Chapter 2: The Spirit of Liberty Rises

As the anthem of Liberty faded and Pacific waves lapped at the horizon, David Grant was on the verge of the afterlife when scenes flashed before his eyes.

Salt stung his lips, the ocean wind sweeping through his memories. Victory and defeat tangled in the anthem’s last notes—a lullaby pulling him between worlds. Each memory was sharp: headlights on rain-slicked streets, an empty council chamber at dawn, the roar of a wild crowd.

Red Ridge. The memory was bitter—ambition and trust dying together, faces of those who’d stood with him, hopes dashed beneath the stampede of greed. His fingers curled, aching for a weapon.

Mayor Long and Councilman James—self-proclaimed masterminds, really just pawns for the bureaucracy. Their smug laughter echoed, ties smoothed and backs patted—only to be hung out to dry by a city machine that ate the naive alive. Politics as usual: progress in name only, promises shattering like cheap glass.

Charles Benton—weak, greedy, too timid to squeeze a dime from his own officials, yet ruthless enough to fire the loyal and the righteous. Benton’s image flickered: pale, unsure, always ready to blame others but never take the fall. David’s jaw clenched in memory, justice burning hotter for every good person forced out by cowardice.

The city crumbled in his mind: out-of-town mercenaries breaking barricades, guns raised, innocents falling. American spirit lost, customs and rituals fading with every gunshot. He saw city blocks he’d walked—storefronts shattered, diners boarded up, neighbors hiding behind doors. The city’s soul—once built on block parties and trust—bled out. David felt the ache of home slipping away, history bulldozed by strangers.

A spark of anger flickered in his eyes. His breath grew ragged—not just loss, but stubborn hope refusing to die.

He’d campaigned five times across the plains, won glory and recognition from every corner—yet his successors wasted it all. The dust of the plains was still in his boots, cheers in city squares still ringing in his ears. Now, those victories were as distant as stars, squandered by careless hands.

The darkness of death hadn’t closed in when rage surged in his chest. His pulse thundered—a battle drum. Not just fury, but the surge of every protest, every broken promise, every hope reignited. Life and death blurred, held together by sheer will.

Suddenly, David opened his eyes—like plunging into cold water. He gasped, lungs burning, world spinning as he remembered the fight.

The stars and moon hung high. Everything had changed. A chilly breeze rattled the branches, headlights from a distant cop car sweeping the street below. For a split second, he wondered if he’d landed in some alternate America, where history was up for grabs.

March 19, 2020. Capitol Hill, under the old twisted oak, David was inexplicably suspended in midair—he had become the already hanged Charles Benton.

A silent curse flashed through his mind, stronger than any prayer. Damn, is it my turn again?

He rolled his eyes skyward, half disbelief, half weary resignation. If fate dealt him in, he’d play the hand, no matter the odds.

Scenes from his dream played out: “Caleb Jenkins has already breached the outer city, General Dalton is massing his army, and this cowardly Charles refuses to take responsibility—just like those late city officials: all talk of virtue in peacetime, but abandoning ship when it counts.”

Bitterness laced his thoughts. Jenkins and Dalton—one a bulldog in a suit, the other a wolf among sheep—carving up the city as leaders cowered behind doors. The American drama: power abandoned at the moment of truth.

How am I supposed to fix this mess?

He let the thought hang, heavy with sarcasm. It felt like walking into a burning building with nothing but a stubborn streak.

He managed a dry, almost amused smirk—irony was his last luxury.

Fine. Back then, Andrew Young cut down the council and it was certain death, but with just eight hundred men, I took City Hall. Now, even hanging from the old oak, I’ll gamble with fate again.

His mind snapped to old days, the rush of underdog victories. The city was always a chessboard, and he’d never feared the endgame.

But he felt the weight of his body, the rope’s cruel bite. The past called, but the present demanded action—fast.

He’d opened his eyes as Charles—but Charles was hanging! If he didn’t get down, he’d meet his maker in minutes, never mind saving the city.

His lungs screamed for air. Panic clawed at his mind—this couldn’t be how it ended. Not again. Not with so much left undone. His vision blurred, heartbeat pounding. Memories of unfinished business—promises, mistakes, people he’d left behind—rushed through his head. He flailed, desperate, refusing to become another casualty of history.

With the rope tight around his neck, David couldn’t call out, only struggle and flail. He kicked at the air, boots scraping the trunk—a muffled, desperate fight for every breath, refusing to be history’s footnote.

Beside him, Walter Chambers clutched a yellow legal pad, sobbing. His tie was crooked, face blotchy. The legal pad—crumpled from anxious hands—looked ridiculous, as if city problems could be solved with bullet points and a signature.

Moments ago, he’d watched the Mayor stride to the oak, give a passionate speech, scold the officials, and hang himself. The crowd’s stunned silence, the camera phones, the rope’s snap—all replayed in Walter’s mind. His knees threatened to buckle.

The sound echoed in Walter’s mind, final punctuation to all his fears. He tasted bile—grief and disbelief mixing in his mouth. Walter knelt, hands shaking, ready to wail in grief.

