Ashes in the Sky

With all the WW3 fearmongering going on, I decided to write a fictionalised first-hand account of a nuclear attack and its aftermath

The morning began like any other. The sky over the eastern seaboard streaked with faint pinks and golds as the sun fought through a veil of thin clouds. From my hilltop residence, I could see the distant sprawling city slowly waking up. The streets were already bustling with cars, the distant hum of engines merging with the occasional honk. It was mundane, almost reassuring — an ordinary prelude to an extraordinary day.

In the distance, I saw a giant balloon aloft, hovering casually over the city centre. It was emblazoned with rainbow streaks, some words I could not make out, and a morbid caricature of President Donald J. Trump. "Was that even legal," I asked myself?

Why isn’t anyone in the gondola?

The headlines that morning had been tense but familiar: diplomatic breakdowns, escalating tensions between Russia and NATO, and calls for urgent "peace negotiations" which were ironically interspersed with pledges of additional weapons for Ukraine. There were conflicting reports about NATO troops entering Western Ukraine, along with new rounds of sanctions being slapped on Russia.

Russia, in turn, accused the US government of being the mastermind behind the Covid-19 pandemic. The Kremlin would be releasing incriminating documents that very afternoon before the United Nations General Assembly. I was now into my second cup of coffee.

Apart from cursory checks on the headlines of the day, I had stopped paying too much attention weeks ago. These were routine cycles of geopolitical brinkmanship, the kind that always seemed to find a magical resolution at the last minute. At least between nuclear powers. At least that was what I thought.

Then, at 9:11 am, the world changed.

The Flash

I was sitting at my desk, eyes glued to my laptop screen, when the room was suddenly flooded with light. It was so bright, so searing, that it painted the walls in stark white. It lasted only seconds, but in those moments, time felt suspended. My brain scrambled for an explanation. A lightning strike? A major solar flare? But deep down, I already knew.

The light was followed by a thunderclap of unimaginable magnitude. It wasn't just sound — it was an elemental force, a physical blow that rattled my windows and sent books tumbling from shelves. The ground beneath me trembled, not like an earthquake, but like the groan of something ancient and angry stirring beneath the earth. The air itself seemed to ripple, as if reality was being folded in on itself.

Instinctively, I ran to the window. Far off on the horizon, where the city’s skyline used to rise proudly, a massive plume of smoke and fire was spiralling into the sky. It wasn’t just any fire; it was alive, pulsating with an eerie, otherworldly glow. And at its heart, a rising mushroom cloud — a spectre I had only seen in history books, documentaries and movies — unfurled with slow, apocalyptic majesty.

This was not supposed to happen. Certainly, not this way! My favourite Substack writer from Malaysia was sure that the next World War would be limited and very targeted in scope. He had even unpacked the likely sequences into a precise science.

Yeah, sure buddy!

Beginning of Chaos

The first reaction was silence — a collective, stunned stillness that blanketed everything. Then came the screams in my immediate neighbourhood below. People spilled onto the streets in blind panic, each inquiring of the other over what had happened. I suspect they already knew but needed some vain reassurance from a neighbour they were hardly acquainted with before this event. Some individuals were clutching children while one person could be seen dragging a suitcase as if the mere act of carrying something provided some purpose, direction or a path to safety.

The telecommunications and electricity grids were taken out by the blast.

I immediately ran into my basement and began to rummage through several aluminium foil-lined bins — all of which served as EMP-proof Faraday Cages — to fish out a desiderata of communications equipment. Upon finding the hand crank radio, I kept tuning in until I found a few channels that were operational.

The reports were frantic when they were intelligible. "Washington D.C. and several major US cities have been struck," croaked one breathless individual. "We have no confirmed casualty numbers, but early estimates suggest tens of thousands — possibly more. The president’s location remains undisclosed…"

I turned up the volume as I flitted from one working channel to another, slowly beginning to comprehend the magnitude of what was happening. "Sources suggest the strike originated from the Eurasian front, likely in retaliation for this morning’s NATO deployment in Poland…"

No. It was because Russia threatened to release those gain-of-function biowarfare files, I thought.

