The Wrath of God

by Jim Balzotti

  November 2026

  Northern Maine

  The sun was beginning to appear low on the horizon, and the red sky promised another fine day. Lawrence went to every hammock, placing his hand over each man’s mouth and shaking them awake. They operated in silence; a man shouting inadvertently when woken was a risk. The men quickly left their hammocks and folded them tightly, placing them into their backpacks while shaking the sleep out of their eyes, their dreams fading in the daylight. Lawrence expected the same strict discipline from his soldiers that he demanded from himself. Each man carried his rifle, six-inch knife with a serrated blade, ammo, fish hook and nylon line, an ax, and a machete. The knife, ax, and machete were always sharpened until they had a killing edge. Each man carried the Chinese QBZ-95 military assault weapon. Despite its odd name, it was one of the finest military rifles ever produced. They were also plentiful, as the men just took them from the Chinese they killed. It was lightweight and simple to operate. It was chambered for the 5.8 x 42 mm cartridge, held a standard clip of 30 rounds, was gas operated, and could fire 650 rounds per minute. You could mount either standard optical sights or a night vision scope. Underneath, it held both a grenade launcher and a combat knife bayonet, either of which Lawrence and his men could use efficiently. They had to operate by stealth. Get in, kill the Chinese, and disappear back into the forest. They took a perverse pleasure in shooting the Chinese with their own weapons.

  When Lawrence fought in Afghanistan, he operated as a one-man killing team. His weapon of choice was a M40A1 sniper rifle, with a 10 power Unertl sniper scope. Sometimes he would be away from his company in a remote area controlled by hostiles for more than a month. They wouldn’t know whether he was alive or dead until he came straggling back into camp. The Taliban called him the White Ghost, and feared him as much as they feared the enemy drone strikes. When they spoke of him, they did so in whispers, as if saying his name aloud would summon him like a demon from hell. His kills became legendary. No one was safe from the long reach of his rifle. He would always volunteer to take the missions deemed too dangerous or even suicidal, but he always made it back alive. At one point the Taliban put a large bounty on his head, but none of the enemy fighters were particularly motivated to seek him. They weren’t in that much of a hurry to meet Allah, and the promise of seventy-two virgins wasn’t motivation enough.

  The men gathered around the campfire, each helping himself to a cup of steaming hot black coffee. Cream and sugar were a luxury from the past, and Lawrence insisted that even if available, they were not to be used. His men were hard and pissed off, and he needed to keep them that way. They boiled coffee beans, crushed by the handles of their knives in a metal coffee pot without a strainer. If left alone long enough, the grinds would sink to the bottom of the pot, or so was the thinking. Most just endured the bitter brew, feeding on it. Dried game, usually venison, accompanied by a piece of hard bread and cheese, sometimes moldy, made their morning meal.

  Lawrence spread out his topographical map of the area on the forest floor. He pointed to their current location, which was due south of the US-Canadian border in the woods near St. David on the American side. He traced a route with his finger where they would travel along the St. John River, now frozen over with thick ice, to the Canadian border town of Madawaska. The Chinese had set up a border crossing station and used it as an operational post. Their job, Lawrence told his men, was to take it out with extreme prejudice. Like every other mission.

  “We’ll follow the river until it makes the bend into Madawaska, and then skirt the thick cover of the wood line until we reach this grove of pine trees. We’ll wait there until dark, and then hit them hard and fast. No prisoners, no survivors.” He didn’t have to tell them. “The border station is here, just three hundred feet north. They will have a fuel dump for their generators, and a communications building or shack. We take those out too. We can replenish supplies, and tail it out of there. As soon as the base doesn’t report in, they’ll be sending their Z-6 attack helicopters, and we want to be long gone. Not sure how many men they’ll have, but it’s a good guess more than we’re used to, as this is one of their major border crossings, and they may be on the lookout for us.”

