The Day after Oblivion

by Tim Washburn

  President Thomas Aldridge clears his throat and says, “Blair, we have an emergency situa—”

  The call drops. “Hello? Tom, can you hear me? Hello?” Hamilton uncrosses his legs and leans forward, tapping the disconnect button then speed dial one. Silence. He hangs up the handset and turns to his office phone, triggering the intercom. “Brenda, please place a call to President Aldridge.”

  “Yes, sir,” his secretary, Brenda Montgomery, says.

  While waiting for Brenda to make the call, he tries the hotline again and gets the same result. “What the bloody hell,” he mutters, hanging up the phone again.

  Moments later, the intercom chimes. “Sir, I tried to ring the White House, but the call won’t go through,” Brenda says.

  “What do you mean, ‘won’t go through’?”

  “All I hear is silence, sir.”

  A tingle of worry forms at the nape of Hamilton’s neck and begins to inch down his spine. “Try placing a call to our ambassador in D.C.”

  “Yes, sir,” Brenda replies.

  Hamilton, feeling like a telemarketer working the phones, picks up his office phone and makes a call to the Director of MI6. “George, is something going on?”

  “Yes, sir. You were my next call. It appears that the—”

  “Hello? George? George?” Hamilton slams the handset down just as the intercom chimes again.

  “Sir, the same thing is happening when I try to call our ambassador.”

  “Silence?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hamilton pushes to his feet. “Keep trying, Brenda.” He kills the intercom and steps over to the window, the tingle of worry now a full-on rush. Looking out into the rose garden, he’s mentally clicking through reasons for the phone failures when he’s blinded by a flash of light that’s like a million-watt bulb clicking on. He screams and covers his eyes with his hands. Before the pain can register with his brain, the pressure wave from the detonation of the nuclear weapon collapses the building and the ensuing wall of fire incinerates everything within.

  CHAPTER 16

  Tokyo

  With a population in excess of thirteen million people, Tokyo is brimming with buildings and bodies. One of those bodies is twenty-two-year-old Kayoko Yamamoto, who is currently fighting her way through the ass-to-elbow crowds clogging the sidewalks in central Tokyo’s business district. Entering her third year of law school in the fall, Yamamoto is finishing up her summer internship at one of the largest law firms in the city. She slows to a stop at the next intersection, waiting for the light to change.

  When she started her internship she was enamored with the beautifully appointed law offices that occupy the fortieth floor of Tokyo’s tallest building, Tora-nomon Hills Mori Tower. But as the summer wore on she came to realize the alluring interior spaces and the lavishly decorated offices were a façade, much like an exquisite piece of shiny fruit with a rotten core. Backstabbing is the sport of choice among both the partners and those who really do the work at the firm—the recent law school graduates working hundred-hour weeks, the interns hoping to land a job upon graduation, and the support staff that churn out an unending trail of paperwork. To say Yamamoto is disillusioned would be an understatement.

  The light turns green and Yamamoto steps into the intersection. She hears a squeal of brakes and glances to her left, jumping back to avoid being clipped by a taxi running the red light. If she had any energy she’d flip the bastard off, but she doesn’t. In addition to the heavy workload, Yamamoto had spent most of the previous evening arguing with her parents. Her father put his foot down and informed his daughter she would finish law school, regardless of the dismal employment outlook for the flood of law school graduates in recent years. A stern, hard man, her father believes once you start something you must finish. Her mother was sympathetic, but there’s no doubt who wears the pants in Yamamoto’s family. To make matters worse, her father also controls the family’s purse strings and is not hesitant to use the flow of money to bend Yamamoto to his will. Not that she lives in splendor. She shares a shoebox-sized apartment with three other law school students. The living quarters are so tight they have to take turns breathing. She sighs and glances up, adjusting her course as she trudges toward the entrance to her building..

