In the isolation of his cabin deep in the New Jersey woods, Harold Webb begins to notice unsettling signs that the world he once knew is on the brink of collapse.
Harold Webb had always sought solitude. Living in a small, weathered cabin deep in the woods of New Jersey, far from the blaring sirens and incessant hum of city life, had been his retreat for years. He spent his days chopping firewood, fishing the local stream, and reading books he’d collected over the years. October had arrived like any other, with a chill creeping into the air and the leaves beginning to blush with orange and red.
But this year felt different. Something was off.
It started with the drones. At first, Harold thought they were just a trick or perhaps some kind of experimental technology. But as the days wore on, more and more of them appeared, flying in from the distant harbor. They were enormous, the size of small cars, their sleek metallic bodies casting long shadows across the trees. They didn’t fly erratically like ordinary drones. No, these seemed purposeful, moving steadily toward the populated areas of New Jersey.
By mid-October, the sightings had increased, and Harold couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something catastrophic was looming. The news, when he ventured into the small town nearby to fetch supplies, seemed to be more concerned with trivialities than with the strange, looming threat. The government kept the public in the dark, denying any knowledge of the drones, though people were beginning to whisper.
On the eve of Halloween, Harold watched from his cabin as the drones streaked across the night sky like silent ghosts, their hum distant but growing louder. He tried to tell himself it was nothing—just a passing fad, a temporary anomaly. But the feeling in his gut told him otherwise. This was something planned, something much larger than he could comprehend.
As the days turned into November and then December, the drone activity escalated. They flew lower now, their presence undeniable. And with every passing week, the air felt thicker, heavier, as if the world itself was holding its breath. Harold couldn’t help but feel as if he were the last man left who could see what was coming—like some grim prophet trapped in his own seclusion.
Then, on December 31, everything changed.
The first explosion rocked the horizon, visible even from his remote location. It wasn’t a thunderstorm or a freak accident. It was a deliberate, calculated attack. Bombs fell all along the East Coast, sending shockwaves of destruction through the cities Harold had once known. He saw the flashes of light in the distance, felt the vibrations beneath his feet. New York, Philadelphia, Washington, D.C.—all of it burning. It wasn’t just bombs, though. The drones had been the harbinger, a signal that something far worse was unfolding.
And then the invaders came.
Harold listened to broken broadcast, horror-stricken, as foreign forces, troops from Russia and China, poured across the southern border. It didn’t take long for them to overrun our weakened defenses, moving swiftly and decisively. The government had been crippled, torn apart in its own betrayal, its leaders nowhere to be found. They had been complicit in the attack, Harold soon learned—an alliance between the Trump administration and foreign powers, orchestrating the end of the United States.
The drones, the bombs, the invasion—it was all part of a plan, and Harold had been too far removed from civilization to see the pieces fall into place. But now, with the East Coast in ruins and foreign armies marching on American soil, the world as he had known it was gone.
The radio, when he tried to tune it in on his battered old device, was filled with static, whispers of destruction, and the desperate cries of a nation losing everything. Harold felt a cold emptiness wash over him. It wasn’t just the country he had known that was crumbling. It was the very idea of America, the democracy, the freedom, that he had held onto for so long, now falling apart under the weight of its own corruption and greed.
But as the hours passed, the realization that the world had turned against him solidified. The forces of the invaders, hungry for control and conquest, began to encroach on Harold's retreat. The military had sent search parties into the woods, determined to round up any survivors of the chaos, to ensure no one was left untouched by their assault. They knew that anyone who had survived the initial strikes had to be dealt with—dispatched like any loose end in their plan.
Harold had heard their distant footsteps, the crunch of leaves under boot heels. But he hadn’t run. In his bones, he knew that escape wasn’t possible, not for him, not anymore. The world was coming to an end, and there was nothing left to fight for. There was only the silence of the woods, which had once been his refuge, now turned into his tomb.
The sound of footsteps grew louder, and Harold stepped out of his cabin, squinting through the fog of smoke that now clouded the air. His heart raced, but there was no turning back. He turned toward the horizon one last time, as if trying to glimpse the last vestiges of the world he had known.
And then, they were there. The foreign soldiers, armed and merciless. They surrounded him, their faces cold and unreadable, their rifles aimed straight at him. He didn't beg. He didn't plead. There was no more hope. His only regret was not being able to see the last of the life he'd lived, the country he’d cherished, and the people he'd loved.
With a swift command, the soldier in charge nodded. The world went black.
Harold Webb, the last man standing in the New Jersey woods, was gone.
The United States had fallen, its once-proud democracy shattered. Harold's life had been a quiet testament to the country’s fading ideals, and his death marked the end of an era—a dreadful, irreversible fall into the hands of those who had long plotted its destruction.
THE END.
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