Friday, October 25
Interstate 66
Fairfax, Virginia
Peter Albright was paralyzed, his eyes transfixed on the rearview mirror as the spectacle unfolded behind him. The phenomenal destruction inflicted by the nuclear explosion could only be described as an enormous hurricane coupled with an intense firestorm of unprecedented proportion.
He was briefly blinded as the fifty-kiloton bomb detonated somewhere in Washington, DC. The precise location didn’t matter at that moment. Only survival.
Peter had the presence of mind to grab his sling backpack before he flung open the door. He frantically stumbled out of the car, rolling across the rough asphalt pavement of Interstate 66 until he hit the concrete divider with a thud.
He knew what was coming. As if to confirm his fears, he looked back toward the nation’s capital. He blinked twice in an effort to awaken himself from the horror. The conscious act only forced his adrenaline to kick him in the ass.
Peter began to run away from the blast at a pace he didn’t think he was capable of. Stranded motorists, their vehicles’ electronics destroyed by the immediate surge of electromagnetic energy, stood in awe of the spectacle. He didn’t waste his energy on warning them. They’d find out what was coming soon enough.
He zigzagged across the five lanes of traffic, dodging panicked Virginians and stalled cars. A few ran near him. Others stood holding their arms over their eyes to avoid the blinding light that could be seen for a hundred miles.
Then he heard it.
It was a low growl at first. The sound of a beast warning any living being around it that it was dangerous.
Then the growl grew louder. A roar coupled with the rumble of a massive avalanche. It was deafening as it approached faster than Peter’s athletic body could flee it.
Run! Dammit! Run!
He began to stumble just as a wave of searing heat radiated outward from the detonation some eighteen miles away. The scorching wind generated by the massive fireball, the core of which reached tens of millions of degrees, as hot as the sun, swept outward in all directions.
By the time it reached Peter, it was no longer deadly, but it was certainly powerful. It struck him in the back and sent his helpless body flying forward. It was a stroke of luck or the hand of God that saved him.
The wind, coupled with the gravity of the Earth, body-slammed him into the gravel of the highway shoulder. He rolled over and over through the tall grasses, avoiding the steel guardrail because a prior accident had split it into two twisted parts.
Seconds later, Peter found himself facedown in a drainage ditch covered in warm, muddy water. His skin smelled warm. Sunburned. Like he’d spent too much time at Virginia Beach on a scorching August day.
Instinctively, he tossed and turned in the shallow water, covering himself with moisture. His mind thought he was on fire. He wasn’t, but the blast of heat he’d endured had certainly incinerated others closer to Washington.
Peter couldn’t recall how long he’d lain in the ditch. It could’ve been seconds or minutes. Eventually, the worst of the heated air had passed, and the roar that accompanied it had quietened. It was replaced by the sound of despair.
People screamed for help. They cried with angst. Others shouted instructions as if they were experts in surviving a nuclear explosion. Still more stood in awe, mouths open, watching the mushroom cloud rise to the heavens, illuminated by the flames roaring uncontrollably outward from the blast along the surface of the earth. Hungrily devouring buildings and vaporizing people in a flash, their charred bodies crumbling into ash onto the scorched ground.
As the fireball traveled outward from ground zero, the intense heat set gas lines, fuel tanks, and power lines on fire. The electromagnetic pulse destroyed anything electronic within two hundred miles of the ground detonation.
The colossal pressure wave hurtled outward at five hundred miles per hour, crossing the Potomac River, demolishing everything within seven miles. Houses made of wood were torched. Sturdier block, brick and steel construction might have remained standing. However, only their naked and warped steel structural supports remained. Utility poles snapped like toothpicks. The wave whipped through green space, snapping trees and leveling landscape. People were flung through the air and pummeled by deadly projectiles of brick, glass, and metal.
At the point of detonation, a crater fifty feet deep with a diameter stretching beyond the Pentagon was quickly filled with the now-boiling water of the Potomac River as it rushed to fill the void where the heart of America’s government once beat.
All of this happened within the first few minutes.
Peter had suddenly become hyperaware of his surroundings. His mind raced as he tried to recall everything he’d learned about the aftermath of a nuclear explosion. Living in the DC area, the thought of being the number one target of nuclear-capable nations made him more than a casual reader of news reports leading up to that night. A word kept popping into his head.
Fallout.
The moment a nuclear bomb detonates, several forms of radiation instantly permeate the surroundings. For those near the point of impact who were fortunate enough to survive the incendiary effects, the threat of radioactive fallout was very real. As the pulse of radiation surged away from the blast, the bodies of every living being who was outside or in inadequately insulated buildings were prone to the fallout. Radiation wreaked biological havoc on the human body. At the molecular level, it immediately began to alter human DNA, impairing the ability of cells to replicate and repair themselves from damage.
Within minutes to hours, based upon proximity to the blast site, most people exposed would begin to show signs of acute radiation syndrome, including nausea, headache, dizziness, and vomiting. Within several days to two weeks later, new symptoms would emerge. In addition to purple blotches and lesions occurring on the skin, diarrhea, hair loss, fever, seizures, and bleeding from the mouth were common. In the most severe cases, people would become delirious and mentally incapacitated.
One thing would be certain. The majority of humans with radiation sickness would die because they no longer had enough immune cells to fight off any sort of infection or because their digestive system was too damaged to function properly.
Regardless of the cause, death was guaranteed.
Peter Albright didn’t want to die. He lifted his battered body out of the drainage ditch, adjusted his sling pack, and stumbled up the embankment toward the hard surface of the highway. Others were scurrying down the slope, splashed through the ditch and up the other side toward an apartment complex.
Just as Peter reached the pavement, he glanced over his shoulder as several people began cursing in frustration. A ten-foot-tall chain-link fence had thwarted their efforts to reach the residential area.
Joining dozens of others who raced past him, he mustered the strength to begin running once again, ignoring the scrapes, cuts, and bruises his body had endured. He needed to find a place of safety. A shelter of any kind to protect him from the radiation that would soon be raining down all around him.
Friday, October 25
Fair Oaks Mall
Fairfax, Virginia
Peter glanced at his yellow Casio G-shock dive watch, a gift from his father when he graduated from high school. It had been his constant companion for years, but now, like his car, it had ceased to function. As he began to pass the pack of frightened motorists, he glanced up at the steel structure holding the interstate directional signs. Ordinarily green with reflective lettering, they were now scorched and difficult to read. Not that it mattered because he planned on taking the exit anyway.
