Going … Going … Gone

Posted on Sun Apr 7th, 2024 @ 7:29pm by Hale Stratton

436 words; about a 2 minute read

Mission: Bangor or Bust
Location: Oval Office, White House, Washington, D.C.
Timeline: 6 September 2010 - 06:43 a.m.

[Dawn, Oval Office, White House, Washington DC]

The President stood at the window, tears running openly down his cheeks. The choice had been his -- to go to safety or not. But he couldn't. Not after what he'd had to do. It was the right thing, he was certain of that, but it was a monstrous act nevertheless.

Hours ago, the order had been passed to what was left of their military and those who had been sequestered, protected, against just such a possibility were given an unthinkable order by the President himself. Prayers were said and a great quiet fell over the briefing room.

Some things you didn't come back from. And if you did, you'd probably wish you hadn't.

In the White House, most everyone was gone. Thanked individually by the President for their service, their willingness to stay on and do what they could. They left to find their families, to flee to safety, to try to build their lives again.

With the First Lady an early victim to the Wildfire Virus, he had no reason left to continue the fight. And every reason to pay the price. And so, he sat in the Oval Office.

There were some who stayed. Those that had nowhere particular to go. Those who lacked the will to continue. Those who were ready for it all to be over. They gathered in the chapel to pray.

"Going," he said. He had cleared his desk and made certain that those who came after him would not have easy access to the nation's nuclear arsenal. There hadn't been time or personnel to destroy them all and really, in the early days, many had argued against the idea.

"Going," he whispered. He had spent the majority of his life preparing for this job and, given his approval ratings, had been almost certain of a second term. He was, by any reasonable means of measurement, at the top of his game and now this.

To preside over the end of the United States (as it was) was not the legacy he'd hoped to leave. In the unnatural silence of a city without power, he heard the sound of jets.

Moments now.

That was all that was left of his Presidency. Of him. And he hoped, as monstrous as this act was, that would give the survivors a chance at rebuilding. He just wouldn't be among them. Some things you just don't come back from.

At least not him.

As the first of the bombs fell on Washington, D.C., there was a bright flare and then, everything faded.

Gone.

 

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