Ever one for a morning ritual, I click on the news before grabbing a couple eggs from the fridge. I’ve eaten the same breakfast most days for the last two years, ever since I was discharged. Two eggs, sunny side up, each placed gently on a golden brown piece of whole wheat toast. I pair the eggs with a healthy dose of hot sauce and a tall glass of water. Simple, effective, and delicious.

“... radiation levels are stabilizing today around New England, though we expect to see some spikes in New Jersey according to the latest models. Isn’t that right, Melissa?”

“That’s right, Tom. Anyone heading out to the Jets game this afternoon should consider a higher DTPA dose today, just in case. And what a game it should be! The Jets have won four of their last five, looking to add to that success tonight.”

The newscast shifts back to Tom in his pressed brown suit and subtle makeup. “In other news, a fresh cadre of displaced persons has been approved for resettlement in the New Acadia Settlement Zone. What wonderful news. We’re so happy to give all those people a fresh start and a new place to live, aren’t we, Melissa?”

“That’s right, Tom. Another one thousand displaced persons will be arriving in the Settlement Zone this evening, and we’re just so—”

I click off the small screen. Like my breakfast, the news rarely changes. I really just needed the radiation report, and I managed to catch it. I finish the eggs, down my glass of water, and grab a needle from the large bin next to the mail slot on my front door. I won’t be going anywhere near New Jersey today, so just a regular dose of DTPA is enough.

My phone lights up with a text as I finish the simple injection.

Still on for today?

I type out a quick response: Loading up soon. See you in 30. I packed my gear bag last night, so ‘loading up’ only consists of grabbing a water bottle and a few snacks, then tossing my camo duffle into the back of my Jeep.

There’s barely any traffic today. I expect the highways to be clogged with cars and buses when it gets closer to game time this afternoon, and I already dread the return trip. I don’t live close to the newly renamed World Peace and Harmony Stadium, but I’m right off the only major highway, so all the residential backroads tend to get clogged too.

Pulling off the main road, I roll down my window and flash my badge at an armed guard outside the gun range. The range—as is the case with all firearms facilities now—is owned by the government and restricted to current and former government personnel only. No exceptions. I fall into the latter category. The top of my glossy badge reads: Captain Sarah O’Connor, Army Infantry, 6th Ranger Battalion, Honorable Discharge.

I see Jessica’s car pulling up right behind mine in the Jeep’s rear view mirror. We served together in the 6th, though not for very long. Our battalion was reformed and reactivated—along with a dozen or more other battalions and groups—right after the first scud missiles broke the Iron Dome and signaled the official start of World War Three. We were in-country for a year and a half before the evac orders. A shudder runs the length of my spine at the memory. Twelve hours to evac. Fourteen miles to the landing zone. Heavy enemy fire. Roadside IEDs. Unmanned drones filling the sky. All the… the friends we left behind.

A knock on my window snaps me out of it.

“Hey. You alright in there?”

I shake the memories out of my brain and refocus on the present, rolling down the window. “Yeah, sorry. PTSD can be a real bitch sometimes. Just zoned out for a minute.”

Jessica returns my smile. “Ha, let’s go shoot some shit.”

“Amen to that, sister.”

I shut off the Jeep and grab my bag from the back, then follow Jessica through a series of security checkpoints and other bureaucratic red tape before we emerge on a heavily forested range stretching as far as the eye can see. Well, as far as my eyes can see. The range maxes out at fifteen hundred yards, after all. A few others are already getting set up, and most of them look to be active duty in their green and brown fatigues. Per usual, I doubt any of them will even say hi to us, and that’s fine by me. I like a bit of solitude on the range to clear my thoughts.

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“You see the news?” Jessica asks, unzipping her range bag on a table next to me.

“Just the radrep this morning. Why?”

“Ha, another thousand refugees getting dumped in Maine.” She arranges a trio of rifles on the table and starts loading a few black polymer magazines.

I pull the white Kris Vector from my range bag and do the same with a few magazines. The rifle is the epitome of impractical, but I bought it with my combat discharge check, and I still get a kick out of the quirky design. “What’s new? Always more refugees. Always more uninhabitable land and people fleeing the rad clouds.”

Jessica sighs, a hand on her hip. Her eyes scowl, but I know she’s just pissed at the state of the world, not at me. “Fucking makes me sick,” she sneers. “If we had enough meds and food to go around, I’d be all for helping. But the fact is we don’t. Bringing another thousand refugees who don’t speak English, hate our way of life, and hate our country… just makes me sick.”

