Thee Bloody Yellow Rose

By Jim Biggerstaff

2136 A.D. - One nation desperate for a hero; one hero desperate to know his God and protect the woman he loves.

During the global starvation following World War III, the beautiful Christian girl Maria meets Michael, the love of her life. She rescues him from the gangs and drugs, but the depraved son of a Texas oil billiona

• Language: English
• Publisher: ReadersMagnet LLC
• Release date: Mar 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9781959761679

Book preview

THEE Bloody Yellow Rose

Copyright © 2023 by JD Biggerstaff

Published in the United States of America

ISBN Paperback: 978-1-959761-66-2

ISBN Hardback: 978-1-960629-09-8

ISBN eBook: 978-1-959761-67-9

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

The opinions expressed by the author are not necessarily those of ReadersMagnet, LLC.

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Book design copyright © 2023 by ReadersMagnet, LLC. All rights reserved.

Cover design by Kent Gabutin

Interior design by Dorothy Lee

Table of Contents

Dedications

Forward

Chapter 1 2136 A.D.

Chapter 2 2113 A.D.

Chapter 3 2113 A.D.

Chapter 4 2113 A.D.

Chapter 5 2113 A.D.

Chapter 6 2096 A.D.

Chapter 7 2113 A.D.

Chapter 8 2136 A.D. looking back to 2113 A.D.

Chapter 9 2113 A.D.

Chapter 10 2113 A.D.

Chapter 11 2113 A.D.

Chapter 12 2113 A.D.

Chapter 13 2110 A.D.

Chapter 14 2113 A.D.

Chapter 15 2116 and 2117 A.D.

Chapter 16 2116 A.D. looking back to 2093 A.D.

Chapter 17 2117 A.D. looking back to 2093 A.D.

Chapter 18 2097 A.D.

Chapter 19 2098 A.D.

Chapter 20 2097 A.D. to 2112 A.D.

Chapter 21 2115 A.D. to 2119 A.D.

Chapter 22 2119 A.D.

Chapter 23 2119 A.D.

Chapter 24 2119 A.D.

Chapter 25 2119 A.D.

Chapter 26 2122 A.D.

Chapter 27 2122 A.D.

Chapter 28 2118 to 2121 A.D.

Chapter 29 2122 to 2129 A.D.

Chapter 30 2130 A.D.

Chapter 31 2126 A.D.

Chapter 32 2133 to 2136 A.D.

Chapter 33 March, 2136 A.D.

Chapter 34 March, 2136 A.D.

Chapter 35 November, 2136 A.D.

Chapter 36 December, 2136 A.D.

Chapter 37 December, 2136 A.D.

About the Author

Suggested Discussion Questions

Dedications

To my wife, Lisa, for her patience as I take time away from family to write.

To my Heavenly Father for His grace and unconditional love. To Christ Jesus of Nazareth for His love, suffering, and sacrifice on the cross as atonement for us all. To the Holy Spirit as my guide, helper, and comforter.

To the men and women in our nation’s armed services who protect our freedoms.

To my favorite two musicians, Carlos Santana and Carrie Underwood. I have loved Santana’s music since college. I cannot say enough good things about Carrie Underwood as a performer and talent. I admire how both of these artists have used their talent and celebrity for higher purposes. Should this book ever become a movie, I hope it features music from either or both of these artists.

Forward

An old acquaintance asked me not to write this book, fearing it might come true; but I wrote it anyway.

—JD Biggerstaff

Chapter 1

2136 A.D.

The massacre at the Alamo will be remembered as the saddest day in Texas’ history. When people say Remember the Alamo, they will not think of heroes like Bowie, Crocket, and Travis fighting for freedom; they will think of the slaughter of innocent men and women because of me. They will soon forget that I was a decorated Marine and a US Senator, a patriot, and the President of the Second Republic of Texas. They will strip away my Medal of Honor and any shred of dignity I once had. I’m sure Justin Nevilman will see to that, the bastard. I should have killed him for what he did to my family when I had the chance.