But before he could cry out, he saw the Mayor move again. At first, just a twitch—a leg jerking, a hand scrabbling at the noose. Walter blinked, unsure if he was hallucinating. Reality bent around the impossible.

The Mayor hung, struggling, squirming, legs kicking to escape gravity—it was hard to describe. Walter’s jaw dropped, mind racing between hope and horror. Was this a miracle, or some cruel reflex? The scene was surreal—somewhere between resurrection and nightmare.

The image stuck in Walter’s mind, grotesque and weirdly comic. He glanced around for witnesses—anything to prove he wasn’t crazy.

Should he help? Suddenly, a tremendous crash split the air. The old oak collapsed, bringing down half of Capitol Hill, rocks and dust flying.

Splinters rained down. People screamed, headlights veered, the night fractured by chaos. Walter, stunned, rushed forward. The oak had become a giant pit. He picked his way through the rubble, heart pounding. The air was sharp with ozone and secrets. When the dust cleared, the figure at the edge looked larger than life.

That person wore a presidential sash, turned with executive bearing, eyes full of decisiveness and ruthlessness, a storm of blood and iron. It was a posture Walter had only seen in portraits—back straight, chin lifted, confidence of a man who’d stared down armies.

Walter was petrified. His knees nearly buckled. For a moment, time stopped, the night thick with awe before a legend.

He stammered, “Mr. President...” The words barely more than a whisper. Walter’s mouth went dry. Had history stepped out of the grave?

David was dazed too, subconsciously nodding, then looked into the pit. His gaze was sharp, scanning the scene like a wary soldier. He exhaled, the chill of the night air mixing with fire in his chest.

Walter followed his gaze and froze. The pit was packed with armored, mounted men—fifty thousand, silent as ghosts climbing out of hell. The sight defied logic: a mass of cavalry, armor glinting in starlight, horses restless. The silence was uncanny—every man waiting for a single command.

Loyalty burned in their eyes. Walter felt it like a tidal wave, crashing into the present. David was stunned. The more he looked, the more familiar they became—soldiers he’d once led, all loyal and battle-hardened.

He recognized faces, heard echoes of old laughter. His heart swelled with pride and fierce love. They’d fought in the Liberty Campaign, ridden on western expeditions. Even Captain Jack Yates, who died to save him, and Samuel Hayes, who died in bed, were there—ghosts made solid.

David blinked hard, fighting tears. The world blurred, but his resolve sharpened. The night was alive with the promise of redemption. Those comrades who swore to defend the nation now stood by his side again as the city teetered on the brink.

A black-robed pastor, unarmored, smiled and stepped forward. His smile was warm, the kind that could calm a room full of angry men. His shoes were dusty, hands calloused—a man who’d lived in the trenches of faith and struggle.

“Mr. President, it’s been a long time,” he said, words steady as church bells. There was reverence, but also camaraderie, as if they were old poker buddies reunited.

After the pastor stepped out, a general in blood-stained armor knelt, eyes full of tears. “Sir, Jack Yates has come to fight by your side again!”

Jack’s voice cracked, emotion raw. He knelt not in submission, but in brotherhood—an unspoken promise: he would always have David’s back.

The Liberty elite roared in unison: “Willing to follow the President into battle! Willing to follow the President into battle!”

Their voices thundered over the city, echoing off empty buildings—a chorus shaking Capitol Hill, a challenge and a vow.

David’s eyelids trembled, the glimmer in his eyes faded, and he let out a hoarse laugh: “Guess the next generation really dropped the ball, huh?”

His laugh was rough, pulled from deep inside. He shook his head, remembering every generation that rose and faltered, the cycle of hope and heartbreak.

“Come, let’s set the city in order again!”

He turned, boots planted on American soil. The words were a battle cry, the promise of a new dawn.

David, spirits soaring, strode forward, head high. With these troops, nothing could stop him. The nightmares from his dreams would never come to pass.

He marched with the confidence of a man reborn, history behind him. The city lights flickered, the wind carrying whispers of old victories.

The mercenaries want the city? Caleb Jenkins wants City Hall?

David grinned. He could see their faces—swaggering in, thinking the city was theirs. They were about to get a history lesson they’d never forget.

His laughter rolled out, sharp and infectious. Every man straightened, ready for what came next. This was old America—defiant, unbroken, hungry for the fight.

David marched toward the city gate, moving like a tiger, covering miles in a day, the Liberty elite thundering behind him, ready to restore the city’s glory.

The streets trembled beneath their hooves, windows rattling, stray dogs barking as if sensing history. A new legend was about to be written, one stride at a time.

Only Walter remained at the pit’s edge, alone and bewildered in the wind. The world felt too large, too strange. Walter hugged his legal pad like a lifeline, chaos below spinning his head. The future was terrifying—and full of possibility.

He muttered, “Is this an ancestor’s ghost? Or did the Mayor get possessed by something evil?”

His words were half prayer, half plea, eyes wide and shining with frightened awe. Somewhere, church bells tolled midnight—a sign that nothing would ever be the same.