Every night I had the same dream, the same nightmare.

A background of fire and a dark line ripped through the middle and seemed to gradually get closer and closer to me. The line seemed to try and take over the entire picture, engulfing the fire. The darkness covered the entire landscape. And there were flashes of fire and darkness. Like lightning in a bottle, they flashed in my head. I could almost feel the images shock me as they changed over and over, faster and faster. Soon the flashes gave way to one image. The image of Washington D.C. in flames, the Washington Monument covered in soot, the White House in flames, the entire landscape as far as the eye could see engulfed in flames and smoke.

And I knew they wouldn't stop until I went to the place that they kept showing me. Two weeks after the dreams started, I grabbed the backpack and left Baltimore. I began the trip to Washington.

When I arrived in Washington, nothing was really that different from Baltimore. There were more people here than in Baltimore, but there are the same riots, the same murders, and occasional gangs crawled on the streets. Everything was in shambles and destroyed in some way. The only way that I knew it was Washington was the landmarks that still had managed to stand after whatever happened had happened.

The streets were littered in garbage, graffiti on every wall that was still standing. People were yelling at each other and fights left some people unconscious on the floor. The hatred was so strong here. I couldn't believe such hatred was possible. I had to wonder how the world could get this bad this fast. I had never felt more alone in my entire life.

I walked on the sidewalks trying to find someplace to stay for the night. It was dark, the only light coming from fires that were lit inside garbage cans. And as I looked at the walls, I saw something pretty disturbing. I looked up at this wall, still intact, and the wall was covered in missing posters. As far as the eye could see, missing posters were glued and pasted on the wall. I studied the posters, trying to touch them to see if I could have gotten something from them like I had gotten before. Nothing.

I looked at the names. Erick Friese, George Heart, Fred Triton, the names went on and on. Then I noticed the dates. They were all dated 2015. Some were handwritten and others were typed, but almost all of them had the pictures of the person and they all had a reward ranging from the hundreds to the thousands of dollars. There must have been thousands of people posted on that one wall. As I began studying the dates again, I noticed 3/06/2015 appearing on almost every poster. March 6, 2015.The majority of the posters stated that they had gone missing were on that specific date. Some others were scattered throughout March or early April. What did it mean? What happened? As I continued walking down the wall, there were some other flyers posted. Two flyers, next to each other showed a handwritten palm with an eye in the middle. Above it was the name Johnny Smith, all in capitals, and below, the word "BELIEVE". Others demanded the death of John Smith and offered huge rewards.

"Death to John Smith!"

I instinctively turned around. It was an old man with dark eyes, angry eyes. They were piercing as they stared down on me. He was wearing old, dirty, filthy rags. He was standing on some kind of a platform.

"Curse him for all that he has caused! For this destruction! The false prophet of doom! May death fall upon him, and may he burn in hell for all eternity!"

People began gathering around and shouted in agreement at the words that he was saying. There were a few who disagreed with him, though. One man yelled from the small crowd.

"Don't talk about things that you don't know about, old fool!"

Another not to far from him added, "John Smith is a man who means good, a prophet! He is here to save us all!"

Soon yelling began as people seemed to disagree with each other. People began to shout and push each other and soon fist flew and a huge fight began to unravel in the middle of the street. I slowly backed away from the scene, backing into the alley. I hid in the alley, sitting in between a few cardboard boxes. I dropped the backpack next to me.

I heard the shouting from the alley and the fighting continued for several hours, deep into the night. Johnny Smith, I wondered. The name seemed familiar, but I couldn't seem to put my finger on it. Johnny Smith I repeated over and over again. I tried to sleep, but sleep wouldn't come.

I tried to think of Madeline and Julia. I went back to days that seemed like an eternity ago, before the hatred, before the gunfire, before the bombs, before this…

I was back in White Plains, New York. Home. I was sitting on the porch sitting with my wife. We were drinking lemonade. I made them for the both of us. I used to make a mean glass of lemonade. I sat back with my wife, sitting on the porch, I was holding her hand. I remember that day, that normal, August day. I was before we had Julia. We sat there for hours, holding hands. We never said a word. We didn't need to. The silence was beautiful. We were in perfect understanding. We didn't need to say a word.

We sat there watching birds fly by overhead in a clear blue sky. We watched the kids playing across the street, having fun. We watched the clouds roll by as the hours melted slowly away. We sat there all afternoon, her hand in mine,until the sun set into the horizon on that perfect day. That too perfect day…

And then it was gone. I looked at my hand and she was gone. I looked around and the porch was gone, the house, the sun. It was too perfect. I cried myself to sleep. The nightmare came back again, stronger than ever. The monument seemed to call out my name that night. Something was at that monument. I had to find out what.