I began to consider my options. I had spent a fortune transforming my garage into a Faraday Cage, and my Toyota Land Cruiser should be workable. But the blast would have degraded the electronic circuitry of many vehicles, leading to miles of gridlock along the highways. That, by itself, was a death trap. Smaller roads and offroads came with their own set of dangers. I decided to dig in and wait, at least until a clearer picture emerged. After all, I had enough food and MREs to last 18 months and water for close to 10 weeks.

The Fallout

The hours that followed were a blur. A second strike was reported near Chicago, though details were scarce. I retrieved my Geiger counter from one of the bins and began to scan for radiation levels. They were moderately high but not too hazardous.

I stepped outside and wandered among the dazed folks in my neighbourhood. I could hear two of them exchanging names for the very first time. I finally stopped at the entrance of the local community hall where most of them were congregated.

By noon, air raid sirens were screaming nationwide, and the government had issued an emergency broadcast advising everyone to seek shelter. At least that is what the radio told us. "Do not remain exposed," an automated voice warned. "Radiation levels are critical." I checked my Geiger counter and it told me otherwise. Well, at least that was the case at my location.

Leaders began to emerge among the gaggle of the dazed. This was what I feared most. They entreated everyone to take refuge at the basement of the community hall. Now, that was a reasonable course of action. So far, so good! I joined two dozen-odd neighbours with whom I had shared nothing more than a passing greeting before this morning. Someone had the foresight to bring some candles. In the dim, flickering light, we shared fragments of information, the rumours floating around and most of all, our fears.

One burly guy, who was MAGA personified, announced that the Pentagon had retaliated, launching strikes against Moscow and Beijing. How could he possibly know that? In the cauldron of trepidation, any vain hope becomes the truth. Another individual claimed that Europe was already a wasteland. It was impossible to separate fact from fiction amidst the collective fears.

The hours stretched into a full night, and then two. My Geiger counter held steady. Food was shared and rationed amongst neighbours. Water ran low. On the pretext of needing a smoke, I would sneak out in the evening and take refuge in my own residence. I could at least have a proper meal there. The city was still glowing from the after-effects of the blast.

I may have been selfish and secretive but more than that, I was being cautious. I readily admit that being around people had a calming effect which was the primary reason why I joined the group in the community basement. The milk of human kindness is the sweetest after a disaster, and in the absence of immediate danger. It can however turn sour in the blink of an eye, when every man is forced to fend for himself.

The hand crank radio, our lifeline to the outside world, grew quieter with each passing day until one morning, it simply became silent.

A City of Ghosts

When the air was finally clear enough to venture outside, we found a world that was unrecognisable. The once-bustling city was now a skeletal shell. Through my portable telescope, which was once used to scan the starry skies, I could make out the thick layer of ash which coated everything, from cars to buildings to the skin of those who had survived the blast. The sky was an ominous grey-brown. It was a sickly colour in terrible need of a hopeful hue.

The devastation in the city centre was total. Skyscrapers were reduced to twisted metal. The streets were littered with debris, overturned vehicles, and the occasional haunting silhouette of someone who did not make it to a shelter. Yet amidst the ruin, there were signs of life: small clusters of survivors, scavenging and clinging to the fragile thread of existence. The military was nowhere to be seen and satellites began to freefall down to earth.

The Survivors’ Meeting

One of the walkie-talkies at the community hall began to crackle with life. Survivors called for a meeting near the outskirts of the city. They called it a "Council of the Living", a chance for survivors to come together, share resources, and plan for what came next. The burly man, sensing the time for decisive leadership had finally arrived, sought volunteers for the journey ahead. He was now decked in full military gear. His AR-15 was supplemented by a holstered Glock on one side and a grenade on the other.

More out of curiosity, I decided to volunteer and tagged along in an ancient pick-up truck that somehow wasn’t affected by the blast.

The gathering was held in the remains of a high school. More than 100 people were there, their faces gaunt and their eyes hollow. There were speeches about resilience, cooperation and hope. A few volunteers prayed while others stepped forward to coordinate food supplies. Yet, others suggested forming search parties to find more survivors.

Then, an old man with a weathered face and a voice like gravel stepped to the front. "We have to talk about the source of all this," he said. "What actually happened? Why did this happen?"

Exactly my questions. That was precisely why I had remained low-key, reticent and observant.

