How to Survive a Nuclear War Read online

  How to Survive a

  NUCLEAR WAR

  A STEEN O’MANNON NOVEL

  By

  Miles Baldwin

  Copyright © 2014 Miles Baldwin

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Second Edition

  Also by Miles Baldwin:

  SURVIVAL MODE

  A Steen O’Mannon Novel

  SURVIVAL MODE: EXTERMINATION

  A Steen O’Mannon Novel

  APOCALYPSE

  A Steen O’Mannon Novel

  Chapter 1

  The silence was deafening. No traffic, no airplanes, no dogs, no birds – nothing. A crumpled piece of paper rolled by like a tumbleweed. Everywhere I turned there was total devastation. Piles of rubble where buildings once stood, shards of metal and broken glass, twisted steel, chunks of concrete. Everything was burned and blown to pieces. I sat on a chunk of concrete to take a break from walking. I heard insects buzzing around behind me.

  I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. Most of the skin was gone and both arms were truncated somewhere mid-forearm, the hands no doubt incinerated by the intense heat. The corpse’s head was tilted back and its mouth thrown open as if frozen in an eternal scream. The flies had their way with the body, unaware of the danger that lied within. I shook my head as I struggled to come to grips with my new reality.

  In the weeks that followed the nuclear war, people died off in droves. The numbers were staggering. Hundreds of thousands. Millions. Tens of millions. The average citizen, the typical American, the uninformed and the clueless – most of them perished. Those not vaporized in the blasts received lethal doses of radiation and died soon after, their bodies littered the streets. Many of us who survived had been prepared – the preppers and the survivalists. Once bound by a shared philosophy and common interest, we now found ourselves pitted against one another in a desperate battle to survive. The world had become a desolate and lawless place.

  With little in the way of landmarks it was hard to navigate. My GPS had been fried by the strikes, however the needle in my compass still aligned itself with the Earth’s poles. Sometimes low-tech was best. I was somewhere in the middle of the city and I was headed south, that much I knew. The midday sun bore down on me like a curse.

  I opened the hydration tube on my mask and took a long drink of water, trying not to think about the body behind me. I was dressed from head-to-toe in survival gear: Kevlar helmet, ballistic vest, gas mask, Tyvek suit, leather gloves, and combat boots. A hunting knife and 9mm pistol adorned my belt, an AR-15 rifle suspended from a single-point sling. My backpack with its integral Camelbak was filled to capacity with food, water, and other assorted survival gear.

  Breathing through the mask’s NBC filter was no day at the beach. It took noticeably more effort than breathing normally. It took me a while but by this time I had learned to tune out the Darth Vader-like sound of my own breathing.

  As I sat there I thought I heard the sound of gravel crunching underfoot. I scanned my surroundings but saw no one. I slowly pulled the hydration tube from my mask, my eyes remaining ever vigilant. I capped the tube and quietly put it away. My heart began to beat faster. Then I heard it again, a brief sound of gravel crunching. I thought it came from my left. Still, I saw nothing moving. Suddenly a red dot started bouncing erratically between the concrete and my knees. I instinctively dove for cover behind the concrete block. Just as I did, a shot rang out. I landed face down on the corpse, flies scattering everywhere. I pushed off and knelt behind the block.

  Whoever was shooting at me was doing a pretty good job of keeping themselves concealed. I crept to the side of the block and peered out. I wondered why the laser sight was still working. Perhaps the nuke’s electromagnetic effect had been sporadic. In my preparation as a survivalist I had steered clear of the holographic and laser sights which are so prevalent today. Much like the compass, I wanted something that I knew would still work in a post-nuclear world. For that reason an optical scope sat atop my rifle.

  I couldn’t see anything from my vantage point so I decided to stick my head out for a second. Big mistake. Another shot. It ricocheted off the concrete block. I set my jaw and took a deep breath. This asshole was starting to piss me off. I had better things to do than sit here all day pinned down beside a corpse. I assume he wanted to kill me for my backpack. Things were getting downright uncivilized out here, people willing to off each other for a morsel of food or a drink of water.

  I have always believed that the best defense is a good offense, so I decided to go on the offensive. I pulled the 9mm and cut loose a hail of gunfire. Then I sprinted for the twisted remains of a nearby truck. Breathing hard I crouched low and waited. After a second I heard the sound of feet beating street. I lifted my head just in time to catch a glimpse of him. He was wearing a gas mask and camouflage coveralls. He dove behind a heap of burnt cars. I moved to the edge of the truck without making a sound. The shooter was maybe 75 yards out. The truck I was using for cover had been turned upside down and I discovered that I could see his position through the truck’s broken windows. I lay prone and carefully aimed my rifle at him.

  Suddenly the shooter shouted, “Just drop your bag and walk away. I’ll let you live.”

  I had him in my sights.

  “That’s all I want,” he said.

  A slight adjustment in my aim and now the crosshairs were placed right between his eyes. I slowly began to pull the trigger.

  “I promise I’ll let you live,” he shouted again.

