Morgan Rice: Arena One: Slaverunners

One day, about ten years ago, a fateful tipping point came when one political leader threatened the other with one fateful word: “secession.” If the Democrats tried to raise taxes even one more cent, his party would secede from the union and every village, every town, every state would be divided in two. Not by land, but by ideology.

His timing couldn’t have been worse: at that time, the nation was in an economic depression, and there were enough malcontents out there, fed up with the loss of jobs, to gain him popularity. The media loved the ratings he got, and they fed him more and more air time. Soon his popularity grew. Eventually, with no one to stop him, with the Democrats unwilling to compromise, and with momentum carrying itself, his idea hardened. His party proposed their nation’s own flag, and even their own currency.

That was the first tipping point. If someone had just stepped up and stopped him then, it may all have stopped. But no one did. So he pushed further.

Emboldened, this politician proposed that the new union also have its own police force, its own courts, its own state troopers – and its own military. That was the second tipping point.

If the Democratic President at the time had been a good leader, he might have stopped things then. But he worsened the situation by making one bad decision after another. Instead of trying to calm things, to address the core needs that lead to such discontent, he instead decided that the only way to quash what he called “the Rebellion” was to take a hard line: he accused the entire Republican leadership of sedition. He declared martial law, and during the middle of the night, had them all arrested.

That escalated things, and rallied their entire party. It also rallied half the military. People were divided, within every home, every town, every military barracks; slowly, tension built in the streets, and neighbor hated neighbor. Even families were divided.

One night, those in the military leadership loyal to the Republicans followed secret orders and instituted a coup, breaking them out of prison. There was a standoff. And on the steps of the Capitol building, the first fateful shot was fired. A young soldier thought he saw an officer reach for a gun and fired first. Once the first soldier fell, there was no turning back. The final line had been crossed. An American had killed an American. A firefight ensued, with dozens of officers dead. The Republican leadership was whisked away to a secret location. And from that moment on, the military split in two. The government split in two. Towns, villages, counties, and states all split in two. This became known as the First Wave.

During the first few days, crisis managers and government factions desperately tried to make peace. But it was too little, too late. Nothing was able to stop the coming storm. A faction of hawkish generals took matters into their own hands, wanting the glory, wanting to be the first in war, wanting the advantage of speed and surprise. They figured that crushing the opposition immediately was the best way to put an end to all of this.

The war began. Battles ensued on American soil. Pittsburgh became the new Gettysburg, with two hundred thousand dead in a week. Tanks mobilized against tanks. Planes against planes. Every day, every week, the violence escalated. Lines were drawn in the sand, military and police assets were divided, and battles spread to every state in the nation. Everywhere, everyone fought against each other, friend against friend, brother against brother. It reached a point where no one even knew what they were fighting about anymore. The entire nation was spilled with blood, and no one seemed able to stop it. This became known as the Second Wave.

Up to that moment, as bloody as it was, it was still conventional warfare. But then came the Third Wave, the worst of all. The President, in desperation, operating from a secret bunker, decided there was only one way to quell what he still insisted on calling “the Rebellion.” Summoning his best military officers, they advised him to use the strongest assets he had to quell the rebellion once and for all: local, targeted nuclear missiles. He consented.

The next day nuclear payloads were dropped in strategic Republican strongholds across America. Hundreds of thousands died on that day, in places like Nevada, Texas, Mississippi. Millions died on the second.

The Republicans responded. They seized hold of their own assets, ambushed NORAD, and launched their own nuclear payloads onto Democratic strongholds. States like Maine and New Hampshire were mostly eviscerated. Within the next ten days, nearly all of America was destroyed, one city after another. It was wave after wave of sheer devastation, and those who weren’t killed by direct attack died soon after from the toxic air and water. Within a matter of a month, there was no one even left to fight. Streets and buildings emptied out one at a time, as people were marched off to fight against former neighbors.

But Dad didn’t even wait for the draft – and that is why I hate him. He left way before. He’d been an officer in the Marine Corps for twenty years before any of this broke out, and he’d seen it all coming sooner than most. Every time he watched the news, every time he saw two politicians screaming at each other in the most disrespectful way, always upping the ante, Dad would shake his head and say, “This will lead to war. Trust me.”

And he was right. Ironically, Dad had already served his time and had been retired from Corps for years before this happened; but when that first shot was fired, on that day, he re-enlisted. Before there was even talk of a full-out war. He was probably the very first person to volunteer, for a war that hadn’t even started yet.

And that is why I’m still mad at him. Why did he have to do this? Why couldn’t he have just let everyone else kill each other? Why couldn’t he have stayed home, protected us? Why did he care more about his country than his family?

I still remember, vividly, the day he left us. I came home from school that day, and before I even opened the door, I heard shouting coming from inside. I braced myself. I hated it when Mom and Dad fought, which seemed like all the time, and I thought this was just another one of their arguments.

I opened the door and knew right away that this was different. That something was very, very wrong. Dad stood there in full uniform. It didn’t make any sense. He hadn’t worn his uniform in years. Why would he be wearing it now?

“You’re not a man!” Mom screamed at him. “You’re a coward! Leaving your family. For what? To go and kill innocent people?”

Dad’s face turned red, as it always did when he got angry.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” he screamed back. “I’m doing my duty for my country. It’s the right thing to do.”

“The right thing for who ?” she spat back. “You don’t even know what you’re fighting for. For a stupid bunch of politicians?”

“I know exactly what I’m fighting for: to hold our nation together.”

“Oh, well, excuse me, Mister America!” she screamed back at him. “You can justify this in your head anyway you want, but the truth is, you’re leaving because you can’t stand me. Because you never knew how to handle domestic life. Because you’re too stupid to make something of your life after the Corps. So you jump up and run off at the first opportunity – ”

Dad stopped her with a hard slap across the face. I can still hear the noise in my head.

I was shocked; I’d never seen him lay a hand on her before. I felt the wind rush out of me, as if I’d been slapped myself. I stared at him, and almost didn’t recognize him. Was that really my father? I was so stunned that I dropped my book and it landed with a thud.