Prologue

America is on the verge of ruin. Will the last-ditch effort by what's left of the Senate be enough to save the country it serves?

The rattling of what good China the residents of this house have left in the cabinet signals an impending attack. There's the unmistakable roaring of a jet engine flying at near supersonic speeds all too close to the suburban homes below.

Smoke rises from most of them. Not in the way they would on a typical, picturesque winter evening. Not by a long shot. Once perfectly laid brick work is now nothing but piles of dust and rubble. Explosions and bombings have become part of the norm. Bomb shelters forged out of the red scare in the fifties now protect the citizens fortunate enough to have them in their backyards.

The city is not so well off. Many gathered inside the walls of the football stadium, but when a mushroom cloud appears a few blocks over it doesn't matter where you are. You'll die. And they did.
In a very short amount of time the trivial things like The Jake versus Progressive or hating the fans who flip flopped on Lebron went from being all that mattered to being a distant memory.
It's hard to care about that when most of the people arguing were blown away, and those left face the dangers of nuclear fallout every second that they take a breath.

Sunken ships fill the lake, and not from the War of 1812. Its 2019, and despite the best efforts of the US Coast Guard, drone strikes proved to be useful for more than just pulverizing houses.
They blamed the grounding of their own defense drones on potential hackers, but many of the scared civilians on the ground felt that they had already been hacked and what was left of the government simply didn't want to induce panic. Too late.

Families of all races and sizes run like confused animals in the brush of a wild far, black smoke so thick they can't see six inches in front of their faces.
The ones lucky enough to get through the smoke come out looking unrecognizable, soot caked inside of their open wounds from head to toe.

What is one of the biggest traits commonly found in literature's tragic heroes? Pride.

There was no prouder nation than America. Pride trumped preparedness, and in a blindsided attack they were knocked off their axis. Now, three years later, there seems to be little hope left. If any.

Gathered inside of the clubhouse at what was once a golf course, a sickly looking bearded man sits beside a woman who has tried her best to appear presentable. Her maroon blazer and skirt sit atop a now off-white blouse. Her hair appears to have been brushed, but the frizziness indicates hairspray was no longer a luxury.

"Honey, we have to do this," the woman says to the man as she places her hand on his shoulder. Her other hand sits atop a dusty table that appears to have been sprayed by machine gun fire in its past. The wood is splintered all over but at the center of every crater and dent is a perfectly round hole.

"I told you I'll support you in whatever you do. Just... don't do this for me," he insists. Tears begin to roll down her cheeks as she rests her forehead against his chin.

Sad eyes, the saddest eyes, wander down to the bloody stump that used to have her husband's leg attached to it. "I don't think we have another choice," she counters. The defeat can be heard in her voice. It pieces her spouse's heart, the pain almost worse than the feeling of a limb being blown clean off in a blast originating from his front door.

"Do it," she shouts to a younger man across from the table. The room is dark, lit only by the overcast sky trying to shine through the gaps in the boarded up windows.

"On it," he says, sounding slightly more optimistic than the two elders in the room. He begins clicking away on a ruggedized laptop. Unquestionably military grade. "Connection is secure... or as secure as it can be," he announces.

He places the device in front of the woman, her exhausted face appearing in the onscreen frame while the person on the other end takes a seat in a metal folding chair. The man appears to be better off than the couple, his suit not ironed to perfection but still looking fresh and clean nonetheless. "Have you come to a decision, senator? Remember, the decision is not unanimous and we are currently at a standstill. You are the swing vote."

The woman scoffs at the President Pro Tempore. "I am fully aware of the weight of my vote, thank you." The senator's tone is condescending, and rightfully so. As harsh as it sounds, the woman has been to the brink of hell and this man forced her into an impossible position.

"So, on the issue of the Bill of Forfeiture; granting the government indefinite power to gather intelligence, use our military and arsenal to its full potential, and to cease and detain and citizen who protests The Oversight: how do you vote?"

Inhaling deeply, she exhales with her eyes tightly shut, her eyelids wrinkling up from the intensity. Her cracked and calloused fingers curl into fists and she feels as if her veins may soon burst.
"Senator, how do you vote?" The man asks again, his tone far more impatient this time.
She swallows hard before finally opening her eyes and staring directly into the tiny lens.