  I paused for a moment and took my finger off the trigger. I got to my feet and shouted, “You really mean it?”

  “Yes, I promise.”

  I waited for a moment. “Alright, I’m coming out.” I stepped out from behind the truck with my rifle in one hand and my pistol in the other. “Don’t shoot.”

  “Drop your weapons,” he demanded.

  I set the rifle and the pistol on the ground. If he was going to shoot me, now would be the time. I stood and we glared at each other.

  “Give me the bag,” he demanded.

  I began slowly walking toward him, my arms at my sides.

  “This ain’t no fucking game,” he shouted.

  I didn’t reply. When I was about 10 yards away he said, “That’s far enough. Drop the bag and walk away.”

  “You can have it,” I said as I kept walking. “I’m dying anyway. I don’t need it.”

  He didn’t respond. We faced one another not six feet apart. I could see his eyes through his mask. They looked dark and weary.

  “What are you dying of?” he asked.

  “Radiation poisoning.” I held the bag out to him. “Here, take it.”

  He reached for the bag. Just as he did I grabbed his wrist and twisted hard, spinning him around. I tackled him from behind and he fell face-first to the pavement, his rifle pinned beneath him. He bucked and screamed, “Get off! Get off me!”

  I drove a knee hard into his back and he screamed. I watched as his arms flailed. He alternated between trying to get his gun and reaching back for me.

  “I was going to let you live!” he screamed. “I was going to let you live!”

  I pinned his wrists together and pulled his arms up. He screamed in pa
in. With my other hand I reached for my knife. I whispered in his ear, “That’s very generous of you…to let me live.” I put the razor-sharp knife to his throat.

  “No!” he begged. “Please! No!”

  I pressed the knife and a trickle of blood appeared. I whispered, “But I’m not going to extend the same courtesy to you.”

  “Please, no!” he begged. “I’ll— I’ll do anything.”

  I relaxed the knife a little and waited. “Anything?”

  “Yes! Please! I’ll do anything!”

  I waited.

  He began sobbing, “Please, God. Please no. Please help me God, please—”

  I grasped his mask by the filter and jerked his head up exposing the white underbelly of his throat. I pressed the knife with all my strength and slit his throat from ear to ear. I nearly decapitated him. His arms flailed and there was a sickening gurgling sound as his lungs sucked air directly through the huge gash in his throat. Blood sprayed everywhere and pooled on the ground beneath him. I let go of the mask and his head dropped to the pavement with a dull thud. As he lay dying, I wiped the blood off my knife on the back of his shirt.

  I got up, turned, and slowly walked away. The only sound I heard was my footsteps.

  Chapter 2

  It all started a little over a week ago. I was in a meeting at work discussing some meaningless bullshit when out of the blue a young project manager stuck his head in the room and interrupted. “Excuse me,” he said. “But there’s something happening on TV you probably ought to know about.”

  Puzzled looks around the room. I stood. Everyone filed out of the conference room and we followed the PM to the main conference room. The room was packed to the point of overflowing, the large flatscreen on the far wall tuned to CNN. The news coverage seemed frantic. My thoughts immediately turned to terrorism and I wondered if there had been another attack. The picture on the screen was grainy and smoke billowed up in the background. The reporter looked into the camera and spoke breathlessly.

  “—I’m standing here on the Garden State Parkway overpass in Cranford. As you can see, there was a huge explosion just a while ago in New York City. We are about thirty miles from—” He paused for a moment, then he said, “Forgive me. I am— I am getting word now…”

  He trailed off and pressed a hand to his ear.

  “We— Okay. We are going to go live now to our affiliate in Washington for another breaking news alert. Please stand by.”

  More of my coworkers squeezed into the conference room. The room was beginning to heat up and I unbuttoned my shirt collar. People exchanged nervous looks around the room.

  The television showed a new face, a young man who appeared to have been caught off guard. He scrambled to put in his earpiece and face the camera. “Hello, this is John Chancey reporting…”

  The man was clearly fighting to maintain his composure. The cameraman pulled out to a wider shot. “I’m sorry,” the reporter said, then he began to sob.

  People gasped. “Oh my God,” a woman exclaimed.

  A voice could be heard on the television. “Alright, cut— Cut the feed. Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize. You are watching live coverage of breaking news. This is Anthony Lasker, CNN producer.” The screen went black. “Roll one. One.” There was a pause and I heard whispering. Then: “Ladies and gentlemen, what you are about to see happened just moments ago. This video was shot here in Falls Church.”

  There was a beep and then the television showed a blinding light, the entire screen filled with white. After a few seconds, the screen’s outer edges began to darken. The light coalesced around the center as something else began to emerge. Gasps could be heard around the room as a huge fireball formed and billowed up into an enormous mushroom cloud.

  “Oh my God!” someone screamed.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “Holy shit!”

  The producer continued, “We believe we have just witnessed a nuclear explosion in our nation’s capital, though there’s been no official confirmation of that yet.”

