The novel explores one branch in a tree of possibilities that spans various nuclear war scenarios. The novel has no central protagonist. Indeed, billions will die in the end (the examined branch is pessimal); it would be immoral to encourage special attachment to just one among many. The good news is that all is over and done in under an hour. Except perhaps for the old New Zealanders and the new ones, the arrivals on the nuclear submarines. These people would get to watch the show for a little longer, until the mass extinction does them all in, too.
The novel's style is the kind of vernacular that ChatGPT would happily disgorge if directed towards the romans de gare aisle at a local airport.
