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The western bank of the Mississippi was a different kind of graveyard—sterile, calculated, and bound by invisible threads of corporate security. Crawling flat against the limestone shale to slip beneath the high-frequency click of Aegis microwave fences, Cronauer watched the cold reality of the harvest unfold through his night-vision lens. They weren’t just clearing the valley; they were indexing human assets, checking teeth, and sorting survivors like hardware for the shelters down south.

The six minutes didn’t tick away; they evaporated. The machine was awake, the checksum was breached, and the maintenance deck of the dam erupted into a crossfire of automated lasers and concrete-shattering 7.62 rounds. With no time to reach for his rifle, Cronauer stood flat on the pegs and turned the heavy aluminum armor of his BMW GS into a flying kinetic battering ram.

The Mississippi was breathing. A thick, rhythmic fog rolled off the water, swallowing the bottom of the bluffs and turning the world into a grayscale blur. I had the GS in “Blackout Mode”—lights killed, traction control dialed to the dirt setting. But I wasn’t hearing the river. I had my helmet speakers pinned. Stuck Mojo … Read more