I remember it as though it were yesterday. The year was 2050. I was only 18, fresh out of high-school. I was in a temporary state of joy, as with all the guys and girls my age. We knew, however, that we were on the brink of war. The whole world was in debt, and civil wars were breaking out all over the globe. Russia had only managed to stay together by reforming the Soviet Union. It brought back a great sense of national pride. Our leaders, and our people, knew the UN wouldn’t approve, but we went along with it anyway.

            I was hanging out with my closest friends in a pizza parlor. It had just opened, and pizza was one of the greatest delicacies known to man. I can still smell the garlic, the tomatoes, all the tantalizing aromas dancing around the room as the pizzas were tossed and spun in the air. A good time was being had as we joked and ate. We were free, and we had all the time in the world. We didn’t think once of careers or universities. All we wanted to do was relax and enjoy ourselves.

            As we walked out of the parlor, back to our car, my friend Nikolai pointed out a large group of black objects in the sky. They were slowly getting bigger, and more easily identifiable. To our horror, we realized they were missiles. We got in the car and drove as fast as we could out of the city, yelling to anyone on the street to take cover or get away. I was in the back, watching as the missiles closed in on our great city of Volgograd (Volgograd is what Stalingrad was renamed in 1961).

            “Where are we headed?” I asked Dmitri, who was driving the car. “I don’t know yet, just far away from here.” We were silent the whole ride, all of us in shock that the day we get our freedom, the day we finally become adults, we get attacked. None of us know who exactly attacked, but we believe it to be the Americans, judging by the planes that were used.