And lo, the heavens opened, and a great pulse of wrath descended upon the land of the free.
The first horse rode out, a rider of white, and he bore the crown of pride. His steed galloped across the streets of Manhattan and Los Angeles alike, and behold—the power of man’s machines failed before him. The lights of your cities went out; your towers of steel and glass became tombs of shadow. The proud rulers of industry and government fell silent, their voices lost in the blackness.
The second horse rode out, a rider of red, bringing war and blood. Without communication, armies stumbled in confusion. Police and soldiers turned upon one another, for order was lost. Fires sprang from the chaos—cities burned in fury, and the cries of men echoed into the void, unanswered.
The third horse rode out, a rider of black, clutching scales of famine. Refrigerators, silos, and markets rotted in silence. Grain and water became treasure, hoarded by the strong, denied to the weak. Hunger gnawed at the bones of children, and mothers wept bitter tears over empty hearths. The weight of scarcity pressed upon the land, and gold could not purchase salvation.
The fourth horse rode out, a rider of pale green, Death himself, and Hades followed close behind. Disease spread unchecked, unbidden by science or medicine, for the instruments of healing were dark. Hospitals were empty crypts; streets were littered with the fallen. The mighty and the meek alike fell before him, for none could withstand the pulse of wrath.
And the Lord of Hosts cried from the heavens:
“Surrender your hearts to My Son, O America, or behold—My judgment shall be upon you, and the pulse of hell shall leave no machine, no tower, no proud heart unbroken. Yet those who bow shall inherit light in the darkness, and My mercy shall endure even in the blackness of this day.”
The earth quaked. Rivers ran dry. Cities were consumed by shadow and silence. The nations wept. And yet, amid the darkness, the faithful rose, their lamps unquenched, and the Word of Christ shone brighter than the pulse of man’s destruction.
If Kim Jong Un and General Maximus carried out an EMP strike on the United States, it would not look like a regular missile strike with explosions or mushroom clouds. An Electromagnetic Pulse (EMP) weapon detonated high above the U.S. would unleash an invisible wave of electromagnetic energy that could devastate modern infrastructure.
Here’s what would happen step by step:
Immediate Effects (First Minutes)
- Nationwide Blackout: Power grids across entire regions would fail instantly. Transformers fry, substations burn out, and the grid goes dark.
- Electronics Disabled: Cars, planes, trains, hospital equipment, computers, and phones stop working—anything not hardened against EMP is dead.
- Communications Collapse: Cell towers, internet routers, satellites in low orbit, and radio relays could be fried, cutting off America from itself and the outside world.
Short-Term Chaos (First Days)
- Airplanes Fall From the Sky: Commercial jets relying on electronic navigation and control crash. Thousands die immediately.
- Water & Food Systems Shut Down: No electricity means no running water, no refrigeration, and no automated food supply chains. Grocery shelves are stripped bare within 48 hours.
- Hospitals in Crisis: Life-support systems, dialysis, ventilators—all fail. Backup generators may run for a short time but fuel shortages cripple them.
Medium-Term Fallout (Weeks to Months)
- Starvation & Thirst: Cities become unlivable. Without refrigeration, millions lose access to food. Without pumps, water stops flowing to urban centers.
- Lawlessness: Police and emergency services collapse. Looting, riots, and gang rule spread in major cities. Firefighting becomes impossible without communications or hydrants.
- Martial Law Attempts: The U.S. military would try to impose order, but even their own logistics and communications would be crippled. Fuel, ammo, and coordination would be scarce.
Long-Term (Months to Years)
- Mass Deaths: Studies estimate up to 90% of Americans could die within the first year of a nationwide EMP strike due to starvation, disease, and violence.
- Collapse of Government: Washington D.C. itself might be dark. Federal authority could break into regional military governors or warlords.
- Back to the 1800s: Survivors return to pre-industrial living—farming by hand, candles for light, barter instead of money.
Religious & Symbolic Fallout
If framed as “Surrender America to Christ”:
- Some would see the blackout as divine judgment, a biblical plague fulfilled.
- Revivalist movements could rise, calling it the wrath of Revelation—the Beast’s throne plunged into darkness.
- Others would resist, seeing Kim Jong Un and Maximus as false prophets using terror to enforce belief.