The asphalt turned to unforgiving concrete, much to the chagrin of Peter, who enjoyed running. His daily four-mile jogs were paying off if he could only put the pain of the fall out of his mind. There was no time to lament the fact his muscles were begging for a rest. All Peter could think about was the radioactive fallout.
At the end of the exit ramp, he saw a hulking structure perched on a hill before him. He’d been to the Fair Oaks Mall on one other occasion to purchase a pair of Asics running shoes at Dick’s Sporting Goods. The mall seemed like a good place to hunker down. It was a large structure with plenty of walls protecting him from the environmental disaster that was surely headed his way.
He rushed across the median separating the east- and westbound lanes of Lee Jackson Memorial Highway. He glanced up at the mid-rise Marriott hotel. People were standing on their balconies, staring toward DC. Some had flashlights while others lit candles that flickered wildly in the heated air.
Peter hustled up the embankment into the mostly empty mall parking lot. At nearly four in the morning, he expected it to be devoid of activity. He was wrong.
There were only a few sporadically parked vehicles left behind from the night before. There were, however, dozens of people racing in and out of the plate-glass doors of Macy’s. Some were dragging children by the arms, urging them to hurry to safety. They waited for an opportunity to push through the broken panes of glass to enter the building.
Also, there were the opportunists. The inevitable thieves and looters who took advantage of a catastrophe to seemingly enrich themselves. They rushed out of the store, their arms wrapped around piles of clothing, into the open arms of a cloud of nuclear radiation they’d never see until the effect on their bodies revealed itself.
Peter followed a young family through the opening into the darkness of Macy’s men’s department. Shouts filled the air. A fight had broken out in the shoe department. Names were called out as loved ones searched for those who’d gotten lost in the mayhem.
Peter got his bearings and tried to remember the mall layout. His first thought was to find his way to the center of the complex as far away from these breached doors as possible. He presumed, rightfully so, that if the looters had opened up Macy’s, they’d done the same to the other retail stores.
Like a running back breaking tackles in pursuit of the end zone, Peter bowled over anyone in his way. He was in a battle to save his own life and didn’t care about those who impeded him. After a minute, he’d made his way into the center atrium of the mall.
Fair Oaks had been built forty-five years prior, when tall glass entries and skylight atriums were in vogue. For Peter, neither suited his purposes although it was still his best option. As he walked briskly through the center, he came across groups of refugees huddled in the dark recesses of the mall. Children were crying. Parents were trying to comfort them. They all tried to make sense of what was happening outside.
The sounds of breaking glass and shouting permeated the air. Peter was astounded at the dichotomy of reactions by those who’d entered the mall. Some, like himself, sought refuge. Others took this opportunity to steal.
He tried to avoid coming into contact with the frantic looters who searched for the most high-end retail stores to improve their lot in life. Peter pushed toward the back side of the mall where Dick’s Sporting Goods was located. It was far away from the two-story, all-glass main entrance that was being used by the majority of people coming and going.
As he fumbled through the mall in the pitch darkness, his mind wandered to his family. He tried to be logical as he considered the top nuclear targets in the U.S. He was comfortable his father and uncle were safe from the effects of a nuclear blast. It was possible Miami had been attacked because of its population, but doubtful. He couldn’t think of any strategic military interest in the Miami-Dade area that would rank above the more high-value options on the West Coast.
He took a deep breath as he thought of Lacey, Owen, and Tucker. Had they heeded his warnings? Did they leave as he’d subtly suggested? Should he have been more forceful in his warnings? Peter had to believe his sister and her family were safe. There was nothing he could do about saving them.
Suddenly, chaos broke out outside Champs, a sports retail store specializing in footwear and apparel. People were rushing down the escalators, holding six or eight boxes of sneakers. One lost his balance and fell forward, losing his loot and knocking down several of his compatriots in the process.
Peter shook his head in disbelief, but the overall scene reminded him of a simple fact. Other than his sling backpack, which contained his handguns and ammunition, he had nothing but the sopping wet clothing he was wearing. He would also have to become a looter. Not just to wear dry clothes, but to survive.
For it was in that instant that reality hit him. He mumbled to himself, “Exactly what, pray tell, Mr. Peter Albright, do you plan on doing now?”
He reached the entrance to Dick’s, where a logjam occurred as people tried to slide under the storefront’s grilled gate that had been forced open. A concrete planter had been overturned and jammed underneath to prevent it from closing.
Peter secured his sling pack and decided to join in the fray. He crawled underneath the gate and made his way into the dark, two-story sporting goods store. To his left, voices shouted to one another. From prior visits, he remembered footwear and workout clothing were located there. He’d come back to it when and if the fight over sneakers subsided.
He briskly walked into the center of the store, where a mountain-like display with a pond had been constructed. The water had stopped flowing due to the power outage and had filled the catch basin to capacity. Peter immediately wondered if it was drinkable.
He made his way to the far end of the store where guns and ammunition were once sold. The hunting rifles had been replaced with archery equipment and an indoor archery range. In the dark, he could make out the crossbows. He shook his head as he considered whether he should add one to his personal arsenal. Only guys named Daryl can shoot one of these, he thought to himself. And all he could kill was something that was already dead and stinkin’.
Nonetheless, he ran behind the counter where the crossbows were sold. He fumbled in the dark until he found the handle of a hard plastic case and grabbed it.
With his crossbow in hand, Peter made his way past the hunting and fishing equipment until he found camping gear. He hesitated as he approached the darkest part of the store. Suddenly, two young men rushed past him, inadvertently striking him in the back until he spun around and crashed to the tile floor. He lost control of the crossbow case, which could be heard sliding down the floor until it struck something with a whack. Abandoning any thought of retrieving it, he sat there for a moment to catch his breath.
The impact had knocked the wind out of him, and it reminded him of the damage his body had endured during the blast wave. It also gave him an opportunity to get his priorities straight. The looters weren’t shopping in the departments Peter had identified as the most important—survival gear. They were after clothing and shoes. He needed to find a windowless part of the mall to shelter in place for a couple of days until the radioactive fallout dissipated.
As morning came, the daylight would illuminate enough of the mall stores for him to procure what he needed to survive another day.
Friday, October 25
Placer High School
Auburn, California
In the basement of Placer High School’s gymnasium, after winding down three flights of concrete steps, a single ominous door made of steel was embedded in the filled-concrete wall. Once painted a forest green color, time had peeled away the paint and revealed its true battleship-gray exterior. On the wall, there were several screw holes where the yellow-and-black nuclear fallout shelter sign had once been posted. Now it was either hanging in a mischievous student’s bedroom or had been passed from one person to another via eBay.
