The Task At Hand

He followed the moon. Drove east towards Ohio. Passed small towns; Monroeville, Decatur, on into Lima just up the road a bit.

Kept the radio on an AM station out of Toledo. Came in clear as a bell. There were no clouds in the sky; frequency ran pure. Men and women from all over America calling in to pitch their two cents worth. Talking about the price of gas, groceries,war, blaming Democrats and Republicans, calling for an uprising, a real revolution with guns and militias coming from all over the country. They were ringing a bell. A calling out over radio waves at two in the morning. He checked his gun to make sure it was loaded.

The young man kept driving into early morning. Chasing the sun. Headed towards New York. Took the Lincoln Tunnel into the city. Drove fast in the tunnel. Turned off the radio and listened to sounds of tires rolling on pavement at high rates of speed. No passing.

It was New York City. His eyes wide awake. Open to any possibilities. Bums asking for money. Pregnant women asking for dollars. A sign read, Gotta get back to Jersey. The young man drove around Manhattan not knowing where to turn and where not to turn. Wound up in the Bronx. Up on Hunts Point. Saw hookers walking around, pimps on corners, junkies laying on sidewalks. Homeless men and women following a zombie trail. He was a long way from home. But, then again, he had no home. Just a pickup and a gun. And in America, that’s all you need. He had work to do.

It was his job to cleanse the country. God had given him this assignment. That’s what he thought. The blonde hair, blue eye boy was here to save the United States. That was the task at hand.

I’ll have this place cleaned up in no time, he whispered. He then prayed for guidance. Rolled down his window. Stuck his gun out and looked through his scope. The job had begun.

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