Last night I had a dream of apocalyptic proportions. It was about the end of the world as we know and WW3. It all started with tensions in the middle east and leaders that were too willing to drop bombs on others. It then went from that to total chaos and destruction with nuclear bombs. This was written in the word of God and could very well happen. I have had these before, but this one was very graphic like a Hollywood film.. Before I went to sleep, I had asked God for any signs or wisdom I needed to give to others and this was my vision. I woke up sweating and instantly made notes of the vision so I could share it today.
I was in a bomb shelter. The air in the shelter didn’t smell like sulfur anymore; it smelled like old dust, dried blood, and the specific, sour rot of people who had given up on washing. It had been quite a while since clean running water was available to us. It complicated things even more as people will do what they have to for survival and their own needs and family. The shelter was dangerous and if you had supplies you had to rest light with one eye open at all times.
When I closed my eyes, I was still back in the kitchen with the kettle whistling, watching the morning news flicker on the small screen above the fridge. The anchor’s voice had been flat, almost bored, as she listed the ultimatum dates that had come and gone. “Negotiations have officially stalled in Geneva,” she had said. “And the Black Sea blockade remains absolute.”
That was three weeks—or three decades—ago. Time had lost its shape the moment the sky turned the color of an old bruise. The sky was full of smoke, fog and nuclear material. It was dark gray and covered the Sun and Moon. Light was hard to come by as the bombing was worldwide and daily. The nuclear clouds floated from place to place killing animals, people and most anything humans could consume or use was contaminated.
In the dream, the alignment had been so clear it felt geometric. On one side stood the heavy iron block: China, North Korea, Iran, Turkey, Ukraine—dragged into the meat grinder by geography and broken pacts—and a trailing constellation of smaller states caught in the gravitational pull. On the other side, the alliance of the old order: America, Japan, South Korea, England, France, Mexico, Germany, Saudi Arabia, Israel. There were other countries from Africa and parts of the world involved. Tensions were tight and things were escalating daily.
We had talked about them like sports teams or stock portfolios before the sirens went. The Coalition vs. The Axis. We debated their GDPs and missile ranges over coffee. Then the first wave of high-altitude EMPs dropped, frying the grid from London to Seoul in a microsecond, plunging billions into a silent, dark panic. Suddenly, the ability to contact your friends and families was gone. The Earth had plunged back in time to no contact form as internet, power and other resources were stopped. The EMP’s killed those that had electronics in the bodies. The EMP’s were the beginning of the end.
“They thought they could fence it in,” Elena rasped beside me. Her voice was like dry leaves scraping over concrete. She was an old woman now, though she had been thirty-two when the world ended; the radiation and the protein deficiency had aged her skin into parchment. She was starving to death day by day and looked like someone that had been in captivity in WW2. The lack of food and and water had taken its toll on mankind. Some had prepared and their stock was dwindling fast. Most people walked around foraging like cavemen times looking for whatever they could find.
“Who?” I asked, my tongue feeling thick and useless in my dry mouth.
“The ones who drew the maps,” she whispered, her milky, cataract-clouded eyes fixed on the damp concrete ceiling. “They drew lines in sand and salt, and then they dropped the suns to prove whose pencil was sharper.” She was referring to the bombing between the many countries and the war.
The escalation hadn’t been an accident; it had been a series of logical horrors. It started with conventional saturation bombing—thousands of sorties turning ports into craters, flattening ancient capitals into gray powder. Turkey’s straits choked on burning tankers; the Persian Gulf boiled. But when the conventional lines began to buckle—when the combined armor of the East pushed past the Rhine and the central plains of the Middle East became an impassable sea of fire—the restraint failed.
I remembered the light. It wasn’t yellow or red. It was a blinding, absolute white that burned through closed eyelids and seared the retinas of my memory. It was the sound that came after that was worse—a sound so loud it emptied the air from your lungs before the shockwave even arrived to tear the walls down.
