When The Bomb Drops

There were no means with which to confirm what the provocation was. Confirmation wasn’t really necessary. Israel and several Persian Gulf nations had experienced a nuclear event. Israel, Iran, and Pakistan each had been the sight of a nuclear explosion or explosions, with loss of human life estimated in the tens, and perhaps hundreds of millions.

Within hours of the news people began to poor out of the world’s major cities gripped by fear and not knowing what had happened or what country or city would be next. New York, Chicago, Paris, London, Sao Paolo, Buenos Aires, and Moscow were in the throes of anarchy. People with nowhere to go were trying to get away from the one place they belonged. Within 24 hours the various regional and state governments in the United States declared martial law to put a stop to the “unauthorized travel” of civilians. But martial law does not work well in a country filled with armed civilians, and a police and National Guard unwilling to ruthlessly repress their own neighbors - and 24 hours gave many people time to flee. For the first few days no major violence or lawlessness was reported.

At first, people were lost and simply did not know what to do. Businesses, stores, and government offices in the major cities were empty due to the travel ban and the fact that workers feared that their city might be next – so no one was much interested in showing up for work – travel ban or no travel ban. Despite the ban on travel, some of the mobile urban population had managed to relocate from the cities. Those that remained wandered about aimlessly, many in shock and disbelief. Yesterday, the kids had little league, mothers went grocery shopping, and fathers went about their business. Today, there were no baseball games, the grocery stores were empty, offices were dark, and black markets erupted for everything from gasoline to prostitution. In a single day the concept of “business as usual” was no more than a memory.

Food began to run low in American cities within days of the nuclear exchanges. At the end of the first week water was still running to people’s homes, as was electricity, but food shipments had stopped completely. The people of cities like New York City, Miami, and Atlanta had the food in their pantries and nothing more, and garbage was beginning to pile up in the streets. Fuel supplies had dried up with food supplies, so even if municipal sanitation workers were able to get to work, there was not any fuel with which to run the trucks and other heavy equipment.

Fuel, in the form of gasoline and diesel, was the critical issue. Without it the economy ground to a standstill. Commuters could no longer drive to work even if they wanted to; truckers could not transport goods leaving store shelves as bare as a tree in winter.

A considerable health threat was burgeoning in major cities in the form of untreated sewage. Within a month of the bombings, water was no longer being pumped into people’s homes. Toilets became inoperable, and improvised rainwater catchment devices were everywhere. Unfortunately, it didn’t rain. Nature still called, but toilets did not flush. People improvised. All of New York City smelled like a subway bathroom that hadn’t been cleaned in weeks.

The National Guard set up food and water distribution posts, but it was a hot summer, and the provisions were in short supply. A rationing system was instituted within 2 weeks of the bombings, but it wasn’t enough to maintain a minimal caloric intake for the people living in the large cities. Pets began to “disappear”, which in places like New York City was a significant positive as their droppings only contributed to the miasmic environment.

Once it became apparent that a new normal had settled over their lives violence began to break out. Not the roving gang violence of survivalist fiction, but there was little law enforcement could do in the way of responding to crimes or entering into investigations and many people took advantage of this fact to settle old scores. Husbands shot moody wives in the middle of a complaint, and wives beat the brains out of abusive alcoholic husbands with hammers and cast iron frying pans as the men slept. Divorce lawyers, prosecutors, judges… anyone that had worked in an occupation that made enemies, and who had survived the first weeks, itself no small feat, knew that their very life depended on them moving to a place where no one knew who they were. Bodies of the deceased, wrapped in sheets or blankets but sometimes in nothing at all, were left outside on the street.

New York City was an angry and dangerous place. The food crisis was at a critical juncture. People were making their way out of the Metropolitan area to the countryside as the authorities did little to enforce the ban on civilian travel. What was the point? The authorities could not provide enough food and water for the urban population. It was either allow the people to fend for themselves seeking shelter with friends and relatives in the suburbs and rural areas, or crush the subsequent food riots. As General Douglas McCarthur once said to describe the choices facing the authorities: “Send me food or send me bullets.”

Officially, civilian travel was still banned and there was no public transit service available. Only people young and healthy enough to walk, or lucky enough to possess a bike, could make an attempt at self-rescue by fleeing the cities. The elderly, the sick and disabled, and the obese – the number of obese people had shrunk considerably since the bombings– were left behind, as were women with young children.