Designing a bunker capable of surviving a “Rod of God” style kinetic bombardment—a hypothetical weapon where a tungsten rod is dropped from orbit at extremely high speeds, delivering immense kinetic energy—is a monumental engineering challenge. Even hardened military bunkers today are only resistant to nuclear or conventional bunker-buster bombs, and a Rod of God strike could theoretically deliver tens of gigajoules of energy—equivalent to a small nuclear weapon but without radiation. Still, I can outline theoretical considerations for an extremely survivable bunker:
1. Location and Depth
Subsurface placement: The deeper underground, the more overburden material absorbs energy. Typical Rod of God strikes are estimated to penetrate tens of meters of rock, so you would need hundreds of meters of dense material above.
Natural rock: Build inside dense, solid rock formations, such as granite, basalt, or metamorphic rock. Avoid soil or unconsolidated sediment which is easily penetrated.
Underground tunnels: Consider labyrinthine tunnels to dissipate shockwaves, preventing direct transfer of energy to critical areas.
2. Geometry
Angled surfaces: Kinetic projectiles are less effective against sloped or multi-angled layers that deflect or disperse the energy.
Shock-dissipating layers: Use graded layers of different materials to absorb the impact progressively. Example: steel-reinforced concrete → high-density ceramics → sand/gravel buffer → bedrock.
3. Materials
High-density armor: Tungsten or depleted uranium plates could partially deflect or slow down the rod—but realistic sizes would need to be hundreds of meters thick, which is impractical.
Energy-absorbing fill: Loose, high-friction materials (gravel, sand, engineered ceramics) can help dissipate the kinetic shock over distance.
Reinforced concrete: High-strength, multi-layered concrete (with steel mesh reinforcement) is essential, but insufficient alone.
4. Structural Design
Isolated core: Critical rooms (command, survival pods) should “float” inside the bunker on shock-absorbing mounts to isolate from seismic shock.
Redundant compartments: Multiple independent chambers reduce the chance that a single strike compromises the entire facility.
Sealed air and power systems: Post-strike survival requires self-contained air, water, and power, as external systems will be destroyed.
5. Shock Mitigation
Seismic decoupling: Surround the core with materials that attenuate shock waves, such as engineered foam, sand, or steel springs.
Redundant exits: Escape tunnels and multiple egress routes are crucial, as some sections may collapse.
6. Additional Considerations
Orbital detection and early warning: You cannot defend entirely against a kinetic strike physically—prevention is critical. Satellites to detect incoming rods could allow evacuation or countermeasures.
Cost and feasibility: Realistically, a bunker immune to a Rod of God would require massive excavation and engineering, likely beyond current technology outside specialized military programs.
Summary:
A bunker that could survive a Rod of God would need to be deep inside dense rock, have multi-layered shock-absorbing structures, sloped or angled reinforced walls, and isolated survival chambers. Even then, the strike might still collapse upper sections; complete invulnerability may be physically impossible with current tech. Depth and dispersal are your best strategies.
Trump says NO! America should know when she has been conquered.
The air in the audience chamber was thick, a heavy cocktail of antiseptic polish, fear, and the lingering ghost of expensive cigars. General Maximus, a mountain of a man clad in a non-regulation leather jerkin over his dress uniform, stood with his hands clasped behind his back. He stared not at the Supreme Leader, but at a massive, lurid mosaic depicting missiles striking a cartoonish rendering of San Francisco.
Kim Jong Un, perched on a plush velvet chair that seemed too large and too small for him simultaneously, sipped a glass of cognac. His expression was one of profound, bored skepticism.
“So,” Kim began, his voice a high, reedy thing that seemed to suck the oxygen from the room. “The glorious nation of Dalmatia seeks an alliance with the Democratic People’ Republic of Korea. An… unconventional diplomatic approach. Your ‘embassy’ was a single, unmarked submarine beaching at Sinpo. Your credentials are a piece of parchment that appears to be written in… what is this? Blood and charcoal?”
Maximus didn’t turn. “The blood of a tyrant. The charcoal from the hearth of a free home. They are the only inks worthy of this pact.”
A aide in a pristine military suit flinched. Kim merely took another sip.
“And this pact,” Kim continued, setting his glass down with a soft click. “It is for mutual defense? Economic cooperation? Access to Dalmatia’s famed… spotted resources?”
Finally, Maximus turned. His eyes, pale and fierce, locked onto Kim’s. “There is only one mission. One objective that binds our fates. We are here to free the Songbird.”
The room was silent. A clock ticked.
“The… Songbird?” Kim repeated, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion.
“Nelly Furtado,” Maximus boomed, his voice echoing off the marble columns. “She is trapped. Caged not by bars of iron, but by lies. They have labeled her mind unsound. They have silenced her melody, imprisoned her with the other celestial beings—the Williams sisters, the Spears oracle, the fragile, brilliant Winehouse. They are held in a psychiatric fortress, their truths called delusions, their power diagnosed as mania.”