Millions died in the first two hours. By the end of the first week, the numbers stopped mattering because there were no longer any functioning governments to count the dead. The automated retaliations had done their work with terrifying efficiency, turning the breadbaskets and the industrial hearts of both hemispheres into glass and ash. People lost everything they had including their families and friends.
Now, we lived in the gray blur of the aftermath.
“Water,” a small voice whimpered from the dark corner of the bunker. It was Leo. He was seven years old, born just before the sirens, but he had never seen a bird or a tree—only the skeletal rebar of the ruined city above us and the greenish glow of our battery-powered Geiger counter.
“Save it, Leo,” I said, sliding the heavy plastic canteen an inch closer to him, though we both knew it was nearly empty. It was brown, metallic-tasting runoff collected from the corrugated tin sheets we’d rigged outside the ventilation shaft. Every swallow felt like swallowing pins, but it kept the blood moving.
There was no power. The great humming engine of human civilization—the satellites, the shipping lanes, the power grids, the digital libraries containing every song, poem, and theorem ever written—had been snuffed out in an afternoon. We were back in the Stone Age, but with better garbage.
“Do you think anyone is left across the sea?” Leo asked, his eyes too big for his pinched, gray face. Before the war, kids his age would be asking about superheroes or dinosaurs. Leo asked about radiation counts and whether the canned beans would last until the next rainfall.
“I don’t know, buddy,” I said, pulling a frayed wool blanket tighter around his shoulders. “Maybe. Maybe across the oceans, past the black zones.”
The truth was, we didn’t know if anyone else survived in London, Tokyo, or Washington. The cities we knew were gone, reduced to toxic mounds where the wind howled through hollowed-out skyscrapers like ghosts through ribs. The nations that had fought the war had ceased to exist. There was no America, no China, no Iran, no France. There were only survivors and scavengers, huddled in basements, subway tunnels, and mountain caves, waiting for the rain to stop being poisonous.
“They had everything,” Elena muttered, her head nodding against the damp wall. “We had everything. The libraries, the music, the medicine… and we traded it all to see who would be standing in the ruins.”
She was right. In the final weeks before the silos opened, the rhetoric on the emergency radio broadcasts had grown frantic, almost religious. “Total victory,” the generals had roared from their deep underground bunkers, oblivious to the fact that victory and defeat had become the exact same thing. “Survival of the state.”
What state? A wasteland of scorched earth and bleached bones?
A heavy thump echoed from above—probably a chunk of masonry sliding off the collapsed facade of the apartment block that used to stand over our refuge. Every noise made the heart leap into the throat. Was it scavengers? Mutated dogs? Or just the earth, continuing to settle over the graves of eight billion people?
I looked around the small circle of light cast by our single dying flashlight. There were four of us left from the thirty who had crammed into this basement when the first alarms wailed. Four out of eight billion.
I thought about the map of the world as it used to be—colorful, divided, noisy, and arrogant. How confident we had all been that progress was a straight line upward, that the ghosts of our past mistakes were safely locked behind museum glass. We had trusted the machinery of power, believing that the people at the top were too smart, too rational, to let the iron teeth close.
Instead, they had closed with a finality that left no one even capable of writing history. There would be no historians to debate the causes of World War III. There would only be silence, and the slow, agonizing work of staying alive for one more day in a world that had forgotten how to bloom.
I reached out and touched Leo’s hair. His skin was feverish, the subtle hum of the Geiger counter in my pocket ticking a little faster than it had yesterday.
“Close your eyes, Leo,” I whispered, staring into the impenetrable dark of the shelter. “Try to sleep.”
And in the quiet, beneath the weight of a dead and broken world, we waited for the sun to rise on another day of nothing. The world had destroyed itself and set mankind back ages. World leaders that had survived the bombing were secured away from the harm. Their people starved, died, turned on one another and ravaged the world seeking food, shelter and water to make it another day.
Be in prayer for our leaders and hope that this never happens. Once the buttons are pushed, the end will be near. Once they attack each other it all goes downhill from there. Oil and other natural resources and mankind’s greed and desire for power will end it all. This is the message I send so please share!
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