By late September, 8 weeks into the crisis nearly every able-bodied person had fled the major metropolitan areas, though many never made it past the city’s sprawl. The banks were closed and ATM’s empty. People who abandoned the major cities for fear of another nuclear exchange had abandoned their homes and cars and had also abandoned their mortgages and car loans. Barter quickly became the only medium of exchange. The food transport system had completely broken down, with government supplies spotty at best, and criminal to say the least.

Though no nuclear attack had been sustained in North America or Europe, the fear of an attack had brought the Industrialized West’s monetary system to an abrupt halt – and with it their respective societies were brought to their knees. The economic, legal, food, water, and fuel distribution system of the Western societies required the confidence of the populace, and the “full faith and credit” of their governments and central banks, in order to function - and that confidence was no more.

Truckers that were on the road transporting goods simply kept those goods as barter items. The Manhattan corner green grocer hoarded his inventory of canned goods for his own family. Lawyers had nothing to do and no place to do it. Police, Firemen, and other “essential services” personnel ceased showing up for work and hospitals remained closed. The seriously ill simply died, and desperate people did desperate things.

It seemed surreal to Martin as he, his wife, and two young daughters made their way north along the rail road tracks on the east side of the Hudson River. Martin had been a Wall Street professional - one of the thousands of well-paid foot soldiers that ground out the real work of the banking business the day before the bombings, and had recently finished his Talmudic studies and had been ordained a Rabbi in Israel just 9 months earlier. Today, his job was gone, his yeshiva was gone, his friends were gone, and his country was gone.

No. I am an American. I am a Jew and a part of the diaspora, but I am an American.

They carried their clothes on their backs. Mercifully, he thought to himself, it was not winter, or this trek would not be possible. He and his family carried all of their worldly possessions on their backs. He was thankful that he and his wife had kept the backpacks they had used in Europe over a decade ago, while the girls used the backpacks that kids now used as book bags. They had a change of clothes, sleeping bags, and some food, plus the items that he would need to lead the family in observance of their traditions.

Martin was well educated, as was his wife, and there was a sense between them that “The Writing was on the Wall”.  It was now 8 weeks since the bombings. They were lucky, as Martin’s wife, Miriam had always kept 3 months of food in the home in case of emergencies. A  “tradition” Miriam had picked up from her mother, Ruth, a Jewish survivor of the Nazi war and rampage in Europe.

Martin had a background in economics, and knew that the system they had come to rely on for necessities like shelter, heat, food, water, and healthcare no longer existed and, like the childhood rhyme “Humpty-Dumpty”, was unlikely to be put back together again any time soon. He and his family literally walked out of Manhattan, heading north along the train tracks, making it to Westchester county in one day. He knew that in a forced march situation armies had walked 40 miles in a day. He felt his girls, not yet eleven years old might make 20 miles if pushed hard. He underestimated them. They made it to the village of Hastings that night, after walking for 11 hours.

They had enough food and water in their packs for 3 or maybe 4 days trekking like this. That night they slept in the Hastings train station, and were pleasantly surprised to find that the bathrooms still had running water. They had slept well enough and continued on their way up the railroad tracks north from Hastings, past the villages of Dobbs Ferry, Ardsley, Irvington, and by early afternoon had come to the village of Tarrytown were Martin hoped to seek assistance from the brother of a long time friend. The friend and Martin had known each other for over 25 years and had worked together at several Wall Street firms, but Martin’s friend had retired to a hobby farm down south. Still, Martin felt he could reach out to the brother and seek assistance. He wasn’t looking for much, just some food for their backpacks and a safe place to rest before continuing their journey.

Martin had a general idea of where Walt Thomas lived, as he had reviewed the address in his address book with a map book he had kept for decades. With Miriam and the girls in tow, he trudged up Main Street. The buildings appeared dark on either side of him, and many people were milling about with little or nothing to do. As there were no cars on the road, the family walked in the middle of the street. Earlier this summer doing so might have cost them their lives, but there was little danger to pedestrians of being struck by a car now.

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Walt Thomas was at his computer surfing the web when reports started to come in that a major “destructive event”, perhaps an earthquake, had hit Tehran. He thought little of it, earthquakes happen after all, and thankfully they usually happen to someone else. About 45 minutes after the first reports of Iran’s “event”, reports started to come over the web that a major “destructive event” had just been reported in Israel. Within minutes, all news sites were reporting that perhaps a nuclear catastrophe had taken place, when the reports started to come in that Pakistan had sustained a nuclear blast. Walt reached for his cell phone. He hit his son’s number on speed dial.

