I was at home, listening to the radio, when I heard that the Hindenburg had blown up. It was a surprising story, and even more, the government thought it was intentional. Especially since it had blown itself up all over the Capitol building. America, just getting back in the saddle from after the Depression, was sent reeling. But there was nobody left to declare war.
So I listened, and I listened some more, as America sat on its haunches for two days as the Vice President returned home from a diplomacy trip to Germany, and then I listened as he did the unthinkable. Fourteen years after the end of the Great War, I listened to America declare war on Germany.
It didn't take long for America to invade. The German economy was still reeling from is efforts with WWI, andthe President himself (formerly the Vice President) came to Germany to personally survey the lands. And while at the German Capitol building, another explosion took out the Vice President. There had been no time before the war to reinstate more governmental officers. The bomb killed the last living member of American government. The few remaining shards of the German forces began a military dictatorship for the German president, who had secretly ridden on horseback into the boondocks of France during the American invasion (it had been revealed during an interview with the mayor of the French city, who had had no idea of what was to come).
He then went on a rampage, killing all who spoke out against him. People called him the next Stalin, the next Robespierre, the next Chiang Kai-Shek.
All of which added up to my fear when two strange men showed up at my door with a pistol.
My name is Frederick Hansen the Second, and I am the last Historian.
* * * * *
After fixing Jessica up, and taking her somewhere safe (I can't say where), the Messenger transported us to America, 1932, with only our clothes, our pistol, and a few bucks. Then he left, without saying a word. Oh, and he left us a steel box. It had no opening, as far as I could tell (and I had looked it over for hours on end), and nothing happened when I shook it. But it was too light to be solid; I could tell that it was hollow, that there was something inside it.
Three days later, I found a slip of paper in my pocket. It was crinkled, as if aged over too many years.
It had an address on it.
It took it three months to get there. But believe me, it was worth it. After three months, with tattered clothes, bodies, and spirits, I walked up to the red brick building, pistol in hand, and knocked on the door.
The person who answered the door had an unfamiliar face. I had never met the person before. Yet, somehow, I knew exactly who it was.
"Come on in. I suppose you'd like to talk."
"You have no idea," I said.