A Blind Death

Many people used to think that a nuke would vaporize every inch of a city, but the chorus of car alarms and screams of agony and the shimmer of broken glass lit by the blazing fires that consumed the piles of debris that would have been downtown Moscow stood as a testament of a much more horrific reality. In those last moments before the bombs go off, you don’t think about the events leading up the attack: the invasion of Poland, the Mongolian hot-bed, the annex of Cuba. Even after that three second holocaust that incinerated my home, when my family was buried under six tons of masonry, and the other dumbfounded survivors and I climbed up into the stifling hot hell above ground, body knew how it happened, how three-quarters of everything you knew in life was gone in one burst of fantastic light. Who fired first? Who was to blame? In my mind, who gave a damn? This alien environment of blazing infernos, mangled metal and twisted bodies was all too common around the world. Tokyo, Beijing, Washington, London, all were now smoldering piles of destruction.
         After the blast, dazed and confused, we came out of hiding. Even if the blast from a nuke doesn’t reach you full force, the sound wave from it is enough to pop your ear drums. That’s why we were always told to open our mouths if a bomb went of. It would balance the pressure on your ears, saving your hearing. You could tell right away which of us forgot that simple “stop-drop-and-roll” of nuclear safety. Nobody said anything, and in that burning, solace, we each clung to the silent soul next to us. First rule of survival: always stick together. It took us a day to figure out that this wasn’t localized, that all of Moscow was gone. The only place to go, was to the towns to the north. Hopefully they had survived. Four hundred of us total, stumbled aimlessly out of the city. We walked twenty three miles towards Yarlslavl. Everyone brought everything they owned, water bottles, food, batteries, bandages, a few rifles and a six-shot revolver. We shared everything we had. That, that was three years ago.
         Today the situation was far more bleak. EMP’s from the higher altitude bombs had crippled most electronics. Cars, at least any we found, were fried. The only thing that worked was a small short wave radio. We occasionally picked up a signal. We’d hear about the areas hit hardest ,where the fallout was strongest. Most of the time it just inspired fear in us or anger. Eventually, we decided to keep it off. The bombs had thrown enough soot into the air to reduce the average temperature in this part of the country to 17 C. Radiation poisoning affected most of the party. Only about ten of us, including myself received less than 100 rem’s of radiation. Others we’re dying, their skin was turning black, hair falling out.
         Four weeks into our journey, a young man walked up to me. I’ll never forget what he said. He, looked me in the eye, his face contorted from him wincing in pain. He opened his mouth, chapped and painted a dark brown with dried blood, and said, “I was on my way to propose to my girlfriend you know. She was meeting me for dinner in midtown. I, I never got to say ‘goodbye’ or ‘I love you.’. I’ve always been a good Christian, Anatoly. I’ve always respected life, but I’ve never wanted to die more in my own.” He drew a revolver from his pocket. “It’s better this way. Oh, and because I have the chance to say it. Goodbye, Anatoly.” I believe the last human part of me died with him. Starvation, exhaustion and disease picked-off another fifty or so. Our numbers now settled around sixty.
         Last week our inventory ran dry. Every bit of food we found or salvaged was gone. I had been the one year earlier who suggested we walk North. So, it was to me these sixty hungry mouths turned to and called out to in distress. “Help us Anatoly. My child”, a woman said, holding an emaciated and burned baby to me, ”he is starving.”
         “Oh, Anatoly my papa he is very sick. He needs a doctor.” , wept another girl whose face was bloodied and eyes shrink-wrapped in tears. She wasn’t exaggerating. The most powerful part of a nuclear explosion other than the tremendous blast, is its ability to turn your average, white-collar Russian into a disfigured being of John Merrick proportions. He was no exception, amputated limbs, melted flesh. What was I supposed to do? I, their de-facto leader, had been a regional sales associate in a former life. What did I, or any of us know about medicine? It wasn’t like the most adept for survival lived the attack. We were all just in the right place and the right time. Still more shouts rose from the crowd, begging for water or clothing. If this was my new life, so be it.
         “Water”, I cried out,” get a group together and fill the bottles we brought with us at the stream down the road. Moscow is down-river from here. The radiation won’t have polluted the water. Food! Thomas, take the revolver, go see if you can find something in the woods over there”, I said, as I pointed towards a thicket of trees across the farm fields on the eastside of town.
Thomas, he was one of the few people in this group not from Russia. Thomas was an American diplomat and a longtime friend. An upstanding guy, he had a wife and kids back in Washington, if it and they were still there.
         “I’m damned if he’s taking that gun. He’s from The United States. What’s keeping him from killing anyone of us?” , inquired a larger man in the crowd, scratching his singed, grey beard.
         “I’m a diplomat. I’ve never fired a gun in my life for anything other than hunting.”, replied the voice of reason.
         “Stop! We need to remain calm. Thomas is as much a victim here as anyone of us. His family may or may not be alive, and all he wants to do is remain alive long enough to find out. Now do as I said and go get the food and water. Now!” , I shouted hoping to silence the ignorant Russian.
         ‘The hell he’s a victim!” , roared the man in his tattered shirt. “He’s a politician, and he’s from America! His people bombed us.”, he bellowed. His case was full proof enough for the mob. The Russian drew one of his own guns from his knap-sack and pointed it at Thomas.
         “What? How do you know. Maybe it was China!”, said Thomas defensively waving his revolver in the way of two Asians
         “This is crazy. It doesn’t matter which country did what. Listen to Anatoly. We need food and water or we will all die”, cried a terrified couple of Chinese tourists. To even the odds, the Chinese man drew his gun and aimed it at the Russian, then the American, back and forth.
         Soon more people began yelling out accusations. Some said India, others Germany. More firearms were now pointed. Rifles and revolver wandering from man-to-man, woman-to-man, everyone staring down certain death only keen to deal out that fatal blow before the enemy. The tumult grew stronger and louder. Pushing and shoving, sixty, hate filled people turned to wild beasts, living off their most simple predatory instinct. I tried to assuage the throng, but to no avail. I could do nothing. I turned to face the empty road that winded north, the mob still roaring behind me. Over the shouting and crying, I heard the faint sound of a gun shot, followed by several others in rapid repetition. Who fired first? Who was to blame. Like I said earlier, who gave a damn?
Они заявили, бомбы бы уничтожить нас (and they said the bombs would destroy us…)