Nuclear War, a Last Stand in the Woods, and the Rifle a Son Inherits
My name is Johnny Williams. I’m 13.
Most of the time when I was with my dad, I was learning something. Being in the woods, how to work with people, how to be a better teammate. Sometimes it was football. Sometimes it was shooting. Sometimes it was just paying attention.
On the day it happened, my mom and my two older brothers had gone to see my grandparents on the other side of the state. It was just me and Dad. We were out cleaning up his shop. He wanted to turn it into an office and a place for us to hang out.
We were halfway through cleaning when it happened. A nuclear weapon detonated in Chicago. Our phones were getting emergency alerts.
Then, the sirens started.
Dad didn’t say much. He just moved. He grabbed a helmet and a gas mask and threw them to me. “Put it on. Now.” I did it without asking questions. I could tell by the way he was moving that this was very serious, and we might be in trouble here. I’d never seen him like that before. We ran for the house. He told me to go straight to the basement.
We stayed in the basement for about a week. No word from my mom and brothers had us both really worried. We had water, food, board games, sleeping bags, everything we’d need if we had to stay down there for a while. Dad said that he’d not planned for the two weeks required to let the dangers of nuclear fallout settle. He had food for plenty more time hunkering down, but not water. We were rationing water as best we could. Water is more essential than food is and it takes a lot of room to store because you can’t compress it like you can food.
We’ve had tornadoes in our area every year for a long time, so we always had the basement prepared to be able to stay down there for a few days. On the eighth night we decided to head out to find more water, see what happened, and check on our neighbors. He grabbed a small bag with his dosimeter, night vision, thermal, radios, and extra batteries. He always kept it packed a certain way. Said it would protect everything from electrical damage. I never really understood how it worked. I just knew it mattered. He checked the dosimeter and said we didn’t have to wear masks outside. It was the first time all day I knew he was relieved. I couldn’t see him well in the dark, but I could tell from the sound of his voice. The night vision turned on.
He picked up his rifle. It was my favorite one he owned. An FDE Sons of Liberty M4 L89 with a scope, suppressor, and sling. This was a special rifle for him. It’s chambered in 6mm Max. He talked a lot about how it was like the 12-gauge of AR-15 rifles. It will shoot bullet weights from the 50s up past 100 grains, out past 1,000 yards, and flatter than his .308. I always thought it looked cool. He put on his belt with his pistol like it was just another normal thing. I told him I wanted to go with him and that I didn’t want to be alone. Surprisingly enough, he didn’t tell me to stay here.
Dad didn’t say much after we left the house. He never did when he was thinking. The neighborhood looked different than it had just a week before. Some houses were dark. Others had candles glowing through the windows. Cars were parked in strange places, some with doors hanging open. Garbage cans had been tipped over. Somebody had ransacked the house on the corner. The front windows were gone, and a bunch of stuff was pulled into the yard. Nobody was outside. Dad said that wasn’t a good sign. “The good people stay hidden after dark,” he whispered.
“What about the bad ones?” I asked.
“They come looking.”
That was the last real conversation we had.
We checked two houses. The Underwoods were gone. Mrs. Cypher answered the door carrying a shotgun. I had known her my whole life. She looked 20 years older than she had a week before. She recognized Dad and relaxed just enough to lower the barrel.
“You shouldn’t be out,” Mrs. Cypher scolded.
Dad replied, “We’re checking on people.”
She looked at me and said, “Take care of your boy.” Dad nodded once, and we kept moving.
Instead of walking down the road, Dad cut behind a row of houses and into a strip of woods that connected several neighborhoods. We’d walked these trails for years looking for deer sheds and turkey feathers. I knew every bend.
Dad slowed. Then, he stopped. I almost bumped into him. Without looking back, he raised his fist next to his head. I stopped immediately.
His head turned slowly from left to right. He wasn’t looking at anything. He was listening. After almost a minute, he quietly said, “Something’s wrong.” I looked around and didn’t see anybody. He slowly reached back and touched my shoulder and said, “When I move, you stay right behind me.” I nodded. He took three more steps. A rifle cracked. The bullet smacked into a tree 20 yards ahead. “STOP!” cried a voice. Another called out from a different direction. “DROP YOUR WEAPONS!” Yet another, “HANDS UP!”
Dad didn’t even hesitate. He shoved me behind a big oak and told me to stay down. Another shot snapped over our heads. Dad looked once into the woods, then back toward the neighborhood.
I watched something change in his face. He understood. This wasn’t just one or two men. They’d planned this. There wasn’t a safe way out. He leaned down close enough that only I could hear him, “Listen to me.”
I looked at him.
“When I leave, you stay here.”
“No!” I cried.
“Johnny.”
Desperation filled my voice, “I can help!”
He grabbed the front of my jacket.
“No!” I pleaded.
His voice wasn’t loud. It was the calmest I’d ever heard him, “I need you to do exactly what I taught you.”
I couldn’t answer.
