A New Day
© 2007 by Michael Mort
The automatic weapons fire had been silent for almost nine hours now, and sunlight was just beginning to peek through the shattered windows. In a sleep-deprived exhaustion, David allowed himself to wonder if the worst was over.
“Hey, dude. You look worse than I do,” said David’s neighbor, Jonathan.
“God. I wouldn’t have thought that was possible, looking at you,” David returned with a weak smile.
Jonathan eased himself down onto the carpeted floor beside David, groaning as he slowly let his head rest against the pock-marked wall behind them. He carefully lay the handgun he had been holding—one from David’s stash—on the floor, then closed his eyes. After a moment he said quietly, “I just want you to know, you were right, I was wrong.”
“Yeah, I know,” David said. “But only in general. I got the date wrong.”
“That’s right,” Jonathan sighed. “The date. You said it would be—what?—The State of the Union Speech, 2011?”
“Yeah. That was a prediction I read in some guy’s blog back in ’07. It seemed plausible.”
“Whatever. Inauguration Day for her second term is fitting, I guess. Still took out the whole government.”
David huffed agreement, then said, “You even voted for her last November, didn’t you.”
Jonathan nodded reluctantly. “Had too. I’m—was a Democrat.” He took a deep breath then coughed on the dust still floating in the frigid air inside David’s house. The women, who were huddled in the corner, stirred in their uneasy sleep. “Sorry,” Jonathan whispered in their direction.
The two men were silent for a few moments, both looking toward their families. David felt his eyes moisten. His wife and daughter, who were both very beautiful normally, now looked so pathetic, wrapped in each others’ arms, blood and sweat mingled on their faces. He tried to swallow, but there was a lump in his throat.
Jonathan, who had been studying his own wife and young son, shivered and coughed quietly again. He turned to David and said, “So, the State of the Union. What do you think? Pretty much fucked up?”
David closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall. He and Maryellen had just painted the living room a dark green, in preparation for the dinner party with Jonathan and Becky. Now his head was leaving a sweaty grease spot on it—right next to a gaping hole deposited by a semi-automatic round that had just missed him yesterday. God, was that dinner party really only two days ago? “Yeah, I suppose they hit other cities too,” he said.
“At least we’re far enough west of DC. Maybe the fallout won’t come this way.” Jonathan sounded like he was seeking support for his hopes.
“Yeah,” David said, wanting to be hopeful too. “If we can survive these attacks from the roving gangs of Hispanics, we might just make it. I suppose we’re going to have to learn how to farm though, when the food in the house runs out. My Ph.D. in economics won’t be so useful for that.” He started to chuckle, but then he had to suppress a cough too.
“Tell me about it,” Jonathan said. “I grew up in New York City. I wouldn’t know which end of a seed to put in the ground.”
David laughed for real. “I think you just put the whole thing in the dirt and water it.”
“Water? Really?” Jonathan said.
David smiled and shook his head slowly. The two rested some more.
After a few minutes, David opened his eyes and saw brilliant sun pouring in the windows. A new day. He suddenly felt restless. He needed to do something. Something besides defending his big suburban home from roving gangs. He wanted to go outside, find other survivors, get started rebuilding. They were going to need to work together. America was resilient. It could come back from this. A new government could be elected. Law and sense would prevail. America had a culture of law and common sense.
David slowly stood up. His muscles and bones ached. He stretched. Then he touched Jonathan’s knee. Jonathan gave a start and looked up at him. “Come on,” David said. “Get up.”
“Why?” Jonathan demanded anxiously, throwing off his sleepiness. “What’s happened? Are they back?”
“No,” David said. “No, I’m back. Come on. Let’s start this country over again. I’m going across the street to Harry and Julie’s. Harry’ll join us. I know he will. Any guy who stashes an AK-47 in his house for self defense must be prepared for anything. We need to get to work, and we have a nucleus right here. That is if you don’t mind joining a couple of crazy Conservatives.”
Jonathan grabbed David’s hand and used it to pull himself to his feet. He dusted himself off and looked at David. “I figure there aren’t any Liberals and Conservatives anymore. Just survivors.”
Suddenly the men heard a rumbling noise. It got louder and the house started to shake. The women woke up. David and Jonathan ran to the windows at the front of the house—which had all been blown out by gunfire. They caught a glimpse of two small partially armored vehicles turning down their street. Their eyes brightened as they turned to each other. “The army’s here! Thank God!” The two men grabbed and hugged each other, slapping each other on the back.
David and Jonathan went over to their wives to help them up and tell them the good news.
That’s when they heard the voice over the loud speaker. It said, in accented English,
We have driven away the roving gangs of hoodlums. Motadaq’s Army will protect you. You must now pledge allegiance to Allah, and his prophet Mohammad. If you do, we will protect you. This is Motadaq’s Army. You are safe, but you must pledge allegiance to Allah and Mohammad now or else Allah will strike you down. Twenty major cities in America have been destroyed by Allah’s atomic bombs. Allah has taken this land. Motadaq’s Army will protect you. You must pledge allegiance to Allah and Mohammad now. If you do not bow to Allah now, Allah will strike you down. Motadaq’s Army will protect you, but you must….
David and Jonathan looked at each other in disbelief. The two families ran to the windows to look outside. There were now five partially armored vehicles—they looked like Hummers with steel plates bolted on them—cruising up and down the street. Two of them had large speakers, blaring the same message over and over again.
Suddenly, David heard automatic weapon fire. He looked across the street, where he saw the muzzle flashes. His neighbor Harry was opening up on the convoy, emptying his AK-47’s magazine into one of the vehicles. David raced from his spot at the window. He wanted to get his weapons and join the fight.
Just as he picked up his guns and turned around, David saw Harry’s house across the street erupt into a fireball. David was thrown from his feet by the massive concussion. Debris ripped through the skin of his house and tore his clothing. Horror filled him as he saw his wife’s severed head land beside him.
David scrambled to his feet immediately. Blinding rage consumed him. He ran through the doorway of his fine suburban home onto the once tranquil street of his middle class Washington, DC suburb, pulling the trigger of his Glock and aiming wildly, blindly. The last thing he heard was the voice of his friend Jonathan, who was firing wildly right beside him, and yelling, “God Bless Amer—!”