The conversation is a tired one. If we’ve had it once, we’ve had it a hundred times. A thousand. Most of the time we have it in the back of a dimly lit bar while attempting to suck down what passes for booze these days. Since the war, most of the country’s grain production has gone to bread—the ‘staples,’ as they call it—and very little is left for proper beer. All the dust kicked up by the nukes made everything too cold for a couple years, and famines wiped out half the world. I still remember the footage like it was yesterday. Hordes of hungry people, covered in dirt and grime, storming the richest neighborhoods all over the world. It was chaos. Civil wars all over Europe and South America, but none of them lasted long. In a few cases, more nukes settled down the peasants. In others, the peasants won.

“Hey. You with me, Sarah?”

Jessica’s snapping fingers bring me back to reality yet again. “Yeah, sorry. God, I’m really strung out today. Sorry.” I rub my temples and do one of the counting exercises my therapist gave me. It doesn’t really help.

She gives me a sidelong glance. “The usual bet? You up for it?”

I shake my hands to get some blood flowing and slide a magazine into the Vector’s receiver. “Hell yeah. Thirty shots. Fewest bullseyes buys the first round.”

I fire off ten shots and make three solid hits. Not my best work. The targets, four hundred yards downrange, are only a single square foot of battered steel. The outer edges are thicker than the very middle, and the sound difference alone tells us when we score a direct hit.

“Well… I guess I’m buying. I’m off today.” I grab a small cloth from my cleaning kit and run it on both sides of my variable scope. Maybe the lenses are dirty.

Jessica fires her second set of ten and scores eight in the dead center. I’m off my game, and she’s shooting better than ever. Just my luck.

By the end of thirty rounds, the score stands at twenty-four to eleven. Not even close.

“You kicked my ass, Sergeant,” I say with a smile.

“Not the first time, won’t be the last, Captain.”

A sharp pain worms its way from my left temple to the spot directly behind my eyes. “I’ve got a fucking migraine again.” I set down the rifle and take a drink of water, but I know it won’t help. Nothing helps.

“Another one? You go see that doc at the VA?” Jessica sets down her own rifle and grabs a government issued snack bar from her backpack. The plain white packaging only has the bare nutritional information and the flavor: peanut butter. In truth, they’re all peanut butter flavored. Even the ones that say mango just taste like a brick of old, dried peanut butter.

I wave off the proffered snack. “I’ve got my own snack bars. I’ll take some pills. And fuck the VA.” I pop a few generic painkillers and grab a second magazine. “Come on. Round two.”

The pills try their best against the migraine, but in the end, they’re no match for the throbbing pain and screwed up vision. Round two ends worse than round one, and we spend the rest of the hour just shooting for fun.

When our allotted time expires, we head inside to the lounge and grab a spot on one of the many couches. We’re surrounded by pictures of the battalion, tattered flags, and a few shiny commendations nailed to oiled plaques. A small TV in the corner is running the same news program from this morning.

“That’s right, Tom. NATO forces are pushing through the heavily fortified city today, hoping to reach more refugees by the end of the week.” The vapid, cheery news anchor disappears, and her powdered face is replaced by images of Donbass. The fighting in Donetsk has fully eclipsed the official World War III timeline and probably won’t stop within my lifetime.

Jessica throws an old car magazine toward the TV. “Hey, someone turn that shit off.”

An old MP sitting in the corner with a cigar in his mouth clicks a button on a remote, and the screen turns black.

“Fuck me, Sarah. Every day is more of this shit. More of us fighting a war none of us wanted.” She rips open a strawberry flavored peanut butter snack bar and takes a bite.

I do the same to a bar labeled cinnamon. The thick paste takes forever to chew. “One day at a time,” I say quietly, repeating one of the mantras from my therapist.

“One day at a time.” Jessica takes another bite. “Got that right. Hey, your brother still coming to town this weekend?”

I shake my head. “He couldn’t get a travel voucher. Not enough social credits.”

“Ah, figures. I’ve seen the shit he posts online. He’s lucky he isn’t in prison.”

“He’s worse than you!” I try to laugh, but raising my voice sends another wave of migraine pain surging through my skull. I close my eyes and breathe, just hoping it won’t last all day. Some of them do, though most are just a few hours.

“Drink some more water, girl. Lay your head back.” Jessica sits on the couch next to me and rubs my shoulders.

It helps a little, but then something new happens. My entire body goes numb. It feels like I’ve been thrown into a tub filled with ice and someone is holding my head underwater. I try to tell Jessica, but all that comes out is a pained grunt.

“It’ll be alright,” my best friend whispers. “Just let it pass. Everything passes. Everything. No more war. You’re back home. No enemies in New jersey.”

I can’t speak. My jaw feels like its wired shut. Every muscle in my back contracts, and pain rattles both my legs. I reach for my water, but I can’t see the bottle clearly, and it clatters to the ground.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get it.”

Jessica slides away to retrieve the bottle, and I swoon. Searching for anything to stabilize my swirling head, I latch onto my gear bag like a drowning woman with a piece of driftwood.

“Jess… Je—”

Everything goes black. The next thing I feel doesn’t make any sense: sand beneath my boots.