An apocoliptic vision.
Writer’s Challenge 11: Bad Smells, Disappointment
By David Crerand
I was on the golf course, thankfully facing north, toward the lake when the giant, white hot flash took over the sky. My partner, Rory, facing south toward the city of Rochester was immediately blinded, falling to his knees and emitting an agonized cry. I had seen enough documentaries so I knew what was coming next. I ran to the middle of the green and, grabbing my friend, pulled, and dragged him to the deep, beveled sand trap skirting the lakeside edge of the putting surface. We were almost nine miles north of the city center. It took just six seconds for the shock wave to hit us. As I threw Rory into the bunker and leapt after him the pressure wave swept above us and out over the lake, sucking hundreds of thousands of gallons of water high up into the air, irradiating it, and then casting it back down upon us as nuclear rain. Rory’s face was beginning to show evidence of the exposure, first turning a vivid red, then beginning to blister. The coolness of the rain seemed to calm him, though we both knew it held dangers of it’s own.
“Dave,” shouted Rory, an edge of hysteria creeping into his voice, “what the hell happened?”
“It was a nuclear bomb, Rory,” I answered. “It must be terrorists or something. Some kind of surprise attack.”
“Why?” he asked. “Why would they do this?”
I couldn’t answer his question and so I didn’t bother trying. Once this kind of thing happens, why becomes just about the least important question.
“Can you make it to the car?” I asked.
“I think so,” he said, standing shakily and reaching an arm out towards where he thought I was standing. I took it gently, as it also was showing evidence of burn, and led him slowly toward the parking lot. Rory was a dedicated bachelor, divorced some twenty-five years ago, and lived alone.
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