  A short, rail-thin woman, Yamamoto is steps from the front doors when the citywide siren sounds. She stops and looks up, then around, but doesn’t see anything amiss. She turns around and continues on. The siren doesn’t sound frequently, but when it does it usually signals an earthquake has occurred somewhere in Japan. After the Fukushima disaster and ensuing tsunami, city officials are quick on the trigger if there’s even a hint that another tsunami could occur. Not that it would really matter to Yamamoto—she’s miles inland and safe from any surge of water. She shrugs and follows the flood of people through the revolving door, heading for the bank of elevators.

  Yamamoto steps off the elevator on the fortieth floor and stops dead in her tracks. Her coworkers are standing, staring out the windows with their hands clamped over their mouths. A natural response, Yamamoto’s hands do the same as she gapes at the mushroom cloud expanding over eastern Tokyo. The building’s fire alarm sounds, but people remain rooted in place, peering at the ongoing carnage.

  Yamamoto’s fear transitions rapidly to anger—who would use such a weapon on her homeland for a third time? Her great-grandparents had survived the horrors of Hiroshima and now this? She begins to tremble, a mixture of fear and anger coursing through her body as her mind clicks through the list of possible suspects. But before her brain can settle on an answer, another nuclear device detonates over the city. Yamamoto, blinded by the flash, doesn’t see the glass shattering. She does feel the fragments ripping through her body, but only for an instant before she’s cremated by the ensuing fireball.

  CHAPTER 17

  Paris

  A mericans Clay and Patsy Campbell are in Paris to celebrate thirty years of wedded bliss and to fulfill a promise Clay made to Patsy the day they got hitched: Yes, he would take her to the City of Light. So what if it took him thirty years to do it? They had a family to raise, a house to buy, and jobs to work to pay for everything. Clay grimaces when the man behind him steps on his heel, again. In line for a ride to the top of the Eiffel Tower, Clay is ruing the day he made the promise. “Forty freakin’ dollars to take a damn elevator ride,” he mutters under his breath.

  Patsy whirls around. “Don’t you start, Clay. We’re on vacation.”

  Clay grimaces. His idea of the perfect vacation includes a lake, his bass boat, and an ice chest full of Budweiser. Born and raised on a cattle ranch in West Texas, Clay, a tall, broad-shouldered man, took over the ranch at twenty-one after his dad keeled over with a heart attack while branding calves.

  Patsy shuffles back a step and puts an arm around her husband’s waist. Slim and petite on that day long ago, Patsy is now thirty pounds heavier, and her short, dark hair is shot through with gray. She gives her husband a squeeze and tiptoes up to whisper in Clay’s ear. “I’ve got a little surprise back at the hotel.”

  “What is it?” Clay asks. He bends down and gives his wife a peck on the lips.

  “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, now, would it?”

  “C’mon, give me a hint.” He puts his arm around Patsy and lets his hand drift down, lightly stroking her ass.

  “I’ll just say I made a couple of new purchases before we left?”

  Clay arches his brows. “From that store at the mall in Dallas?”

  “Maybe.” Patsy winks. “I think you’re going to like it.”

  Clay smiles and runs his hand lightly across her ass again. “Is there some leopard print and lace involved?”

  Patsy shrugs. “I’m not telling.”

  “Want to skip this mess and head back to the hotel?”

  Patsy shakes her head. “Nope. You better tie it in a knot.”

  They’re next in line and they step into the elevator with a dozen others. Jammed ti
ght as teeth, Clay elbows more standing room, the view of Paris widening as the elevator ascends. Staring at the mass of buildings, Clay figures there’s more people in one block than in the whole town of Sweetwater, Texas. He shakes his head at the thought. At the top, they maneuver out of the elevator and onto a crowded platform. Patsy pulls out her phone and starts snapping pictures. Clay wades through the crowd and steps over to the fence, glancing down at the pigeon shit coating the outer ledge before turning his gaze on the city. A few boats are patrolling the river Seine, and Clay wonders if there’re any good fishing spots close by. His thoughts are interrupted when Patsy wedges in next to him. She makes him turn around so she can snap a few photos of them with the city as a backdrop. Clay forces a smile and tells her to hurry up.

