Tim Washburn: The Day After Oblivion

“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.

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.

Paris

Americans 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 tight 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—”