C6 Turning Back Again

Horace fine-tuned the telescope's knobs, bringing the focus closer until he could clearly make out their faces, just as the newspapers had described: faces studded with blisters of all sizes, seemingly on the verge of bursting. They were grotesque and chilling, with red eyes peering out from amidst the blisters, sending shivers down one's spine.

Officially, they were referred to as nuclear victims, a term that was consistently used in the now-defunct newspapers and radio broadcasts, lending a touch of humanity to their condition. This was similar to a time when sex workers were euphemistically called "women who had lost their balance."

Just as sex workers were more commonly known as "Miss," the public had coined a more colloquial and vivid term for them — "nuclear zombies." It was a term that seemed to have evolved from the concept of zombies, yet it carried an added layer of terror.

Horace lowered the telescope, a deep pain flickering in his eyes. The memories he so desperately wished to forget, yet which were etched into his soul, resurfaced once again...

It was that same day when he and his son had picked her up and begun their flight from the city, the default reaction of everyone upon hearing of the Nuclear Renewable Energy Base's explosion.

Nuclear energy had cast a terrifying shadow over humanity for over a century. The Chernobyl disaster and the Fukushima incident had long sounded the alarm bells.

Once unleashed, nuclear energy became a perpetual Sword of Damocles, suspended above the Earth, threatening to fall at any moment.

He drove, with the two people he cherished most in the world beside him, navigating the secluded country lanes and the relentless dark rain. Around them was a tide of vehicles and people, all fleeing for their lives.

The highways were shut down, and all forms of public transport had ground to a halt. Buses, trains, planes, and ships were all at a standstill, severing nearly all contact with the outside world. The radio was the only exception, though its signal was sporadic.

This was a hallmark of nuclear warfare. The Meteor Shower Radio remained the sole means of communication unaffected by the nuclear blast.

He listened to the radio intently. She had shed her clothes soaked by the dark rain and wrapped herself in his coat, sitting in the back seat with their son. The two of them alternated between sleep and wakefulness as the car jostled along.

The roads were congested beyond belief, with vehicles moving slower than a walking pace. What was usually a few hours' drive out of the city now seemed indefinitely delayed.

Despite knowing the dangers of the black rain, many still braved the toxic downpour, clutching umbrellas and donning raincoats as they fled with their families.

He tuned into the sporadic radio broadcasts. When the black rain ceased, so did the cars.

The vehicles ahead were reversing, signaling that the city was shut down. Perhaps the outside world was the same, all affected by the nuclear explosion, leaving no escape.

The radio's official message was singular: "Residents in the disaster zone, please remain in your homes and await rescue."

With no choice but to turn back, the retreat was less frantic than the initial escape. It seemed a collective calm had settled over everyone, or perhaps it was a calm born of despair.

Night had fallen, and the cars, with their headlights ablaze, formed a luminous sea, reflecting the darkened rainwater and the hesitant figures trudging through the puddles.

He quickly sensed something amiss. People walking suddenly collapsed, convulsing in the black mire, scratching at their heads and bodies with such intensity that they tore their own clothes, oblivious to the damage.

Bystanders attempted to assist, only to fall victim themselves. They had all been soaked by the black rain.

Worriedly, he glanced at the backseat. Thankfully, she and their son were nestled together, sleeping peacefully.

Outside, however, panic was spreading. Pedestrians screamed and shouted, too frightened to continue on the rain-slicked streets. Some, in desperation, risked injury by blocking cars, pleading for a ride, but who would dare to stop?

The crowd's restlessness escalated. Stones were hurled at passing vehicles, shattering the night's tense silence.

Cars swerved and sped up, lacking any traffic police to direct them, leading to collisions.

The pedestrians, now with an outlet for their fear and anger, swarmed the crashed cars, smashing them with ferocity.

For the first time, a look of terror crossed his face. Gripping the steering wheel and with eyes wide, he navigated his cherished Buick, seeking an escape route.

By a stroke of luck, they made it back to the city center unscathed before midnight. The black rain had stopped, but the city remained shrouded in darkness, the electricity still not restored.

Before he could catch his breath, he noticed she was gently convulsing in the backseat. Her forehead was alarmingly hot to the touch.

Without hesitation, he drove straight to the hospital, only to discover it was overwhelmed with people.

His son had come to, but no matter how much he tried, she wouldn't wake up and remained in a coma.

In a panic, he told his son to stay put in the car, then carried her into the emergency room. The flickering emergency lights barely illuminated the chaos of the crowded space, filled with shouting, crying, and cursing, as the overwhelmed security struggled to maintain any semblance of order.

Navigating through the throng with her in his arms, he finally managed to locate a doctor.

The doctor gave her a cursory look and directed him to get medicine from the nurse, suggesting he take her home to monitor her condition. The symptoms were common among the influx of patients, and the hospital was at capacity.

He saw other patients convulsing violently, scratching at themselves until they were raw, their hair torn out, just like the people he had seen on the streets.

Her symptoms seemed mild in comparison. After some thought, he collected the medication and took her home.

As he was leaving the congested parking lot, the sound of shattering glass and the tumult of shouting and fighting erupted from the hospital.

Glancing back, he saw a brawl at the emergency building's entrance, with people pushing in and out, the violence so intense that not only the door's glass but also the ward windows were shattered. It was a repeat of the street riot he had witnessed earlier.

His son lay in the backseat, curiously observing the uproar.

He sped away from the turmoil, finally reaching their darkened home, where he had to use his signal-less phone for light.

After settling her in the bedroom and administering the medicine, he realized the nurse had given him a bottle of iodine tablets.

Knowing their purpose, he and his son each took one, and he gave his son some snacks to stave off hunger before coaxing him to sleep in another room.

Returning to her side, he found her condition unchanged; she was still comatose, and if anything, her convulsions were intensifying.

He immediately thought about taking her to the hospital to see a doctor, but recalling the chaos they had encountered upon leaving the hospital earlier, he dismissed the idea. He decided to wait until daylight, when the situation had stabilized, to revisit the matter.

To prevent her from scratching him, he tied her hands, reminiscent of a playful game they had once shared.

With no electricity or internet, all he could do was sit by her side in the dark, silently praying for her recovery. Eventually, exhaustion took over, and he drifted off to sleep at the bedside after the day's endless trials.

His son's panicked cries jolted him awake: "Stepmom, stepmom! What's happened to you?"