The Bloody Yellow Rose of Texas—that’s what the media called it. Six-hundred protestors, soldiers, and reporters were slaughtered on live television in downtown San Antonio as breaking news. The photo of the lifeless hand clutching the bloody yellow rose was top story in every online news service around the world. And it was all blamed on me.

I remember watching the horror of that day in disbelief. It happened so quickly, and I was helpless to stop it. Maybe I do deserve the firing squad that awaits me. What will I say to my son when he arrives to visit me on death row? I can’t believe I’m even on death row. I’m tired of shackles. I’m going crazy in solitary confinement—that’s what I get for trusting President Bane. He and I had a deal for the lives of my men until he reneged on it. Now they are all dead, except for me, though I’ll be dead soon enough.

When Jamie gets here, what will I say to him? What must he think of his father? Does he think I’m the murderer that the liberal media reports me to be? What do his friends at school say? I wonder if these cold, gray walls and steel doors will freak him out.

Solitary confinement is beginning to freak me out. There is no day, there is no night in solitary. When I close my eyes, all I see are the tortured souls of the victims swirling around in my cell, screaming at me in their agony. Their screams are so loud I think my ears will explode. I try covering my ears, but it doesn’t help. The images of dying men and women never stop tearing at my sanity. I dread closing my eyes, and I fear falling asleep. I want to sleep and know I need to sleep, but I know the hellish images will return. I cannot escape them.

I’ve got to force myself to focus on Jamie and his visit. It’s the only thing that pulls me back toward the edge of sanity. Thank God they are going to allow Jamie to visit me over the next week. There are so many things I want to tell him and so precious little time. He will be here soon, and I must not let him see me crumbling.

A thunderous banging on the steel cell door interrupts my hallucinations, and an orange jumpsuit slides through the narrow one-way slot at the door’s bottom. By now, I have learned the drill and know to put it on quickly. After donning the orange jumpsuit, I turn my back to the cell door, placing my hands behind my head and waiting for the three armed guards who will enter to shackle me and escort me out of my cell. Finally, the time has come to see my son as the guards lead me down the stark, gray hallway to the visitation room. There’s a four-foot-by-four-foot glass window in the wall that separates the two steel chairs facing each other. Opposing microphones and speakers will allow us to converse but not embrace. Oh, how I long to just hug my son one last time; but this is not to be. I take my seat, awaiting Jamie’s entrance to the small room on the other side of the glass. It’s hard for me to sit comfortably with my hands cuffed behind my back, but that’s a minor inconvenience.

Through the glass, I see the door open as Jamie enters, followed by a guard who shows him where to sit and positions the microphone so we can communicate. After the guard leaves the room, Jamie immediately stands and places his palm to the glass hoping I would do the same in a mock effort to touch. He frowns when he sees me shake my head from side to side and turn to show him I cannot return the loving gesture with my hands cuffed behind my back. He scowls and sits down.

Before I can say anything, Jamie blurts into the microphone, "Dad, I know you are not murderer. When the fighting started at the Alamo, you weren’t even there. How can they blame you? Why are they going to execute you for what happened?"

Jamie, I will answer your questions in a moment; but first tell me how you are doing.

Dad, I am doing OK most of the time; but I get angry a lot for what they’ve done to you. I don’t understand it, and I know it’s not right or fair. I got heckled at school three days ago so I punched the guy out for saying you caused all those people to die. The principal cut me some slack because of your situation, but he said he would have to expel me if I got in another fight.

Son, I get angry a lot, too; but I must accept responsibility for the people who died. I was the President of the Republic of Texas and Commander in Chief of the Army. There is a price to pay when power goes out of control. Please don’t get into any more fights over me. It’s not worth it, and it won’t change anything for me. It will only make your situation worse.

"Dad, it’s not fair they have blamed you for everything that happened."

