The invasion

The Dream of the Invasion

I awoke in a cold sweat, the remnants of my dream clinging to me like the oppressive humidity of an imminent storm. It had started innocently enough—a fundraiser for a neighbor in need, laughter among friends, a sense of community spirit. Yet, as the evening unfurled, something dark, sinister, moved beneath the surface, like an undercurrent in water that promises to drown rather than soothe.

As if conspiring to heighten my fear, rain began to fall, initially gentle, then building into a relentless torrent that transformed the streets into rivers, washing away not just earth but the very fabric of our lives. It rained for days, the kind of torrential downpour that felt both apocalyptic and surreal, as if the sky itself wept for our plight. My Jeep, sturdy and reliable, found itself floundering against the deluge, a trapped animal desperately clawing at the mud.

People with boats navigated the waters, heroes of a deluded heroism, but the help they offered was fleeting against the tide of despair sweeping through our town. Homes became islands, family memories dissolved into the depths, and with every passing hour, it felt as if we were teetering on the brink of annihilation. The rain was a biblical deluge, the kind foretold in apocalyptic tales, transforming familiar hills into treacherous waterways and pushing victims towards elevated terrain in desperate searches for refuge.

In our frantic escape, we grabbed what remained dear and fled—no longer merely a family, we were a band of survivors navigating a world plunged into chaos. Our feet splashed through the rising water, a cacophony of panic and dread swirling around us. The air crackled with tension as we approached a small hilltop home, its outline barely visible through the curtain of rain.

Panic erupted from behind, emerging from the depths of chaos—a chorus of yelling and screaming. It was confusion before clarity struck: they were being hunted, chased not just by an unforgiving storm, but by figures that emerged through the curtain of downpour. Soldiers—dark silhouettes marching through the flooded turmoil, illuminated by stark white lights mounted on their helmets, appearing almost as phantoms within the tempest.

They glided effortlessly through the water, their movements fluid, precise, as they captured and whisked away the terrified. We dashed inside the house, hearts pounding, joining other frightened families in a desperate attempt to barricade doors and windows against the oncoming nightmare. Our breaths caught in our throats, silence filled the moments before the invasion of harsh metal and dark clad figures.

Then it was over; we were seized and loaded into a different kind of vehicle—an ominous transport filled with the doomed. The firehouse loomed ahead, transformed into a processing center, where we were herded alongside countless others, all terrified souls waiting to discover our fates. The soldiers were stern, enforcing their will with a chilling efficiency, wielding powerful technology that scanned our very beings.

I was pushed forward, my heart thrumming against my chest as the glow of the scanning machine enveloped me. My family stood behind me, filled with both hope and dread. When my image reflected back as human, I was pulled aside—left out of whatever grim fate awaited my loved ones. The bitter taste of betrayal clawed at my throat as screams echoed from the room beyond, the sounds of a family ripped apart.

It was then that I struggled with the absurdity of it all—releasing me seemed a cruel twist of fate. Outside, the storm subsided rapidly. It felt orchestrated, a strategic maneuver as dark clouds rolled away, revealing a stark emptiness, a deadly calm. Those beings had engineered the storm, and for what? To sift through humanity itself?

With newfound determination, my thoughts sharpened. I would not only survive; I would fight. The firehouse yielded treasures—supplies, weapons, and armor discarded by those who had succumbed to the terrifying scanners. I felt a spark ignite in my chest; I would not go quietly into this dark night.

Weeks later, after battles fought in the murky depths of desperation, I tore free my family from the grasp of those shadowy figures. We were bound together again, yet forever changed. In the mountains, life seemed to regain a semblance of normalcy, but the struggle for survival lay waiting just beyond our small bubble of safety.

I ventured to seek my brothers, navigating a world littered with chaos and opportunism. Time slipped like sand through my fingers, a cruel reminder that even grand hope can often seem futile in the presence of overwhelming odds. But as I dashed through the jagged landscape of rogue factions and relentless danger, I chose to fight.

And then, through the blur of desperation, came the gunshot—a final harbinger echoing in my ears. The bullet struck me, but the armor I clutched saved my life. It protected me, but deep within my soul, I knew the battle wasn’t simply against the beings—it was a call to something greater.

Just as I could resist physical wounds, I sensed a wisdom rise within me, a voice whispering like a beacon through the haze: “Get off the road before the rage gets you.” I awoke, the realm of dreams peeling away, reality flooding in.

Yet, that phrase lingered in my mind, firm and resolute. I would decipher it within God’s guidance, realizing that dreams aren’t mere figments. They carry messages, a reminder of battle lines drawn between good and evil, whispers of an inner strength waiting to be unveiled should darkness emerge. I entered this brave new world knowing my role isn’t to be a soldier in the traditional sense but a beacon for love, hope, and unity as we face the trials ahead together.