When the nuclear war starts, you won't be ready.
You'll think of a hundred things you could have done, that you wish you had done, before it happened. You'll tell yourself you knew it was coming. Everyone knew it was coming. But getting ready for it, really ready, that wasn't something you wanted to do. In a way, it was like admitting it was coming. So you just hoped it wouldn't. You almost never thought about it.
You forgot that a gun on the mantle in the first act always gets fired before the end.
In that moment, when you first realize this is not a drill, this is real, this is now, you'll know that there are people you love you'll never see again. You won't know which ones will die and which ones will make it. You might not know for a long time.
You'll look around yourself and wonder why you spent so much money on things you just can't eat.
You might be surprised to learn that fallout is only deadly for the first two weeks. You won't have expected to survive the initial blast at all, but you'll find out that most of the population did.
They're hungry too, just like you.
It won't be long before you realize that the real trick is going to be surviving what's left.
You'll become part of a new economy, one in which antibiotics and ammunition are the gold standard.
You won't be able to cook anything, for the smell of cooking, even of fire, means you've got something worth taking.
Most of all, you'll wonder why it is that you survived, and not someone more prepared.
Your world will shrink. You'll have no idea what's going on outside. You'll hope that somewhere, someone is sending help.
Your phone won't work. Your car won't work. Anything that had any electronics in it won't work.
Your brain, somehow, is still working.
You won't be able to survive alone.
You'll find others, friends, family, strangers, and you'll share what you have.
Together you'll wait for the end, or a new beginning.