Fat Man

The fat cat, arm around the pretty girl’s waist, pressed the unlock button on his car fob, which had a famous logo.

Phil Hopskins glared. Whilst some poor sods – such as him – had to get up and go to work, others basked in a life of glorious luxury. It wasn’t fair, damn it. Especially on this day, the hottest of the year, or so the weatherman proclaimed. Lovely. It was only 7:30, and already sweat was trickling down his back, making his work shirt stick to his skin. And Phil was sure that when he got to work and took his blazer off, there would already be damp patches under his arms. And the day would only keep getting hotter from here on out. He supposed he might enjoy the heat in another life – one where he didn’t have to subscribe to this rat race. It was easy to like the sun when you lay on a beach somewhere, a mojito in one hand and a pretty woman in the other. Phil shuffled along with the rest of the grey, unhappy swarm of peasants off for another day of misery. He used his briefcase, made of cheap faux leather, as a battering ram to keep them from crushing him to death. Before descending the steps into the underworld, he glanced at the man he loathed and longed to be.

The pair got into the luxury car and dropped the convertible’s roof. Fat Cat – whose Ralph Lauren polo shirt couldn’t hide his gut – removed the jumper slung over his shoulders. The girl, relieved to be off her high heels, clutched a Gucci bag and readjusted her Ray-Bans. She flashed a too-big smile at the man, who could have been one of her dad’s older brothers. The man reached across the centre console, his Rolex flashing in the morning light, and cranked up the AC.

Phil’s jaw dropped. Although, he wasn’t all that surprised at the careless attitude. It seemed all rich folks shared that same ‘well-who-cares?’ mentality. But dropping the roof and then turning on the air conditioning? If he weren’t so miserable, he would have laughed.

Fat Cat placed one hairy hand high on the young thing’s thigh and squeezed it. Then, without checking his mirrors, he drove off at an inappropriate speed. The shiny car disappeared into the shimmering heat of the morning city.

Phil grumbled. No doubt they were off to the coast. They’d decided their penthouse suite – with its balcony and private pool – would be too hot today. God, why did life have to be so unfair? How had they allowed such an inordinate misdistribution of wealth as a species? They needed some equalisation to come and tip the scales back the other way. Things had gotten way out of hand. Oh well. He wasn’t going to reach that kind of wealth by standing here and complaining about it. Not that work paid him anything more than breadcrumbs; he could cover rent, and that was it. He inhaled the city’s smog-smothered air – roses compared to the underground stench. And then he allowed the zombie horde to sweep him along to the subway station.

The smell of cheap coffee, cheap aftershaves and perfumes, and stale body odour clung to the air. Young and old, black and white, man and woman churned beneath the fluorescent glare. Nobody spoke to their neighbours, yet the choir of overlapping voices filled the hall. People held phones to their ears and spoke into wireless headsets, staring into space. They mumbled aloud to people who weren’t there as though ghosts walked amongst them. Scanners beeped as passengers showed their tickets to their fare-checking overlords.

Phil gritted his teeth, sweat on his temples. Nothing could make you loathe humanity more than public transport. He staggered with his peers until it came time to present his ticket. He scanned it and pushed through the rotating barrier, which always struck him in the gut, shins, or crotch. And then he yelped.

When the light flashed green, a man pressed into his back and slipped through the barrier with him. It was like some strange lovers’ embrace. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he mumbled, disappearing into the crowd. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

He watched him go, mouth agape, heart hammering, feeling violated. He groaned and shuffled down to where the overfilled train would shuttle him off.

On the platform, people crammed together, shoulder to shoulder. The swarm shifted from one foot to the other, waiting for their ride beneath the city’s diseased heart. They crowded over the ‘DO NOT CROSS’ line, and a kid on a scooter whizzed by close to the tracks. One or two people puffed on cigarettes or toked on vapes despite the ‘NO SMOKING’ signs.

A knot wormed inside Phil’s chest, where his ribs met. They looked like the proverbial sardines. Except, in Phil’s mind, sardines had the luck of someone catching, killing, and tinning them. All he wanted was a better existence than this; was that such a wrong desire? It was why he played the lottery despite never having won more than enough to pay for a chunk of his grocery bill. He didn’t care about lavish living or having billions. He only wanted an end to this struggle. He wanted to go to bed, not thinking about work. He wanted to enjoy his Sundays without feeling a pit of dread at the upcoming week. He wanted life to be fairer. Why was their entire existence centred around their ability to make money? God, being alive was expensive. Work, spend your money on a roof over your head and eat food that tastes bland. Pay your rent and taxes, and put money into your pension fund. Be a good worker bee. Rinse and repeat until you die. Glorious.

A rumble under his feet whispered of the oncoming train. Yet, before it could come into view, a sound split the air. It was louder than the train’s thunder and the babble of the thousands down here. It rose and fell, rose and fell, rose and fell, spelling sinusoidal doom.

His stomach dropped. His skin prickled in gooseflesh, and his bowels threatened to release.

