. And a pet gator? In a dome?"
Bubba peered down, cigar clenched. "Gator in overalls. Cal's expanding his brand: 'Reptile Rights for the Right.' Cute. I'll handle the scales."
Alarms didn't blare—yet—but the rally revved: pyrotechnics popping like popcorn of propaganda, a warm-up band (The Filibuster Fiddlers) sawing "Yankee Doodle Dead" on electrified banjos. The crowd chanted half-heartedly, a murmur of malaise turning to moans as serum took hold—eyes glazing, steps syncing to an invisible march.
Lila dropped first, rappelling from the catwalk on pom-pom ropes, landing in the med tent like a feathered grenade. "Hey, nurses! Loving the jab-jam—mind if I add some flair?" She somersaulted past a tray of syringes, slingshot singing: rubber-band barrages of antidote vials (Theo's batch, labeled "Truth Juice: Chug or Choke"). Vials shattered on skin, nanites neutralizing in fizzy flares—zombies blinking back to baseline, muttering "Wait... free shots? Or free shots at the system?"
Chaos cascaded: a domino of deprogramming, the horde turning from shamblers to shouters—"Where's my refund?" "Cal's a con!"—storming the stage like a flash mob of fury. Nurses fled, syringes spilling like spilled milk of human kindness (expired).
Jax swung down beside her, blade flashing to sever holo-cables snaking from the rafters. Screens flickered—Cal's pre-recorded entrance glitching from "Rise and Shine!" to "Rise and Whine?"—his holo-form materializing mid-strut, comb-over pixelating like bad reception. "My fellow undead—er, undefeated! Tonight, we recount the reckoning! Inject the future—"
The crowd's roar drowned him: "Bullshit!" Bottles flew; the fiddlers fled. Jax grinned, parrying a guard's baton with a clang. "Speech over, Cheeto. Your zombies? Unionized. And striking."
Up top, Bubba breached the control booth—a plexiglass panic room where techs cowered over consoles, the gator (dubbed "Swamp Thing Two") thrashing on a chain. "Evening, folks. Plumbing check." His bat whooshed, cracking the door's lock; the gator lunged, jaws snapping at air. Bubba sidestepped, prodding its snout with the bat's end—zap from a hidden taser, sending it spasming into a coil of cables. "Nap time, scales. Dream of better gigs."
Techs surrendered hands-up, Theo's hack flooding their rigs: antidote aerosols hissing from vents, screens looping Cal's gaffes—"Covfefe? More like cough-fefe!" The holo-Cal shorted spectacularly, his face melting into a puddle of pixels that reformed as Eddie's beak, squawking "Splat the vote!"
But the rally's heart—Cal's inner sanctum, a VIP bunker beneath the podium—erupted. The real deal stormed out, flanked by Slick Vic and a squad of serum-jacked suits, eyes vacant and veins blue. Cal's tan was sallow under the lights, comb-over askew like a crown of thorns made of bad decisions. "You again! Ronin rabble! This reckoning's mine—my voters, my vengeance! The serum's airborne now—whole dome's dosing! You'll all shamble for me!"
Jax leaped the stage, Liberty's Edge a silver streak clashing with Vic's concealed cane-sword. Sparks flew; the advisor parried with oily grace. "Predictable, Hawthorne. Cal's phoenix rises—your crew? Just ashes in the wind."
Lila vaulted beside him, pom-poms pummeling a suit into submission. "Ashes? Bitch, we're the barbecue! Extra sauce—truth flavor!" Her slingshot tagged Vic's vial-belt, antidote blooming in bursts that popped his goons like overripe pimples.
Theo rappelled in, clipboard as shield, directing drone-hacks from above: rally lights strobing the serum cloud into harmless mist. "Airborne? Countermeasure deployed—now it's 'forgetfulness fog.' Cal's fans'll wake up tomorrow thinking they voted for the cat in the hat!"
Bubba crashed the party last, gator chain repurposed as a whip, lashing suits into submission. "Reckoning? More like wreck-oning." He cornered Cal, bat leveled at the tycoon's tie. "End of the line, Comb-Over. Your phase? Phased out."
Cal backed against the podium, tiny hands raised in mock surrender, but his eyes gleamed manic. "Fools! You think this kills the bird? Phase Three's the spark—zombies are just the kindling. The real fire? The 'Eternal Endorsement Engine'—buried under the dome, pumping serum nationwide via the old ag pipes. Shut it down? Sure. But too late—it's live. By dawn, Shitholia shambles for me."
A rumble shook the stage—pipes groaning underground, mist seeping from cracks. The crowd, half-cured, half-hysterical, surged: some cheering the chaos, others clawing for the exits in a stampede of second thoughts.
Jax pressed his blade to Cal's throat, nicking a bead of spray-tan sweat. "Engine, huh? Point the way, or I etch 'Liar' into your legacy."
Cal smirked, defiant. "Down, ronin. But remember: Every phoenix needs a pyre. And you're dancing in the flames."
Theo's laptop blared—coords locked. "Got it! Sub-level alpha—old silo access. But guards... and a self-destruct? Ten minutes!"
Lila whooped. "Ten? That's overtime pay!"
Bubba hoisted Cal over his shoulder like a sack of bad policies. "Hostage it is. Move!"
They dove for the trapdoor beneath the podium, the dome devolving into a mosh pit of mayhem above: zombies zombifying back, fiddlers fighting feds, and Eddie dive-bombing with droppings that shorted spotlights. The pipe tunnels swallowed them—dank, dripping, echoing with the Engine's hum: a monstrous machine of vials and valves, pumping blue fog into the heartland veins.
But as they burst into the chamber—blades drawn, bat ready—the Engine pulsed alive. And from its core? A holo-projection: Not Cal. A new face—shadowy, suited, with a grin like a shark in a suit. "Welcome, hunters. Phase Four: The Shadow Slate. Cal was the appetizer. I'm the main course."
The figure winked out. Alarms wailed—self-destruct engaged.
Jax cursed. "Author, you cliffhanger-happy hack—"
Boom. The tunnel trembled. Run.