If they set off all the bombs, and everything we know, human civilisation if not the human race, if not mammalian life itself, was to burn up in a grandiose firework display of self destructive power:
It wouldn’t really matter. Things would die. Things would survive. The sun would rise and the sun would set. The stars would send out photons across the great abyss in the sky and the tiny creatures would continue the task of all life, like a blackhole but less inevitable: to consume and absorb all things into itself.
We recoil at human suffering, but life is suffering. We recoil at death, but now or 80 years from now, it’s but a blink of the eye. None of this has a purpose, we’re cells in a petri-dish in a world without biologists, colonising brilliantly coloured agar and then shrinking back into the void from whence all comes.
If you sat right on the edge, so that you were horrifically burned but still took days to die from the inevitable sickness of radiation, your agonies would blot all that from your mind. All you would know is pain and it would matter a great deal to you. But pain is just a sensation, it is not meaningful, it pierces our soul and we cry out. But for what? Pray for a quick death, better yet, pray there is anyone to hear you.
Anyway, it won’t happen. Sisyphus is not done with his boulder, maybe for the best, or maybe it’s worse. Or worse…
…tomorrow you awake and the city still stands and charred bodies do not yet litter the streets and you are sure it doesn’t matter either way.