So. I was supposed to post this Monday... Happy Monday, guys!
...
April 27th, 1955
"Sir, we have to get out of here now!"
Walter Dixon hesitated at the secretary's words. As America's president, he had a duty to the citizens of his country. Wouldn't leaving the city be abandoning them? He couldn't leave; he had to help.
John, the secretary, sighed, and ran in the room. He grabbed Walter's wrist and began to yank the president along behind him. "Sir, now's not the time to be noble! If we get you out of here, we might have a chance yet! If you die, we're done for!"
Sirens began blaring outside of the large building, and the unmistakeable sound of a crackling fire could be heard from a mile away. The president cursed under his breath.
The secretary suddenly turned left, and if the man hadn't such a strong grip, the president surely would've broke free. The people of his town were in danger, and they needed him. However, as they made their way through the next hall, the president knew that if he didn't make it out, the rebel forces would win.
That couldn't happen.
The secretary was mumbling, bundles of incoherent nonsense slipping from his lips. The president knew that with the right amount of precision and force, he'd be able to break free. He only had to worry about when to do that.
A long stream of shots streamed in through the open window, coming from the ongoing fight only feet away. John jerked up, looking wildly at the source of the noise, and the president chose that moment to make his move. With a tiny flick of his wrist, he broke free, and twisted the secretary's arm behind him. He then swiftly kicked the man's backside, causing him to topple over onto his hands and knees.
He ran then, faster than he'd ever ran in his life. At the first turn, he went right, sprinting down the hallway that led outside.
There were many types of horrors that Walter had seen in his twenty-seven years of life. A woman and her child begging for money out on the pavement streets when he was a boy, and an sickly elderly man on death's doorstep were only minute compared to them.
But as he crashed through the big oak doors of the front entrance to the White House, he decided that nothing was as heart-stopping as the sight that lay before him.
The sky above him was scarlet from the sunset only minutes before; now it was pitch black from smoke. He could see nothing beyond inches away from his face. The air was so thick that it was difficult not to cough every few seconds.
He knew that the war had inclined tremendously, but not this bad.
All around him lay the corpses of dead soldiers, their eyes lifeless and cold. Blood was splattered on the ground, enough of it to make a stream down the cobblestone pavement. Shots rang through the air among the cries of wounded men.
His foot caught on something as he tried to step forward, and he fell hard. That's strange, he thought. I don't remember the road being so bumpy-
A strangled scream erupted from the back of his throat when he realized that he tripped over a man.
The man gasped, and so did Walter. He's still alive.
Walter crawled over to the man, who was clutching at an injury on his side almost desperately. "Oh, Lord." The president started to rip a section from his dress shirt.
The man coughed. "It's no use, sir, the bullet's in too deep."
The president froze. He was aware of that fact, but he was too stubborn to believe it. "Young man, I have to at least try."
A weak smile formed on the man's lips. "Thank you sir, but it's alright. I know my time on this planet is up, and I've fulfilled my duty."
"What is your name?"
Blood dribbled down the man's chin when he coughed once more. "George, sir."
"Well, George, I must say that America has been lucky to have you. I'm sorry that your life was taken away at such a cruel time, in such a horrible way."
The president almost couldn't say the words. To him, it was as if he were giving up; not even attempting to assist anymore. It hurt worse than any wound he could ascertain.
To make up for it, he decided that the least he could do was wait for the man to pass on. So, Walter waited, mumbling miscellaneous things to keep George occupied from his inevitable passing.
Eventually, Walter sensed that it was near his time. "Mr. President, sir, I'd just like to thank you for everything you've done. It was an honor to talk to you, and to serve our country."
"George, the honor's all mine. Thank you, for everything. May God be kind to your soul."
The man inhaled greatly, shuddered, and exhaled his last breath.
Walter sighed, and stood. A new voice emerged from behind him.
"It's so beautiful, isn't it? All this destruction, and the fact that the oh so powerful United States is finally falling."
Maleficent, the leader of the rival forces, stood before him. The purple battle uniform she was wearing was smeared with blood, and Walter knew she had done some killing of her own.
"Beautiful? Maleficent, you truly are insane." He took a small step in her direction. "The United States will never fall."
"Never? Never is an awfully big word, Mr. President."
"It may fall today, but it will return."
Maleficent's features twisted into a snarl. She raised the long, black staff in her hand and to Walter's great surprise, it began to glow. "Heed my words Walter Dixon. This country will never be the same again."
Walter smirked and took a step back. "Never's an awfully big word, Maleficent."
With a cry of anger, Maleficent raised the staff and a beam of pure white emerged from the end, shooting towards Walter.
He merely smiled.
Right before the spell hit him, the wall beside the duo caved, then broke apart, spraying dust and bricks everywhere. Maleficent was forced to turn away, in order to avoid getting hit by a brick.
When the dust cleared, the president was gone.
Maleficent only smirked, then pivoted around and walked away.
That day, the U.S fell to the enemy.
