The Bomb (short story - comments appreciated)

Just finished writing this now, after watching that excellent documentary, "Countdown to Zero" and thinking... what if? Comments greatly appreciated
*

It’s Friday night and I’m home. Why? I’m doing some typing, some work to try and keep myself occupied. There’s not much else to do when you’re unemployed and flat broke, but to keep yourself occupied, whatever that might mean. Some people drink cheap beers, others go out for walks or play computer games. Me? I write, it’s sort of what I like to do and, all in all, it’s a pretty good way to keep yourself occupied.

The TV is on in my room, more for background noise than anything else, and there’s a song playing on my laptop; some new-age synthetic band that can only exist and be as popular in the same timeframe that Hipsters exist in, that I quite enjoy from time-to-time. On the TV is one of those god awful reality TV shows, similar to Jersey Shore, where there’s a bunch of bitchy women shouting at other bitchy women for being bitches. Really? It’s the biggest hypocritical-pot-calling-kettle-a-stuck-up-bitch that I have ever seen. But it’s good and brainless background noise.

It’s beginning to get darker outside, with the only light in my bedroom being that from my laptop, as I didn’t notice the sun going down, from being too distracted by my writing and the tap-tap-tapping of keys as my fingers furiously type out the sentences. I’m not sure what time it is... maybe 9pm? Maybe later? A quick glance at the clock on my laptop shows that it’s 9:15pm. Damn, so close.

I’m too distracted by my tapping, my staring at the words appearing on the screen and the song playing on my laptop, that I don’t notice that the sound has gone from the TV. Strange, it was working a second ago. I glance over at the screen and see that the picture is gone too, but it’s not gone static or black, as I would have thought, but blue. There comes this tone, like a whistle being blown, but higher and longer. The tone gets higher and higher, almost to the extent that it’s becoming painful. God, why won’t it stop? I reach over to the TV and smack the top of it – it never works, but it’s usually my first reaction to things.

The tone stops to be replaced by silence, but the blue remains. Then there’s a slight flickering before an image appears on screen. It looks like an old test broadcast screen, like they used to have before the time of all-night TV, when the networks would close up for the night – the same black and white, black and white bars but nothing else. In the middle of these some text appears; blurry at first, but slowly comes into focus:

“Please stand by for the Emergency Broadcast System”

****, I think to myself, they have to be kidding. This is a new one, have never seen it before but always assumed such a thing existed.

The same bars and texts stay on the screen for a few seconds before fading to a shot of a newsroom; our national news reporters. What is going on? I can see they’re sitting in the studio, not the same one they usually broadcast from and it’s not the same people that usually report either. This is just getting weirder and weirder.

There’s three of them. Usually they look all professional and done up, as if they’re constantly having just come from the salon, but now they’re not. Now they look grim faced and grey skinned, all really showing their age without the makeup they usually have plastered on. Their shirts aren’t fully buttoned and they’re wearing no ties. If anything, it looks like what you’d expect them to look after a long and hard night of partying. This is getting weirder and weirder with every passing second.

There’s silence for a few seconds, before anyone talks. The one on the right looks as if he had just been crying, you could still see the tears still fresh, streaming whatever makeup he had been wearing down his cheeks. It’s as if none of them are prepared to say what they need to say and I can see the one in the middle stop and start a few times, his lips shaking until finally:

“We – we – we,” he stammered, “we have received reports that there has been an attack on Dublin.”

****. On Dublin? Who on Earth would want to attack us? We’re defenceless, just a small island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean who never caused any harm to anyo – wait, what was that? **** I just missed it. Damnit. Say it again.

“-ear weapon. News is coming out of Dubl –“, he stops, “what remains of Dublin that a nuclear weapon was used in the attack. There are unconfirmed reports of massive damage done to the capital city, with an unknown number of dead, but it’s expected to be in the hundreds of thousands, if not higher.”
Nuclear? Jesus Christ God Damnit. Someone did it. Someone finally did it.

Jesus Christ holy ****. Oh no. I have friends there. Lots of friends. Family. Oh ****. Oh ****. Oh ****. Where’s my phone, where’s my goddamned phone? My hands move around my desk furiously trying to find my phone. There’s too much junk here and most of it gets thrown to the ground, before I glance over to my bed and see it on my pillow. I reach over, look through my phonebook to find the first person I know from Dublin and dial their number.
It doesn’t connect. Damnit. There must be too many people trying at the same time for networks to handle and I’m left with that tone. That god awful dial. I try again, and again, and again, and again. Same result. Same tone. Same nothingness.