Behind the door, chaos reigned.
The bunker had been a symbol of the Cold War era dating back to the sixties, but eventually diminished in importance during the Reagan administration. The Auburn Union School District quickly found more important things to spend their budgets on, and the fallout shelter was mostly neglected.
The last time its electrical wiring, backup batteries, or supply rooms had been maintained was eleven years ago. What was once meant to be the Auburn community’s Noah’s Ark against the deadly effects of radiation was now an empty concrete shell that was more coffin than shelter.
The dark, dingy, and run-down basement had been crammed full of safety-seekers. Originally, it was designed to serve about one hundred people for two full weeks. Once fully stocked with Meals-Ready-To-Eat, or MREs, provided by the U.S. military and barrels of drinking water, its supply closets had not been replenished or updated in more than a decade.
At that moment, none of that mattered inside the fallout shelter. After the rolling thunder that shook the building to its core, the lights went out, and the emergency lighting system powered by backup batteries failed to function.
Nearly two hundred people, twice the shelter’s capacity, were packed like sardines standing upright in a can. Shoulder to shoulder, they could barely move much less panic.
Yet they tried. Their screams of primal fear coupled with shouts demanding someone do something reverberated off the completely enclosed concrete structure. Many began to push and shove one another in an attempt to create a little more personal space. Some, either afraid of the dark or curious as to their surroundings, lit their Bic lighters. This drew fearful screams from the others who were concerned a fire might break out.
Lacey McDowell, her husband, Owen, and son, Tucker had fortuitously made their way to the back of the shelter into the corner. The natural inclination of the agitated refugees was to press forward toward the door through which they’d entered. Minutes prior, they’d knocked one another over to get inside. Now, despite the massive shaking of the ground they’d just experienced, they begged to be released.
The local police officer and the high school coach had barely closed the door when a blast wave from a nuclear explosion swept over Auburn. It felt like an earthquake, which, unbeknownst to them, it was. As the concrete pieces and accompanying dust fell on the occupants of the shelters, their screams were from surprise. When the lights went out, their primal shrieks were deafening in the enclosed space.
The officer tried to regain order. Normally assigned to traffic duty and supervision of crosswalk patrols, he was one of the few police officers to carry a whistle at all times. It was loud and shrill, but it worked under the circumstances.
He blew it repeatedly. The unexpected sound caused the vociferate refugees to immediately silence their emotions.
“Everybody! Please! You have to calm down!”
“We can’t see!” someone shouted back.
The officer pulled his flashlight from his utility belt and shined it upward to reflect off the ceiling.
“Better?” he asked sarcastically. “See, the sky is not falling, and neither is the ceiling.”
“Were we hit?” a woman asked.
“We’d be dead, you idiot!” a man replied rudely.
“Enough of that!” the high school coach admonished the man. “We don’t know what happened. For now, we have to remain calm and wait.”
“How long?”
“I can’t breathe!”
“I need to pee.” The young boy’s statement immediately sent a new wave of panic over the occupants. They could barely move. Where were they supposed to go to the bathroom?
“Me too!” shouted an older woman.
While the coach began answering questions and did his level best to assuage their concerns, Lacey leaned in to Owen. “This is never gonna work. These people are already losing their minds.”
Owen whispered back, “Maybe the cop oughta grant their wish? Let’s send half of them back outside.”
“I bet there are still a hundred more in the stairwell to replace them,” said Lacey.
The other refugees continued to push their way toward the only exit door, which provided the McDowells a little extra breathing room. Each of them stretched their arms and legs, which helped ease the tension somewhat.
Tucker walked along the back wall in the dim light. Another refugee had illuminated a flashlight and was shining it upward. He walked as far as he could before coming upon a group of people huddled on the floor, blocking his progress. He returned to his family.
“There are three steel roll-up doors,” he explained what he’d found. He turned to his father. “Dad, there’s not a lock on the handles. I don’t know what’s in there, but if somebody figures out they’re not locked, this place will go nuts.”
“You’re right, Tuck. There’s no way those two can control this mob.” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder as he referred to the police officer and the coach.
Lacey was concerned about the mood of the refugees. “I don’t trust a panicked mob. If they open the door, should we leave?”
Owen grimaced and shook his head. “I don’t think so, honey. Everything I’ve read says the worst of the fallout is in the first forty-eight hours.”
“Plus, we don’t know if they’ve finished,” interjected Tucker. He gulped and continued. “You know, um, nuking us.”
Lacey’s tough exterior broke down. She began to cry as she reached for Owen’s hand. “That had to be our home, right?”
Owen closed his eyes and sighed. He nodded.
“Dad, that felt like an earthquake.”
“I know, son. You know, I’m just guessing, ’cause it’s impossible to say for sure. But the Hayward Fault runs right by our house and just to the west of Sacramento. I suppose it’s possible a nuke near Silicon Valley could trigger quakes along Hayward.”
“But we’re east of Sacramento,” countered Tucker.
“That’s true, but you know how earthquakes can be felt for miles. When San Andreas shakes, we feel it all the way up on the ridge in Hayward.”
“So we didn’t take a direct hit?” asked Lacey hopefully as she wiped her tears.
“Here? No,” Owen responded. “Listen, I can only speculate, but we all knew Silicon Valley and San Francisco were likely targets for a nuclear attack. We’re just over a hundred miles or so from the city. If the bomb was big enough, I imagine it would shake the earth for at least that distance.”
The police officer and two men were now shouting at one another, causing the crowd to grow even more apprehensive. The two dads were demanding to know who they should hold accountable for the poor conditions in the shelter.
Lacey returned to her immediate concern. “Then maybe we’re safe to leave? I just don’t feel good about being in here with these people. They worry me more than the radiation.”
Owen reached out to his wife and wrapped his arms around her. He held her tight and whispered in her ear, “For now, we may not have a choice. We’ll stick to our corner in the back and let the others knock each other over the heads at the front. Okay?”
Lacey nodded. She reconciled herself to the fact they were better off inside the shelter than facing radioactive fallout. Then someone changed the topic of conversation.
“Hey, these doors open! There’s food and water in here!”
Friday, October 25
Placer High School Fallout Shelter
Auburn, California
Inside the fallout shelter, a massive scrum was created in the center of the square-shaped space. Those who wanted to get their share of whatever was available behind the storage doors pushed and shoved their way to the back. Others, intent on being the first ones out of the dark, damp space, fought against the tidal wave of people toward the front door. Arguments teed off the melee, which soon turned into men muscling their way through, clearing a path for their loved ones in tow. A few punches were thrown, and several of the weaker refugees were knocked to the dusty concrete floor, only to get trampled by their fellow man.