Jamie, life is rarely fair. Once, I dreamed of doing great things for my country and thought it was my destiny, but I guess I was wrong. Many innocent people have died because of me, and on this side of heaven I will never understand why. My execution in a few days will bring the peace I long for. It is the price I must pay for my foolish pride and reckless pursuit of revenge. Your mother used to tell me I would one day reap what I have sown. She begged me to let go of my anger, walk in forgiveness, and let God fight my battles. She was right. Why didn’t I listen when I had the chance? Now, I can only pray for forgiveness for the deaths I have caused.

Dad, there must be some way to stop this. You’re innocent, and it’s just not right.

Jamie, after my execution, you will read and hear many lies about me. You will be hated because you are my son, the son of Michael Santana, the great ‘butcher’ from the second battle of the Alamo. The media seem to like that term ‘butcher.’ You know I was set up; and many other people do, too. But I just can’t prove it. Hopefully, someday after I am gone, the truth will come out.

Dad, why can’t Uncle Ritchie get a bunch of his Marine friends and break you out?

Son, that would only lead to more bloodshed. And anyway, it would not succeed. I already fear that great persecution and danger lies ahead for you. You must cling to your faith and trust in God always as I have taught you. That is what your mother would say to you. She told me my anger would destroy my life, and so it has. Jamie, you must choose to forgive these men who will soon put me to death. You must not harbor anger against them. Anger and revenge will rob you of the joy and peace in your life.

I’ll try, Dad. I’ll try really hard, but please tell me again about you and Momma. How you met her? When you played football? What you did in the war? Please, Dad, tell me the stories before you are gone. Please.

Before I can begin, I look down at my son and worry for his safety and future. He is only thirteen years old, but he will be forced to become a man long before he should. For now, he is too young and innocent to understand all that is happening. He cannot grasp what peril he is in at the hands of Justin Nevilman, that evil son of a bitch. Soon, I will be dead and not here to protect and reassure him—not that I can do much now from death row to protect him. But at least for now, I can reassure him.

Oh, God, how can this be? Why is this happening? Lord, is there no justice in the world? If you won’t spare me, at least be merciful to my son. Our family has suffered enough. Be strong. Be strong. I must be strong. Don’t let the boy see your fear. Just tell him the stories and be strong for him. Get hold of yourself.

Alright, son, I will tell you the stories while we still have time. You need to hear those stories and know the truth.

I’m ready, Dad.

Chapter 2

2113 A.D.

* Michael’s Story *

I remember the first time I saw your mother. She was a sophomore cheerleader, and I was on the football field trying to become a running back and earn a spot on the team. We were practicing in pads that day; and from the corner of my eye, I saw this cheerleader on the sidelines do four back handsprings in a row. It was easy to see she was an incredible athlete, probably a better athlete than me. When she stopped her acrobatics, I saw her face; and I just I froze. I was completely unable to move. It was as if time, for me, suddenly stopped. I could only stand there and stare at the most stunningly beautiful girl I had ever seen.

Wham! Richie Fuentes threw a hit on me that knocked me down and knocked me out. His impact sent the helmet flying off my head while I stared at the cheerleader. Ritchie told me later I was out cold before I hit the ground.

Richie has been my best friend since elementary. He was one of the guys whose life I saved in the war as we parachuted into Beijing. He was always such a fool, but I would have died for him. He was like my brother, always watching my back. And I watched his. We went through boot camp together to become proud, tough Marines. He had a big mouth, but with the balls and muscle to back it up. Ritchie is a true friend who will never let me down, or you, Jamie, after I am gone.

Son, that young cheerleader was your mom. She saw Richie’s hit send my helmet flying. At sixteen, Ritchie was a six-foot, one-inch mountain of muscles. He was fast, and he could hit. I was testimony as he sent me crashing to the ground. The cheerleader ran over to see if I was dead or alive.

