The End

A PLUME BOOK

THE END

©Sparkpix

G. MICHAEL HOPF
is the bestselling author of
The End: A Postapocalyptic Novel
. He spent two decades living a life of adventure before settling down to pursue his passion for writing. He is a former combat veteran of the U.S. Marine Corps and a former bodyguard. He lives with his family in San Diego, California.

PLUME

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First published by Plume, a member of Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 2013

Previously published in digital and print formats by the author.

Copyright © G. Michael Hopf, 2013

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eBook ISBN: 978-0-69-815933-4

To Tahnee

Everything in life starts out as an idea, but only through applying massive amounts of energy do those ideas manifest into reality. The journey from idea to reality is a part of the process and usually requires assistance and support from others. This book is not unlike that; it all began one day in my head then I took time to sit down and begin what you are now reading. I didn't complete this without the love and support of the following.

Tahnee, your love, support and guidance helped from day one and continues till this day. You are always there for me with an encouraging word and sound advice. I love you. The day you entered my life it was destined to be blessed and enriched. Thank you.

Judy, you never waver in your support; you are always there to assist me in anything that I do. You have graced my life with your generous spirit and love. Thank you.

Mike Smith, you gave this book the polish and touch that all books need. Thank you for your valuable time and efforts. Now onto the screenplay!

Scott Wilson, your professional eye made the words go from manuscript to novel. Thank you, you're the best!

Mom, Dad, John, Becky, Billy, Neal, Uncle Rod, Aunt Jeri, Travis, Steve, Nicole, Nick & Wags, thank you for your love and support through this journey.

Olympia, Washington, Republic of Cascadia

Haley stood, staring through the thin pane of glass that separated the chilly sea air of the Puget Sound and the warmth of her living room. She looked at the capitol building in the distance. Its sandstone dome towered over the other buildings in the city, as it had for the past 138 years. At one time, it was the capitol of a single state; now it was the capitol of her country, a country born out of chaos and destruction.

She tore her gaze away from the distance and looked down at the photo she held in her hand. She touched the faces of the family depicted. Tears began to well up in her eyes as she passed her fingers across the photo. It contained four smiling faces; a portrait of a once-happy family, her family. More tears came as she thought back to the day the picture was taken. She remembered it vividly, as though it was that very morning. Haley closed her eyes and pressed the photo against her chest; the tears ran down her cheeks and hung from her chin. She remembered her father holding her tight as she sat on his knee; he kissed her many times on her head and told her how proud he was that she had tied her own shoes that day. She longed for that innocent time when she had no concerns or cares. She longed for the days when her family was together and happy. Not long after that photo was taken, her innocent world collided with the harsh realities of mass murder and apocalypse. Her family was to be ripped apart by this new reality, and what remained would never be the same.

A knock at her front door jolted her back to present. She quickly wiped the tears from her face and placed the photo in the pocket of her sweater. She walked toward the front door, but before she opened it, she turned to the mirror that hung on the wall in the foyer and looked at herself. She made sure she had wiped all the tears away and fixed her graying hair.

“You can do this, Haley,” she said, attempting to reassure herself of the difficult task she had before her.

She turned and opened the door. On the porch before her were three people. The first was a man in his thirties, John, the lead reporter for the
Cascadian Times
. He was accompanied by two photographers, neither of whom could be more than twenty-five years old. They were all postwar babies; none of them knew the horror and brutality of the Great Civil War.

“Mrs. Rutledge?” John asked as he reached his hand out.

“Yes, please call me Haley.” She grasped his hand firmly and shook.

She greeted the other two and invited everyone into her house. They shared small talk as the photographers set up equipment for the photo shoot that would follow the interview.

“Mrs. Rutledge, when you're ready to begin, let me know,” John said.

“John, please, call me Haley.”

“Yes ma'am,” he answered with a sheepish grin.

Haley sat nervously, her hands rigidly clasped on her lap. She rubbed her fingers in anticipation of the first question.

“Haley, first let me thank you for letting us into your home. It is an honor to be able to speak with you and to get your personal story and perspective.”

“You're very welcome, John. I have to admit, I'm a bit nervous. As you know, I don't like the limelight nor have I ever been one for doing interviews. If it weren't for your family connection you wouldn't be here. I knew your father; he was a friend and colleague to my own father. It was only when I heard you would be the one conducting this interview that I agreed,” Haley said. She sat very straight and looked at John directly.

“I do know that our families have had some connection in the past and, again, thank you. Let me then get right into this.”

Haley just nodded her approval.

“Next week marks the fiftieth anniversary of the Treaty of Salt Lake. It was that treaty that gave our young republic the formal victory over our opponents and gave birth to our country. Your father was in Salt Lake for that signing. What can you tell me about him?”

Haley chuckled a bit before she answered. “Wow, that is quite the question. What can I tell you about my father? Where do I begin?” She paused for a moment before she continued, “Are you asking me about how he was then?”

“I can see how that can be a vague question, I'm sorry. Let me start again. Your father was very instrumental in the founding of this country; he is one of our founding fathers, as some would say. While many praise him for his sacrifice, there are some now that question some of his actions during the Great Civil War. How would you describe him?”

“I have heard some of those revisionists who now, in the protection of our hard-fought freedom, question the means by which it was gained. To them I say, ‘you didn't live it, you were not there.' It is easy to sit in the comfort of liberty handed to you, swaddled in the bloodied cloth of our revolution,” Haley said firmly. “If you are here to question my father's actions, then I feel we should start with who my father was and where he came from. The man I knew was a loving and protective man. He cared for me and the rest of his family and was willing to do whatever it took to ensure our survival. Many look back on history without looking at context. You have to have lived it to truly understand why anyone did what they did. My father was a pragmatic man who took direct action when it benefitted those whom he pledged to protect. He was not always a pragmatist, though.” Haley paused; she shifted in her seat and then continued with a softer tone in her voice. “Daddy was very open about his life. He told me stories from his past. Many times, he told me that life will show up and change the way you look at the world; that there would be incidents that would shake you to the core and shift your way of thinking. My daddy had a few of those moments, the first one I can remember him telling me happened back when he was a Marine in Iraq. What happened there changed him as a person and set him on the course that would lead us to this living room today. I hope you planned on being here a while, because I am going to set the record straight.”