The police officer incessantly blew into the whistle in an unsuccessful attempt to restore order. The coach shouted at those in the back of the shelter to leave the doors alone. It was, as he insisted, an unauthorized area.
To the panicked refugees, law and order had collapsed, and a survival-of-the-fittest mentality had set in. The doors were quickly rolled up, and those closest to the storage rooms rushed in first, including Tucker.
Despite his father demanding he stop, Tucker was determined to grab whatever he could see to help his family. Next to him was the man who’d turned on his flashlight moments ago. As he held off the crowd with his broad shoulders and his legs spread wide, he illuminated the shelves for him and Tucker to see.
There were stacked barrels of drinking water and cases of boxes labeled food. Each case indicated it was enough for seven shelter occupants together with five pounds per person. On wire shelving, smaller boxes caught Tucker’s eye. Medical kits, high-calorie MRE bars, and personal hygiene kits. Because they had plenty of food in the truck, Tucker grabbed these three items and wrapped his arms around the boxes to keep anyone from snatching them away.
He turned to join his parents and was met with a throng of people trying to force their way into the storage space. He lowered his head and bulled his way past as the high-pitched shrill whistle could be heard getting closer to him. The officer was now screaming threats ranging from using his pepper spray to arrest.
Nobody cared.
Soon, refugees were exiting the three storage spaces, clutching boxes of food and barrels of water. One person even carried a wooden chair high over his head that had once been used in the gymnasium. Another held two battery-operated Coleman lanterns in each hand, with a dusty box of batteries tucked under his arm.
“Hold these,” said Tucker as he handed his haul to his dad. “I’m going back for more.”
The officer shouted at the top of his lungs. “Back off, everybody! I said back the hell off!”
When more people pressed forward, he followed through with his threat. Alarmed, he pulled his SABRE law-enforcement-grade pepper spray and deployed a quick burst into the crowd in front of him.
This panicked the group, who quickly turned away. Now a stampede of people was forcing their way back toward the front as if an otherworldly being were teasing a dog with a cookie. As they crashed into one another, they began to lose their balance and fall. Some tried to assist their fellow refugees up. Others knocked those in the way to the ground and trampled over the fallen.
The whistle continued to blare. The officer continued to order the occupants of the shelter to stand down. The McDowells continued to stand in the corner, making every attempt to avoid physical or verbal contact with the crazed mob.
“Would everyone please calm down?” shouted the coach. “Stop where you are! Please!”
Perhaps it was his begging, or the simple fact that he asked nicely. But the crowd suddenly calmed itself. Following the crowd was a natural human tendency. Human nature lent itself to living and moving in groups. All at once, it seemed, the refugees seemed to work as one. Fortunately, it was to establish calm rather than turn their stay in the shelter into a deadly riot.
Coughing and sniffling could be heard by those directly affected by the pepper spray. Some removed their coats and waved them over their heads to cause the propellant to dissipate. Most everyone covered their nose and mouth with their shirts.
“Thank you,” the coach said calmly, in a slightly elevated tone so he could be heard. “If we all work together, we can decide what to do next, and also we can figure out a way to get comfortable.”
“Are you gonna open the door?”
“What about a bathroom?”
“Do you have anything for my children to eat?”
The coach raised his hands and spoke louder. “Those are all good questions, but let’s take one thing at a time. First, I wasn’t trained on how to operate this facility. I was simply the man with the key to the door. However, after what happened overseas, I studied up on what to do.”
“Shouldn’t we stay here?” asked a woman in front.
“Yes, ma’am. I believe we should. Of course, we don’t know what happened outside. However, I feel confident we didn’t take a direct hit here. That doesn’t mean we’re entirely in the clear. There could be more nukes, and then there’s the fallout.”
“The fallout can’t reach us in Auburn!” a man shouted from the center of the room.
“Sir, we don’t know that because we don’t know where the nuke was detonated. Plus, I learned there are a lot of factors, including winds, humidity, and the size of the warhead.”
“I heard we need to stay in here for two weeks,” another man chimed in.
“Well, that may be true if Sacramento was the target,” countered the coach. “I personally don’t think it was high on any of our enemies’ lists. The more likely scenario is the Bay Area. That’s two hours from here.”
“What does that mean for us?” a man next to the McDowells asked.
“Two days,” the coach replied.
The chorus of experts began to dominate the discussion.
“No way! Fourteen days at a minimum!”
“You’re nuts! Even in the movies, seven days is the max!”
“I don’t want to stay in here another minute!”
“Same here. If it hit the coast, we’re safe.”
“Didn’t you feel the ground shake?”
“That doesn’t mean shit!”
The officer began to blow the whistle again, and he held the canister of pepper spray high over his head. He lit it up with his flashlight to show the group he meant business. He weighed in with his opinion.
“Our department has trained for this scenario in the past, and the coach is right. Forty-eight hours is the bare minimum. We can handle that.”
The crowd turned in unison to address the officer.
“What about the food and water?”
“Are there sleeping bags?”
“How about pillows?”
“There’s no room to lie down, morons!”
The officer blew the whistle again. Tucker covered his ears and shook his head in disgust. His ears were starting to ring.
The officer ignored their questions and shouted, “Make way in the middle to allow the coach to get through! He and I will divvy up what we have. First, we need to take inventory, and to do that, everyone who grabbed something earlier needs to bring it back.”
Lacey and Owen shared a glance before surreptitiously hiding their packages behind their backs against the wall. Tucker noticed what they’d done, so he stood in front of them to give them cover.
Reluctantly, the people who’d carried off drums of water and cases of food brought them back. The crowd cooperated and made way for the coach to join the police officer at the back of the shelter. Together, they took a quick inventory. With the help of some of the more cooperative refugees, they reorganized the three storage rooms.
The first room, located farthest away from the McDowells, was used as a latrine. Several toilet-height barrels marked SK III Sanitation Kits were lined up along the back wall.
The coach tried to use a Coleman lantern to provide some light for the users of the latrine, but the batteries’ useful life had expired. The man who had been near Tucker earlier volunteered his flashlight for the toilet users, who would roll down the door for privacy.
The middle storage room was used for food and water distribution. The cases of freeze-dried food were divided into groups of six or seven. Because the shelter held twice as many occupants as its capacity, each person was allocated one meal per day. The meal was supplemented with a sleeve of saltine crackers that seemed to be in abundance.