  An ear-numbing roar rips through the sky, and they whirl around to see a missile plowing into Charles de Gaulle Airport. The ensuing mushroom cloud sends a bolt of fear through everyone atop the tower. People begin screaming and rushing toward the elevators. Patsy is elbowing Clay to run, but he spends a few seconds studying the growing cloud of radioactive debris and glances back at the throng of people waiting for the elevator. Clay reaches out and puts his arm around his wife. “We had a good ride, bab—”

  His last words are ripped from his mouth by a massive overhead explosion. The expanding conflagration, created by thermonuclear fusion upon detonation and burning hotter than the surface of the sun, vaporizes Patsy and Clay Campbell milliseconds later.

  CHAPTER 18

  Dix, Nebraska

  The tractor’s canopy offers some relief from the sun, but with the temperature pushing a hundred degrees there’s no escaping the heat. Cooper Hansen wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and repositions his ball cap as the old John Deere bounces across the rough terrain. With the start of his senior year only weeks away, Cooper’s butt is dragging the ground after a two-hour football practice this morning. Tall at six-three and heavily muscled, Cooper is the starting defensive end on the team that took state last year. He’s been getting a few looks from some D-I schools, but he’s undecided if he wants to pursue a football career in college. Cooper glances over his shoulder to check the hay rake and makes a minor adjustment with the steering wheel. Seconds later the rake hits a gopher mound and throws up a cloud of dust that clings to Cooper’s sweaty face. He curses and pulls a rag from his pocket, making a futile attempt to wipe away the grit.

  Most of his cursing is directed at his father, who sits in secluded, air-conditioned comfort inside the cab of the new tractor they bought this year. His dad is baling the hay Cooper’s raking at the other end of the field. The sweet aroma of alfalfa hangs in the still air and, mixed with the hangover Cooper’s still nursing, he’s slightly nauseous. He mutters another string of curse words as he makes a wide turn around the fenced section of buildings in the middle of the field. Cooper’s dad leases this eighty-acre section from Uncle Sam, who erected a couple of low-slung buildings and planted a missile silo in the ground in the early 1960s. The place was a novelty the first twenty times Cooper and his father worked the field, but now it’s just another damn obstacle to navigate around.

  The main building is manned twenty-four/seven and the only time things get interesting is when there’s a shift change, the crews rotating through the bunker buried deep underground. Cooper waves toward the building, having no clue if the man inside is looking in his direction. Someone has put up a basketball goal and painted some lines on the asphalt parking lot, but in all the times Cooper’s been out here he has yet to see anyone shooting baskets.

  Cooper makes another turn, skirting the silo section of the site. His mind drifts to Leslie Brown, his current love interest. A tall, curvy blonde and captain of the cheerleading squad, their first real date is scheduled for the upcoming weekend. They’ve messed around some—a few sloppy kisses after more than a few cold beers—but that’s been the extent of their relationship. Cooper’s hoping for a little more, both physically and emotionally, with a primary emphasis on the physical aspects of the relationship.

  Leslie’s breasts do a nice job filling her cheer uniform, and Cooper’s fantasizing about burying his face right in the middle of them when the hexagonal-shaped silo cover slams open. Cooper nearly pisses his pants and jumps a foot off the seat, all thoughts of Leslie’s breasts gone in a heartbeat. Adrenaline floods his system as he struggles to come to grips with what’s happening. Are they running some type of drill? Has there been some type of accident? The questions bombard his brain as he shifts the tractor to high gear and opens the throttle to the stops, aiming for his father at the other end of the field.

  Cooper glances back to see smoke rising from the silo, and his blood runs cold. A siren sounds and is followed seconds later by a tremendous roar. Although the tractor’s in high gear, Cooper is only a hundred yards away when fire erupts from inside the silo. He glances over his shoulder again to see the nose of the rocket edging out, smoke and flames erupting skyward.