  He looked at his men in the early morning light and saw no fear in their eyes, just the iron determination in anticipation of the dangerous field assignment he had just given them. They knew the Chinese were aware of them and made their capture or death a high priority. Each of the men knew what their future held. Sooner or later, the Chinese would find them. They pushed this thought away from their minds, as it would only hasten their demise. Each of them had a personal reason for hating the Chinese, beyond the fall of America. To a man, they had lost loved ones, and now their only goal was to avenge those deaths and kill as many of the hated Chinese as they could. Lawrence taught them to harness all of their emotions into a cold, murderous rage directed at the Chinese. The fear of death never entered their minds or hearts, or sympathy for the men they killed. Lawrence and his men were being swept along in a swift current that would ultimately carry them to their deaths. They could only hope for a quick one, not wanting to be taken alive. If they could alter their fate, disappear off into the woods, they wouldn’t.

  Usually, he and his men would sleep hidden deep on the forest floor by day, and run operations using their night vision goggles after dark. The Chinese were well trained and disciplined, so Lawrence always cautioned his men not to underestimate them, but the human body naturally relaxed when the sun went down. Being alert night after night, it was only natural for them to relax some, even knowing how this dangerous complacency could get them killed.

  The men broke camp silently, carefully removing all traces that they had been there. They checked their weapons, ran their fingers along the blades of their knives, and followed Lawrence deeper into the woods. They hiked for the better part of the day, stopping only once to sip water and check their bearings. When they were on a mission, Lawrence did not allow them to eat anything but a small snack, as he wanted them alert, and a hungry man is an alert man.

  Lawrence knew that a great part of what kept him and his men alive was that they were closely in tune to each of their five senses. Beside sight and sound, he honed their senses of smell, touch, and taste. They learned to pick up the scent of the tobacco the Chinese smoked, the smell of green tea being brewed a hundred yards away, and knew by the taste of leftover rice how long ago the Chinese had left an area. Lawrence and his men were not the only hunters in the woods. Roving killing squads of Chinese soldiers, with orders to shoot on sight, were always on the hunt for any remaining militia groups still active. So Lawrence did not limit disguise and deception to just defense, but as a centerpiece of offensive strategies. Their lives depended on it.

  The sun was just beginning to set as the men reached the hostile outpost, throwing long shadows through the pine trees that towered over two hundred feet in the sky, giving the men another layer of camouflage. Lawrence took out his field glasses and scoped the border checkpoint. He could see two Chinese soldiers manning the barrier that stood between the United States and Canada, though he had to remind himself it was all Chinese territory now. A lantern was lit inside the shack that bordered the gate, white smoke entrails coming out of the flue on the near side. He could see no other buildings that could house additional soldiers. Two twin one-thousand-gallon diesel fuel storage tanks were safely located fifty yards from the shack. It was quiet. If it was a trap, it was a good one.

  Lawrence raised his hand and waved two fingers to the east side of the checkpoint. Two of his men silently moved in that direction, step over step, moving slowly, careful not to step on a dried stick and alert the guards. Silence, not speed, was the goal. They stopped while they still had cover, placing themselves in killing range. They each raised their rifles and held their sights on the center of the chests of the guards. Lawrence pointed his finger first to another man, then to the ground, to indicate he should stay there and keep a wat
ch for any kind of movement he may have missed. With a nod of his head, he and the other man made their way to the guard shack. When they were within fifty feet of the shack, he broke cover and sprinted to the building. Simultaneously each of his first two men fired a single killing shot at the two outside Chinese guards. Both wordlessly fell to the ground dead, their faces registering surprise at the bullets that suddenly slammed into their chests. At that precise moment, Lawrence kicked in the door to the shocked faces of the three remaining Chinese soldiers. One ran to pick up the receiver of the shortwave radio. Lawrence raised his weapon and fired. The man’s eyes jerked upwards as he fell noisily to the floor. The other two quickly raised their hands in surrender. While his man trained his rifle on them, Lawrence pulled the maps from the wall, stuffing them into his rucksack to be studied later. He then placed all the remaining papers in a pile to be burned. Giving a cursory look around, satisfied he had everything of value, he had his men bring the two remaining Chinese soldiers outside, and forced them to kneel in the dirt. He first asked them if they understood English. They spoke in hurried, pleading tones in which they no doubt were begging for their lives. Lawrence raised his rifle slowly to let them know what was coming.