When I finally came to, I was on my back, looking up in a daze. I saw big, beautiful brown eyes; candy-sweet lips; a heavenly face; long, silky hair; and shapely, muscular legs underneath a tiny pleated skirt. This was it. I had made it. Heaven! I just knew that Richie’s hit had killed me, and I was in heaven being greeted by an angel. Well, she was my angel alright; but Richie’s hit didn’t kill me. I was on my back trying desperately to regain my breath and focus my vision on my future wife and your mom.

I smiled. She smiled. I was in love.

She asked sweetly, Are you hurt?

I told a macho lie saying no. She giggled and ran off as Richie called me a wimp, helping me to my feet. I was still seeing stars and trying to breathe and focus as I watched her run back to her cheerleading squad. She said something to her friends as she turned and pointed to me. The girls all laughed, and I died of embarrassment. Later, I learned she told her friends she had just met her future husband.

After I quit seeing stars from Richie’s hit, I asked him who the cheerleader was. "I know who she is. Amigo, don’t even bother. She’s too classy for some street kid like you. Her name is Maria Morales. Besides, she’s going with Justin Nevilman who is only the richest kid in San Antonio, maybe in the whole state. He’s the son of U.S. Senator Richard Nevilman, the oil billionaire.

She’s rich and very religious. I hear her father is some kind of a surgeon and her mother is this big-time lawyer. Her mother will probably be elected Mayor of San Antonio soon, according to the Internet news. Ain’t no way some rich church girl like that would be seen dead with the likes of you and me.

Jamie, that cheerleader—your mom—soon became the only thing I could think of. I knew I loved her the moment I saw her.

Later that night, Richie and I got in a fight with some guys from Adams High. As usual, Richie’s big mouth started the fight. He usually won; but that day, a five-foot, ten-inch guy kicked his butt all over the parking lot. Little did Richie know that he picked a fight with Russell Martin, the junior light-heavyweight mixed martial arts contender for the Southwest MMA Junior Championship. Richie could take a punch, but not ten with pinpoint accuracy. The hard roundhouse kick to his ribs set up the flurry of hits to his head. It was amazing to watch the speed and skill of the smaller man as Richie went down. This time, size didn’t matter.

I was of little use in the fight that night since I was still recovering from the lick Richie laid on me in practice earlier in the afternoon. One right hook to my left eye from Justin Nevilman took me down. That was the second blow to my head that day.

Bloody and humiliated, we were a couple of not-so-tough guys staggering away. We were angry but humbled. Richie’s nose was broken, and my left eye was swollen shut. We didn’t look too cool oozing our own blood.

The bad luck of that day wasn’t over yet.

Hi, Michael, what happened to you?

Jamie, from behind, your mother walked up to Ritchie and me with three of her cheerleader friends. They looked stunning, like teen models. We looked like bloody crap, which we were. I didn’t know she even knew my name.

I died of embarrassment again since my macho wasn’t. Maria had seen me defeated twice in the same day. In her presence, I was humbled as God began breaking me of my pride. I learned later that he has a way of doing that.

Sweetly, Maria asked, Are you guys OK?

I lied again, saying yes as Richie and I limped away.

By ten o’clock the next morning, the whole school knew that Richie Fuentes and Michael Santana had their butts kicked by some jocks from Adams High. Richie’s ribs and broken nose hurt so badly he skipped school.

Stupid me, I showed up with a swollen shiner. I thought What the heck? This will get me mucho sympathy from the girls. And it worked. The girls were all over me as I exaggerated what I did to the other guy. But Maria was unimpressed as she walked by, ignoring my Hello, Beautiful.

Revenge! I wasn’t going to get my butt kicked and not get even. I found out more about the guys who beat us so badly and where they hung out. Russell Martin and Justin Nevilman were rich boys from Adams High. They were football jocks like Richie and me, only they were better fighters from all their mixed martial arts training. Their folks had money—lots of money; and we had none.