  The image on the television became shaky as the fireball continued rising higher into the air. The trees in the foreground began moving and then thrashed around wildly. I heard the sound of rushing wind grow steadily louder and then the screen went blank.

  My AA was standing next to me muttering, “Oh God, oh God, oh God….”

  The television began emitting a series of unpleasant beeps which I recognized as the Emergency Broadcast System.

  I had seen enough, I started for the door. I made my way to the stairwell and took the steps two at a time. I raced across the lobby.

  The receptionist called after me, “Steen? Steen! What’s going on? Is everything alright?”

  I called, “Go home, Ashley. Go home!”

  “What—? Steen?”

  I hit the door in stride and sprinted across the parking lot. I jumped in my truck and fired it up. I figured I had maybe thirty minutes before general panic set in. I pulled out of the parking lot with the tires squealing.

  At first traffic was not that bad as I made my way home. Then suddenly a car pulled out in front of me and I had to swerve to avoid it. Perhaps my initial assessment had been too optimistic; general panic was setting in sooner than I thought. I turned on the radio and heard the same beeps I’d heard at the office. I turned it down so I could concentrate on driving. In a matter of minutes the streets were filled with frantic drivers.

  I had always felt that my city situated in north Florida was relatively safe from attack. So perhaps there was little for people to be worried about. We fall short of being considered a major city and are certainly not a hub of political power by any stretch of the imagination. We’re many hundreds of miles away from New York City and Washington D.C. Still, nuclear bombs exploding right here in our own country is a major deal and nothing to be taken lightly.

  I grew up during the cold war, when Russian nukes posed an ever-present danger. As schoolchildren we practiced drills designed to teach us what to do in the event of a nuclear attack. Back then I remember seeing buildings downtown with the nuclear symbol posted out front. I asked my Dad what that was and he explained it meant the building was a nuclear fallout shelter. Now I rarely see that symbol. Over the years with the collapse of the Soviet Union we’ve allowed ourselves to become complacent and our country’s nuclear readiness has waned. Fallout shelters are practically nonexistent and schools don’t practice nuclear drills. Tests of the Emergency Broadcast System have been relegated to virtual obscurity. I wondered how many young people were sitting at home staring at their radios wondering what those strange sounds meant. Or, do they even listen to the radio anymore? Do Twitter and Facebook and Snapchat participate in the Emergency Broadcast System? What a joke.

  I thought I heard someone talking on the radio so I turned up the volume.

  “—interrupt this program with a special announcement. This is a national emergency. I repeat: this is a national emergency. The president of the United States has ordered a nationwide activation of the Emergency Broadcast System. This is not a test. I repeat: this is not a test. The president or a designated representative will speak momentarily to issue further instructions.”

  I managed to survive the ever-increasing frenzy of traffic and pulled into my subdivision. I parked the truck in the driveway and dashed through my front door. It was time to get into survival mode. I made a beeline for the spare bedroom where I keep all my survival gear. I grabbed everything and stashed it in my truck behind the seat.

  I got back out on the boulevard and headed towards downtown. When I first became interested in survivalism I had researched the local shelter situation. I knew of a library that provided both blast and fallout protection. I had no idea how many people could fit in the shelter but I was going to find out. If it was already full I would take my chances out on the open road. The only problem with that was it was probably everyone else’s plan. The highways would be jammed with crazed driv
ers trying to get out of town. It could take hours to travel just a few miles. That had been the case a few years ago when a mass evacuation was ordered ahead of a large hurricane. I heard stories from my friends about how they sat on the highway until they ran out of gas. I didn’t relish the thought of riding out a nuclear war on the road in my pickup truck.

  I managed to make it to the library without major incident despite the efforts of countless panicked drivers. I tossed my pocket pistol in the glove box and made sure all my survival gear was out of sight. I locked up the truck and made my way to the library entrance. I was encouraged to see the doors were still open. I studied the faded sign above me as I climbed the stairs: the nuclear symbol with the words Fallout Shelter.

  Chapter 3

  An older couple reached the steps about the same time I did. I nodded and gestured for them to go ahead of me.

  “Thank you,” the woman said as she began ascending the stairs. The man clutched a blanket to his chest and the woman held a shopping bag in each hand.

  “Are you here for the shelter?” the man asked.

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “So are we.”

  A frail old woman stood at the door with a clipboard in her hands. She wore a peach colored suit with a white blouse and stockings, a thin pearl necklace adorned her neck. She asked, “Are you here for the shelter?”

  The man indicated that they were and she asked him to sign a form. As they stepped inside I received the same treatment. I scanned the document before signing it. I shook my head but didn’t say anything. Lawyers gone wild.

  Once inside, I made my way down a darkened stairwell which led to a long, narrow corridor. The building smelled like mildew and dirty socks. At the end of the corridor was a doorway where a large woman stood. Next to the door was another fallout shelter sign. The woman looked me up and down as I made my way down the corridor. Without saying a word she reluctantly handed some papers to me and pointed inside.