Iron and Citrus

The sound of tires crunching on gravel jolted Max from his work in the garden. He straightened, the sun beating down on his neck, and shaded his eyes as a battered truck came into view. The sheriff’s truck. It was unmistakable, with its peeling decal and rusted fenders, as much a relic as the man who drove it.

Max’s heart sank as the truck rolled to a stop in front of his house. Sheriff Don Haskins stepped out first, adjusting his wide-brimmed hat and tugging at his belt, which strained against a belly that had grown considerably since the invasion. The man who followed him—Deputy Russo—was younger, leaner, and carried a shotgun casually across his chest, though his hand never strayed far from the grip.

Max wiped his hands on his jeans and forced himself to breathe evenly. He’d known this visit was coming. The sheriff had a schedule of sorts, showing up every few weeks to “collect” supplies under the guise of supporting the community. In reality, it was just a shakedown.

“Morning, Max,” the sheriff called, his tone oily and too familiar. He ambled up the porch steps, ignoring Max’s attempt to meet him halfway. Russo stayed by the truck, watching silently.

“Sheriff,” Max replied, his voice flat. “What brings you out here?”

The sheriff grinned, revealing yellowed teeth. “Oh, you know how it is. Just makin’ sure everyone’s doing their part. Times like these, we all gotta pull together, right?”

Max didn’t answer. He could see the sweat beading on Haskins’ forehead, but the sheriff didn’t look like a man suffering from scarcity. Max, on the other hand, had already tightened his belt by a notch, and his clothes hung a little looser these days. The contrast wasn’t lost on either of them.

“We were just about to eat,” Max said, stepping closer to the door in an attempt to block the sheriff’s path. “Why don’t I bring you something from the pantry?”

The sheriff’s grin widened, and Max’s stomach turned. “Now, Max, that won’t do. I like to see for myself what people can spare. You understand.”

Before Max could object, the door creaked open behind him. Sarah stood in the doorway, their toddler balanced on her hip. Her eyes flicked to Max, then to the sheriff, and he saw the unspoken plea in her expression. Let it go. Don’t make this worse.

“Of course, Sheriff,” Sarah said, her voice calm but tight. She stepped aside, and the sheriff’s grin turned wolfish as he crossed the threshold.

Inside, the air was cooler, but Max’s anger burned hot. He stood rigid near the door as Haskins made his way into the kitchen, his boots scuffing against the worn linoleum. Sarah followed, setting the toddler down with a toy and moving toward the pantry.

“Now, don’t trouble yourself, Mrs. Carter,” the sheriff said, raising a hand to stop her. “I’ll take a look.” He leaned past her, his hand settling on her shoulder. Max noticed it immediately—the way the sheriff’s fingers lingered too long, pressing against her bare skin.

Then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, Haskins slid his hand down from her shoulder to the middle of her back. The movement was slow, deliberate—intimate in a way that only a husband had any right to be.

Max’s vision went red. His hand dropped instinctively to his waistband, he could feel the abrasive texture of the Wilson Combat grip on his Sig p365 with the tip of his index finger. The sheriff was oblivious, his attention on Sarah as she stiffened under his touch, her expression frozen somewhere between fear and disgust.

Max’s heart pounded, his fingers itching to draw the gun and end this right now. He could see it so clearly: one shot of 9mm Speer Gold Dot to the back of the head, and the smug grin wiped from Haskins’ face forever. But his gaze shifted to Sarah, who had turned slightly to look at him. Her eyes locked on his, sharp and pleading. Don’t. Not now.

She broke the tension with a soft laugh, stepping away from the sheriff and moving toward the pantry. “We don’t have much, Sheriff,” she said, her voice steady despite the tremble in her hands, “but you’re welcome to what we can spare.”

The sheriff’s hand fell to his side, and he smirked as if he’d won some unspoken contest. “Good folks,” he said, turning his attention to the shelves. He took a few cans—beans, corn, and peaches—and handed them to Russo, who had finally wandered inside. “Always doin’ your part.”

As the truck rumbled away, Max stood on the porch, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. Sarah stepped beside him, silent for a moment before placing a hand on his arm.

“We’ll be okay,” she said softly.

Max didn’t reply. He stared down the empty road, his hand brushing the grip of the pistol still tucked into his waistband. Surviving wasn’t the same as living, but sometimes survival was all he could promise.

Danny Torres: A Lone Observer

About a mile outside town, Danny Torres crouched in the palmetto scrub, his AR-15 slung over his shoulder. Through his binoculars, he watched the Russians unload crates from a flatbed truck at the edge of a clearing. It wasn’t the first supply run he’d seen, but something about this one felt different. The crates were heavier, their contents guarded more carefully. Cypress Hollow and the surrounding area weren’t important to the Russians. They sent third rate troops, Danny noticed none of them were wearing body armor.

The Russians weren’t alone. Two of the sheriff’s deputies stood nearby, their casual postures a stark contrast to the soldiers’ rigid discipline. One deputy even laughed at something a Russian soldier said, the sound carrying faintly on the breeze. Danny frowned. Collaborators. They were worse than the invaders.

A movement to his left caught his eye. He lowered the binoculars and spotted a boy—no older than thirteen—creeping through the brush with a bolt-action rifle. The kid’s hands shook, and his wide eyes were locked on the clearing. Danny swore under his breath. If the boy fired, it wouldn’t end well. The Russians wouldn’t just take him out; they’d torch every house in the area as retribution.

Danny clicked the safety off his rifle and whispered to himself, “Not today, kid.”

He moved quietly, closing the distance until he was within earshot. “Hey,” he hissed, keeping his voice low but firm. The boy froze, turning to face him with a look of terror. “Get out of here. Now.”

The kid hesitated, then nodded and melted back into the brush. Danny exhaled, relieved. He turned his attention back to the clearing, watching as the Russians finished their work and drove off. Whatever was in those crates, it wasn’t good news.

Danny adjusted his grip on the rifle and retreated into the woods. He didn’t know what his next move would be, but he couldn’t sit idle forever. Sooner or later, someone would have to push back. And if no one else was willing, then it would be him.