Excerpt: We Are The Weapon

All of the other people in Atlanta were doing almost exactly what they had been doing the moment that World War III started for the United States of America until the aftershock hit, and the ones that survived would remember it. A few, far away from Atlanta and Turner Field, would lift their heads to the east and listen, as if they had heard a faraway cry.

The boy never knew what would happen in the war, or about who survived and who did not, or even who was responsible. For the boy, it did not matter. He had lived his short life knowing very little about how the world worked, and he knew even less about the people in it. He did not know about his mother’s triumphant affair or his father’s shame. He did not know the hot dog vendor’s desperation.

He died not knowing these things.

In the end, the boy would lose his name and become one of the anonymous dead, a statistic, the fallout preventing any kind of personal identification. Turner Field began as a stadium and ended as a tomb.

And after October 23rd, 2078, there would be no more World Series, not for the Braves, not for the Mets, not for anyone, not ever again.