I try again, staring at the screen, willing it to connect, saying a prayer to whatever God I can think of and might be listening for it to connect, but it doesn’t. I try again and again, until finally it connects and dials, and dials, and dials, before:

“Hi, sorry, I can’t come to the phone right now, but please leave your name an-“. I hung up. There’s other people I know. I dial their numbers but nothing. Some don’t even make the connection, just go straight to, “the number you have dialled cannot be reached at this time, please try again later.”

I almost throw my phone at the damned wall until I look at the TV and everything stops. They’re showing live photos from Dublin. There’s not much left, not even much fire, but on the outskirts, bar just a flat almost-crater. It looks like the moon. It’s barely recognizable anymore. The screen cuts back to the studio and the newsreporters aren’t even trying to hide the fact they’re crying. The one on the right is bent double in his chair, his head in his hands and almost-screaming, “oh God, oh God, my wife. My poor wife. My children. Oh God, oh God, oh Go-“. It’s too much, I press mute on the TV.

The pictures are almost hypnotizing, as if it’s too hard to believe. I pinch myself, slap myself, tell myself to wake up, but it’s happening. This is all happening. I glance out my window and see people standing there too; some are just staring in dumb disbelief, some are manically trying to dial numbers on their phones, while others are just on their knees crying and screaming.
My eyes drift back to the TV just in time to catch the newsticker on the bottom of the screen say, “-alway --- evacuation orders have been given”. I turn back the sound on the TV.

It’s the one on the right’s turn to speak and he seems better composed, “we have just received news that – that – that,” he blurts out, “that one of these weapons is en route to Galway, Limerick and other population centres around the nation. No terrorist organizations have claimed responsibility for the attacks and our army is incapable of stopping the weapons. May God have mercy on all our souls.”

Oh. Christ. Oh Christ oh Christ oh Christ. I’m in Galway. My parents are here. My best friends are in here. We’re all here.

It’s then that I realize my phone is in my hand and I move through the phonebook and I dial my mum’s mobile number. For once it connects right away and she answers on the first ring.

“Mum,” I say, “Mum, can you hear me?”

She can hear me, can’t believe what is going on and is asking me if I’m OK. I tell her that I am, well, as good as you can be facing near-certain death. She’s crying, heavily. In all my years, I have never seen either of my parents cry, even when both their parents died. But now, she’s crying and it’s so hard to take.

“Mum, listen,” I try to say and she stops crying, “where’s Dad?” He’s at the pub, she tells me, but is rushing home right now. Good, at least they’ll be together when it comes, “OK, Mum. Listen, I just wanted to –“. This is hard. Really hard. The words are barely coming, “I just wanted to say that – I love you, Mum. I know I never say it but I do. I love you and Dad. So much ... Mum? Mum? Can you hear me?” There’s silence, I take the phone from my ear and stare at the screen; the call got disconnected. ****. I have no idea when it happened, I have no idea what she heard.

I stare out the window again and all I can see is panic; people running in the streets, jumping into whatever cars I can. My bedroom overlooks the city’s docks, and I can see people jumping into boats and sailing out into the bay. It looks like what it must have on that day in Dunkirk. They’re smart.

I’m so distracted again that I don’t realize the sound has gone once more. I glance at the screen and notice that the picture is gone too, back to blue. That tone is back too, getting louder and louder, until it goes back to silence and a voice comes across the speakers; it’s an old recording, but I recognize it almost immediately:

“This is the Wartime Broadcasting Service. This country has been attacked with nuclear weapons. Communications have been severely disrupted, and the number of casualties and the extent of the damage are not yet known. We shall bring you further information as soon as possible. Meanwhile, stay tuned to this wavelength, stay calm and stay in your own house. Remember there is nothing to be gained by trying to get away. By leaving your homes you could be exposing yourself to greater danger.”