“All circuits are busy. Please try your call again later.”

He waited a minute and redialed his son.

“All circuits are busy…”

Walt got up from his computer, walked to the kitchen and out the back door to his car, got in, and raced his car down the hill to the local grocery store. A volunteer fireman and former boy scout, most of Walt’s family lived in Florida where a hurricane left them without power for 6 weeks. He understood emergencies – people still need to eat, drink, wipe their ass, and wash their hands. He ran into the store to buy supplies of every stripe only to find that he was not alone. Other quick thinking folks had the same idea and were quickly emptying the isles. When he got to the check out counter, Walt was astonished to see that they were still accepting credit cards.

The first report of Iran’s “event” was 72 minutes ago. The first mention of “nuclear” was less than 30 minutes old.

From the grocery store Walt drove to the gas station and convenience store he owned in town. The clerk was behind the counter listening to an Indian pop recording and seemed to have no idea of the events of the past 90 minutes. Walt sent him home with a week’s worth of bread, milk, and eggs telling him to get his family together.

I wonder if there will even be electricity in his house when he gets home.

The lights were still on at the station, so Walt filled his car with gas, grabbed 5, 5 gallon gas containers from inside the store and filled them as well. He walked back into the store, locked the front door behind him, and turned off the pump lights and all of the indoor lights except the “night lights” that were always on for security purposes.

Walt looked up as headlights came into the pump island area of the station. It was his son, Manny. Walt strode to the front door and unlocked it and Manny stepped inside.

“Holy shit!” said Manny

“Holy shit is right,” replied Walt. “Go out back and get every box that will hold something and bring it in here. We’ll take all the food and all of the drinks up to the house. Fill those gasoline cans and put them in the back of your truck, and top off your tank just in case.”

Father and son proceeded to load all of the canned goods, refrigerated foods, snack bags, donuts, sugar, soaps and the rest of the various and sundry products one would expect to find at a gas station’s convenience store without a word between them. After the store was emptied Walt locked the gas pumps, turned off the switch to the pump, and then flipped all of the breakers in the main electric utility box killing all power to the building. He hoped that people would look at the empty shelves and the dark building and perimeter and assume there was nothing left to steal. Of course, there was still 20,000 gallons of gasoline and diesel fuel in the tanks in the ground. But without a “key” for the fill valve and some specialized pumping equipment that fuel would be not easily be stolen. Finally, he located a piece of plywood that had come with some of the wood pallets that the food was delivered on, and spray painted large block letters in bright orange, the only spray paint on hand, “SORRY, NO GAS”, and placed the makeshift sign in front of the front door, which he locked behind him. Manny was still loading boxes into the back of his truck.

“When you’re finished, take everything up to the house and bring everything inside and down into the basement. OK?” Said Walt.

“OK. Where are you going?”

“Down to the shop to get every tool I can fit in the car, and anything else I can think of. I’ll meet you at the house in an hour. Tell your mother to wait there for me and not to leave the house until I get home.”

“K”, said Manny.

It had been less than 3 hours since the news of a nuclear explosion in Iran and Israel, and now Pakistan. The Internet was still operating but the phone system was overwhelmed by the surge in traffic. Walt marveled that the Web, which for him ran over the phone lines in the form of DSL from his local phone company, was still working. Still, there was no official word from the U.S. Government. All of the reports were coming from Bloggers and the international news services. The trains coming north from Grand Central Terminal were absolutely packed - standing room only. The express to Tarrytown had just disgorged her passengers, most of whom did not live in Tarrytown but, as no one had any idea who had done what and who was going to be next, were afraid that New York City might be the next target of a nuclear attack. They fled to the train station upon hearing the news, taking the next train headed out of the city without concern as to where the train was heading - so long as it was heading away from Manhattan.

Hundreds of people were milling about the train station platform waiting for the next north bound train. Tarrytown is only 35 miles north of mid-town Manhattan, if New York City was to be the sight of the next nuclear attack, 35 miles was not far enough away.

