Chapter 1: The Chief's Secret Orders

Ethan Graham, the Chief Strategist, marched out to Pine Ridge six times, but it was never really to attack the rival Union.

Every time Ethan left headquarters, his boots tracked Northwoods red mud back onto the courthouse steps—a sight everyone in Silver Hollow recognized. Folks in town would watch him head out at dawn, coat buttoned up tight, jaw set hard. He always passed the flagpole out front, brushing his hat brim with his hand, but his eyes never lingered on the stars and stripes. It was as if he saw something in the morning mist the rest of us couldn’t. Not the Grant in our schoolbooks, but another—our own fallen leader, known only by his last name.

The night before I got my orders to defend Red Bluff, the Chief called me in, his face shadowed with worry:

“Marcus, do you remember the great fire at Willow Creek?”

His voice had that low, Southern grit that always made a man listen. He leaned in, elbows pressing into the scarred oak desk between us.

“Everyone says it was Luke Carson who set fire to the chained camps.”

My mind flashed back—every man in our unit had grown up with that story. Even the playground kids in Silver Hollow whispered about Luke, turning him into some outlaw legend. I nodded, letting the silence stretch.

“But in truth, that fire was set by the late President Grant himself.”

I blinked, the weight of his words landing like a stone in my gut. The Chief’s gaze didn’t waver, and the lamp’s flicker deepened the tired lines in his face.

“Luke Carson saw the Union army across the river and was so spooked he’d already run.”

Hearing it like that, the legend shrank into something raw and human. My hands tightened around the mug of stale coffee I’d brought with me.

Only when I reached the front lines did I understand the Chief’s warning.

The wind at Red Bluff was sharp that morning, thick with the sting of burned pine from last year’s fires. I watched my boots sink into the soft earth, thinking of how easy it was for stories to get twisted out here.

Staring at the packed ranks of the Union army outside Red Bluff,

Their banners—tattered, sun-bleached—snapped in the wind. The hush before battle felt almost sacred, broken only by the far-off clatter of men checking and rechecking their rifles. I searched their lines, faces set and grim, and saw there was nothing legendary here—just men, just fear, just the weight of impossible orders.

That’s when I realized the most terrifying truth of this war-torn land…

—

1.

I’d just arrived at Red Bluff when all hell broke loose.

Our tents weren’t even up before word swept through camp like a winter wind: three men down, no gunshots, no blood. The whispers spread fast, low and urgent, like saying it out loud might summon the same fate.

Three soldiers were dead for no reason anyone could see, with no wounds on their bodies.

Could it have been poison? The medic traveling with us checked the bodies.

But as soon as the corpses were opened, dread swept through the whole tent.

The corpses were completely hollow inside—their bodies had become empty shells. It wasn’t natural. This wasn’t war—it was something older, something that made even the bravest men want to run.

There wasn’t a drop of blood left, nor a single bone remaining.

The medic’s gloved hands shook as he pulled back the sheet. The lanterns flickered, casting long shadows over the canvas walls. The medic’s breath came quick, fogging up his glasses. Someone muttered a prayer. No one wanted to be the first to move. Even the toughest sergeant crossed himself out of habit. I stared down at those empty forms, skin sagging as if the soul itself had been sucked out. My hands went clammy. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. I’d seen death before, but never this kind of emptiness—like the bodies had been erased from the inside out.

I knew right away how serious this was.

I ordered everyone there not to breathe a word, or they’d be court-martialed on the spot.

My voice came out cold and final. A couple privates nodded, eyes huge. I made a mental note of who looked most shaken—gossip could kill faster than bullets in a place like this.

I stayed up all night writing a report to the Chief. By sunrise, his reply arrived.

Sleep never came. I sat by the lantern’s glow, scratching out the details in tight handwriting, the tent walls whispering with every gust. When dawn broke, I was still in my boots, eyes burning, when the courier arrived with the Chief’s answer.

On the envelope: “To General Marcus—For your eyes only.”

I slit it open, heart pounding. The paper inside still held the Chief’s pipe-tobacco scent—a comfort that lasted only a second before the words hit me.

The first part was as we’d discussed: I was to hold Red Bluff against the Union army for seven days.

It said the Chief would personally lead the army to take over at Red Bluff.

But the second half made my skin crawl.

“Beside Red Bluff is a mountain, isolated and thick with forest. This is a natural fortress; you may station your troops there.”

“Please, Marcus, set your defenses by this mountain. Don’t share this letter’s contents with anyone.”

The words weighed heavy. I could almost hear the Chief’s voice—steady, insistent. I set the letter down and stared at the mountain in the morning haze, its shadow swallowing half the valley.

But the Chief had previously told me:

“When setting up camp, you must hold the vital pass so the enemy can’t slip through.”

Why did this letter now tell me to do the opposite?

Not to guard the main pass, but to put us on the mountain. If the enemy surrounded us, that mountain would be a deathtrap.

Even if the Union army never attacked, cutting off our water would force us to surrender.

Any rookie could see that. Why would the Chief miss something so basic?

I drummed my fingers on the map stretched across my cot, tracing rivers and ridgelines, dread building. What was I missing?

Why would he give such an order? Was this letter even from the Chief?

Suspicion gnawed at me, so I called in Deputy Commander Daniel Price.

Daniel was local—tall, redheaded, stubborn as an Appalachian mule. He walked in with his jacket slung over his shoulder, boots dusted from his own rounds at dawn.

I told Daniel about the idea of garrisoning on the mountain. He shook his head right away.

"If we dig in at the main pass, hell, they could throw the whole damn army at us and still not bust through."

He scratched his jaw, voice low. "But if we abandon the main road and camp up on that mountain, if the Union army shows up and boxes us in, what’s our play?"

Even Daniel could see it.

But the Chief had told me not to reveal the letter’s contents to anyone.

Orders were orders, even when they felt like a death sentence. I stared at the Chief’s bold signature, jaw tight, and told myself he’d never let us walk into a trap… not unless there was a damn good reason.

Daniel urged me not to do it and asked for five hundred men.

He wanted to plant a backup camp down by the foothills, just in case things went sideways. That way, if we got boxed in, we’d have a fighting chance.

That was a smart idea. It didn’t break the rules, and it gave us options. I agreed right away.

By the time the army was reorganized, night had fallen. Unexpectedly, the Chief’s second letter arrived in quick succession.

The courier looked dead on his feet, mud all the way up his legs. He handed me the envelope, silent. I ripped it open, nerves stretched tight.

“If the enemy is numerous, you may fight; if the enemy is few, you must not engage.”

“You must hold Red Bluff for seven days.”

“If I arrive within seven days, all will be well. If I do not arrive within seven days, abandon the city and quickly lead the army back to Silver Hollow.”

“Immediately contact Ethan Fields, Don Young, and others to discuss relocating the capital.”

“The relocation must be completed within a month. For the rest of your life, never set foot on home soil again.”

I frowned. Those words were grave as a tombstone.

The Chief is attacking Tannersville up north. Is he really not sure he’ll win?

But even if Tannersville fell and Red Bluff was lost, why move the capital?

With the land’s rugged terrain, we wouldn’t be conquered overnight by Union or Rebel forces.

According to the Chief, if we lose this time, the country itself might be doomed.

What the hell is going on? Is the Union really that strong?

I folded the letter tight, shoved it deep in my coat, and sat there, the cold sinking in. The weight of history—of all those who fought and failed before—pressed down on me. I poured a shot of bourbon from the emergency bottle, watched the darkness outside, and wondered what nightmare we’d stumbled into. The bourbon burned all the way down, but it didn’t warm me. I just felt the cold settle deeper in my bones.