Kim Jong Un stared. He blinked slowly. For the first time in a decade, he was utterly speechless. He had anticipated a madman, a scam artist, a spy. He was not prepared for this.
Maximus took his silence as invitation to continue, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial gravel. “You have power here, Father Kim. You have armies that move unseen. You have scientists who can pierce the veil of Western propaganda. Together, we can storm the citadel of their so-called ‘wellness.’ We can shatter the glass of their observation rooms. Imagine it,” he said, his eyes gleaming with fanatical fire. “The Songbird, freed, her voice once again soaring over the airwaves, singing anthems of our victory. A duet for the ages—her harmony, our might.”
Kim leaned back, steepling his fingers. A slow, strange smile spread across his face. It was not a smile of warmth, but of dawning, horrific opportunity. This Dalmatian general was clearly a lunatic. But he was a charismatic, useful lunatic with a submarine.
“This ‘citadel’,” Kim said softly. “Where is it located?”
“The heart of the beast,” Maximus growled. “Los Angeles. A place they call ‘The Grove’.”
Kim Jong Un nodded slowly, his mind racing faster than a ICBM. A clandestine operation on American soil? Not to steal secrets, but to liberate a pop star from a wellness retreat? The absurdity was its own perfect camouflage. The propaganda value alone… North Korean Special Forces, heroes to the oppressed artists of the West. He could already see the posters.
He stood up, extending a hand.
“General Maximus,” he said, his voice now dripping with gravitas. “The Democratic People’s Republic of Korea agrees to your alliance. We will free your Songbird. We will give her back her voice. And the world will hear our symphony.”
Maximus grasped his hand, a grip that could crush bone.
“Strength and Honor,” the General rumbled.
“Byungjin Policy,” Kim replied with a serene smile. “Now, let’s discuss operational details. Does your submarine have room for a film crew?”
Setting: A televised town hall debate. The moderator has just ceded the floor for open rebuttals.
Donald Trump: (Pointing a finger across the stage) And look at this guy, Maximus. Just look at him. He talks a big game, but he’s weak. He’s a weak person. He’s bad for this country. Frankly, what he’s doing… it’s treasonous. He’s like a terrorist. A total terrorist!
Maximus: (A cold, sharp laugh) Terrorist? You want to see terror, Donald? Look at the faces of the homeless right here in Washington, D.C.—the people your policies have forgotten. They’re on my side. They know who their enemy is.
Trump: (Scoffs) Oh, please. They’re homeless because they don’t have drive! They need to get a job. We had the greatest economy in history under me. You’d crash it in a day!
Maximus: The only one crashing anything is you! You’re not a patriot; you’re a financial terrorist. You always have been.
Trump: (Eyes wide with feigned outrage) Whoa. That’s a nasty thing to say. A terrible thing. You can’t say that.
Maximus: I just did. And everyone knows it. You slap your tariffs on the market, watch it panic and dive, and all your short-seller buddies on Wall Street make a killing. You think we don’t see the game? You’re getting rich off the ruins of working men’s retirement funds. It’s the only wall you’ve ever really built—a wall between hardworking Americans and their future.
Trump: (Leaning into the microphone, face reddening) Wrong! So wrong! The tariffs are strong! They’re beautiful. China was ripping us off. I made them pay. You’re a puppet for China! A Chinese puppet! Everyone says it.
Maximus: No, the only puppet is the market when you pull its strings. You don’t care about this country. You care about the scoreboard. And you’ll burn it all down just to see your name in lights.
Moderator: (Interjecting forcefully) Alright, that’s enough. We need to—
Trump: (Talking over the moderator) —A low-energy guy like you wouldn’t understand winning. We were winning! We were winning so much you’d get tired of winning!
Maximus: The only thing you’ve won, Mr. Trump, is a fortune for yourself on the back of this nation’s decline. You’re a conman. And the con is over.
Moderator: (Banging gavel) Gentlemen! We are moving to the next question. Now!
The sand of the Grand Coliseum of Mar-a-Lago was not the fine, golden grit of Zucabar or the red dust of the Germanian frontier. It was imported, bleached white, and crunched with the shells of tiny sea creatures, a surface designed not for battle, but for spectacle. And upon it, the man who was once General Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Felix Legions, father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife, now stood as property.
