Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

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.

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.

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.