June 12 2027
Eight year old Tommy Blake held his hand up like a visor and stared up into the blue sky. “Dad,” he asked, pointing up at a high flying aircraft, “what kind of airplane is that?”
Don Blake stuck his head out from under the old Dodge pickup. He shaded his eyes and gazed upward. “That’s a drone, Tommy,” he said. “They’re airplanes without pilots. They’re flown by remote control. Can you hand me that piece of wire?”
Tommy spotted the short section of wire and handed it to his dad. “What do drones do?”
Don went back to work on the rotted section of tailpipe. “They help the police catch the bad guys,” he grunted, lying on his back, sweating, as he twisted the wire over the tin can patch. Flecks of rust peppered his face and he closed his eyes. When he finished, Don opened his eyes and examined his work. With any luck, he thought the patch would hold up through the summer. Hopefully, he would find work before it failed. He picked up his tools and crawled out from under the truck.
They lived out in what had once been considered the sticks. But the sticks were long gone, logged off, and all that remained were the stumps. And while the neighbors were still few and far between, their homes stood out like sore thumbs. Tommy still stared up at the sky. He had always been an inquisitive boy and he loved spending time outside with his father. His finger shot back up into the sky. “Look dad,” he said, excitedly, “is that another drone?”
Don wiped his greasy hands off on a rag. “I’m not sure,” he said. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be. Do me a favor and pick up those pliers, will ya? Let’s put the tools back in the shed.”
Tommy nodded and picked up the pliers. “Where do the bad guys live?” he asked.
Don hefted his tool box and began to limp over to the shed. He had a Purple Heart that went along with his prosthetic leg. Ironically, he kept the medal tucked away inside his sock drawer. “Well,” he said, “the bad guys could be anywhere. That’s what we need the drones for.”
Tommy nodded his head. Like his father, he had bright blue eyes and short black hair. Both father and son were dressed in blue jeans and white t-shirts. Tommy was of average height and like most boys his age, he was thin and wiry. When they reached the shed, Tommy handed his father the channel-lock pliers. “How do the drones find the bad guys?” he asked.
Don smiled as he hung up the pliers on the pegboard over his little workbench. “You’re sure full of questions,” he said. He then hobbled out of the shed and closed the two swing doors. “The drones have special cameras,” he said, snapping the padlock together. “They can see through walls, they can even see in the dark.”
“Can they see me in the bathroom?”
Don Blake laughed and rubbed his hand lightly on top of Tommy’s head. “If they wanted to,” he said. “But we don’t have anything to worry about, buddy. We’re good people and the drones have no reason to look into our house.”
“That’s good,” said Tommy, who shaded his eyes again and returned his attention to the sky. “What happens when the drones find the bad guys?”
Don thought about that. He had never lied to his son and he didn’t want to start now. But things were changing faster than he had ever thought possible. “Most of the time,” he said, carefully choosing his words,” the drones pass the information to the police and then they go and catch them.”
“What do you mean, most of the time?”
Don cringed. Reports had been swirling around about drones firing missiles into homes, where terrorist activities were suspected. Don had grave reservations about this practice. Rumor had it that the very definition of terrorist was being rewritten, on a daily basis. How could he explain this to his son without needlessly frightening him? Don thought about that and decided the best thing to do was to give Tommy the truth. “Sometimes the drones blow up the houses of the really dangerous people,” he said. “We don’t think the government should have that type of power, Tommy. This is still America and we have a thing called due process of law.”
Tommy screwed up his eyes. “What’s that?” he asked.
“Well, that’s what happens after someone gets arrested. Sometimes the police make mistakes. We have the right to defend ourselves in a court of law. That’s what judges and juries are for, buddy.”
Tommy nodded and kicked at a clod of dirt. “How can the drones blow up houses? Do the judges have the remote controls?”
Don chuckled and shook his head. “I wish they did,” he said. “Come on, Tommy. Let’s go see if mom has lunch ready. I’m starved.”
Tommy followed along as they walked up to the trailer. “Is that another one?” he asked, pointing off into the western sky.
Don looked up and immediately spotted the slow moving aircraft. He nodded his head as he limped up to the metal stairs. While it wasn’t unusual to see an occasional drone, he couldn’t remember ever spotting three in only a few minutes time. The blister on his stump caused him to grit his teeth as he took the stairs. Once inside, both he and Tommy walked to the kitchen sink to clean up.
Mallory Blake was setting the table. A pot full of sweet corn sat boiling on the stove. She walked over to give her husband a kiss. “Did you guys fix the truck?” she asked.
“We did the best we could,” said Don. “That exhaust is hanging on a wing and a prayer. I sure hope I can find some work soon.”
“You will, honey,” she said, offering him a warm smile. “I have faith in you.”
“Me too,” said Tommy, who was drying his hands on the hand towel. He turned to face his mother. “Dad and I saw three drones. Didn’t we, dad?”
Mallory flashed her husband a worried look. “Really?” she asked. “I wonder what they’re doing out here?”
Don shrugged and dried his hands on the damp towel. “There could be a million reasons. They could be training. I don’t think it’s anything to be worried about. What’s for lunch?”
“Spam sandwiches and sweet corn.”
“That sounds good, baby. Tommy loves Spam, don’t you, buddy.”
“I sure do,” Tommy said, licking his lips. “And we’re starving, mom. Aren’t we, dad?”
“You could say that,” Don said, winking at his wife.
The explosion rocked the trailer and rattled the windows. Instinctively, Mallory Blake rushed over to her son. She dropped to one knee and wrapped her arms around him. “Don?” she asked, nervously.
Don was already on way to the door. “Get into the bedroom closet,” he ordered. “And close the door. I’m going to take a quick look and I’ll be right in.”
Mallory opened her mouth, but a second explosion turned her words into a muffled scream. She took Tommy by the hand and pulled him toward the bedroom. “What’s going on?” Tommy asked.
“Get into the closet,” shouted his father, “now!”
In the distance, there was the sound of another explosion. Tommy ran behind his mother and followed her into the bedroom closet. Together, they hunkered down under the hanging clothes. With trembling fingers, she closed the closet door.
Don Blake hobbled to the door and down the metal stairs. He then limped to the front of the trailer and gasped. The home of their closest neighbors, Al and Connie Shunk, was nothing more than a pile of burning rubble. Black smoke boiled up into the bright blue sky. Two houses down from the Shunk’s, sat the burning shell of Marv Henderson’s home. Like Don, Marv had served in the war. Don had never known him to complain or say a bad word about anyone. Down their gravel road, another plume of black smoke rose into the sky.
Another explosion sent Don scrambling back into the trailer. He crawled inside the closet and sat between his weeping wife and sobbing son. There would be more explosions and the day would be the longest of their lives, but the Blake’s were spared that fateful day. They emerged into a different world.
Don Blake would find work the very next day. There was a big mess to dispose of and the government wanted it cleaned up, as soon as possible. The pay wasn’t much, but it helped put food on
the table.
And the drones flew on.
Dear New York