The Diary of William Howard Beckner

The Diary of William Howard Beckner was written by its eponymous author over the span of twenty years from October 29th, 2077 until April 26th, 2098. Beckner's writings detail how he and eighty-seven others survived the Great War at a fortified weather station in Echo Bay, Nevada and eventually formed the tribe known as the Echo Runners. 
==October 29th, 2077==
William Howard Beckner
Date of Birth: November 9th, 2016
Date of Writing: October 29th, 2077
Echo Bay Meteorological Station, Nevada
The marines told me I should try writing my thoughts down in a journal or diary of some sort. I suppose it isn't the worst idea.
My name is William Howard Beckner. I'm a weather analyst and, when required, a mechanic and repairman here at the Echo Bay Meteorological Station in Echo Bay, Nevada. The name of the facility is accurate and also something of a deception. It's no simple meteorological station, or at least, it isn't anymore. Two years ago, it was contracted out to military officials, who proceeded to construct the extensive nuclear fallout shelter that I am now residing in. They also took to upgrading our equipment to improve its accuracy and efficiency, which was very much appreciated. 
The change from civilian to military was exciting... and terrifying. As contradictory as it may seem, the presence of armed marines made me feel less safe, not more. I know how strange that sounds. They are good men, and I have little doubt that they would readily sacrifice their lives to save mine. Still, firearms make me feel uneasy. If they didn't, I would have gone to work at a military station years ago. After all, their technology is top of the line, which has always been one of the few benefits of being at war. I digress. Even after two years, I still don't fully understand what the purpose of their takeover is - or was, but I suspect the installation of radiation sensors throughout the area ultimately had something to do with what occurred less than a week ago.
Lord forgive me for saying this, but the war was a sight to behold. We are not but a few miles away from Las Vegas, and when the bombs began to fall in the early morning... I had heard rumors from the marines about something going on in the city, some kind of defense system being mounted onto high rise buildings. This system must've had at least some success, as I witnessed several explosions in mid-air, some of which were frighteningly close to us. Whatever destroyed those missiles might very well have saved our lives. More than that, it might have even saved Lake Mead. That could bode well for our chance at survival. 
But even with the success of the city's defenses, we're not out of the woods just yet. There were several nuclear detonations in close enough proximity to present a radiological danger, and so we were forced to seek refuge inside the shelter. There is, of course, myself, five other members of my team, twenty marines, and sixty-two individuals from the nearby campground that sought refuge here a few hours after the bombs fell. The marines at first debated whether to let them in, but their leader, Lieutenant Booth, quickly put the debate to rest and unlocked the elevator himself. Twenty-six plus sixty-two, that's eighty-eight people to feed.
Booth estimates that there's enough food and water to last us for three months with light rationing or three and a half months with heavy rationing. He asked me if that's enough time for the radiation to get down to safe levels. I don't know. I don't even know if there will be anything edible waiting for us when it is safe to leave. I told him it's possible, especially because not all of the missiles hit their targets. That was good enough for him and the rest to have hope. Without that, I imagine we'd all be gone very quickly. 
At the very least, we don't have to worry about power. One way or the other, our nuclear generator will keep functioning long after all of us have kicked the bucket. 
I wish you were here, Charlotte.
==November 9th, 2077==
Today is my birthday. 
I stopped celebrating five years ago, but the marines were insistent that we commemorate the occasion. They even scoured the pantry and freezer for treats worthy of such a celebration, and returned with our entire supply of snack cakes. We had just enough for everyone.
Lieutenant Booth seemed to appreciate the slight boost in morale, that being just about the only thing we can boost with the radiation being the way it is. I don't envy his position. I imagine commanding nineteen marines and six civilians is hard enough, let alone nineteen marines and sixty-eight civilians. For now, they're all ready and willing to follow his orders and his ration plan, but I worry about what will happen if our situation grows more desperate. 
One of the marines, Corporal Garcia, volunteered to don a hazmat suit and go up to the station to get proper readings from the sensors every few couple of days. It hasn't been good news. The marines were told by their superiors that they could expect the worst of the radiation to decay within two to four weeks. It's been nearly three and the readings are lethal after five minutes of exposure for as far as our sensors go. I don't understand it. The marines think I'm some kind of authority on this topic, but I study the kind of weather that determines whether you go to the beach or stay inside and drink hot chocolate. But even if I knew much of anything about radiation... if government predictions weren't correct, then what is?