  But what Cooper fails to see is the Russian missile streaking toward earth. Seconds later Cooper and the tractor he’s riding on are obliterated when the Russian warhead slams into the launching missile and detonates.

  CHAPTER 19

  Hollywood, California

  Reece Martin puts the megaphone to his lips and starts barking orders. After a shooting schedule that has stretched on for six grueling months, today they are shooting the final scene of a movie that is over budget by miles and two years past due. Set up high in the Hollywood Hills, they’re prepping the final scene where one of the leading characters dies in a fiery accident. If only it were real, Martin thinks as he returns to his seat. The two lead characters, a male and a female, have squabbled over the minutest details. Martin is tired of arguing with them, tired of directing them, and tired of looking at them. And screw having a wrap party. If Martin never lays eyes on them again, it’ll be too soon.

  Martin triggers the megaphone again. “Quiet, got-dammit.” They’ve already blown up two cars and are currently working with the third and last. If they don’t get a usable take this time, Martin is contemplating having the two lead characters fight a duel in which both die. “It would serve them right,” Martin mutters under his breath. He checks with the six cinematographers via radio and takes a deep breath. “Action.” He leans forward to watch the developing scene on a video monitor. The sprinklers kick on, drenching the roadway as the car, another brand-spanking-new red Mercedes, comes roaring around a curve. But before the car can crash through the guardrail and sail over the cliff, sending the female lead to a fiery death, the entire crew is startled by a ground-shaking explosion.

  Every eye on the set is drawn to the mushroom cloud spreading over downtown Los Angeles. The cinematographers turn their cameras away from the unfolding movie scene, focusing their lenses on the horror below. As the new Mercedes sails off the cliff unrecorded, the crew watches as the destruction expands in an ever-widening circle. Martin looks up to see a passenger jet spiraling out of control and turns away before the plane plows into the ground. Death and destruction are fine on film, but to see it unfold in real life is another matter entirely. Several members of the crew are weeping, others are standing, their mouths agape.

  Moments later there’s a flash of light that sears the vision of half the crew, but their screams are drowned out by another massive explosion high over the city. As the cameras wink out from the electromagnetic pulse, the pressure wave, traveling at 300 miles per second, slams into the city, crushing everything in its path. Anything left standing is consumed by the following fireball that reaches temperatures of 150 million degrees Fahrenheit.

  As the destruction spreads across the city, Martin thinks, for the first time, about their safety. How much radiation they’ve been exposed to in the last minute and a half. Enough to kill them? “We need to get belowground,” he shouts as he turns a circle, looking for nearby structures. But stuck atop the highest point in the region, their options are few. Martin
starts herding the group toward the rental vans, running scenarios through his brain. The Griffith Observatory is a possibility, but from here it’s miles away.

  When they reach the line of vans, Martin yanks open the door, but that’s as far as he gets. In the next instant he and everyone around him are annihilated when a nuclear warhead detonates high above the iconic symbol of American excess—the white, nine letter sign spelling out HOLLYWOOD.

  CHAPTER 20

  Moscow

  A Klaxon sounds throughout the Kremlin yet Alexandra Vasilieva is in no hurry to leave her desk. Someone on the president’s staff, usually one of the deputy chiefs, runs an emergency drill every couple of months, but they end up being time wasters and that’s one thing Alexandra doesn’t have. An administrative assistant to the president, she’s hours behind on a video presentation that’s due by the end of the day.

  “Aren’t you coming?” her friend and coworker, Darya Ivanova, asks.

  Alexandra glances up from her computer screen. “I don’t have time. Do me a favor and call my cell if there’s an actual fire.”

  The two chuckle at the absurdity of the drills that no one in the building takes seriously.

  Darya puts two fingers to her lips and tilts her head. “You sure? We could steal a smoke break.”

  Alexandra pauses, thinking, and changes her mind. She stands and slings her purse over her shoulder. “Screw it. Five minutes is not going to make much of a difference.”