Nuclear War

A Story by DaveResnam

What happens after the bombs go off. A rewrite of the film On the Beach brought up to date and localised to the UK.

Surface. Dave Resnam 10/02/2017

The captain announced on the intercom. “We have to surface. We will go to Scotland. It's clearer there. ETA four days.”

Five months ago we listened by radio to the thud of the nuclear bombs as each city was vaporized. The air quality radiation counter was off the clock. Nowhere was safe now.

One by one our bases went off line �" Gosport, Portsmouth, Gibraltar, Cyprus and the remaining base in Faslane which still transmitted data until last month.

The crew became more depressed. We had contributed to this. First St Petersburg as a warning after the Washington strike. Three ICBMs took them out. Two onto Novosibirsk. Then one each on Samara and Omsk. Finally the Checkmate �" all remaining nine onto Moscow and Bejing. Thousands of kilotons of prime nuclear fission. No escape.

We had been at sea for six months. The carnage had stopped. Radio transmissions had ceased. Time to go home and find the living and the dead.

Chief Petty Officer Toby Jenkins' wife and children lived in Southwark �" that was gone. He shot himself after that news. All the firearms were now locked away.

We arrived at Faslane. It was very quiet. No radio traffic except automatic beacons and sea buoys.

There were no dock-hands to help us moor up so the captain delegated three men to go ashore �" a sure death command. None of us could stay in the sub any longer anyway. Our food finished last week. The submarine was our prison and out salvation for the last six months.

The crew reported back that the base was intact but empty and the food was gone. The looters had been busy this last few months. Can't blame them.

The captain addressed us. “You are all discharged. I have entered your service records as Exemplary. You may collect firearms when you leave. May God go with you. It has been a privilege serving with you. Father forgive us, for we know not what we do.”

He saluted, turned, and slowly walked into his cabin. We heard the gunshot. No one entered.

On the dockside all was quiet. Andy and Smeller found their cars where they had been parked six months ago but they wouldn't run as the petrol had been siphoned out. My diesel-camper was OK so they got in with me. We had decided to make for London to bury our dead or die with them. My family was in Walthamstow. I hoped they were together. I didn't know.

The motorway was pretty empty. I guess people had gone home when the bombs started. There were of course crashed cars, maybe deliberately, some still had bodies inside.

It was dark even at 11 o'clock in the morning. The ashen clouds were streaked with black and dappled blue where the sunlight was struggling to get through. The ground had a thick coating of white ash which flicked up as we drove along. We knew we only had hours, not days, to get to our families. Our Rad badges now showed maximum.

There was no mains electricity any more so we stole a diesel generator and cables from a Machine Mart, then at a service station I jumped some power into the fuel pump and filled up my camper for the remaining journey.

We avoided Manchester to stay clear of trouble. We were now getting hungry and all the services had been stripped. Maybe we could chance a trip into Birmingham �" but was it worth the risk?

We decided to go into the city so checked our weapons. I don't know why but I only brought an automatic pistol but Andy had three rifles and a machine gun and Smeller had some grenades and two rifles and a pistol. He was the armourer aboard Resolute.

It seemed darker in the city. The street lights were out and the misty greyness smothered us.

It was utter devastation. The panic after the first bomb had chased the survivors out in their thousands. Streets were strewn with car wrecks and bodies. People trying to hijack cars had murdered, only to be murdered themselves. The cars stayed where they were, jammed tight.

We couldn't go further by camper-van so I turned onto a side road. More cars everywhere. Rotting bodies in the road and in the shops. We got our torches out. Most local shops were empty but we found some tins of figs and tinned potatoes. We ate and drank the whole contents. I broke into a house and stepped over the crumpled bodies of an old man and his wife in their last embrace.

I ran the hot taps as I thought there might be some water left. Luckily there was. We filled up our flasks, grabbed some tins of Christmas biscuits from their kitchen and left that desolate place.

The rest of the journey to London passed in silence as it all sank in. No chance our families were alive now.

I dropped Toby off at Enfield and gave Smeller my camper after I got out at Walthamstow.

Inside number 26 Theydon Street I found what I had expected, two little girls with foam at their mouths in the embrace of my beloved, dead wife Lyndsey. I slowly read her note.

Dearest Michael, if you survive and get home please remember we will always love you till the end of time. Sorry I had to do this to our children. I couldn't watch them suffer any more. We love you. Lyndsey, Rebecca and baby Carrie. xxx

The government tablet box was empty.

I cried as I buried my family in our small overgrown garden. The crosses were basic and the paper memorials will fade.

I walked to the Hollow Pond park and climbed up the small sandy hill to look out over Walthamstow. So many happy memories. Children in paddle boats, learning to ride their bikes, kissing my wife under the big oak tree...

The grey sky look evil and blacker now. The final curtain.

I walked back home.

I'm lying in a hole next to my buried family. I've clicked back the pistol slide to c**k it. The barrel tastes metallic.

Time to join my girls.