He squeezed my shoulder, “If you hear shooting, you stay here.”
“I don’t want to,” I said sadly.
“I know … if I don’t come back …,” He stopped himself. Then smiled just a little. “You already know what to do.”
Before I could say anything else, he pushed me down behind the log. Then, he stood up and ran. Not away from the shooting. Toward it. The first man stepped out from behind a shed. Dad fired once. The man disappeared. Another muzzle flash lit up a second-story window. Dad never stopped moving. He crossed 20 yards before another shot came from somewhere deeper in the neighborhood. Then another. Then another. Three directions. Maybe four. The woods exploded with noise. Dad kept moving deeper between the trees.
The voices followed him. “There!” shouted a man’s voice. “He’s running!” came the reply. “Go!”
Every one of them chased him. I stayed where I was. Every second felt wrong. Everything inside me wanted to run after him. Instead, I counted. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Just like he’d taught me when we hunted. When you’re scared, slow your breathing. Think. Don’t move because you’re afraid. Move because it’s the right time. The shooting lasted less than a minute. It felt like an hour.
Then … nothing. No voices. No gunfire. Only the wind. I waited. Five minutes. Maybe 10. I don’t know. Finally, I stood. The woods looked different now. Fresh branches covered the ground. Leaves had been torn from saplings by bullets. I found the first body lying beside a fallen tree. His rifle was still underneath him. Twenty yards farther was another. He’d never even gotten his magazine seated all the way. There was blood leading farther into the woods. Someone had survived. I kept following the broken branches. Then, I saw Dad.
He was sitting against a big maple tree. His rifle resting next to him. His pistol was at slide lock in his left hand. He looked like he was waiting for me. When I got close, I knew. I didn’t say anything. I just stood there.
The woods where he’d taught me to shoot, to track, where he’d taught me how to build a fire in the rain. This was where he made his last stand. Not because he wanted to die here. Because he knew they would follow him. And because every step he took deeper into those trees was one more step farther away from me. Even then, he was still teaching me how to survive.
I waited for him to move. He didn’t. I don’t know how long I stood there. It felt like a long time. Eventually, I knelt down. I didn’t touch him right away. I picked up his rifle first. It was heavier than I remembered. I checked the way he showed me. Made sure it was loaded. Made sure it worked. My hands were shaking, but I still did it right. Then, I just held onto it for a minute. I didn’t cry. I thought I would, but I didn’t. I just felt … empty. Dad always said tools don’t matter if you don’t know how to use them. Standing there, holding his rifle, I realized something else. Sometimes knowing how to use it is the easy part.
I stayed there longer than I should have. I didn’t want to leave him, but I knew I couldn’t stay.
The rifle was one of his go-to setups. He loved this rifle because it was so versatile. Dad put suppressors on almost everything. He had a SilencerCo Scythe-Ti dedicated to the 6mm Max. He didn’t like swapping cans around to different guns. The optic was a Burris XTR PS. He called it his Iron Man optic. The scope had a heads-up display inside that showed a bubble level, an angle compensator, and the distance you dialed on the elevation knob. I know it did more, but I never got that far with it. His favorite sling was his Orion Design Group R.A.D. Slings are always somehow in the way. Adjustability and the speed of the R.A.D. were what made it my dad’s favorite. He kept it simple on purpose. No extra weight. Nothing hanging off it that didn’t need to be there.
He always said if you’re going to rely on something, you need to know how it works. Not just when everything’s perfect, but how it works when you’re tired, cold, and thinking about something else and especially when you’re scared. This one wasn’t complicated. I’d shot hundreds of rounds through this rifle and probably a couple thousand through his other ARs combined.
I remember him telling me once that a rifle like this isn’t about power. It’s about consistency. Putting rounds where they need to go. Every time. No guessing. This wasn’t just something he carried. This was something he trusted. And now it was mine. I didn’t stay there much longer. I knew I should have. I knew I was supposed to. But I couldn’t. Dad wouldn’t have wanted that. I looked back at him one more time before I turned away. I kept expecting to hear his voice. Telling me to take my time, to be careful.
But there was nothing. Just the wind.
I made it back to the house and shut the door behind me. Everything felt different. The house didn’t feel like home anymore. It felt like a place I needed to leave. I went back down to the basement and sat for a while. I thought about my mom. My brothers. I tried to convince myself they were OK. That they’d come back. But deep down, I knew. If Dad didn’t make it back, they probably weren’t going to either. I didn’t cry. I wanted to. I just … couldn’t. It felt like there wasn’t anything left to come out. After a while, I stood up. I checked what we had left: water, food, batteries. I went through everything the way he showed me. Slow. One thing at a time. No rushing.
Before I left, I took one last look around. This place used to feel safe. Now it just felt small. I slung the rifle over my shoulder and adjusted it the way he taught me. Checked the mask. Checked my pockets. Everything had a place. Everything mattered now. I opened the door and stepped outside. I didn’t look back this time.
I’m still here.
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