Jake's pick-up truck was low on gas, as he made his daily pilgrimage down the Tennessee Highway from his small ranch home into the outskirts of Nashville. Since President Brandon took office, he'd struggled to keep his tank full, his lights on, and his mother's cholesterol medication paid for. But he was lucky to live in a state with good coal jobs, and he'd managed to save up enough during the fat years to coast for a bit.

As he approached the city, traffic grew worse. The urban decay of the once-beautiful city grew more apparent every year. Crime in Nashville had been on the rise, after the city's police chief was ousted by a radical new city council. Trash littered the side of the road and panhandlers clogged every crosswalk. The sounds of chanting drifted through Jake's window. Most likely, another BLM protest march. He sighed, patting the Colt .45 in the holster beside his cup holder, and turned down the radio so he could be more tactically aware of his surroundings. Hopefully, his foreman would understand why he was going to be late again.

A sudden motion at the corner of his eye broke his reverie. At first, he wasn't sure what he was looking at. A tiny compact car, one of those cheap foreign imports, had started honking frantically. From this distance, he could see a hand slapping at the windshield. Confusion gave way to horror, as Jake saw the cause of the commotion. Trapped in the dense traffic, the driver was being surrounded by a swarm of creatures pouring out of the woodlands abutting the edge of the highway. He could see them, honking and squealing, tearing into tire rubber and chrome and glass. Thirty to fifty wild hogs had invaded the freeway, and if he didn't act fast the streets of Nashville would be wet with the hot, red American blood.