Hunter, considering his task complete, approached the control panel and set the landing program. The lower ATLAS descended, the more heartbreaking it was to see the once-beautiful city. The skeletons of half-destroyed skyscrapers jutted out like broken teeth, the outlines of streets were barely discernible; Las Vegas was unrecognizable. The glass facades of casinos had melted like wax, steel frames were warped from the heat, and asphalt on the roads had blistered and cracked under a thick layer of ash and soot. Charred remains of palms and fountains lay in heaps, and the famous neon signs had turned into twisted metal drowning in dust.
At an altitude of about four hundred meters, ATLAS began to sway in gusts of wind. A black cloud swept in from the direction of the city center, covering the cockpit windows with a dirty veil. Hunter gave the "stop" command; ATLAS ceased its descent and swayed as if on waves.
"That's nuclear dust," Hunter pointed at the porthole. "It'll continue falling to the ground for a long time, especially with precipitation. Beware of it!"
"You think ATLAS will save us from radiation?" I asked, looking at the murky windows.
"Absolutely! Nuclear dust contains no more than five hundred rads, but if you get such a dose several times, it's lethal," he replied without taking his eyes off the screen.
The cloud disappeared as suddenly as it appeared, and the view of the city opened before us again.
Hunter directed the video scanner this way and that, while I sat in my seat, and the most incredible thoughts came to mind. Our psyche, it seems, is built in such a way that even in hopeless moments when there's no chance of survival, a hope for a miracle still flickers within us. I dreamed of ATLAS flying to our city, me seeing my apartment, taking a shower, putting on my uniform, getting into my car, entering the lab—and everything dear to me would be intact. After what I'd experienced, the concept of life and death had changed. I acknowledged my insignificance before nature—and that was already an achievement.
In my youth, I studied religious teachings about the end of the world, but death seemed distant, unreal, a philosophical concept for moral restraint. Now, when it was nearby, I wondered why this truth hadn't reached those who considered themselves immortal and started this war. Had they realized the finiteness of life, the catastrophe wouldn't have happened.
But I understood that I was still alive—and only thanks to ATLAS.
"Hunter, you studied the manual I printed for you well. What's ATLAS's flight range without refueling?" I heard my voice ask.
He reluctantly tore himself away from the screen, rubbed his temples, walked over, and sat next to me.
"The turbines run on crystallized hydrogen," he said. "Hydrogen is the most abundant element in the universe; it's unlimited in the atmosphere. The designers claim the resource is practically inexhaustible."
"That's under normal conditions, but under nuclear winter conditions?" I persisted.
Hunter shrugged, and I thought the seats beneath us swayed. I regretted not having studied scientists' forecasts about the consequences of nuclear war.
"You don't know how long after the catastrophe nuclear cooling will set in?" I asked.
"James already told you, not immediately," Hunter replied, closing his eyes. "You saw how the cloud with aerosol-radioactive substances rose above twelve kilometers?"
"I saw. So?"
"These clouds will begin absorbing most of the sunlight in two or three weeks. Seas and oceans won't freeze immediately; the upper layers of water, about a hundred meters, were heated by the sun and will release heat gradually. At worst, you'll find salvation there..."
"We'll find," I corrected, but Hunter seemed not to hear.
"Scientists said there would be hurricane-force winds and precipitation in coastal areas. Beware of black clouds; toxic smogs are possible," he warned almost inaudibly.
"Are we just going to hover at this altitude?" I tried to change the subject.
Hunter snapped out of it, tried to stand but couldn't.
"Bring some alcohol from the baggage hold," he requested in a weak voice.
I got up, went to the cargo hold, and saw Larson's body, curled up, had fallen to the floor. The cabin temperature was maintained at twenty-two degrees Celsius. Not knowing when I could bury the body, I decided to place it in the freezer. Clearing out supplies, I squeezed the body onto the top shelf with difficulty, poured some alcohol into a mug, and returned to the cabin. Entering, I found Hunter dictating an audio recording to "Alice":
"...By fate's will, we avoided thermal radiation and the blast wave, but radioactive substances caught up with us later... We saw how rapid heat release in fire centers lifted air masses, creating hurricanes directed toward the burning foci..."
"Why do you need this?" I asked, handing him the alcohol.
"For future generations," he replied, pressing his lips to the mug, his teeth clinking against the metal. "It's unknown who besides us saw the rise of radioactive dust. If this is indeed a war, living beings surely remained—some were in the subway, some worked in mines, places where explosions and radiation couldn't reach them."
I agreed with him on this. I also didn't want to believe in universal death.
"And now, let's descend!" he said.
I initiated the descent. ATLAS carefully landed on the surface in a relatively clear spot among the ruins—this used to be a city park. Clouds of dust rose. Hunter approached the hatch, waited for the dust to settle, and pressed the button. I stood by the porthole next to the hatch, expecting him to appear outside. Sinking into the aerosol mixture and ash, he headed toward the park exit, where destroyed streets were visible. He walked slowly, sometimes turning his back to the wind, sometimes resting, moving his legs with difficulty. Exiting the park, he made his way along the street through debris: mangled cars lay on their roofs, building walls had collapsed, revealing their interiors, wires hung like entrails, asphalt was littered with glass and metal, and wind raised ash, creating a gray haze. Charred remains of trees and fountains mixed with trash, and in the distance, twisted hotel frames protruded.
