[ WP ] You have been stranded on a desert island for some time . One morning , you awake to the sight of mushroom clouds upon the horizon .

This was the end. 
 
 He had had this thought at least a dozen times since he had been here, but never had the thought been quite as serious as it was now. This, indeed, was it. It was the end of everything that he had known. Again. The rest of them had done this to themselves. Dead. Gone. The war had started. And promptly ended. 
 
 He was never so grateful to be alive and on this island. Three years here, perhaps. But he would live and the rest of them would die. 
 
 But relief faded to fear. What had this all been for? All this time surviving was to eventually get out of here. Now, there was nothing to survive for. There was no one else on this island. There was only him. Forever, now. 
 
 He ran towards the water screaming and hollering about nothing in particular. Tears began to pour from his eyes. Anger welled up inside of him. 
 
 It was all for nothing! Those bastards destroyed it all for nothing! 
 
 He would never get off this island and, even if he did, there would be nothing for him. Just the wasteland they left him as a little welcome home gift. She was gone now, even if she was waiting for him. He had never felt so hopeless before. 
 
 He dove into the waves that he had always been too afraid to touch. He swam as much as he could. He had been afraid of the water before. Be now there was nothing to live for. Nothing at all. 
 
 Four days later, a young girl was wandering along the shore of the beach, collecting items of value from the explosion. Upon lifting up a large piece of metal, she found a body. He first thought that he was among the faceless victims of the bomb, but no. He was in a tattered business suit and he was American. It was the president. The one who went missing. The reason that the war started. 
 
 It was over before it even began. 

