Nuclear Winter

One of the strangest things about the destruction is the condition of the forests. This time of year is normally green and verdant and swampy. The forests form a canopy, and shade is everywhere. Not anymore. Huge groups of trees are chopped off at about fifteen feet. Some are twisted like wringed towels, bent over on themselves. Tree cutters have been injured when they cut the tensioned trees, which spin out branches and bark when released. Eight-foot strips of bark litter underfoot, like huge weaved baskets flung apart. And what trees are left are largely leafless.

It's like a nuclear bomb went off.

And it's a brutal summer. 100 degree heat, no shade. Soupy humidity. Dazed survivors, swollen and pink, sweating, slack-jawed, stumbling around their neighborhoods, looking for family snapshots and lost pets, all baking under an unnatural sun.

No power for air-conditioning, no refrigeration. Respite comes from bags of melting ice the National Guard gives out after a two hour wait.