Finally, the third storage room nearest Lacey and her family held a variety of supplies, including the items they’d already retrieved. Lacey was confident they’d packed everything they needed into the Expedition and their vintage 1967 Ford Bronco. If there was something useful, they’d take backups from what the fallout shelter offered.
It was nearing three in the morning on the west coast, and exhaustion had set in for most of the refugees. Tucker was hyped up, so he suggested his parents sleep. He’d take the first shift, as he called it. Using their lightweight jackets rolled up around the small boxes Tucker had obtained, they stretched out against the wall while their son made sure nobody stepped on them.
It was gonna be a long, uncomfortable forty-eight hours until the doors reopened.
Friday, October 25
Driftwood Key
Marathon, Florida
Hank Albright pushed his way past his brother, Mike, and slowly approached the television mounted behind the bar. Normally at this hour, CNN would be replaying one of their Special Report segments from the night before. Now, CNN International anchor Michael Holmes had taken over the network’s regular broadcasting. The Aussie was visibly shaken and fought back tears as he reported on the events.
“I want to remind our viewers that we are receiving secondhand reports of the events taking place in the United States. We have lost all contact with our newsrooms on the West Coast, New York, and Washington. Our colleagues. Our friends. Their loved ones. We have no way of knowing …” His voice trailed off as the tears began to flow down his cheeks. He gathered himself and continued.
“The images we have been repeating on your screens are from archived streaming footage via our security cameras outside CNN studios in Washington and New York. They depict the horrific effects of a nuclear attack at the moment of detonation.”
Holmes paused and held his hand to his right ear to adjust his earpiece before continuing.
“We are receiving information from our sources within the Ministry of Defense. This is not official; however, it is deemed reliable. A dozen, maybe more, nuclear bombs were delivered by North Korea toward the United States. There were at least five massive impacts. Washington, DC, and New York on the east coast. Seattle, Washington, in the Pacific Northwest. In California, the first strikes took place in San Diego in Southern California. Simultaneously, San Francisco in the northern part of that state was hit. I must caution—”
His words were muted by the wails of despair and agony coming from Hank. He gripped the bar with both hands and dropped his head to the shiny, lacquered teak wood that was covered in bubbles of tears.
“Nooo! No! No! Nooo! God, no! Not both of my children. You can’t do this to us!”
Mike and Phoebe rushed to his side. Everyone was sobbing as they tried to comfort one another.
Hank fell to his knees and collapsed into a fetal position between two barstools. He began to shake and gasp for air as he cried uncontrollably. He repeated the same words over and over again. He begged and pleaded through his voice and tears.
“No. No. No.”
CNN continued to repeat the information, speculating now as to the number of dead and the cost of the destruction. It was Sonny Free, the Albrights’ longtime caretaker of Driftwood Key and family friend, who turned down the volume. Hearing the news multiple times was like being bludgeoned with the same sledgehammer. It was already painful. There was no need to continue inflicting the misery.
Mike and Sonny helped Hank sit upright. Phoebe and Jessica knelt down in front of him. Sometimes, a man suffering an excruciating loss can only be comforted by his mom, or the closest thing to her.
Sonny handed his wife, Phoebe, a bottle of water and a clean bar towel. Hank was suddenly cold and sweaty. His eyes, drenched with tears, darted around the room as his mind tried to process the immense sadness he was feeling. Mike’s wife, Jessica, a trained paramedic, noticed the likely symptoms of shock. As Phoebe lovingly patted his forehead and neck, Jessica whispered in his ear and comforted him with a familiar voice.
After a couple of minutes, Hank had recovered enough to recognize where he was and what was happening around him. His eyes sought out his younger brother. Growing up, he’d always been the one to take care of Mike. As Mike matured to become a homicide detective, Hank found himself drawing strength from the younger man.
There was a time after Hank’s wife passed when he was having difficulty coping. Mike was more than his rock. He was a pillar of granite to lean on. In this moment, he sought Mike out again.
Hank spoke softly and slowly, his words separated by sniffles. “Mike, this can’t be happening.”
His brother reached out his right hand, and Hank grasped it, the two men locking them together to become one. Mike pulled Hank to his feet. He took a deep breath and looked his brother in the eye. Then Mike gently patted his brother on the chest.
“What does your heart say, Hank?”
Hank couldn’t respond as the tears flowed again. Mike leaned down and tilted his head so he was eye to eye with his brother. He gently placed his hand on Hank’s cheek.
“Listen to me. Forget what you saw on TV. What does your heart say? Does your heart tell you that they’re gone? Does it?”
Tears flowed out of Hank’s eyes as he locked them in a stare with Mike’s. He began to blink rapidly. He shook his head side to side and whispered, “No.”
Mike allowed a slight smile as he placed his right hand over Hank’s heart again. He, too, was crying, and he didn’t try to stifle his emotions. He continued. “Hank, they’re not gone. God would not take them from us. They’re not gone. I’m as sure of that as I am anything else.”
Hank laughed nervously, wiping his tears off his face. “You’re right. I’m such an idiot. We’re talking about Peter and Lacey here.”
Now Mike and the others joined in laughing as they allowed their tears to flow at the same time. It was spontaneous. Natural. From the heart.
“Nine lives,” muttered Phoebe as she moved in to hug Hank.
“Well, eight for Peter,” said Jimmy Free with a chuckle. He and Peter were like brothers, having grown up together on Driftwood Key, although Jimmy was several years younger. “Remember the time I pulled him up from diving? We had to buddy-breathe the last sixty feet because he ran out of oxygen.”
“What? When was that?” Hank was genuinely confused. “I never heard about this.”
“Oh, shoot. I thought he told you.”
“No, and besides, it’s seven now. He used one or two up in Abu Dhabi.”
Mike started laughing. Now the tears had dissipated, and everyone was coping through their loving recollections of the lives of their family.
“Listen. If Peter can get himself out of that pickle with car bombs and crazed terrorists firing automatic weapons everywhere, he can dodge a freakin’ nuclear bomb.”
This brought a roar of laughter from the group. Hank was recovering from his emotional devastation.
“Don’t forget, Mr. Hank,” began Sonny. “Lacey is a survivalist. You could throw her in the woods with nothing but the clothes on her back and she’d come out of there just fine. Tucker has that survival mentality, too.”
“And Owen?” asked Jessica.
Hank responded to that one. “My son-in-law fights his battles against the tech giants. He’ll be fine.”
