Fallout
Six months ago, a makeshift radioactive bomb went off in lower Manhattan. One hospital on the upper side managed to only sustain the force of detonation, shattering the glass and shaking loose the fixtures. Thankfully, the backup generators still worked when the island’s electricity went out, but they were a stop-gap by design, and as the doctors passed each other on the way to comfort their patients, the looks they gave each other betrayed the reassurances they gave their wards.
One of the boardrooms was converted to a sleeping area. Some slept. Nobody knew how much radiation had reached the building, but did it matter? Well, maybe. There might be a future, one way.
Slowly, things fell apart completely until everything was untenable. By that time, though, everyone had been evacuated, and all that was left were the crumbled ruins. Nobody who knew any better ever dared to go back. It’s not like you want to relive that kind of horror. It’s not like you could believe there was a way to repair what was broken. It’s not like anyone wanted to even try to do anything but forget.