The Illegals
A Short Story
The year was 2030, and silence was the loudest sound. It wasn’t the silence of peace, but the heavy, suffocating quiet of absence. The squee of children, the rumble of Amazon and UPS delivery trucks, the casual chatter of neighbors over hedges – all had receded, replaced by the distant, rhythmic rattle of diesel-powered armored vehicles and the occasional, sharp bark of commands echoing down strangely empty streets.
Elias, his face shadow-striped by Venetian blinds, watched from behind the reinforced, privacy-tinted window, the only light in his living room coming from the muted blue glow of a digital news ticker from his smartphone.
Administration escalates ‘Project Homeland Purity.’ New directives issued for ‘community wellness checks.’
The words scrolled, cold and clinical, against a backdrop of a plump pinkish stern-faced presidential cabinet member, a retired general.
Outside, the neighborhood of doctors, lawyers, and teachers was a ghost town. Once, it had been a vibrant medley of cultures and generations. Now, the only movement was the patrol of “Immigration & Customs Enforcement.” ICE. Men and women in dark uniforms, masks, sunglasses, and body armor, a stark contrast to the once manicured lawns and unique pastel houses. They weren’t just looking for “illegals” anymore; the definition seemed to expand daily, encompassing anyone who looked “out of place,” or who didn’t have “proper” identification, or whose family had arrived “too recently.” They’ll use anything against you and call it obstructing justice. They were obviously profiling to meet their quota. Just following orders.
Community trust had evaporated like morning dew on the 4th of July. A week ago, Mrs. Henderson from across the street, a retired history professor who had lived there for fifty years, had simply vanished after a “wellness check.”
Didn’t she move to Costa Rica? Or was that Canada?
No one asked questions. No one dared. You felt it in your stomach. On your skin. Fear —a thick fog that clung to every porch light and seeped under every locked door. People spoke in whispers, if at all, and only through encrypted channels, DMs or texts, never directly to each other. Too risky. Groceries were delivered, if you could afford it, nearly all work was remote, and the outside world became a hostile, abstract concept. Everyone felt like they did during the COVID epidemic. Parents refused to send their children to school. Instead, they stayed indoors, watching virtual classrooms in the morning and afternoon, and played video games the rest of the day until they passed out.
The fenced-in slide and swing set down the street still creaked in the wind, the playground untouched for months, now a playground for ghosts. Elias remembered the day his son, eight-year-old Leo, had asked, “Dad, why don't we play outside anymore?” Elias gave him a big hug, gently explaining, “Just a new kind of flu going around, buddy.” The lie tasted like the ash of last night’s burnt pizza crust.
One Sunday morning, the silence was broken not by the usual paramilitary patrol, but by a shrill, piercing siren – different from ICE. It was followed by a voice, amplified and distorted, booming from every power line, every public speaker, every screen that hadn’t been turned off, like a buzzing Amber Alert.
HONK. HONK. HONK.
“My fellow Americans,” the soul-sucking voice slowly began, instantly recognizable as the aging President’s in his questionable third term, drunk with power, now slightly slurred and edged with a chilling gravity. “For too long, our nation has been besieged by internal threats, the rapists and murderers, the criminal Low-lifes who defy our laws and undermine our nation. The time for half-measures is over. Effective immediately, by the powers vested in me as your elected President, I hereby declare Martial Law across the United States of America and its territories. All civilian liberties are immediately suspended. Curfews are absolute. Any resistance will be met with the full force of our brave warriors in uniform. God bless them and God Bless America.”
Elias stood frozen, watching the news ticker scroll the words that confirmed the nightmare. PRESIDENT DECLARES MARTIAL LAW. NATIONWIDE CURFEW IMPOSED. ALL NON-ESSENTIAL MOVEMENT PROHIBITED.
The screens on all their devices flickered, and then, amidst the static, a new image appeared: the curated face of a young blonde woman, a modest gold cross draped around her porcelain white neck. Elias recognized her right away. It was Mrs. Henderson’s daughter, now with a fixed lipstick smile and mascaraed eyes that no longer seemed her own. She said with a firm voice overflowing with confidence that all must follow the rule of law. Those who don’t will pay the ultimate price. There will be no hearings. No Habeas Corpus. You will be detained and sent to the newly expanded Florida detention center. The image held for a moment, then dissolved into the presidential seal.
The silence returned, but this time, it was absolute. Elias looked at his son, now sleeping peacefully in his bed, blissfully unaware that the world outside had ceased to exist as they knew it. The quiet streets were no longer just empty; ICE was waiting. In the choking stillness, Elias’ eyes teared up as he began to realize the true horror: the “illegals” they had been hunting were not just suspicious-looking immigrants—they were anyone who had ever believed in, hoped for, real freedom. And now, that freedom was gone, replaced by the fake version they’d been sold all along: A McFreedom. There was only one hope, really. The hope in paradoxically accepting all of the insanity as a new reality. He would now have to see himself as one of the “illegals” to fight against this McFreedom. And he would need allies.
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I guess I had written part 1 of this story a few weeks ago- https://open.substack.com/pub/johnmoyermedlpcncc/p/what-if?r=3p5dh&utm_medium=ios
Trump supporters talk like they don’t see the harm in treating “illegals” inhumanely. I call it not-see talk.