Mike patted Hank on the outside of his shoulders with both hands. Then the two men hugged.
“See, now tell me. What does your heart say to you?”
Hank was now beaming with a smile that evaporated the tears. “It tells me we’d better get the guest rooms ready. I don’t know when they’ll get here. But I know they will.”
Friday, October 25
Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center
Northern Virginia
“We didn’t start this shit!” President Carter Helton shouted as he wandered through the operations center deep in the underground bunker at Mount Weather located in Northern Virginia. He was sweating profusely. He’d lost all sense of decorum expected of presidents. His jacket had been slung in a chair, his tie was removed, and his sweat-soaked shirt was only partially tucked.
The president was accurate in his statement that the United States did not fire the first shot that led to nuclear Armageddon. It was the Iranian government that opened up the floodgates by sending nuclear ballistic missiles into Tel Aviv, Israel. Naturally, the Israelis returned the favor, and the result was the near total destruction of Tehran.
After that, the house of cards known as MAD, the deterrent based upon mutually assured destruction, fell apart.
However, it was not necessarily the launching of the nuclear missiles that ultimately drew the U.S. into its own fight for survival. Many argued at the time of the Iranian-Israeli exchange that the president should defend America’s staunchest ally. President Helton remained out of the fight, allowing Israel to fend for themselves.
This was seen as a sign of weakness by many world leaders and even within the ranks of the U.S. military. Whispers persisted that the president lacked confidence in America’s ability to fight a war overseas. In their minds, the president’s mettle had been tested, and he’d failed.
Then the Islamabad government upped the ante by retaliating against India for air strikes on military sites deep within Pakistan. Their response was a steady barrage of ballistic missiles detonating nuclear warheads in heavily populated India. Once again, India fought back, and as the regional nuclear war broke out, the U.S. remained on the sidelines.
As the Helton administration was now perceived as weak by the world’s bad actors, the Kim regime took the events as an opportunity to flex the Hermit Kingdom’s muscles on the Korean Peninsula. They amassed troops in the demilitarized zone with South Korea. They exercised their first-strike capabilities against Seoul and military targets as a precursor to invasion. Yet that was not enough for the brutal dictator of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, which was anything but democratic.
Pyongyang immediately declared war on Japan and launched nuclear missiles toward Tokyo. America’s Aegis missile defense system posted in the region took out all but one of the ICBMs as they sailed over the Sea of Japan.
At this point, the North Koreans went all in. They launched their remaining fixed ICBMs toward high-value targets within the United States. America’s ground-based interceptors, known as GBIs, performed as well as could be expected, but to do so, it had to exhaust multiple defensive missiles per ICBM.
The North Koreans’ barrage overwhelmed the U.S. defenses, and their Chinese-supplied, five-hundred-kiloton warheads wreaked havoc in America. The Kim regime focused on large population centers as well as government and technology centers. On the west coast, San Diego, San Francisco, and Seattle took direct hits. In the Eastern United States, New York and Washington, DC, were decimated.
Before North Korea’s remaining ICBMs could strike America’s own nuclear silos in the Northern Rockies, the president retaliated, resulting in the near total destruction of North Korea’s cities and military installations.
The nuclear exchange was over, but the aftermath of Armageddon was just beginning.
Finally, President Helton stopped pacing. He was handed a dry towel to dab the sweat off his face. His chief of staff, Harrison Chandler, patted him on the back and gave him a reassuring smile. The nukes had stopped flying, and it was time to get to work.
“Let’s start with a damage assessment,” said Chandler, allowing his boss to regain his composure.
The director of National Intelligence, who’d remained with the president throughout, took the lead on the intelligence briefing that was uncharacteristically held in the open forum within Mount Weather’s operations center. The president didn’t want to leave, as he was still skeptical of China’s promise to stand down, and he wanted to be present if they retaliated against the U.S. on North Korea’s behalf.
“Sir, it would be impossible to discuss casualties at this point.” He began the grim assessment in a sullen tone of voice. “Comms are down in every region that received a direct hit. Our appraisal of the situation is based primarily on satellite imagery.”
“Understood,” said the president with a nod to his DNI to continue.
“As we’ve learned, San Diego, San Francisco and Seattle were all likely struck with a one-half-megaton warhead based upon our calculations of the crater’s size in each location.”
“How big?”
“Five hundred kilotons, sir.”
“No. I meant how big was the crater?”
“My apologies, sir. Other than San Francisco, they were similar in size. Roughly two hundred to three hundred feet deep with a diameter in excess of a thousand feet.”
“San Francisco was different?” President Helton asked.
“Yes, sir. Ground zero for that warhead was at the lower end of San Francisco Bay near Santa Clara. It struck just at the water’s edge, destroying much of Silicon Valley and sending a tsunami-like wave away from the blast site toward San Francisco, Alameda, and Oakland. The coastal areas of San Francisco Bay are currently covered with thirty feet of water.”
“Jesus,” the president mumbled to himself. His forehead instantly became covered with sweat again, and he mopped his brow with the towel he clutched in his left hand. “Denver?”
“Denver’s situation is both a blessing and a curse, sir.”
“None of this is a blessing, Mr. Director,” the president interjected in an angry tone.
“My apologies, sir. That was out of line and a poor choice of words.” The director shuffled his feet and looked down before continuing. “Sir, Denver avoided a direct hit like the three westernmost cities. That was what I was referring to. There have been no reports of loss of life as a result of the detonation.”
President Helton took a deep breath and exhaled. He wiped his forehead again and patted his DNI on the upper arm. “I’m sorry, too. That part is a blessing. Please explain.”
“Yes, sir. One of our ground-based intercepts struck the incoming nuclear missile approximately seven miles northwest of Boulder. The likely target for that ICBM was Cheyenne Mountain. When the two missiles collided, the nuclear warhead detonated and sent out an electromagnetic pulse in all directions.”
“How far?” asked the president.
“Unknown at this time. However, if the weapon was similar in payload to the other warheads that struck the west coast, based upon the height of the collision at an altitude close to thirty miles above the planet’s surface, we can expect a radius of four to five hundred miles from Denver.”
Chief of Staff Chandler stepped toward one of the aides and pointed toward a screen. “Can you give us a graphic illustrating a five-hundred-mile radius of Denver?”
“Yes, sir. Just a moment.”
Less than half a minute later, a map of the United States appeared with two concentric circles appearing around Denver as their center point. Within the largest ring, the cities of Salt Lake City, Albuquerque, Oklahoma City, and Kansas City were either included or close.