It was an air raid siren.

The jabbering voices rose in pitch, panicked and desperate. Everyone tried to speak over everyone else, and a few turned and ran for the stairs, taking them two at a time. One voice cut through the mix, evident in its terror. ‘Oh my god, ohmygodohmygodOHMYGOD!’

Phil, who was only coming to, like a man waking from a dream, thought that God had long since abandoned them. He turned to say this to the person next to him, which turned out to be the guy who’d pushed through the barrier with him. But he never got a chance.

The world above them exploded. The ground rippled, sending slabs bouncing like piano keys played by a ghost. The train tracks twisted and bent. Overhead, the lights flickered. Dust rained down from the ceiling. Every person with a set of lungs screamed loud enough to burst blood vessels. The blast knocked them from their feet. And then the lights went out for good, dropping them into darkness.

Phil lay there, his heart lodged in his throat. Breaths would not come. He was on the floor, something warm and wet trickling down his forehead. He forced himself to gulp down a breath, coughed and choked on the dust, then tried another. And another. He struggled to get up from the tangled, intertwined bodies. He and the fellow who’d tried to get a free ride helped each other up.

Nearby, people screamed. ‘My leg, my LEEEEGG!’ shrieked one. ‘My god,’ gasped another, ‘I’M BLIND!’ Someone informed them, with plenty of swearing, that none of them could see because it was dark. In a calm, almost awed voice, a woman asked an awful question. ‘Jesus, was that a nuke?’

Phil’s mouth dried up. He needed to get out of here. He needed to get to fresh air. He fought hard to hold on and stop himself from breaking down in terror. One slip and then he’d be gone. He began pushing through the startled, wounded masses.

Some shouted and protested, but most wobbled to the side in a daze. Here and there, people lit up the darkness with the blue lights of mobile phones. When they saw him fighting for the stairs, others got the idea and followed him.

Still holding his briefcase, Phil scrambled up the stairs.

A couple of people lay on the steps, groaning. A man reached for him, begging for help. Up here, trickles of light afforded pitiful illumination. Their dazed, blood-smeared, dust-choked faces were desperate.

But Phil didn’t know first aid. He’d always wanted to learn, but with the stresses of work, he’d never found the time or energy to do so. Besides, emergency services would be here shortly. Right?

The ticket barriers loomed up ahead, dead and silent. Their red and green lights were now black. A few people – motionless – dangled, draped over these mechanical gatekeepers. Beyond, a carpet of bodies lay charcoaled. The ruins of the station’s entrance let in a weak, grey light. In many places, fires flickered, casting sickly orange glows over everything.

He took a deep breath and stole a glance over his shoulder.

The faces of the people that had followed stared, hollow-eyed. The barging man watched him.

They were waiting for him to make the first move. He nodded, then stepped his way through the dead hall. At first, he tried not to touch any of the corpses. But panic seized him when he stumbled and landed on an outstretched hand, turning it into ashes. He bolted, trampling over the fallen bodies. He didn’t stop until he reached the blown-out doors, glass crunching under his feet.

The world beyond was a warzone. A bus rested, toppled on its side. Its windows had exploded, and its metal had warped. Its rubber tyres drooped from the wheels like the fake melted cheese of a McDonald’s burger. The blast tossed cars everywhere like God were a toddler reaching down to play. Where people had been, dramatic shadows burned the walls and pavement like graffiti. Bits of rubble dotted the road where the less resistant buildings had crumbled. And, on the horizon, the mushroom cloud swelled, rippling in slow motion.

Phil started to raise his thumb and then stopped himself.

Behind, someone gasped and swore. ‘They did it, they actually did it.’

He looked back into the subway’s open mouth, now missing several teeth.

More and more people scrambled out of the darkness, their work clothes bloody and sooty.

Phil grunted. The poor saps who took the subway to work had, for the most part, survived. Despite their injuries, quite a few seemed okay. Out here on the streets, where Fat Cat drove his luxury car, death had reigned like hailstones made of fire. It wasn’t a perfect divide; the toppled bus showed that. But how many of the people who’d survived down there in the darkness were billionaires?

Nearby, an armoured bank truck lay crumpled like a ball of discarded paper thrown for the bin. Millions of notes vomited out of its rear doors. Yet, nobody rushed in to come and grab greedy handfuls.

Phil thought he might know why. The end of the world had come, and they’d made it. Whatever lay next in store was a mystery. Survival would be harsh and brutal. But this meant the end of money. The end of rent, mortgages, taxes, and bills. No more class division, no more politics or politicians, no more fat cats. As obscene as it was, in the light of such destruction, Phil felt a giddy sort of delirium spinning his head. He wouldn’t have to go to the office today. Phil wouldn’t have to go to the office ever again. He only had to scrounge to survive – life was now a hell of a lot simpler. And, if they wanted to, they could rebuild as they saw fit. He looked up at the atomic signpost towering high above them and smiled.

Every mushroom cloud had its silver lining.