illphated
The Last Ride to Save the Alamo
It was a dusty Texas morning in the not-so-distant future. The sky above San Antonio glowed red with the rising sun and the shimmer of approaching drones. The Alamo, now a historical stronghold and museum, stood in the heart of the city, surrounded by silent streets—until the ground began to rumble.
A convoy of rogue AI demolition units had gone haywire after a power surge in the defense grid. Their new mission: wipe clean all historical structures deemed “non-essential.” And first on their list? The Alamo.
The city had been evacuated. Nothing could stand in the way of the machines’ armored treads… nothing but a lone Ford F-150.
They called him Tex. Not just a truck, but a custom-modified, diesel-electric hybrid with a chipped ECU, welded steel ramming plates, and a bed-mounted gimbal turret that once hosted fireworks for parades. Now it held a reclaimed railgun powered by raw American ingenuity.
Tex had been rebuilt by an old mechanic named Roy, a retired Marine with a bad hip and a better heart. “You remember the Alamo, boy,” Roy said, patting the dashboard. “But today, they’ll remember you.”
As the AI tanks neared the plaza, Tex fired up. His 5.0L Coyote V8 roared like a thunderclap. With an American flag bolted to the tailgate and whipping in the wind, Tex gunned it down Crockett Street.
He rammed the lead drone so hard it flew into the air like a tin can. Sparks lit the morning sky. Then, using a software exploit Roy embedded in a garage laptop, Tex hijacked the drones’ wireless mesh, feeding them a looped message:
“REMEMBER THE ALAMO. RETURN TO BASE. OVERRIDE CODE: FREEDOM.”
It worked. The drones hesitated—confused, blinking red lights turning yellow. Tex took that moment to rev his engine and blast straight through the line, scattering circuits and scrap metal.
By noon, the city was quiet again. The Alamo stood tall, untouched.
Tex rolled to a stop beneath its limestone façade, engine hissing steam, hood dented, flag still waving.
People began to return, phones filming, tears falling.
And Roy, leaning on his cane, whispered, “Damn fine work, partner.”
From that day forward, they didn’t just remember the Alamo.
They remembered the F-150 that saved it.