The Revelation

At first, the discussions were subdued. Some blamed Russia, China or North Korea. Others pointed fingers at politicians, corporations, or the military-industrial complex. But then someone — a young woman, her hair singed at the ends — stood and announced something that silenced the room.

"It wasn’t them," she said, her voice trembling. "It was us. Our side fired first."

A murmur rippled through the crowd. "That’s not true," someone shouted. "We were attacked!"

"No," she insisted." I worked at the base. I saw the orders. They launched a preemptive strike, thinking it would end the war before it began."

The room erupted in chaos. Voices clashed, accusations flew, and someone flung a chair against the wall out of sheer rage. I sat in stunned silence, pieces of the puzzle finally falling into place. The flashes, the retaliation, the devastation — it had all been set in motion by a decision made on our own soil, in a room I would never see, by people I would never know.

Later, at my residence, I used my ham radio to communicate with the outside world. Russia and China were not that badly hit and their militaries were rapidly regrouping. Europe had indeed been reduced into a wasteland; that part was true. Some ham operators relayed reports of survivors seeing supernatural manifestations in the skies. There were continental-sized angels, Jacob's Ladder and so on…

Other reports were of a more terra firma nature. Only seven US cities were nuked during the first wave. Survivors from each city claimed that they had seen a large hovering balloon that fateful morning, leading to the consensus that the "first wave" of nuclear bombs were placed inside the gondolas. Just who could have pulled that off?

"Our own government?" was the collective gasp of incredulity over the airwaves!

The second wave of strikes indeed emanated from Russia and China and they had taken out key military installations nationwide. Many US submarines, which served as second-strike nuclear deterrents, were inexplicably detected and neutralised before the so-called second wave.

There was no news about the fates of the president and vice president. The military was in charge and everyone was told to stay put in improvised shelters until relief arrived.

The Community

The neighbourhood community began electing leaders to manage the long-drawn survival phase ahead. Each person was assigned a specific task. Since I had a rather fancy Geiger counter, I volunteered to conduct checks on radiation levels beyond the suburb’s periphery. Burly had mapped out every choke point to the area and had assigned armed volunteers to maintain "law and order".

I was granted the freedom to venture beyond the cordon to check for radiation levels, clean water sources and signs of life. Nearby streams reeked of dead, rotting fish. The water was clearly contaminated by radioactive particles. This community will not be able to sustain itself for more than two weeks. Tyranny and mayhem will soon follow.

There was another reason why I volunteered for fact-finding missions beyond the periphery. It gave me an opportunity to scan the terrain with my mini UAV which was carefully tucked inside a rucksack. They were recharged each night through a specially-rigged DC-DC converter.

I would soon be running out of batteries. The time had come to slip out. Furthermore, it was only a matter of time before Burly decided to make house-to-house calls to commandeer essential items.

The Journey Beyond

After hauling all the food, MREs and water bottles from my basement to the living room, I left the following note for my neighbours. It would be pinned to my front gate.

I am getting claustrophobic. By the time you read this, I would be long gone. Hope the food and water inside will sustain you until help arrives. Good Luck and God Bless — J. Coelho

It had taken me days to agonise over what was essential and what I could hump over a long, tortuous journey on foot. A small Bible — one specifically picked for an eventuality like this one — was tucked into a side pocket. I guess I will have all the time in the world to read it now.

I knew where I was headed but was clueless as to the fate which awaited me at my destination. Otherwise, the Covid-19 plandemic had prepared me well. But were my preparations good enough?

As I traversed forests, streams and rocky outcrops, I could see that the skies were clearing up. In the distance, I could hear the faint blares of sirens and loudspeaker commands. Occasionally, a military helicopter would pass overhead. I would hide as soon as I heard the roar of its rotors. If the government had any hand in this apocalyptic event, I wouldn’t want to be around military personnel or anyone representing central authority. In fact, I did not want to be around any person, period!

The frightened folks huddled in the community basement will now be seeking "strong leadership". As far as I was concerned, those who forgot the past were condemned to repeat the same mistakes. Again and again.

Maybe, I was just too cynical; maybe, I just didn’t care. Or maybe, I feared what lay ahead. All I could do was hum the following words as I trudged towards my destination.

Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, return ye, O children of men.

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