Nuclear War

 

A co-worker and I were out on a landscaping job in the company van outside a customer's house when the news report came over the radio:

"It is with great sadness that I must report that two nuclear explosions have taken place on American soil. We are still trying to determine their origin. Scientists have yet to explain who will be affected by the fallout, but for now, citizens are advised to remain in their current location."

We both knew instantly that nothing would ever be the same. An all out response was sure to ensue, followed by a counter response and a counter counter response. Society would break down in a matter of days, if not hours, as the news filtered down. We saw a pallet of toilet paper in the customer's garage, and we both had the same thought:

"Let's grab that and get out of here!" my co-worker barked.

"May as well," I said. "It will probably be the last time we'll ever see this much of the stuff. I just wonder if we'll live long enough for it to even matter. We're probably dead already. It's just a matter of time."

We loaded up the van and started driving, where we didn't know. Anywhere, I guess. It didn't matter; the radiation was invisible, and we'd never know until it was too late whether or not we'd received a lethal dose.

We continued driving, and I saw bright flash of light as an electrical transformer exploded. I instinctively shielded my eyes, thinking it was another nuclear blast. My co-worker assured me that it wasn't that. It was the electrical grid going down. 

"Say bye-bye to electricity," he said with a sardonic grin. "That flash was the last you'll see of it in this lifetime."

I don't remember much more of the dream than that. It was just a feeling of dread at the irrevocable nature of nuclear conflict. I remember thinking, "Damn. They've went and done it. They've killed us all."