I plotted to get even. I planned to learn karate and MMA. Anyone who beat up my friend and me would have a great price to pay, even if Justin Nevilman was Maria’s current, but temporary, boyfriend. I would see to that.

There was a Sonic where many of the jocks from Adams High School hung out. The two that beat Richie and me were usually there on Friday nights in their shiny new cars with the fastest hybrid Tolar motors money could buy. I planned an ambush, commando style.

San Antonio had seen a history of fights between Adams High and San Antonio High: the haves and the have nots. When I spread the word for an ambush and fight, about a hundred of our guys stepped up.

Here was the plan. We would drive through the drive-in in a car about 10:00 p.m. and moon the gringos. Naturally, they would pile into their cars and chase us to kick some butt. Being the wimps they were, they would seriously outnumber our one carload of guys.

Our one car would pull into the nearby Veteran’s Park and stop in the heavily wooded cul-de-sac. When the Adam’s boys surrounded our car with their cars, we would spring our trap. Our volunteer army would be hiding in the trees, every man armed with a baseball bat. We would swarm on their cars and work the vehicles over. If they dared to get out of the cars, they would pay, too.

The plan worked. We mooned, and they followed. We swarmed and pounded their cars with our baseball bats. No one from Adams got out, and they sped away with broken lights, dented hoods, and badly bruised egos. No one was hurt as we laughed our rear ends off.

I personally knocked out both headlights on Justin Nevilman’s red convertible Corvette. I made sure he could see me in his headlights before I swung my bat to make them dark. Revenge was sweet that night.

I know this was crazy, but we were young and in high school. It’s one of my funniest memories. Looking back, I thank God no one was hurt or killed. I would have been responsible and probably put in jail. At sixteen, I was short on wisdom and judgment; but darn, it was funny.

Your mother, Maria, heard of my commando escapades; and she was disgusted. She told her friends that she was crazy to think there could ever be anything with a thug like me. That word got quickly back to me, and I was crushed.

One day after school, I stopped at the convenience store to buy a soda. Maria was coming out as I was going in. I expected to be ignored but was greeted with a warm smile. "Hello, Michael. I’m glad you and your friends didn’t kill anyone in the park. The whole school is talking about it. My mom heard about it from the police chief, and Justin told me he is going to have you killed. You guys really damaged a bunch of rich boys’ cars, and some of their parents work with my mom in the law firm. She said they want to sue for damages, but I convinced her that none of you guys or your parents had any money. So what’s the point in suing?

You could have been hurt or killed. Why do you do stuff like that? You are such a good athlete; and they say you are smart when you try, not to mention being too cute for your own good. You have potential, but I’m afraid you’ll throw it all away and wind up in jail or hooked on drugs or even dealing drugs. I would never waste my time on a loser. Life’s too short.

Her words pierced my heart as sharply as a stiletto heel. I was momentarily sick to my stomach: Maria thought I was a loser.

In a surge of courage, I asked her out to a movie on a date. I wasn’t sure I had enough money to pay for the date, but I asked anyway. I would beg and borrow money from everyone I knew if she said yes.

Heck, no, not with a thug like you! Then she pushed me out of the way with surprising strength and walked off.

I thought I saw her look back and grin, but I wasn’t sure.

Wounded, hurt, and humbled, I sat down on the nearby curb and drank my soda. I was so in love. For the first time in my life, I asked God for some help. I wanted to know what I had to do to be worthy of that girl’s love. I knew I didn’t deserve it and would probably never have it, but I sure wanted it. I wanted it more than I had ever wanted anything in my life.

As I sat there on the curb, someone from behind me yelled, Hey loser, get your life together! Startled by the loud voice, I turned around to see who the jerk was. I was going to kick his butt for calling me a loser, but no one was there. Now I was both angry and confused. I looked around for someone to fight, but the whole parking lot was empty.

Great, now I’m hearing voices. I’ve had too many shots to the head in the last few days, and I’ve either got a concussion or I’m going crazy.