  “This is for Amy,” he whispered as he pulled the trigger. Twice.

  November 2026

  Northern Maine

  The blasts of the Chinese NEMT bombs did not affect most of the heavily timbered region of northern rural Maine. The terrain, heavily blanketed with towering pine trees and mountains, took the brunt of the damage, dissipating much of the electrical impulses. Anything south of Bangor, though, was toast.

  The townspeople knew what happened…bad news travels especially fast. They sought answers in their churches, from their family and friends, but details were sketchy. More news filtered out of small bait and tackle stores and coffee shops than the official news outlets, as television screens went blank and the phone lines were down. Most assumed it was a nuclear attack. Most figured it was the Chinese. Living in the north woods, where nor’easter blizzards would knock down power and phone lines, more than a few folks had the old-fashioned ham radios as a backup. This enabled communication with other ham radio operators around the country. The reports coming in were dire. The community drew around itself and its church, fearing the worst.

  When Father O’Mallory heard of the Chinese edict forbidding religion and the abolishment of houses of worship, he met with his congregation that Sunday with solemn resolve. He told the members of his parish that he would not, could not, shutter his doors, and implored his parishioners not to attend Mass anymore. It was just too dangerous. Instead, they should pray to God in a more secure, secret location. The congregation listened to his words but held firm. They knew the danger, but they would worship God in the manner they had done for years. One day in the fall, when the leaves fell and blanketed the streets in hues of gold and crimson and the air began to chill, the Chinese came on a Sunday morning. The church was filled with parishioners’ voices in song worshipping God. Soldiers surrounded the church, bearing machine guns and blocking all the exits. In panic some tried running but were mercilessly gunned down along with anyone else trying to escape. The captain of the Chinese unit went into the house of God and walked up the center aisle, where Father O’Mallory stood. “Renounce God now, or be killed,” the captain ordered. The beloved priest looked out at God’s beauty for one last time as the sun streamed in through the stained glass window. Turning to the captain without a trace of fear on his face, he said he would pray for the captain’s and his soldiers’ souls. The captain raised his pistol and shot Father O’Mallory once in the head, instantly killing him. Then he motioned to his troops, and they began to fire their machine guns into the crowded pews. Screams of pain and cries of anguish filled the small church that once knew only peace and love. Fathers and mothers threw themselves on their children, begging and pleading for their children’s lives. It mattered not. The sounds of spent brass shell casings made an unholy noise as they clattered onto the church’s wooden floor. When the screams ceased, the Chinese stopped their shooting and began to exit the church. This holy place that had once been filled with prayer and song was silent.

  The parishioners were murdered in the house of the Lord.

  The white clouds that filled the sky above the church suddenly turned black as the Chinese troops exited. Large hailstones the size of baseballs rained down from the sky. Windshields on the cars and trucks outside cracked and broke; lightning flashed to the ground, causing sporadic fires; and the hail turned into a torrential rain. It was if the heavens opened up in righteous anger.

  The Chinese immediately ran to their military trucks, ducking the hailstones and the lightening. A Chinese soldier was hit by a flash of lightning and burst into flames, then another. A jeep carrying four panicked soldiers exploded into a fireball when it was hit by a lightning bolt. They quickly fled the area before burning down the church as per their orders. The commander would falsely report that the church was destroyed, and none of his soldiers would disagree. First, it was never a good idea to disagree with your commander; second, none of the soldiers ever wanted to go back to that church.