Walt had returned home with his car loaded with anything he could scrounge from his repair shop that might prove valuable in the future. Hand tools, diesel storage cans, paper, pens, a .357 magnum handgun he kept in a safe at the shop because his wife refused to allow the weapon in their home. She did not know about the .22-caliber assault rifle he purchased over a decade earlier that was in their clothes closet behind the suits he never wore and no longer fit him. He had 3 boxes of ammo for the handgun. He wondered how long the ammo kept for, as he had purchased them at the same time as the handgun, 5 years ago. He had not fired the weapon since attending the firearm safety class required for a pistol permit.

He drove up the hill from his shop to his home. His wife, Jenny, was outside in the driveway waiting for him.

It had been 8 weeks since the bombings. The 20,000 gallons of fuel at Walt’s gas station had been removed by the National Guard, but not before Walt had filled up every friend and acquaintance and secured enough diesel to use as heating oil for the coming winter as well as several hundred gallons that he stored in various containers in his basement. One of his brothers lived on a farm in South Carolina. If things got bad in metro New York he thought he would be able to make the 700-mile trip to his brother’s place, or at least he hoped he would make it there.

         Martin arrived at Walt’s residence and unfamiliar with the layout of the property ended up at the back door. Walt was sitting at a breakfast bar just inside the backdoor and saw Martin before Martin could see past the screen door and into the house. Walt took in the sight of a middle aged couple and pre-teen daughters and quickly decided that they did not represent a threat.

         “Hello!” called out Martin in mild voice. He wanted to be heard but he wanted to sound nonthreatening.

         “Hello yourself,” responded Walt from inside the house still unseen by Martin.

         The screen door opened. Martin found himself staring into the face of an older and shorter version of his friend, Pete.

         Martin wasted no time getting to the point. “My name is Martin Gold. I am an old friend of your brother, Pete. We have just walked up from Manhattan and I could use any help you might be to us. I have young children.”

         Walt had never met Martin but had heard his brother speak of him. Walt met Martin’s final words with a kind smile directed at the girls and said, “Please, come in.”

         After the introductions Jenny took Miriam and the girls to a guest bedroom on the 2^nd floor of their 3-floor home and showed them the bathroom. Water was still flowing as Tarrytown was serviced by a reservoir and tank system that was uphill from Walt’s house, though Walt felt that the water’s days were numbered.

         Martin followed Walt out to the pool, which was now green from a lack of chemicals and electricity to run the filtration pumps.

         Martin spoke first. “You don’t seem to be suffering here.”

         “We’re not getting on too badly. At least for now,” said Walt and paused, spit on the ground and then looked directly in Martin’s eyes, and asked, “Where are you headed?”

“I don’t really know, exactly. North for now, no other choice really,” said Martin.

“Why no other choice?”

“Well, we can’t go South back to the city, we can only go 15 miles East before we run into the Sound and would have to head North, we can’t go a half mile West or we will be sitting in the Hudson river. That leaves North.”
         “Well, I can spare you some food and there’s no shortage of water or containers to carry it in. You are welcome to stay here. We are leaving in the morning and don’t plan on coming back,” said Walt.

         “Where are you planning on going?”

         “South.”
         “South? To New York City?”

         “No. South, down the other side of the Hudson river and all the way to Pete’s place in South Carolina.”

         Martin, incredulous, said, “Do you know how far that is?”
         “700 miles more or less,” replied Walt. “Do you know how far winter is?”

         “I take your point. 700 miles is a hell of a long walk.”

         “Oh, we thought about hiking it, but gave up on that idea. Most of us are 50 pounds overweight, and that’s being kind. By the time we were in shape enough for that kind of hike it would be deep into winter. Nah, we’d never make a 700-mile hike.”

         “Surely you don’t think you can just hop in a car and drive?”

         “Nope. We’re going by water. It’s the only chance we’ve got. We’ll have to walk the last 100 miles or so.”

         There was period of silence lasting over a minute as each man considered the coming winter.

         “Can you make room for us?” asked Martin.

         “Do know anything about astronomy or navigation?”

         “Not a thing.”

         “Do you have any experience with sailing?” Walt asked in return.

         “No.”

         “Do you have any deep sea fishing experience?” Walt pressed.

         “No.”

         “Have you ever even been on a sail boat on the ocean?”
         “I took the Circle Line Cruise around Manhattan the day before I got married to my first wife.”

         “That was what, 25 years ago?”

         “Coming up on 32.”

         “Perfect. You’ll fit right in. Welcome aboard.”

         The two men laughed and shook hands, then turned and headed back to the house.