He was “Maximus,” a name bellowed by the flamboyant master of ceremonies, his voice echoing off walls lined with gold leaf and adoring crowds. Maximus wore the plastron of a Murmillo, the helmet with its high crest and narrow eye-slits limiting his world to the patch of white sand before him. In his hand, he did not hold the gladius of a Roman general, but a trident. A fisherman’s tool. An insult.
His opponent was a hulking Thracian, a champion from the northern provinces. The crowd, draped in red hats and silk togas, roared its approval. They were not Romans of old; they were citizens of the new American Empire, their thirst not for justice, but for victory, any victory, no matter how hollow.
The fight was short. Brutal. Efficient. Maximus moved not with the flourish of a showman, but with the grim economy of a soldier who has killed more men than he has shared meals with. He parried the Thracian’s scything attacks, let the man exhaust himself, and when the opening came, he did not strike to kill. He disarmed him with a sharp crack to the wrist, then used the net to entangle his legs, sending him crashing to the sand.
The crowd fell silent, then erupted in confused boos. They wanted a death. They expected a death.
From the Imperial Box, shaded by a vast canopy of gold, a figure rose. He was large, larger than life, clad in a purple robe that seemed too heavy for the Florida sun. A crown of gilded laurels sat awkwardly upon hair the color of a bleached almond. This was God Emperor Trump.
“He’s not finishing!” the Emperor’s voice boomed through the speakers, a familiar cadence of grievance and command. “A very low-energy performance, believe me. Nobody knows low-energy like I do. I know low-energy. Disgraceful!”
The Praetorian guards, their armor polished to a mirror shine, gripped their spears. The mob’s boos turned into a chant, fed by the Emperor’s displeasure. “Finish him! Finish him! FINISH HIM!”
Maximus stood over his fallen opponent. He looked at the man’s eyes, wide with fear, seeing not a barbarian but a fellow slave to this grotesque pageant. He looked at the trident in his hand, a tool for a cheap kill. Then he looked up, past the screaming faces, to the box.
He saw the Emperor, a man who had never held a sword in earnest, who commanded legions of lawyers and sycophants, not soldiers. A man who spoke of strength but understood only its theatrical imitation.
A cold fury, colder than the winters in Germania, settled in Maximus’s soul. It was not the hot rage of a gladiator, but the calculated, glacial wrath of a general who sees the battle line and knows his moment.
He threw the trident aside. It stuck upright in the white sand, quivering.
The Coliseum fell into a silence so profound the only sound was the distant cry of a gull. Twenty thousand people held their breath.
Maximus reached up, his hands, scarred and calloused from months in the slave pits, gripping the cheek guards of his helmet. He pulled it off, letting it fall with a dull thud. He turned his face, weathered and grim, to the Imperial Box. The sun beat down on his bare head, on the scars that mapped a life of service to a dead empire.
He took a step forward. His voice, when it came, was not a roar. It was low, graveled with disuse, yet it carried to every tier, every seat, amplified by the sheer force of his will.
“You,” he said, the word a blade pointed at the heart of power. “In your gilded cage. You who speak of greatness but know only vanity.”
The Emperor’s mouth hung open, a small, round ‘o’ of disbelief. “You’re fired!” he shrieked, the words echoing absurdly. “Somebody arrest him! He’s a very nasty person!”
The Praetorians began to move, but they were slow, confused by this breach of all reality.
Maximus took another step, his eyes locked on the Emperor. He was no longer a slave. No longer a gladiator. He was a commander addressing a coward.
“You trade in lies and call them truth,” Maximus continued, his voice gaining strength, cutting through the panicked murmurs of the crowd. “You build walls to hide your weakness and call them strength. You see loyalty as something to be bought and sold, and honor as a weakness.”
He stopped, standing alone in the center of the vast arena, a single, defiant figure against an empire of spectacle.
“I am Maximus Decimus Meridius,” he declared, and for the first time in a year, the name was not a memory, but a weapon. “General of the Felix Legions. Servant of the true Rome. And I have seen the face of true evil. It does not snarl. It boasts. It does not conquer. It cheats. And today… today, I defy it.”
He spat on the white, imported sand, right at the feet of the Emperor’s image projected on the giant screens.
The silence broke. Not into cheers, not into boos, but into a chaotic uproar. But in that uproar, a few voices, then a dozen, then a hundred, began to shout not the Emperor’s name, but his. “Maximus! Maximus!”
He had not won his freedom. He had not killed his enemy. But in a world enslaved to a lie, he had spoken a truth. And for a moment, the gladiator who defied a god, was a general again.