Suddenly, Hunter changed direction. I aimed the lens but couldn't make anything out. He disappeared around a corner and didn't return for a long time. While waiting for him, I went into Alice's database, the "emergency situations" section, and began reading: "In case of ozone layer disruption, burns are possible... Blood diseases, thyroid, lung diseases..."
Suddenly hearing a crash and screech from where Hunter had disappeared, I rushed to the window and gasped: a pickup truck was struggling through the dust from around the corner. Covered in scorched paint spots, dented, with shattered windows, tires reduced to shreds of rubber, wheels on metal rims sparking against cobblestones and asphalt, creating an incredible racket. Wheezing with a strained, powerful engine, it still moved, and behind the wheel sat Hunter, buckled up and calm, as if driving his new Ford to the gym.
Hunter stopped near ATLAS and climbed out with difficulty. I went out and saw he was sitting with closed eyes, so I sat next to him.
"So, professor, we need to make a decision," he said without opening his eyes. "Everything is destroyed everywhere. There's no chance of survival in this hell. It's the same everywhere, so I didn't go further. When I was about to turn back, I noticed a supermarket not far away, though destroyed, some things survived. I gathered everything useful: we have food, but not much, very few essentials. I collected cans, axes, batteries, water packs, flashlights, first aid kits, ropes, knives, matches, blankets, water filters. Loaded this beauty and came back."
"There's nothing for us here; we need to leave before it's too late."
"Why?" I was surprised. Just an hour ago, he said our salvation was above the desert.
"ATLAS's resource is inexhaustible according to the documentation, but it's unknown how it will behave under nuclear winter conditions," he answered. "It wasn't designed for this. Food for two months, maybe less—I counted for two, but there are four of us."
"Maybe I should look for survivors? There must be basements where people could have hidden!" I suggested.
"Out of the question," he cut me off, falling silent for so long it seemed he'd fallen asleep. I stood up, but heard: "You're not going anywhere. We need to bury James. We need a refrigerator. Call Emily."
Emily came out silent, with an absent gaze. When we pulled out James's body, she broke down crying, though it seemed she had no strength left to cry.
With great effort, Hunter stood up, swaying, went to the cargo hold, and soon returned holding a shovel. He carefully hoisted James's body onto his back and, leaning on the shovel like a crutch, slowly headed toward the center of the park with Emily. Their steps were swallowed by the gray silence, everything around covered in soot and ash. They searched for a long time—a patch of earth not yet choked by black cinders, where a grave could be dug.
I followed their every move. When Hunter stumbled and almost fell, I rushed to help him. But Emily was ahead of me—fragile, almost childlike, she caught him, and that small effort was enough for him to straighten up again. So they walked—a large man, once strong and courageous but now broken by the war, and the small figure of a girl who seemed almost a child but at that moment was astonishingly strong.
They slowly receded until they disappeared behind a rocky outcrop where an artificial waterfall once flowed.
While I waited for them, I had time to think a little. At the moment of the catastrophe, over eight billion thinking beings like us lived on our planet, several billion of them children. Some maniac couldn't restrain himself and pressed the button, and in an instant, they perished. But we are built in such a way that if conditions for life arise on Earth again, thinking beings will gradually forget what happened. Time will pass, technological progress will cloud minds again, evoke admiration, and we won't even notice how achievements will once more be used by some maniac for our destruction. Such thoughts filled me with disgust for everything that surrounded us before the catastrophe.
"Perhaps Hunter is right," I concluded, "to prevent this from happening again, we need to explain as clearly as possible the damage technological achievements inflict on civilization..."
Engrossed in my thoughts, I didn't notice their return. Emily, having accepted the inevitable, held up bravely despite red eyes. Keila hugged her and led her into the cabin. Hunter and I remained among the ruins.
"Help me unload the vehicle," he requested and stood by the hatch. After unloading everything with difficulty, I helped him up and escorted him to his seat.
"Thank you, Hunter..."
"Cut it out!" he interrupted.
"I'll rest a bit and go again. Behind that rock, we found the remains of a small shop. Maybe we can find something useful," Hunter said, sinking into his seat.
Twilight thickened quickly. The wind raised brown dust vortices, and it seemed the air itself was saturated with ash. Sending the sick Hunter out in the dark was too risky.
"We can't fly at night anyway," I said. "Better wait until morning, then go to the supermarket again. There's probably still a lot left..."
I didn't get to finish. The ground underfoot trembled, and the city ruins groaned, cracked, and swayed. Everything around shook—even the air seemed to vibrate. A crash came from the cargo hold—boxes we had painstakingly stacked an hour ago were falling.
Hunter jumped up. He wouldn't have made it to the cockpit—he only shouted:
"Alice! Immediate takeoff!"
But as the motors roared, the ground beneath us split open, revealing a massive crack. The platform with ATLAS began to sink, collapsing into blackness. Another second—and it seemed we would plunge down, but the machine shuddered, howled with its turbines, and shot upward.
Hunter approached the screen, turned on the external observation cameras, and switched them to night vision. Darkness gaped below.
"Shaking our poor earth..." he said quietly.
The atmosphere around was fractured, ragged, as if consisting of layers—gray, brown, poison-green. At about three thousand meters, we passed through clouds of vapors; at five thousand, instruments jumped, lighting up with warning lights: carbon dioxide, hydrogen cyanide, hydrogen chloride—what wasn't in this lethal soup. Then water vapor again, and toxic layers again.
Only past the ten-thousand-meter mark did the air clear. Clouds remained below, and Hunter ordered the ascent to stop.