It all started November 26, 2029 3:45 A.M est, when a Russian fighter crashed into and sunk an American carrier in the Black Sea. 1048 American sailors were killed immediately, and thousands more died from sinking into the icy depths. It wasn't long before the media got to the story and started propagating it as a deliberate attack, despite the Russian government attributing it to engine failure in combination with poor visibility. Despite the best efforts of the various peace movements, everyone America soon demanded war. I myself bought into the propaganda at the time, even going as far as to enlist in the military, I tried anyway. My past history frequent migraines was enough to deny me my duty as a man to avenge my fallen brothers. Looking back, I don't know whether to consider myself lucky or not. Sure, I didn't die like so many others in the failed invasion of Shanghai, or the various failed attempts to recapture mainland Europe, but I was still left scarred by the war. I still remember the day clearly, August 7, 2034, the day of the first mainland raids. We weren't a high priority target, just a small town on the coast of Maine, I suppose they were targeting the factory where I worked, but it doesn't matter now. There's need to disclose the name, of the town I mean, as its likely no one will ever live there again, especially now. Even if it wasn't far behind enemy lines, the place is nothing more than smoldering ruin, and even if it wasn't, I'll never return to the place my family was killed, and I know, from the few survivors I spoke to, that my decision is common among us. I suppose finding your home in smoldering ruins, and finding your wife and infant daughter burned not only to death, but beyond all recognition . I still to this day don't know what was worse, seeing my loved ones dead before my eyes, or knowing that I was really to blame. Sure, the Russians bombed us, but it was our fault for our insistence on war in the first place, and furthermore my fault for making equipment used to do the same thing to families on their side. I couldn't handle the guilt, so I left the refugee camp the military pushed us into only a day after the bombings. I withdrew all of my money from my bank account and headed inland to Oklahoma, far away from the smoldering ruins of my hometown. I bought a small farm about 30 miles outside of Oklahoma City and started growing food for the war and myself. I refused and still do, even under the circumstances, to produce any weapons for the war, but the law requires all civilians to do something, so I decided food production to be about as passive war support I could achieve. I don't mind really, there's no sense in letting our troops starve, their lives were already being wasted in hopeless offenses into enemy territory, no need for suffering more. I expected the hard work associated with farming to take my thoughts off of my family, but I was wrong. Innovations in robotics throughout the war meant that I, as a farmer, was little more than an occasional mechanic. Most days I didn't even have to leave the house. All I did during the day was sit on my porch, drink away my troubles, smoke my pipe, and watch the news, which had long since devolved into depressing stories of our dwindling navy, conquest of our few remaining allies, the battles of in attrition though really a controlled retreat along the northern front in southern Canada, the southern front in Guatemala, and bombings of our coastal cities. In the evenings, I just stare off into the sunset and at the vague outline of the city beyond until it gets dark and then I go inside and fall asleep. It had almost become routine, though I knew it was only a matter of time. Nobody foresaw it but me, or perhaps they did, and I was the only one drunk enough to talk openly about it, but I knew we couldn't hold them back forever. The slow retreat along the northern and southern fronts steadily became more chaotic. The media is reporting on the enemy's crossing into the Dakotas, their blitzkrieg of New England, and of our failed defense of the Rio line along the Texas border. Yesterday, the president was on broadcast demanding an immediate end of the war, offering up almost anything possible for a favorable surrender, but the enemy wouldn't have peace, the only surrender they would accept was when the entirety of our continent burned. That's what the media's been spewing anyway, I don't know what to believe anymore. When I started to see Russian fighters fly overhead, I knew it was only a matter of time. Our Navy and Air Force was all but obliterated, our armies stopped fighting, laying down their rifles and trying their best to get home. Our government finally realized that there was no way of winning the war, so they did it. The fate we've been afraid of since our great grandparents were children. The government, along with whatever loyalists left in the military launched our entire nuclear arsenal in a last ditch effort to turn the tide in the war. The launch was propagated as a major victory, at least it was for the few hours before the internet and tv stations went dark. I've been awaiting them ever since that moment about an hour ago, their retaliation. Just sitting here on my porch, watching the the enemy's gift fall from the sky and obliterate the city before me. I see mushroom clouds appear across the plains, the skies, glowing red with radioactive fire, the ultimate revenge of all those who died for nothing in this senseless war. I lay down my empty liquor bottle, and put out my cigarette, closing my eyes, awaiting my judgement, my punishment for the suffering I assisted in causing the world.
