John F. Kennedy: The End of Camelot

John F. Kennedy: The End of Camelot book 2

Prologue

John F. Kennedy hardly remembered his past life.

At a few minutes, he'd get images. Images of the past. Most were of Jackie. Others were of Caroline. And all the others were pieces and scraps of his dead family.

He barely remembered his father. His father with the cold blue eyes, sharp jawline, and a steel body with charming emotions.

His two younger brothers were different. Bobby he could remember sometimes. His cold blue eyes, but boyish smile made John's heart ache.

His "death" was completey different. He remembered the pain. The blood running hot in his veins. People screaming. Hands touching his face, hands touching his stomach, then his head. And then quiet.

The quiet had been him passing out. "Dying" people had said. John hadn't died. He'd woken up 50 years later to Maria Walker standing over him, her cheeks pink and hot with agnoy.

Now Maria was dead. Killed off by Fury soldiers. He'd seen her, her throat had been ripped out by a soldier driving a knife into her neck. He hadn't loved her but she was cute and young and innocent.

"Wait till you see what they did to Bobby," Caroline, his daughter, had told him. "He died after being shot in the head and other parts of the body."

John didn't want to see. He'd rather bleed to death then see what they'd done to Bobby.

"Who shot him?" He'd asked. She'd given him that snarky eye roll that was inherited from Jackie, he guessed.

"Shirhan-Shirhan," she said, tilting her head and the smile had vanished from her eyes. She stared, her eyes bleak. "He's in jail right now. I've visited him twice now. Those times I've screamed hurtful things at him."

John rubbed his eyes and glanced at Caroline. She had green eyes like him but Jackie's features. Pain swelled under him. He'd never stayed to see her grow up into the beautiful adult she was today. And his grandchildren acted awkward around him. Like they weren't used to him.

He tipped his head sideways and saw Rose walking quietly at the side of the group. She had a purple bruise on the side of her cheek after getting punched by Fury.

Beside him was President Barack Obama. John had been confused at first. Obama was black. People wouldn't approve of him as president back in 1963.

That was until Caroline explained the Civil Rights Act. She'd said it with a smirk. A proud smirk.

John glanced beside him. Beside him was President Barack Obama, with his dark hair and dark eyes. The dark eyes of the president were hollow and eerily.

Glass crushed under his boot and John looked up startled. They were standing a few meters away from a plane. The plane was white, covered in some blue and red paint too. He instantly recognized it.

Air Force One.

Caroline breathed in a sigh of relief. Her children, bruised and battered, looked suddenly full of energy. They bolted for the plane, limping on their feet.

John jogged a bit but not too fast. He still had aching pains on his throat where he'd been shot and his head sometimes got massive headaches. His back was now constantly throbbing with pain.

John stepped through the doorway and the cool air hit him right in the cheeks. He gasped, sucking in air.

The cool air felt good consedring he'd been trapped in a hospital for 50 years.

Caroline sat down on one of the chairs, burying her face into her palms. Her mascura was everywhere. She had deep cuts on her arms and neck. She looked exhausted and worn out.

"Where are we going?" He asked the president, his eyes staring into the uncomfortable eyes of the 44th president.

"To the White House, of course," he smiled, bobbling his head a bit. "After that maybe we can get congress to declare war on Fury."

Caroline looked bored. "Is that really necessary?"

"Yes," Obama scowled at her. She titled her chin a bit but didn't reply. "We have to go."

John peered out the window. The small burning city of Dallas was already into flames and smoke as Air Force One took its course toward Washington D.C.