As I started walking home, I vowed to get my act together and win Maria’s love. I told myself, I am NOT a loser. I still didn’t know where the loud voice came from, but when I found out who it was, I was going to work him over big time.

Unknown to me, a black van with dark-tinted windows pulled up behind me and stopped. I was lost in thought of Maria when four huge men jumped out. One spun me around and maced me in the eyes. Even though I couldn’t see, I tried to fight back. They beat me unconscious.

* * *

Through the tinted windows of the van, Justin Nevilman watched his goons do what they were hired to do and became so excited he was sexually aroused. He thought briefly about the instructions he had given his thugs. I’m paying you well, so I expect you to do exactly as I say. Mace him in the eyes, taunt him and hurt him for a while, and then knock him out. But do not kill him.

One asked, Why not just kill him today and be done with it?

That’s pretty tempting; how much more would that cost me?

An extra $25,000 for you, rich boy. That’s not even a pimple on your rich rear end.

Hey, man, it’s already too late in the day to get that kind of cash without leaving a record of the transaction. Maybe another time. Just stick with the plan we discussed.

OK, rich boy. You da boss.

Nevilman had been hard all day anticipating this violent encounter. As the quick-moving gang of four neared their unwary victim, Nevilman lamented, I should be recording this on my cell phone so I can watch it over and over. Maybe Maria would want to see what I do to people who dare to cross me. She’ll be impressed with how I get even for what he did to my car.

Now, let’s see if these big, dumb apes do what I told them to do. Mace him in the eyes so he can’t see. Make him helpless and then taunt him before beating the crap out of him. Unconscious, but not dead. I don’t want him dead today. Well, maybe I do, but I might get caught. I would need to plan his death better. Killing this scumbag might be fun. Yeah, it would be fun. How dare this lowlife from the wrong side of the tracks even think about breaking the headlights on my car? That fool had no idea who he was jacking with when he swung the bat. He’ll know now. Today, he will pay dearly.

I can’t wait to tell Maria. How can she even stand to go to the same school with all these dirt-poor people? I bet half of them have lice. I need to ask Maria about lice tonight when I see her. . . . What if Maria has lice?

The four caught up to Michael, spun him around, and maced him in the eyes. Nevilman watched the blinded teen swing violently in all directions, trying to defend himself. A few of Michael’s wild swings connected with his attackers, but ultimately did little damage to the big ex-convicts. As directed, they taunted him before giving him a savage beating.

As they drove away, Nevilman wondered, Is Santana dead or alive?, finding this whole violent episode to be terribly exciting.

Chapter 3

2113 A.D.

* Michael’s Story *

I missed nine days of school and was too banged up to play football for two weeks with a dislocated jaw, cracked ribs, and bruises from head to toe. Coach was furious at me for getting in a fight and almost threw me off the team. He would not listen that I had been mugged. He didn’t believe a word of my story.

I should have gone to a hospital, but we only had the crappy governmental insurance plan and no way to pay its high deductibles. As I recuperated at home, all I could think about was my love for Maria and finding the guys who did this to me. Papa gave me grief for losing another fight while Momma took care of me. I figured Justin Nevilman was behind the attack as payback for what I did to his car and his pride. I could only imagine what he would try to do to me when I stole his girl.

With both eyes swollen shut, I thought of Maria. I recalled what the voice had directed me to do while sitting on the curb. I phoned Richie and told him about the voice; and he laughed, saying I was full of it. He asked me what I had been smoking.

Ritchie said, "Man, I believe in this life, if it’s meant to be, it’s up to me."

I wasn’t so sure that’s how it works. I had a hunger for something else in my life that I didn’t really understand. I knew I could never earn Maria’s love on my own. I had plenty of time to think about this while Momma nursed me back to health. She chastised me for fighting, and Papa daily gave me grief for losing.

I wasn’t sure what to do next. I knew Maria was