The Last Gentleman

No one knew, no one cared. For a great lethargy was overcoming the people and their only salvation was—
The explosion brought Jim Peters upright in bed. He sat there, leaning back on the heels of his hands, blinking stupidly at the wall. His vision cleared and he looked down at Myra, just stirring beside him. Myra opened her eyes.
Jim said, Did you feel that?
Myra yawned. I thought I was dreaming. It was an explosion or something, wasn't it?
Jim's lips set grimly. After ten years of cold war, there was only one appropriate observation, and he made it. I guess maybe this is it.
As by common agreement, they got out of bed and pulled on their robes. They went downstairs and out into the warm summer night. Other people had come out of their homes also. Shadowy figures moved and collected in the darkness.
Sounded right on top of us.
I was looking out the window. Didn't see no flash.
Must have been further away than it seemed.
This last was spoken hopefully, and reflected the mood of all the people. Maybe it wasn't the bomb after all.
Oddly, no one had thought to consult a radio. The thought struck them as a group and they broke into single and double units again—hurrying back into the houses. Lights began coming on here and there.
Jim Peters took Myra's hand, unconsciously, as they hurried up the porch steps. Hugh would know, Jim said. I kind of wish Hugh was here.