Nuclear Dog Walk

Ah, fuck me sideways. One second, I’m just walking the dog—old Buster, wagging his tail like a bloody idiot—and the next thing I know, the world’s gone brighter than a thousand suns and my ears are ringing like I’ve just copped a punch from Mike bloody Tyson. Jesus Christ, what the fuck just happened? Did I trip? Did I press something? What the actual fuck was that?

I’m standing there in the middle of this smoking crater—I think it’s a crater?—and Buster’s looking up at me like I just invented dog biscuits. Good boy, no idea what’s going on, just happy to be alive. Meanwhile, I’m trying to process how the entire neighbourhood—fuck, maybe the whole bloody suburb—has been reduced to a smouldering pile of nothing. My brain’s scrambling, screaming at me: You’ve done it now, mate! You’ve well and truly fucked it this time!

Right, okay. Let’s back up a second. I didn’t have a nuke, did I? How the fuck could I have a nuke? I’m just a bloke. A normal bloke. Not some CIA assassin or shady arms dealer. I mean, yeah, I’ve got a dodgy ute with a busted muffler and some overdue library books, but nothing that warrants this. Tactical nuclear weapons don’t exactly pop up in Bunnings, do they? And even if they did, I wouldn’t bloody know how to arm the bastard. Would I?

Wait. Shit. That thing from last weekend. The car boot sale! That weird metal box I bought off that sketchy bloke in a trench coat. Thought it was a fancy tackle box or something. Christ, I didn’t even look inside. Could that have been it? No way. That’s fucking ridiculous. A tackle box nuke? I’d have noticed something like that, surely. Or... maybe not.

Buster’s sniffing the ground now, wagging his tail like we’re on some ordinary bloody stroll. Meanwhile, I’m staring at the horizon—or where the horizon used to be—trying to wrap my head around the fact that half the town is just... gone. Vaporised. Blown to smithereens. I didn’t even like the town that much, but I didn’t want to bloody erase it.

And the noise! Holy hell, the ringing in my ears is so loud I can’t even hear myself think. Not that my thoughts are worth hearing right now. Mostly just a repeating loop of “what the fuck, what the fuck, what the actual fuck.”

Right, priorities. I should call someone, shouldn’t I? The cops? The army? Someone official? But what the hell do I say? “G’day mate, bit of an issue here, accidentally set off a tactical nuke while walking the dog, might need some help with that.” Yeah, that’ll go over well. Fucking hell. Maybe I just... don’t say anything. Maybe I walk home, lock the doors, and pretend this never happened. Can they trace a nuke? Is there, like, a signature or some shit?

Oh, fuck me, what if they can? What if they show up at my house with tanks and helicopters and SWAT teams and they’re like, “Oi, dickhead, what’s with the unlicensed tactical weaponry?” And what do I say? “Oh, sorry officer, I thought it was a lunchbox.” Jesus wept, I’m going to prison, aren’t I? Or worse. They’re gonna think I’m some kind of terrorist!

Hang on. Let’s not lose our heads here. Maybe it wasn’t me. Maybe it was... I don’t know, something else? A gas leak? Solar flare? Russian hackers? Yeah, that sounds plausible. Just need to act normal. Walk away like nothing happened. But, oh shit, there’s no “away” to walk to, is there? The park’s gone, the shops are gone, even the Maccas is gone. Christ on a bike, I nuked the fucking Maccas!

Alright, deep breaths. Focus. Buster’s fine. I’m fine. That’s got to count for something, doesn’t it? Maybe it’s a sign. A second chance. Yeah, that’s it. I’ve been a bit of a prick lately, haven’t I? Skipping out on me mum’s calls, cutting off that bloke in traffic last week. Maybe this is the universe telling me to pull my head in. Or maybe it’s just telling me I’m the dumbest cunt alive.

Fuck me, I need a drink. Too bad the pub’s probably nothing but radioactive ash now. Christ, what a bloody day.

