C7 Three Rules

He opened his eyes to the bright morning light, his son standing by the bed, shaking her arm. As his vision cleared, he saw her arm and gasped, the sleepiness instantly vanishing. Where once there was soft, pale skin, now there was a layer of pink blisters.

He leapt to his feet, his heart racing with terror as he noticed that her face, neck, and all the skin exposed to the air were covered in those same pink blisters. It was clear that her entire body was affected.

Shaking uncontrollably, he quickly distracted his son, "Be good, stepmom is sick. Go play in the living room by yourself." His son complied, leaving obediently.

Instinctively, he reached for the phone to dial emergency services, only to remember the signal was out. He flicked the light switch futilely—still no electricity.

The day had broken, but was the crisis over?

As he pondered how to get her to the hospital, his son's frightened cries echoed from the living room, "Daddy! Daddy!" Fearing the worst, he dashed out to find his son peering out the living room window, transfixed by the scene below.

In just a few steps, he joined his son and saw the very scene depicted in that rare newspaper edition.

Daylight had arrived, but their night—and humanity's—was only just beginning.

"Daddy, the nuclear zombies have found us," his son's warning snapped Horace back to reality.

Indeed, "they" had traced the father and son's steps into the neighborhood, now meandering through the streets.

He wasn't concerned; he and Frank had looped around the complex's roads twice, a clever ruse to confuse anyone trying to track which building they had entered. This was the anti-tracking skill he had taught his son, useful against nuclear zombies and any hostile human survivors.

Even if "they" managed to locate their building, breaking in was another matter. "They" retained human consciousness and thought, but certain instincts had regressed. "They" preferred to use their teeth and hands rather than tools.

"It's okay, just play," Horace reassured, settling back onto the sofa with the newspaper in hand.

Frank clutched his plush penguin, playing contentedly without unwrapping it, knowing that once touched by the radioactive rainout, it could never be brought home.

At home, the father and son duo kept to themselves, each in their own world, much like a pair of homebodies.

Horace epitomized the digital-native generation, introverted and preferring tranquility, which made him well-suited for remote work.

Frank, on the other hand, had been a bundle of joy from birth, always laughing and seeking out lively environments. However, the nuclear explosion had robbed him of his beloved kindergarten and classmates. Gradually, he grew silent, mirroring his father's demeanor.

"Dad, it's getting dark and cold," Frank dutifully reminded his father, exhaling a puff of white mist from his mask and rubbing his little hands together.

Indeed, dusk was settling in, and the temperature was dropping.

The nuclear winter effect, triggered by the explosion, persisted even now. Despite it being summer, nighttime temperatures could plummet to near freezing, indistinguishable from winter conditions.

Both father and son were clad in cashmere thermal underwear, warding off the chill.

With the day's fading light, Horace checked the doors and windows, drawing all the curtains closed in a routine as familiar as any other daily task.

He purposefully left a sliver of an opening in the balcony's French windows to stay attuned to any external sounds, a necessary precaution in a place that wasn't truly theirs.

He noted that the nuclear zombies, previously seen wandering the complex, had vanished into the unknown.

The whereabouts of the nuclear zombies at night remained an enigma; their daytime haunts were known, and in the absence of human prey, they'd resort to animals.

Horace had once come across a rabbit stripped of its flesh, its skeleton encasing its organs—a clear signature of their handiwork.

Contrary to the gut-munching zombies of sci-fi films, nuclear zombies consumed only flesh, a vestige of their human consciousness.

As the curtains were drawn, darkness enveloped the room. Frank's voice, tinged with excitement, broke through, "Oh, time to light the candles!"

Horace retrieved a candle from his backpack and struck a match to ignite it. In the enveloping darkness, the candlelight brought a glow to their eyes and warmth to the room.

This candle was no ordinary one; specially treated, it could burn for a continuous six hours, a critical emergency item for any Excavator venturing outside.

However, one must be cautious with nighttime lighting, as some nocturnal creatures are drawn to it. To prevent this, he drew the curtains closed.

Even though dusk had not yet fallen, for the father and son, it was already considered evening—a time for their daily lessons.

Horace set the candle between them, crossed his legs, and sat down, assuming the role of a teacher.

Frank mirrored his father, sitting cross-legged like a diligent student.

Horace fixed his gaze on his son and instructed, "Recite the eight key points."

Frank blinked his large eyes, his lips moving continuously as he recited in a measured tone, "One, do not trust rumors; rely on information released by the government. Two, do not enter the explosion zone. Three, avoid going out unnecessarily; keep doors and windows shut, seal air vents, and cease all non-essential outdoor activities. Four, if you must go outside, wear a gas mask and protective clothing to minimize exposure. Five, upon returning, cleanse your body with water and soap. Six, protect your skin and prevent any damage to it. Seven, promptly store food and water indoors before contamination occurs. Eight, take iodine tablets if necessary."

This announcement had been broadcast repeatedly by the government following the nuclear explosion, and both father and son knew it by heart.

Three years had passed, and while some of the advisories were no longer necessary, Horace insisted his son commit them to memory. After all, who could predict if a second nuclear explosion might occur?

The official word was that one month after the nuclear explosion, the radiation levels in the contaminated area had dropped to a tolerable level for humans. Survivors could venture out without protection, but were advised to limit their time outside to just a few hours each day.

Now, three years later, survivors could freely go outside, provided they were equipped with masks, nuclear radiation meters, and iodine tablets—a trio of radiation protection essentials.

Pleased, Horace nodded and queried, "What are the three survival rules?"

Without hesitation, Frank rattled them off: "Don't go out at night! Stay away from women! Don't approach strangers!"

Seeing his son's puzzled expression, Horace sighed inwardly. The first rule was straightforward, but the latter two were too profound and harsh for a child of only seven.

Yet, at an age brimming with curiosity, his son deserved to know the reasons behind these rules. So Horace endeavored to explain them in the simplest terms possible.

Horace pressed on with his questions, "Why shouldn't we go out at night?"

Frank puffed out his little chest and replied, "Because there are giant rats after dark."

"And why should we keep our distance from women?"

"Because women's scent draws in nuclear zombies."

"What about avoiding strangers?"

"Because strangers are all bad news."