==December 15th, 2077==
Things are getting more desperate. 
We have a month and a half of food left. it can be stretched another two weeks with even heavier rationing, but it won't be a very pleasant two weeks. What's worse, Corporal Garcia is beginning to show signs of radiation sickness. He's been going up every three days, trying to ascertain the radiation's rate of decay and when we'll be able to safely leave the bunker and scavenge for supplies. Even with the hazmat suit and a generous supply of anti-radiation drugs (which we thankfully have a decent stockpile of) he's been getting weaker and, although he tries to hide it, is losing clumps of hair every day. 
I've contemplated taking his place. He's only twenty-six. If he wants it, perhaps there is a whole life awaiting him in this new world. And me? I'm sixty-one. My wife passed away six years ago, and we never had any children, though certainly not for lack of trying. Sure, I can fix things and tell you what the weather patterns might mean, but those are things I could easily teach someone else to do.
Come to think of it, that's not a terrible idea. Even if - no, when the radiation clears, maybe these people will want to remain here, and use it as... well, as home. I could teach them everything I know, even if it's not much. 
Well, maybe that's a thought for another day.
==December 21st, 2077==
Lieutenant Booth and Corporal Garcia have started to argue. Try as he may to deny it, Garcia is getting weaker by the day. Booth wants to take his place, but Garcia is insistent that he keep doing his duty, and what's more, he wants to begin exploring beyond the confines of the station. If there's anything edible out there, whether it's a crop or a Salisbury Steak, he plans to find it for us, radiation be damned. 
Some of the civilians have also tried to volunteer to go out, wanting to contribute to our combined survival and find food for their families. Booth shut that down quickly. It's too dangerous, he says. He's right, but before long we might not have a choice. 
==December 24th, 2077==
I didn't feel like writing today. That was before I heard what Corporal Garcia just said to Lieutenant Booth before he put his suit and backpack on and stormed out for the surface. I feel that not writing down what he said for any future generations to behold would be gross negligence on my part. As such, his words are as follows: 
"Suck my fucking nuts, Booth. I'm putting on that fucking suit... and I'm gonna go out there and I'm gonna find us some more fucking food. You keep these people believing that there's a tomorrow, that's your fucking job." 
He could barely get the words out without coughing and hacking himself half to death, but the youthful defiance that defines him is still there. Booth tried to stop him, but he wouldn't take no for an answer, even giving the lieutenant the middle finger as he stepped into the elevator to head to the surface. 
What an incredible young man. It pains me to no end that I will in all likelihood outlive him. 
==December 25th, 2077==
Merry Christmas.
Garcia came back today with a backpack full of presents, weakly proclaiming himself Santa Clause before he stumbled to the decontamination shower and shut the door behind him. His findings are beyond incredible. Fruits, vegetables, packaged goods, and even the carcasses of a couple of small animals. Some I recognized, others I didn't. It seems many species have undergone rapid mutation in the two months since the war. 
The marines and some of the civilians have quickly taken to studying and writing down information regarding what Garcia found, trying to discern what's reasonably edible and what isn't. It's mostly good news. After he came out of the shower, sporting a ballcap and long-sleeved-shirt (no doubt to hide the extent of his illness), he told us what he could about what he found and where he found it. It seems that these fruits and vegetables, most of them quite edible with or without anti-radiation drugs, are in good supply in our area. Even if we can't safely forage now, there's plenty waiting for us when we can. He even told us that the radiation levels in Lake Mead are far below what he expected, maybe even safe enough to drink. 
Everyone is overjoyed at the good news. It seems that we finally have a reasonable prospect at survival beyond the extent of our food and water stockpile. Now we just need that damned radiation to dissipate.
==January 1st, 2078==
Garcia died today. 
His journey on Christmas Eve didn't come without a cost. Over the course of the last week, his health rapidly deteriorated, to the point of horror the likes of which I will not even attempt to write down.
Today, with every bit of strength he had left, he asked Booth for his handgun, and, when given it, stumbled to the elevator one last time and headed up to the surface. An hour later, Booth put on his own hazmat suit and went up to retrieve his gun and bury our friend. 
I think the world may have lost one of its few remaining great men. 
Cpl. Nicholas Arturo Garcia (2051 - January 1st, 2078)