Right, so there I am, standing in what I can only describe as the world’s biggest fuck-up, trying to figure out the next move. Buster’s still sniffing about, happy as Larry, like we’ve just taken a detour through a freshly dug paddock instead of a fucking post-apocalyptic wasteland. How is he not fazed by this? Maybe dogs are immune to existential dread. Lucky little bastard.

I look down at myself. My clothes are singed—well, what’s left of them, anyway—and there’s this weird metallic tang in the air. Radiation. That’s got to be radiation, hasn’t it? I’ve seen the movies. Bet my skin’s already glowing under this ash-covered daylight. Fuck me, am I going to turn into some mutant? Like, arms growing out of me head and glowing green bollocks? Or is it more of a slow burn—vomiting me guts up, hair falling out, and then I’m toast?

But no, focus. Focus, you idiot. Let’s take stock. Number one, I’m alive. Against all odds, I’m still bloody standing, even though every house, car, and probably half the bloody people I’ve ever met have been turned into dust. That’s got to mean something, right? Like maybe the blast wasn’t as big as I thought. Maybe it’s one of those low-yield nukes or whatever. Still a nuke, though. Christ, imagine explaining this to the insurance company.

Wait, wait. Do I even have insurance? Probably doesn’t matter. Don’t think “accidentally nuked your neighbourhood” is covered under any policy. “Acts of God,” maybe? Nah, this wasn’t God. This was me. Stupid fucking me and my weird obsession with car boot sales. Honestly, who buys a sealed metal box from a guy who looks like he’s halfway through a meth bender? This dumb cunt, that’s who.

And now, what’s left? The dog. The tackle box—or what’s left of it. Shit, where is it? I turn around, kicking through the ash and rubble, and there it is. The bloody thing survived. Barely scratched, just sitting there like it owns the joint. If I had half a brain, I’d bury it, chuck it in a river, or just leg it and leave it behind. But I can’t. What if someone else finds it? What if they press another button and finish off the job I accidentally started? Nah, this mess is mine. Like a proper dickhead, I’m taking responsibility.

So I pick it up. It’s heavier than I remember, or maybe my arms are just jelly from the blast. Either way, I’m lugging this death box along as I stumble down what used to be the main road. No cars, no people, just this eerie silence broken by the crunch of my boots on the gravel. Well, that and the occasional fart from Buster. Lovely timing, mate. You really know how to keep the mood light.

Then it hits me. Not the radiation this time—though that’s probably bubbling away in me guts—but the reality of it. People are going to come looking for this. The military, the government, the bloody UN. Hell, maybe aliens for all I know. And when they do, they’re not going to believe I just “found” a nuke and accidentally set it off. Nah, they’ll think I’m some kind of mad scientist or secret agent. Why me? I’m not even good at lying! I still get nervous nicking extra sauce packets at the servo!

Fuck it. Let’s be proactive. Find a phone, call someone, and hand this nightmare over. Not the cops, though. They’ll shoot first and ask questions never. Maybe one of those conspiracy nutters on the internet—tell them the truth, and they’ll probably believe me. Hell, they’ll probably pin it on Bill Gates or some 5G bullshit. Perfect.

But where do I even go? Can’t go home—home’s a crater. Can’t exactly walk into town carrying a box that might wipe out what’s left of the planet. Jesus, I need a plan. Or a miracle. Or maybe just a stiff drink and a nap.

Meanwhile, Buster’s still trotting along, sniffing the box now like it’s full of sausages. “You’re a bloody idiot, you know that?” I mutter to him. But he just looks at me with those big, dumb eyes, and for a second, I almost feel calm. Not because the situation’s any less fucked—it’s probably more fucked than I even realise—but because, well, at least I’m not alone.

“Alright, mate,” I say, hoisting the box higher. “Let’s go find someone who knows what the fuck to do with this thing.” And with that, we keep walking, two idiots against the end of the world.