It’s the Four-Minute Warning recording; an audio sample created for just a situation. The voice continues talking but I’m not listening any more. Four minutes? That’s all I’ve got left? I could run, but I don’t think I’d get very far. I could steal a bike, but I’m faced with the same problem. If I could drive, I’d steal a car and get further away, but I don’t. ****. I crumple down into my chair, my head in my hands against the desk and let out a shout. It’s primal, full of so much anger, sorrow, frustration. When I’m finished, I manage to catch the last of the warning, “-ay tuned to this wavelength, but switch your radios off now to save your batteries. That is the end of this broadcast.”

Was that four minutes? I wasn’t paying attention. Did I just waste my last minutes on this planet in such a futile manner, by doing absolutely nothing whatsoev- I stop. I can hear something. It sounds like an airplane but much louder, much closer. I stare out my window and see something in the air – it does look like an airplane, but without any wings, and it’s leaving a glowing trail behind it, like a comet would. It’s fast, really damned fast.

A few seconds later, I can hear it hit. I can’t see it, as it hit somewhere in the city behind me, but I can definitely hear it, that near-quiet thud. I’m staring out the window; people have stopped running now and they’re staring towards the sound, mouths agape, like some grotesque mannequin in a freakshow.

I can see the glow on the water, the bright light that resembles the sun casting it’s warmth on the water; it’s almost beautiful. It’s getting brighter and brighter and I can hear what sounds like a hurricane outside, growing louder and louder and louder. It’s nearly deafening. The glow is getting so bright that I can barely see, that I can’t make anything out anymore ----

Rubecula

I enjoyed the read in a strange way. It is a horror story of modern times isn't it? I can almost sense your feelings through your words.

I liked it.

LegacyUser

I thought this was a great story i couldn't stop reading it.

BabySlam

I liked it, but would like to know why you avoided "details", such as the name of a TV programme, name of the presenters, calling them a programme like some other programme , or "the one", is a bit vague. Great build up of tension.

Ficheall

There's a suspicious lack of zombies, bogman...

Livvie

Jeez, I wish I hadn't read that just before going to bed.

Very readable, even if scary. An editor could turn this into a story suitable for publication imo - nothing major, just things as mentioned already.

SepTomBer

I simply love this short story. It's very entertaining and frightening.

Vernonymous

After reading this.. I want more.

Del.Monte

Vernonymous wrote: »

After reading this.. I want more.

"The Day After" http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0085404/

The stuff of nightmares and I wouldn't recommend it as we teeter on the brink yet again.

@Ficheall

Ha. Wow, these were definitely very unexpected comments. Thank you for all your compliments! @Ficheall - that'll be in the sequel!

BabySlam wrote: »

I liked it, but would like to know why you avoided "details", such as the name of a TV programme, name of the presenters, calling them a programme like some other programme , or "the one", is a bit vague. Great build up of tension.

Honestly, the biggest reason I didn't name specific things is that I likely wouldn't have known them myself. Probably a bit of an anti-climatic answer, but it's true. I likely wouldn't know the names of TV shows or of news presenters.

echo beach

Deleted User wrote: »

I likely wouldn't know the names of TV shows or of news presenters.

That doesn't matter. It would probably be better not to use real names as that will date a piece, but give them a name be it Mary Murphy or John Smith. It makes them easier to relate to and avoids having to say 'the one on the right.'

sunshine and showers

I really liked this. Couldn't stop reading it and it definitely built up that sense of urgency and almost that feeling where you're looking at a car crash and can't look away.

expatinator

Nice.

First of all, I loved that ending. The writing wasn't very image focused and it really made that final image of the bomb really stand out.

Secondly, I found the description of the newsreaders interesting. Have you ever read a crime/horror novel? It constantly shows societies 'security' being eroded. Safe houses being broken into, electricity being cut, random acts of violence, etc. There was something similar with the description of the newsreaders. That small sense of security, of normality, was eroded away when you saw the newsreaders fall apart. It would've been nice to have seen more of that. Perhaps small scenes that showed the destruction of social norms? Eg: Mothers abandoning children.

Finally, the tempo of the writing was pretty good. It was a stream of consciousness that I liked.

Now, for the negative.

I felt the calling friends scene was too long. I wanted to get back to the news-report.

That's about it

morriss003

I like it, but you used "occupied" three times in the first paragraph. Try deleting "whatever that might mean" and see how it reads.