Winner, 2nd prize in the 2018 Bards & Sages Literature Contest
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Jesus Christ Almighty, is that a missile? Oh God, it is! It’s hurtling through the sky overhead. I slam my foot on the brake and my truck jerks to a halt.

This can’t be happening. It passes almost directly over me, trailing a long streak of fire through the afternoon sky. I feel sick to my stomach and my shoulders start to tremble. I see it in the rear-view mirror now as it flies over the trees. It’s heading straight towards D.C. Jesus Christ, this is the end of D.C. The entire country might collapse. Krista might be gone. My job is definitely gone.

It explodes. Everything turns to white. It’s so bright! I squeeze my eyes shut and slap my hand over my face. It hurts! I duck down against the armrest. Oh God, I’m going to die!

There’s a giant booming sound, and I feel the truck being lifted into the air. Krista, I love you! Mom, I love you! The truck drops back to the ground, and my head hits the steering wheel. I can feel shards of glass hitting me all over.

I can barely breathe because my whole body is going insane. Every part of me is trembling—something’s coming up!—I vomit into the cupholders.

It blew up here! It blew up here! It couldn’t have hit D.C., I’m at least 100 miles from there by now. I sit up and look behind me. Far off behind the trees is a giant mushroom cloud. It’s much skinnier than I would’ve imagined. How far away is it? Five miles? Maybe ten. I don’t know. How am I supposed to look at something and say ‘that’s ten miles away’? At least it’s far enough away to not instantly incinerate me.

Oh shit, oh shit. I know what happened. Nambia’s missiles were inaccurate. That has to be it. CNN said they might be inaccurate. They were only firing it because of President Covfefe’s latest threats, after all. Oh Jesus, maybe I actually fucked myself by driving out here to West Virginia.

My chest hurts, like I’m having a miniature heart attack. It can’t be that, though; nobody has a heart attack in their twenties. Right? I’m pretty sure that can’t happen.

My hands are gripping the steering wheel but shaking uncontrollably. My teeth are chattering so hard, they’ll probably turn into little white nubs before I die of radiation poisoning.

That’s right, radiation poisoning! That’s what comes next. I don’t have time to freak out, I have to get into survivor mode. Right. Fucking. Now.

I’ve got food, I’ve got potassium iodide. I’m prepared for this. I can’t try to outdrive the blast, every single thing I’ve read said that’s the worst thing you can do. Shelter! I have to get to a house and get into the basement before the fallout gets here.

But I’m out in the middle of the countryside. I haven’t passed a house in ten minutes. The fallout could get here before I come across another house. Well, I don’t have any better options, do I? I’m facing away from the blast, so at least I’ll get further from it as I go.

All the windows are shattered from the shockwave but the windshield is still intact. It has a giant crack running from one side to the other, like my cousin’s old Tahoe had. I really hope it doesn’t break.

I put the pedal to the floor, and start speeding down the country road. I will find shelter, I have to. I will survive this. I won’t let anything kill me. I’m a survivor. That’s why I drove out here to West Virginia in the first place. I’m a very logical person, and I don’t let my emotions control my decisions.

I can still see the mushroom cloud in the cracked rear-view mirror. It’s slowly getting taller and fatter.

I wonder what’s happening to Krista right now. Who knows, there could’ve been more missiles. And maybe one did hit D.C. But if they’re this inaccurate who knows what might’ve happened. At least she knows to hide in a closed room for two days after the blast.

I pull out my phone and scroll down my contacts list to “Ball&Chain.”