  It was strictly by chance that Matt and his mother missed Mass that Sunday. They were ready to leave when their milk cow, Bessie, managed to get herself wrapped in the barbed wire that was strung up down by the creek. Matt needed to free her before he could think about going to church.

  Bessie got herself tangled up pretty good, trying to reach through the fencing to get at the tender green shoots of grass that sprouted at the edge of the creek bed. While his mother held Bessie’s head and calmed her down, Matt took the pliers, carefully cutting off the wire that was wrapped around Bessie’s legs. Once that was accomplished, there were a few pretty deep cuts that needed attending. They led Bessie back to the barn, and with Mom still holding her, Matt cleaned out the wounds so they wouldn’t fester, then generously slathered on an antibiotic ointment. By the time they got done, they knew Mass was long over.

  “Matt,” his mother said, “I’d still like you to take this apple pie down to Father O’Mallory. I promised him I’d bring it today when I came to Mass. I know he’ll be looking for it. I’m just too tuckered out to bring it myself. And ask him to dinner sometime this week…make it Wednesday. Tell him I’ll make his favorite…roast pork with stuffing and homemade applesauce. Okay?”

  “Sure, Mom.” So Matt stripped off his muddy clothes and jumped in the shower, hosing himself off. He put on a fresh white shirt and jeans and walked down the stairs and into the kitchen, where he put the still-warm pie under a clean red-and-white-checkered towel, and headed off for town.

  He expected that after Mass the people would head home, but the cars were still there. Strange. The area was very still and very quiet. When he pulled into the church parking lot, his mind couldn’t quite make sense of what his eyes were seeing. There were still cars and pickup trucks in the lot, but most of the windshields were broken. Some were on fire. There was broken glass on the front steps, and the front door was hanging by one hinge. All of his senses screamed at him that something was dreadfully wrong. It was then he noticed the Chinese jeeps. Next to them, some Chinese soldiers were dead on the ground. He mounted the steps and pulled open the broken door. It was the smell that he first noticed. The smell of blood was unmistakable, and he had smelled enough of it when he was a medic in the war.

  He gagged, covering his nose and mouth with his handkerchief. The carnage was terrible. Bodies were lying on top of one another, parents lying this way and that, covering their slain children. Some of the people he recognized as his neighbors, others with their faces too torn up to identify. The smell of blood permeated the church and was splashed in random patterns against the pews and walls. The stained glass windows, for which the congregation raised the funds by holding bake sales, were now shattered in pieces. The different colored glasses littered the floor. Matt’s eyes went to the altar and he could see the lar
ge body of Father O’Mallory, lying on his stomach, splayed across the altar steps. He walked quietly to him and turned him over, cradling his head in his arms and hands. He could see the gaping bullet hole in his head and the ugly wound it left. His eyes were still open but unseeing. He gently closed his lifeless eyes for one last time, made the sign of the cross, and asked God to accept this good man into the kingdom of heaven. He gently laid him back down on the wooden steps and heard a low moan. He stepped over the bodies to where the sound originated from, and saw that Nicky Clark was still alive, but bleeding. Nicky was sixteen, the son of the owner of the True Value Hardware store in town. Matt ripped open his shirt, probably the only nice one that he saved to wear to church every week, looking for where he had been shot. Nicky moaned in pain as Matt’s fingers explored, then located the wound. He had been shot, but it looked like the bullet went cleanly through his right side. Nicky was in shock, so Matt picked him up and carried him to the basin of holy water that was in the brass bowl that stood in the front of the church. Taking a piece of his handkerchief, he wet the cloth and wiped the blood off the wound. Nicky’s eyes suddenly opened wide, and his hands latched on to Matt.

  “It’s okay, Nicky. It’s okay. What happened?” Matt asked, looking around for any other signs that someone else might be alive.

  “It was the Chinese. They just walked in and shot Father O’Mallory, then all hell broke loose. They just started shooting at everyone! My mother…my father…” he wailed.