"Enough is enough! Inflation has made our money worthless, our children are starving, and the government is doing nothing but give the rich more tax breaks!"

"Yeah! And there is not a single working class person in congress anymore!" The warehouse devolves into a bunch of voices shouting over each other while I sit and observe. This has been coming for a while. Years. And finally, the right mix of anger and social media have combined to whip the whole country into a malcontent'd mob. There's even a manifesto.

"We don't have enough to arm everyone" John's voice booms above the din, "Ideas?"

"We may not have enough to arm everyone, but we have a home improvement store, and a ton of potatoes," I reply. I thought I was quiet, but it feels like I was shouting over the silence that statement produced.

"Potato cannons can be made to fire rocks too, thought they wear out quickly," a helpful teenager supplied.

"We can 3D print guns at the workshop, but they are pretty much single use."

"Those are all good ideas, I'll run them up the chain. Give me a moment…" the corporal? Airmen? Says. I am bad at ranks. This is the first, and only, revolution attempt that might succeed in this country, predominantly because the military is on board. They can't feed their families either.

"While we wait for a response, let's go over the plan again. On Friday, we (the military) will take over and commence the regime change. At the same time, you civilians, will take over the factories and workplaces. The tech team will have the direct voting system set up by Monday. Finance will redistribute the billionaire's funds…"

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

I stop listening. It's all bull. There is no way the military turns the power over to the people. Someone will take charge, probably some fake religious leader, and impose some kind of moral code on us "for our own good."

I sneak quietly out the back. I've put in my appearance, no one will notice I've gone.

"How was it?" my wife Sandra whispers, glancing at the children to make sure they are still asleep in the back seat. They are.

"It is going to happen Friday" I whisper back, "they are all in a planning meeting now. It should go until three AM at the earliest."

"It's only ten, now's our chance." She pops the gear to neutral, and we start pushing the car out of the shanty town. I will be forever grateful to her insistence on always moving the car to the outskirts of the ever changing village of tents and cars.

We walk the car on the service road until we are certain no one will hear it start. Then we drive as fast as we dare, the kids still passed out in the back. The decision point is coming soon: do we turn north or south?

If we go south, to Mexico, we will have to take mostly back-roads. It is technically closer, but the care we would need to take makes the split about even. The Mexican border is harder to cross, but it might be the safer path. However, my wife's family is from the north. We are much more likely to get Canadian citizenship than Mexican. The road is longer and more dangerous. Carefully patrolled and closely guarded.

We come to the crossroads. I'm afraid to say anything. Afraid that breaking the peace will make it more real. We are fleeing a war zone before it really starts. To save our family. To save our kids.

She turns left.

Canada it is. She will drive all night, then I will take over in the morning. If we are stopped, we will say we are visiting my uncle in Buffalo. We will cross there.

I thought watching my wife go through labour was nerve-wracking. This will be the longest 24 hours of my life—our lives. I close my eyes and try to sleep. I will need all the rest I can get if we are going to make it out of here before Friday.