The director of National Intelligence continued. “Based on the science and our computer models, electronics in the area extending five hundred miles from Denver would no longer be operable. Again, this is preliminary based upon our best assessment of all relevant factors.”
The president ran his hand down the front of his face and covered his mouth. He took a deep breath through his nose and exhaled into his hand, causing his cheeks to puff out.
The DNI continued. “Sir, the fiery debris from the collision rained down upon the Rockies just west of Denver. With the dry conditions, wildfires have broken out along the eastern slope of the mountains from Cheyenne Mountain north toward Fort Collins and south toward Pueblo.”
“What about in the east?” asked Chandler.
The president had to steady his nerves to get an assessment of New York City and the nation’s capital. Minutes later, his worst fears had materialized. Many millions were dead. Most of Washington, DC, had been obliterated, as was New York City. And fires from the superheated blast were spreading outward, devouring everything in their path.
Friday, October 25
Fair Oaks Mall
Fairfax, Virginia
On the upper level of the mall immediately adjacent to Dick’s Sporting Goods was an empty space being remodeled for a jewelry store. The interior was still under construction, but the glass wall units and display cases had already been installed. The exposed drop ceiling was partially in place, and the HVAC ductwork was in the process of being installed.
Peter needed a space that was completely unattractive to the looters or any refugees. An unfinished space with nothing to steal in it was a plus. One that was under construction with nothing to provide comfort to the refugees was a huge bonus.
First, he set about making it appear even less desirable. He broke out some of the glass windows at the front of the store. Then he gathered up some building materials that were ideal for what he had in mind to limit his exposure to any radioactive fallout that found its way into the mall through the breached entryways.
All of the glass cases and displays were covered in heavy-duty plastic sheeting. The six-millimeter-thick plastic was attached with duct tape, a case of which was found behind one of the counters. After he gathered up all of the plastic and duct tape, he secured it in the storeroom. Then he literally trashed the place.
He broke out most of the glass cases. He retrieved garbage from the large receptacles just outside the storefront and emptied the bags onto the floor. He took a neatly stacked pile of ceiling tiles and broke them in half before throwing them around the store’s interior as well as outside the entrance.
Anyone with an idle curiosity about what was inside the vacated retail space would immediately move on to more lucrative options. For Peter, it was perfect.
Once the space was adequately defaced, he set about covering the back wall with plastic to seal it off. Using the ladders left behind by the workers and the duct tape, he wallpapered the drywall with the sheets of plastic, sealing it up as airtight as possible. To enter the storeroom, he simply peeled back one corner of the sheeting near the single entry door and then resealed it from the other side.
He was able to lock the door to deter anyone from entering, and he used a flat-head screwdriver to jimmy open the lock when he needed access. It wasn’t a perfect place to hide out, but it was better than the other alternatives in the mall. It gave him a place of solace where the chaos within the mall was only a dull roar.
Until dawn, he managed a fitful sleep. His mind recalled the events as they unfolded. He fell asleep only to relive the nightmare again, except this time far more vividly, as if he were at ground zero himself.
He awoke with a start at the sound of voices inside the retail space where he’d been hiding.
“What’s back there?” a young man asked loudly. A flashlight illuminated the plastic sheeting, allowing a slight glow to appear through the crack beneath the locked door.
“Who gives a shit, man? Look at this place. If there was anything here, it’s gone now.”
The other man was persistent. The light swept across the door frame and then away. “Look at that plastic. It seems somebody put it up there.”
“Yeah, no kidding. Some construction worker did it. I’m leaving.”
Good idea, thought Peter as he pulled his handgun out of the sling pack. He sat up. Using his feet, he pushed himself away from the door toward the other end of the storeroom.
Peter sat in the dark with the gun pointed toward the door. He nervously held it with both hands. He knew how to kill. He’d done it in Abu Dhabi. But that was different. It was reactive. In the heat of the moment. A kill or be killed situation. Was he prepared to shoot a kid with a flashlight simply because he was scared of what the kid might do?
The plastic sheeting was rustling. One of the young men was slapping it with the palm of his hand. Then he heard words that made him sigh in relief.
“Screw it. I’m comin’.”
Peter closed his eyes and exhaled. He didn’t need the aggravation of shooting someone armed with a flashlight and a poor decision to indulge their curiosity. After a couple of minutes during which time several deep breaths led to calmed nerves, Peter opened the door and peeked into the store. Sunlight flooded the mall through the skylights. It was time to gather up a few things.
But should he? Peter began to weigh the risk of being exposed to the radioactive fallout versus going out of his semi-protective shelter in search of survival gear. If he didn’t leave the relatively safe confines of the storage room, everything he had on his mental wish list might be taken by others who were thinking along the same lines he was.
Peter pulled his tee shirt over his nose and mouth, hoping it would offer a modicum of protection against inhaling any radiation. His clothes were still wet, but they’d have to wait. He placed his gun into the sling pack and emerged from the storage room. After scanning the space and the entrance for anyone observing the store, he stepped out into the mall and immediately headed for Dick’s.
He’d formulated a plan as he’d lain awake earlier. Shelter. Water. Food. Security. He would start in the camping gear and go from there.
He smiled to himself as he made a beeline for the large backpacks and sleeping bags. The athletic shoes and casual apparel had been picked over. Some were looking through the archery equipment. Peter focused on the things that would keep him alive.
He selected a hunting backpack that had several different sized pockets and attachments for bows or rifles. It was also lightweight at only a few pounds, unlike the framed backpacks most campers used.
Peter resisted the urge to grab everything he thought he might need to cram into his backpack. He was prepared to walk thirteen hundred miles to Driftwood Key if that was what it took. A heavy pack would make that all the more difficult.
He gambled on being able to find shelter along the way even though it might mean he’d have to cut his day short if the weather was bad or his stamina gave out. He did choose a ten-degree mummy-style sleeping bag that could be rolled up and attached to the bottom of the backpack. This style sleeping bag would alleviate the need for a tent and would keep him warm in the event colder weather set in as he made the trip south.
He also picked up a tarp and some 550 paracord. In the camping section, he added a couple of different knives, a Gerber multi-tool, and several tactical flashlights with batteries. He was pleasantly surprised when he tried one and found that it worked despite the EMP.
Finally, he turned his attention to nourishment. Dick’s sold LifeStraws, a water filter designed to eliminate contaminants from most any source. The LifeStraw removed cells and germs as well as potentially harmful chemicals.
