Iron and Citrus

The morning sun rose sluggishly over the flat expanse of south-central Florida, its heat already promising another stifling day. Max sat on the porch of his home, his eyes fixed on the dirt road that snaked toward town. A humid breeze rustled the palmetto scrub, carrying with it the faint diesel stench of a Russian convoy that had passed hours earlier. The world seemed quiet, but Max knew better.

The silence wasn’t peace—it was fear.

He cradled a BCM RECCE-16 on his lap, its presence more habit than comfort. From here, he could see most of his land: a few rows of citrus trees, a chicken coop near the treeline, and the faint outline of his root cellar, hidden beneath a weathered tarp. The small plot had been his sanctuary, the culmination of years spent preparing for a disaster he’d always felt was coming. He’d just never imagined it would look like this.

The invasion had started like a distant storm—rumors of Russian troops in Cuba, missile strikes on Florida’s coastal defenses, and then, like thunder rolling across the state, the first armored vehicles appearing in the streets. Cypress Hollow had fallen in less than a day. The local boys who’d fought back hadn’t lasted even that long.

Max had watched from the shadows near his property as the Russians rolled into town. Their BTR-90s had looked monstrous, their thick armor and mounted machine guns impervious to anything the locals could muster. Even a Barrett M107 with raufoss Mk211 rounds, the best anti material weapons he could get legally before the invasion but they wouldn’t have done anything. A handful of men with hunting rifles and shotguns had tried to make a stand on Main Street, firing from behind parked cars and buildings. The Russians hadn’t even slowed down. The heavy crack of their return fire had echoed across the fields, and when it was over, the bodies were left sprawled on the asphalt as a warning.

Max had tightened his grip on his own rifle that day, his knuckles pale and aching. Every instinct told him to act, to fight, to do something—but his reason had held him back. What could he, a single man, do against a column of armored vehicles? Even if he managed to take out a soldier or two, the Russians wouldn’t just retreat. They’d retaliate. They’d burn the town to the ground, kill anyone they thought was involved, and call it "pacification."

He wasn’t willing to gamble his family’s lives on a fight he couldn’t win.

“Max.” His wife’s voice broke through his thoughts. Sarah stepped out onto the porch, cradling their youngest in her arms. The toddler clung to her, his bright eyes curious but weary. “Come inside. It’s not safe to sit out here.”

He nodded, but his gaze lingered on the horizon. The road was empty now, but he knew the sheriff’s men would be coming soon. They always did, demanding their share of “taxes” in the form of canned goods, fresh eggs, or anything else they deemed useful. Officially, it was part of the “community redistribution program.” In reality, it was theft under the barrel of a gun.

The sheriff’s office in town had become the de facto command post, flying both the American and Russian flags. Sheriff Don Haskins, a man Max had once thought of as a necessary evil, now wore a tricolor armband and acted as the invaders’ enforcer. His deputies patrolled the town in battered police cruisers, their presence a constant reminder of who really ran things.

Max sighed and stood, slinging his BCM around his shoulder. “I’ll be in soon,” he said. Sarah gave him a wary look but didn’t press. She disappeared back into the house, the screen door creaking shut behind her.

The town of Cypress Hollow was a shadow of its former self. Once a sleepy community with a single traffic light and a diner that doubled as the town’s social hub, it now felt more like a prison. Main Street was lined with shuttered storefronts, their windows boarded up or broken. The old bank building still bore the scars of the brief firefight that had marked the town’s surrender, its brick façade riddled with bullet holes.

At the edge of town, the “detention center” loomed—a repurposed warehouse where the sheriff’s men brought anyone who stepped out of line. People who went in rarely came out. The church bell that once called worshippers to Sunday service now rang only to signal curfew.

The Russians themselves were a rare sight. Their focus was on the coastal cities and the front lines further north. Here, in rural Florida, they relied on collaborators like Haskins to keep the population subdued. A single armored personnel carrier sat parked outside the sheriff’s office, its turret a silent but ever-present threat.

Max had avoided town since the invasion, relying on his stockpile to keep his family fed. But supplies wouldn’t last forever. Each visit from the sheriff’s men took a little more, and soon, Max would have to make a decision: stay hidden and hope for the best, or take the risk of venturing into town to trade.

Max stepped inside, bolting the door behind him. His kids were playing quietly in the living room, their laughter subdued but still precious. He knelt beside Sarah, who was sorting through a small pile of canned goods on the kitchen counter.

“We’ll be okay,” he said softly, though the words felt hollow even as he spoke them. She didn’t reply, just nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Max glanced out the window one last time, his mind already turning over contingencies. He’d done everything right—he’d planned, prepared, and stayed under the radar—but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t enough. The world outside was changing, and no amount of supplies or firepower could shield them from what was coming.

Surviving wasn’t the same as living. But for now, it would have to do.