“My God, there’s maybe two hundred and fifty million dead in America alone, as bad, maybe worse than any
“We’re back a hundred and fifty years.”
“No, not a hundred and fifty years,” John sighed. “Make it more like five hundred. People alive in 1860, they knew how to live in that time; they had the infrastructure. We don’t. Turn off the lights, stop the toilets from getting water to flush, empty the pharmacy, turn off the television to tell us what to do.”
He shook his head.
“We were like sheep for the slaughter then.”
The general reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. They were English, Dunhills.
Wright offered the pack and John fought hard, then remembered the last one he had smoked.
“I quit.”
“I haven’t,” and the general lit up.
He blew the smoke out, and though it smelled so good to John, he didn’t ask. He thought of Jennifer, who always nagged him about it. No, don’t think of that, he realized.
“I have to get this column moving, John. Will you come up to Asheville in a few days so we can talk more?”
“Sure. But will you be confiscating vehicles?”
Wright looked at him in confusion.
“Nothing, just a little problem I had a very long time ago. And by the way, once up there, fire the schmuck running the place. I’m willing to bet you won’t find him underfed, nor those around him.”
Wright nodded.
“And for God’s sake, get the hospital open to the community again…. I just wish you’d gotten here seven months ago….” He couldn’t speak.
“Who?”
“My daughter.”
“I understand.”
John looked into Wright’s eyes and could see that indeed this man did understand, torn by a worse agony almost. Jennifer slept in John’s backyard, Wright would most likely never know what happened to his family and therefore could only imagine the worst. Another thing about Americans lost, John realized. We knew, we always knew where those we loved were, and if they were lost in a war we had a nation that would spend millions just to bring a fragment of a body back. There were over two hundred million bodies now… and no one could even spare the time now to name them.
Wright turned away from him for a moment.
“I’ll leave a supply of MREs in your town hall so you can get them out to those not here,” he finally said, looking back. “Thank you.”
“I’ll leave one medic as well with some supplies. We have some antibiotics, the vitamins of course, painkillers. He can set up sick call once the column has left.”
“Insulin?” John asked coldly.
“No, why? Diabetics? They’re all dead now anyhow,” and then Wright froze. “I’m sorry, John.” He could only nod.
They shook hands and Wright started to turn away.
“General?”
He looked back.
“Is this for real?”
“What?”
“I mean this. Today. Or is it nothing more than a flash in the pan? You’ll stay awhile, but things will continue to break down, collapsing in, and then it’s just the end. The old line, ‘this is the way the world will end, not with a bang, but a whimper.’”
Wright hesitated.
“My friend, I don’t know. All our elaborate plans… all our dreams? I no longer know.”
The general turned and went back to the Bradley. Its engine fired up, troopers returning to their vehicles, engines turning over, except for the last of the tractor trailers, where rations were still being passed out.
The column started to roll forward and John watched as the flag snapping above the Bradley passed by.
Instinctively he came to attention and saluted, civilians placing their hands over their hearts, his militia presenting arms, again, more than a few crying at the sight of it.
Fifty stars, he thought. Will we ever be as we once were? And the voice within whispered the terrible truth.
He took Makala’s hand, looked down at her, and smiled as if to reassure, and she smiled back, as if to reassure, and each could sense the lie in the other.
“Look at this, Dad!”
It was Elizabeth, clutching two bottles of vitamins, a canvas bag, military, slung over her shoulder.
“Some guy kissed Ben, said Ben reminded him of his own son. The poor guy just cried and kept hugging Ben, then gave me a dozen rations! They’re in the bag. They even gave me a five-pound can of formula for Ben. It’s over, Dad; it’s really over!”
“Of course it is, sweetheart,” he said, smiling. In her joy she looked again to be like a child.
“Let’s go home.”
And they walked back to their car, drove home, the girls going inside, Elizabeth laughing with excitement.
He went into the house, picked up Rabs, then went outside to sit by Jennifer’s grave.
The world had changed forever, the America they knew… never to return.
“It is not a matter of if, it is a matter of when.”
AFTERWORD
Electromagnetic Pulse: A Bolt from the Gray
by Capt. Bill Sanders, USN
The fall of the Berlin Wall and collapse of the Soviet Union marked a distinct turning point in my navy career. The Boeing E-6 strategic nuclear command and control aircraft I flew would no longer fly continuous airborne alert postured for a “bolt from the blue” nuclear attack. I continue to hope that if military anthropologists ever decide to study pre—Cold War hunter-gatherer groups, my rather unspectacular career will be noted for only two significant statistics: no aircraft lost and no nuclear holocaust on my watch.
Growing up in Los Alamos, New Mexico, I was captivated by the subject of nuclear war and somehow it became my career path. I leapt at the chance to tour the Nevada Test Site as an ensign. As I took in the images of a nuclear ghost town and the enormous crater left by the SEDAN event, measuring nearly a quarter of a mile across and deeper than a football field, the tremendous destructiveness of nuclear weapons became real for me. I would devote much of my life to balancing the day-to-day duties of standing ready to fight a strategic nuclear war with the angst of the anticipated aftermath—devouring all I could on the subject.
I read Pat Frank’s classic apocalyptic 1959 novel