With his backpack full of camping and survival essentials, he went to the camouflage clothing section and changed out of his jeans and tee shirt. He had to think of living outside, in the elements, under all conditions. He recalled the homeless people of Washington he’d encountered for inspiration.
Despite the time of year, the homeless of America wore everything they owned. Countless layers of undergarments, pants, shirts, and jackets would ordinarily be too hot for most in the summer. When you don’t have a closet, your body served that function.
Peter picked out several packages of boxers and white tee shirts. He chose socks that were appropriate for his running shoes as well as boot socks if needed. He layered himself in matching camo. Khaki material for pants as well as a bulkier outer shell in the event of cold rain or snow. His shirts ranged from short-sleeve tees to long-sleeved heavy cotton. Finally, he added a jacket with a zip-out fleece liner if it became too hot. In Peter’s mind, he could always peel off layers and carry them. If he was underdressed, cold, damp nights would take their toll.
After filling his arms with gear and having a firm plan on deciding what to take and what to abandon later, he made his way back to his hiding place in the storeroom. He laid everything out and considered what items he wished he had. Then he thought about the unthinkable.
What if he’d been exposed to the radiation already? What could he do to stave off the harmful effects of the radioactive poison that would destroy him from within?
He was gonna have to go back into the mall. But first, he needed more sleep.
Friday, October 25
Mount Weather Operations Center
Northern Virginia
Deep underground and protected from the carnage above, President Helton was exhausted as the day came to an end. He stood stoically at the head of the conference table, dark circles around his eyes and his hair mussed. His advisors from the Department of Homeland Security and his national security team had gathered in the conference room to provide him a more up-to-date assessment of the nuclear exchange. As the military leaders and intelligence personnel gave their reports, he soaked it in. With each new assessment, the news became grimmer. He wasn’t sure if he could take any more.
The secretary of the Department of Homeland Security tried to respond to the president’s repeated requests regarding the death toll. In an attempt to provide the president accurate information, he made matters worse.
“Sir, admittedly, it’s impossible to have an accurate death toll. That may take many months if we’re able to do it at all. Frankly, part of the problem may have been the ballistic missile warning apps and the overall system employed by governments at all levels.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked the president as he furrowed his brow.
“Well, Mr. President, after the first false alarm initiated by Sacramento that was also sounded in Oregon and Washington, many residents failed to heed the warning when a real threat was inbound. By the time they tried to react like their neighbors and coworkers, it was too late.”
“Their hesitation may have resulted in their deaths,” added the chief of staff.
The president shook his head in disbelief and buried his face in the palms of his hands. The stress was taking a toll on him, and many in the room privately had chatted outside of earshot about his ability to perform.
President Helton turned to the team from Homeland Security. “What are we doing to help people?”
“Sir, at this time, nothing,” responded the FEMA administrator.
This response nearly brought the president out of his chair. “What?”
“Well, sir, there are multiple reasons for this. Our vehicular assets in the affected regions were disabled by the EMP. However, even if they were not, the superfires surrounding these cities are covering vast areas of the surrounding terrain, much worse than our simulations ever imagined.”
“And at a faster rate, sir,” added the DHS secretary. “Weather satellite data indicates winds at ground level have reached hurricane force, and current infrared imagery reveals air temperatures within the zone of fire can exceed two hundred degrees, near the boiling point of water.”
“Sir, if I may explain?” said Dr. Theodore Pascal, a scientist with the United States Geological Survey, or USGS. “This is my first opportunity to attend a briefing of this nature. I am the leading volcanologist for the USGS.”
“Volcanoes?” asked the president.
“Yes, sir. Although my area of expertise has routinely been applied to nuclear detonation analysis.”
“Okay, proceed.”
“Mr. President, at the period of peak energy output, a one-megaton nuclear weapon can produce a temperature of one hundred million degrees Celsius at its center. That’s four to five times the temperature at the center of the Sun. This sudden blast of energy results in enormous emanations of light and heat for hundreds of miles.
“The light can cause blindness, but the biggest threat, in addition to the direct impact, of course, can come from the ferocious hurricane of fire pushing away from ground zero. These fires, once initiated, will not only destroy everything in their path, but they will, very efficiently I might add, heat large volumes of air near Earth’s surface.
“As this heated air rises, cool air from beyond the vast burning area rushes in to replace it. The ground-level winds will reach a hundred miles per hour or more, forcing the superheated air into the stratosphere. This air will be full of radiated debris together with lethal toxic smoke and combustion gases.”
The president held his hand up, directing Dr. Pascal to pause for a moment. “I assume this happened in South Asia and the Middle East to an extent.”
The volcanologist nodded. “South Asia especially. The nuclear warheads may not have been as strong as what North Korea delivered, but the sheer numbers have resulted in a climate catastrophe unsurpassed since the last eruption of the Yellowstone supervolcano.”
Chief of Staff Harrison Chandler asked, “This is devastating, to be sure, but how does it factor into casualty estimates?”
Dr. Pascal responded, “Sir, the standard model for calculating deaths and even nonfatal injuries from hypothetical nuclear attacks assumes the same casualty rates will occur from blast overpressure as those which occurred at Hiroshima at the end of World War II. We call this the blast effect or blast scaling. It’s standard methodology used by government agencies to estimate casualties in nuclear war.
“I maintain this methodology is wholly inaccurate because the Hiroshima death tolls didn’t take into account the deaths resulting from the superfires and contamination of the atmosphere. I and most of my colleagues at the USGS and the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena believe the death toll will be four to six times what the generally accepted methodology allows.”
“Mr. President, if I may,” interjected the secretary of Homeland Security. “This issue is important because the natural inclination is to rush into the blast zone to look for survivors and provide them medical assistance. This may sound callous, but we can’t help them, sir. We can, however, as Dr. Pascal will confirm, help those outside the immediate blast area.”
“That’s correct, Mr. President,” added Dr. Pascal. “In our estimation, as it relates to the fires, those within a one-hundred-mile blast radius cannot be helped. It’s possible to provide assistance beyond that on a city-by-city basis.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked the president.
“Sir, by way of example, each of the West Coast cities have been subjected to a fireball so hot that it began to violently expand outward from ground zero at several million miles per hour. It was slowed only by its hunger for combustible materials. As this shock wave pushed farther away from the point of detonation, it expanded for hundreds of miles, an unstoppable force immune to any form of firefighting methods.”
“What can we do?”
“Find a way to notify survivors of what is coming their way.”
“And tell them what?” asked the president as he leaned forward in his chair.
“Run.”