“Medical supplies?” Freddy asked. “Owen needs some medical supplies.”
“So does Rodney,” Terrence said.
“The fallout shelter. You found the fallout shelter in the basement,” I said.
“Yeah, want to go?” she asked, standing up. “But bring the bread and peanut butter. We can’t find the can opener.”
“I think I can help with that,” the bus driver said, pulling out his Swiss Army knife.
“Go, you,” Astrid said, smiling, without a tinge of sarcasm.
Before we went downstairs to the fallout shelter, Max took Dylan to the A.V. Club closet to get a few unopened videotapes, and I stopped at my locker to grab a composition notebook. In case Dylan couldn’t get the tapes to work, I decided I would write everything down for posterity. Heck, it might make a great comic one day.
During the day, when the sun was shining and the power was on, the stairs were really scary, but I could contest they were much scarier now.
The vault door was made of some type of thick metal. I had no idea what kind. You had to watch that you didn’t slam your hand in the door because it would close fast and hard. They had it propped open with a chair and desk and a bookcase.
History:
The fallout shelter was built in 1962 but last year was remodeled. It was practically the entire basement. It was large enough to fit all of us students (remember Griffin Flat wasn’t that big of a town, so there wasn’t a lot of procreation), plus teachers and staff. It also had nonperishable items, medical supplies, cots, blankets, flashlights, candles, and radios. Everything that Astrid had said and more.
“Where’s everyone else?” Terrence asked.
“What do you mean?” Astrid asked. “There’s no one else, at least not here.”
Rodney wouldn’t look anyone in the eye. He held his flashlight up to the ceiling. It was painted blue, I guessed to remind everyone who had to be in here when the bombs went off that the sky was blue.
We lit more candles around the room. Though it was dark and smelled of mothballs, it was dry.
“Don’t you think we should close the door?” Astrid asked.
“Why?” Tyson asked.
“Because—”
“Are you afraid of the riffraff?” Terrence asked.
“No, it’s just already crowded in here and—”
“Stop talking,” Max said.
But Astrid didn’t listen, and with all the strength she had in her body, she moved the chair and desk and the bookcase, closing the vault door with a slam.
We, all ten of us, were stuck.
Owen sat in the corner with a flashlight on his eyes. You could see the reflection of the light on his sunglasses. He still couldn’t see. It was scaring him. To be honest, it was scaring me too. His eyesight should have been back by now.
Dylan was working with Max and the bus driver, trying to see which tapes were salvageable, while the director supervised. Astrid was supposed to be fixing their makeup, but she was focused on her chipped nail polish instead. Terrence, Freddy, and Tyson were in the corner discussing basketball, like boys did… or maybe like boys were supposed to do? I could tell this wasn’t a normal conversation. Of course it wasn’t. They were as scared as I was. But their pretend topic was the NBA draft in June. All three were talking over one another in a rapid stream-of-consciousness word-barf, arguing about who would have the greatest career: Hakeem Olajuwon,[70] Michael Jordan,[71] Charles Barkley.[72] Terrence’s money was on the white boy, John Stockton.[73] Only Rodney was sitting under the makeshift window that had been painted yellow, like the sun was glistening in.
“Rodney, are you okay?” I asked, sitting beside him.
He didn’t answer. He looked at me and shook his head.
“Rodney—”
He shook his head. “You won’t believe me if I told you.”
“Tell me.”
He handed me a Polaroid. It was of a cloud—a mushroom cloud.
“This is a fake, right?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No, it’s real.”
“Astrid, did you see it too?” I called out from across the room.
“Oh, the cloud,” she said with a giggle. “It’s just from the bomb that Skeet did.”
Dylan walked over to us and I handed him the Polaroid.
“Skeet’s good, but not that good,” he said.
“It’s part of the film,” the director said, taking his turn looking at the Polaroid.
“It’s fake, as in—like, not real,” Astrid said, picking at her nails.
“But the sirens,” Rodney finally spoke.
“Were part of the film,” the director said.
“But the Polaroid.”
“Come on, don’t be so naive,” Astrid said.
“You’re some dumb rich white girl from London, England, who’s never encountered a real problem in your life. You’re freaking out over your damn nails—” I stopped myself before I snapped.
“Are you insulting me?” she asked. “How dare you?”
Rodney took the Polaroid back. “This is real. This explosion wasn’t just put on—it wasn’t fake. I saw it with my own two eyes.”
Everyone sat around him.
“I was standing on the sidewalk when the sirens went off.” Rodney was shaking and crying, wiping his nose with his shirtsleeve. “But explosions were going off. I had taken my Polaroid camera. It was like the Fourth of July out there. But then it got quiet. A flash of light and then the loudest sound I’ve ever heard. I looked up into the sky and took one photo and ran. I grabbed her arm and ran into the school, down the hall, and down the stairs to here.” He looked at the Polaroid.
“Where’s everyone, then?” Tyson asked.
“Vaporized.”
Chapter Forty-One
Everyone was in agreement.
This was real. The bomb was really a nuke. Hollywood wasn’t playing some kind of prank. The cameras weren’t filming, and the lines didn’t call for this to happen.
“Unless—” Freddy said.
Strike that. We weren’t in agreement.
Chapter Forty-Two
We had been debating how long we had to stay in this fallout shelter, if in fact that explosion wasn’t just regular pyrotechnics, but a genuine nuclear detonation. Yes, as in a nuclear bomb exploding in our backyard. Fallout was radioactive. And we’d been outside. We’d breathed. And drunk. And were covered in radiation.
We were walking time bombs. Maybe it was just a test that went horribly, horribly wrong. Or maybe we were hit. Maybe Russia finally did it. Or maybe we finally did it, and Russia countered. A preemptive strike, to use technical jargon. I imagined missiles in the sky, carrying deadly payloads to their targets. X marked the spot. It was sure to end in thirty minutes or less. Just like Domino’s Pizza.
The FEMA pamphlet said that we were to stay inside for two weeks—but the sign beside the vault door said five days, tops. We decided to make it six just to be safe.
We were probably out of our minds, but we didn’t even know if this was really a nuclear missile exploding, or if Skeet had outdone himself. Skeet was talented. He said so himself. We had no idea if this was war. All we had was a Polaroid of a mushroom cloud in the distance of Main Street.
I think someone would have said something if we were under a nuclear attack. But maybe there wasn’t time. It could have all been movie magic. The makeup department sure did a great job making us look like we were on the brink of death. The makeup on Astrid’s cheeks was peeling.
70
He played center for the University of Houston and was the overall first pick in the 1984 NBA draft. He plays for the Houston Rockets.
71
He’s a professional basketball player. He’s a shooting guard. He played for the University of North Carolina. He was drafted in the first round but the third pick for the Chicago Bulls.
72
He’s a professional basketball player. He played for Auburn University. He’s a power forward who was drafted in the first round and the fifth pick for the Philadelphia 76ers.
73
He’s a professional basketball player. He’s a point guard who played for Gonzaga University. He was drafted in the first round and was the 16th overall pick by the Utah Jazz.