September 24, 2018

I wrote this the night Trump appointed Bolton. I see it as a realistic scenario.

September 24, 2018

Bob was disgusted. Tammy was in crying on the bed again. Having another emotional melt down when she probably needed to function. Bob was tired of baby sitting her, he told himself, let her cry. If things got tough, like he expected, something would have to be done. But there was no need to deal with that now. There was more important stuff going on.

It was a nice morning. The mornings were getting cooler, but it was still summer here in Kansas City. The grasshoppers made their clicking noises as they flew about from place to place on the freshly mowed lawn and he could hear meadowlarks in the distance. There was no traffic on the side street on the other side of the backyard fence.

It seemed like everyone was staying home because of the day's events. Everyone in town taking Monday off. He himself was really glad he had called in. He'd told Stan, the foreman at the plant, that his wife was having a breakdown, which was hardly an exaggeration. Stan had been sympathetic. Said they probably wouldn't even try to start the line today because of the absences. He told Bob to go do whatever he needed to do, the whole world was staying home.

Bob had a blanket spread out on the patio table and his two AR-15's were laying on it, in the shade of the crab apple tree growing out of the garden in the middle of the patio. He could see the “tombstone” in the garden where he and his son had buried a mouse some years back. His son had been just a toddler then, crying about the mouse dying in the trap. Bob had left the “grave” undisturbed thinking someday he'd point it out to his grown son and see if he remembered that day. Remembered the father and son project of burying the mouse. Maybe he'd bring it up after his son's high school graduation.

He'd had fight with Patty to buy the first AR. She saw no need for it and refused to listen to his explanation that they might be very glad to have it someday. The second one had been even tougher, resulting in several very serious fights. Almost a separation. But he was now glad he'd held his ground. The day he had foreseen might well be upon them. He cleaned and checked over the two rifles.

His 9 mm was also on the table, but it didn't need the close going over that the rifles did. He fired it about every other week, so there was constant maintenance on it. He checked over his cleaning supplies and the bundle of tools that might be needed for repairs. He'd counted up his ammunition last night.

He'd already been to the basement and they had food for a couple of weeks, but he wished he had more. But over the past couple of months it had been hard enough just buying food to stay alive. The liberals were poisoning the market against Trump and things were getting tougher by the day. There were rumors of layoffs at the plant.

And that wasn't all the libs had done. Obama had allowed our enemies to walk on us for eight years. He had done nothing to combat the threats we faced. Tried to get Korea and Iran to sing Kum-ba -a with him and not much more.

And they'd used their media to trip up Trump. Driven down his ratings, but probably not to the levels they were reporting. That had to be fake. But lot's of people were dumb enough to listen to the liberal media. And listen to the fake scandals the were constantly gassing on about. And their blitz had put Congress in danger. And without Congress, Trump would not be able to go forward.

Well, things were different now, Bob chuckled to himself. Trump and Bolton were literally saying “Damn the liberal media!”. They had had enough and were now asserting themselves in the world. And there might even be a little pain associated with this new course. And Bob admitted this. But by God, we really were going to take back the country and make America great again. Bob was sure.

The door to the kitchen opened and he heard his son come through the garage and out onto the patio.

“Dad, are we going to have a war?”

“No one knows. But we need to be ready. Still remember how to shoot don't you?”

“Oh yeah!” Said his son.

“Show me”, said Bob, checking one of the rifles to ensure it was not loaded and handing it to his son.

“First, if you have time, you check your ammo like this”, said his son as he released the clip on the rifle, inspected it and then snapped it back into place. “Then you c**k it like this, put on the safety and keep your finger next to the trigger. But not on it.” He showed his dad the position of his finger and his dad nodded in approval. “Then you look for the bad guys”, said his son, sweeping the rifle around the yard. “They'll be behind stuff.”

“Good”, said his dad, taking the rife from the young man and placing it back on the table.

Above them and to the North, the bus detached three cone shaped re-entry vehicles. They fired retros and oriented themselves for re-entry. The atmosphere is lumpy, and for the first 30 seconds or so, they left streaks of burned matter behind them, and their nose glowed red as they passed through the elevated hills of air. This would abate in the valleys were the atmosphere was more rare. They then entered the atmosphere in earnest and began leaving long visible trails of what looked like smoke. Their noses glowed white hot and looked like daytime stars from the ground.

The little boy tugged on his dad's sleeve. “Look at that”, he said, pointing to the North.

His father followed his finger and just stared. “Airplanes”, he finally said.

“Weird airplanes”, said the little boy.

“Hey, see that rock over there? Remember the day you and I buried that mouse there?” His father choked a little bit as he spoke.

The little boy just stared, “A mouse?”.

“Remember? You were sad because it was caught in a trap.”

The little boy pulled on his lip and shook his head. Three sonic booms shook the ground and rattled the windows in the house.

And then there was nothing. The fence between the side street and the yard was gone, as were the AR-15's, the table they were sitting on and the house itself. The father and son had been reduced to shadows on the patio concrete. But the rock marking the mouse's grave was still there. But it was rapidly being buried by the falling ash.

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

This is the kind of nightmare millions of us have imagined for over a year now. Very well written.

[Miss Fedelm]

Thank you. I wrote it the night Bolton was appointed. My fear was that the Republicans, facing a certain wipe out in November, would do something desperate to radically change the world.