“Maybe Dad will know by tonight’s meeting,” I said. The dinner bell rang. I saw my mom at the door, waving me to the house. Blake and I shared a sweet, short kiss, and then we parted.
As I walked back to the house I had an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. If we ended up needing to take shelter in our safe rooms, Blake and I would be separated! For weeks! And it hadn’t seemed to bother him, not the way it was bothering me, already making my heart ache.
Nuclear bombs were scary enough. Nuclear bombs without Blake? Unthinkable.
LATER
I sat by Blake during the meeting. We held hands and I tried not to worry about him and his family possibly leaving the compound. I was glad when my father stood up to speak for he condemned the idea roundly, saying that to leave was madness. “And for those of you thinking of leaving without a firm destination? That’s doubly mad.” He looked at the Philpots who had joined us later than most. “You remember what it’s like out there—you’d be walking right back into danger, not out of it.”
“What’s the latest word, Grant?” Mr. Simmons asked my dad, before the Philpots could answer. “Have you heard anything new?”
Mr. Buchanan spoke up. He’d been stationed at his rig for hours, according to Blake. The Buchanan’s had brought their AR equipment to their new log home behind ours and built a shack to house it in. AR—that’s amateur radio. “We’ve had one confirmation,” he said, loud enough for the room to hear. “But it was from another new contact. New to us, anyway. We’re still waiting to hear from some of our known contacts.” After a pause he added, “They’ve gone quiet.”
Mrs. Wasserman, like most all of us, had been listening intently. Her eyes grew large with a thought. “Those known contacts—are they from California?”
Mr. Buchanan pursed his lips. He nodded, “Yes, some are.” The room broke into a buzz as everyone talked at once. Blake squeezed my hand as voices rose louder and louder in contention.
“Where are these new contacts from?” someone asked.
“They say they’re broadcasting from Idaho,” said Mr. Buchanan.
“We have to leave,” I heard Mrs. Wasserman say to my mom.
“If you leave the compound,” my dad’s voice broke in louder than the rest, “you could end up in a refugee camp. You know what you’ll have for protection there? A tent. A tent, people.”
“If we get hit by a nuclear strike this compound isn’t any safer,” said Mr. Prendergast. I don’t see Mr. Prendergast often; he lives in a cabin by himself. He helps with lookout duties but not often because he falls asleep on the job. He has the gaunt face of a man who used to be large and has lost too much weight.
“But it can be,” said my dad, spreading out his hands. “Out there, you get picked up by one of those trucks, and you’re no safer from fallout than if you had no protection at all. At least here we do have a basement. You can’t all fit into the safe room but the basement will hold many of you, and it’s safer than being on a ground floor anywhere. In the meantime, we’ll dig a cave into the hill—caves are used to this day in some parts of the world for shelter. You can use one, too.”
Mr. Simmons shook his head. “That sounds Neanderthal! You gotta do better than that for us, Grant.”
“There are hundreds of empty houses around,” put in Mrs. Wasserman. “Many of them have basements! We can each find a house with a basement and stay there.”
“And eat what, exactly?” said my dad. “Here on the compound we’ve been growing new provisions. You’ve all been drying produce, smoking meat, storing food. Are you gonna take it all with you? How are you going to keep it safe? You don’t even know WHERE you’re going, which homes have basements that are fairly air-tight—and a walk-out basement isn’t gonna cut it, I hate to tell you.” He paused.
“Look, if you want a bomb shelter, build one. Start digging.”
After a short silence, Cecily said, “I agree with Grant. Why not build a shelter? With all our manpower and horsepower we should be able to dig one. We can line it with stones and mortar, the way we’ve been building the wall around the cabins.”
“Yeah, that’s great—a year from now,” said Mr. Prendergast.
Mr. Simmons added, “We need a safe place—now.”
My dad said, “I know it’s disheartening and frightening, what we’ve heard. But I don’t consider one confirmation from a new contact good enough. Those blasts might not have happened. Fallout may never come.” He looked around. “It’s daunting to hear that our shores may have been attacked by nuclear strikes—but remember this: Our country is only on its knees on this continent; we still have a global army. We have return fire. Whoever sent those bombs our way—IF they were sent—will be stopped by our government.”
“You don’t know that,” said Mrs. Wasserman. Her voice was beginning to sound whiny. “You’re just hoping that’s true. If our government was still a government—if it had any power—why haven’t we seen evidence of it? We haven’t seen a sign of our military! Not a single plane!”
“I believe we will see them,” said my dad. We just need to survive long enough.”
Mr. Simmons said, “But we need a way to survive, Grant.”
“So let’s get that shelter started!” Dad said.
Mr. Prendergast said, “Why should we build a shelter on your property, when it will become yours when this is all over?”
That started off a whole new argument about whether “this” would EVER be over, some saying how stupid it was to worry about ownership, and if we wanted a chance to live through a nuclear war we needed a shelter yesterday.
Suddenly someone said, “Blake, what do you think?” and the whole room fell silent. We all considered Blake our scientist-in-training. My mom used to call him an “encyclopedia of useless information,” but she doesn’t call him that any longer. Blake’s vast knowledge was anything but useless. I tried not to beam with pride when all eyes turned to him. Even my father watched, waiting to see what my smart future husband would say.
Blake was silent for a moment but didn’t seem the least surprised to be called on. I got a little nervous for him, wondering if for once he’d have nothing to offer from that amazing mind of his. But he nodded thoughtfully and said, “Actually, it’s very conceivable that we can build a shelter here—and quickly. See, the thing is, you don’t necessarily have to have mortar and cement and huge stone blocks to keep out fallout. You just need a foot of dirt to shield you from radiation.” He paused. “Of course if it’s a direct hit, you’re outta here, no basement is safe enough. You’d have to be down in Area 51.”
Most people in the room were nodding their heads. “I think we can do this, people,” said Mr. Simmons.
“Now, I’m not saying you’re gonna live like you’re in the Hilton,” Blake added, “but it’ll keep you safe from initial radiation. If you can make it for a few weeks, even two weeks—and there are no more blasts—you can start coming up for air.”
Again everyone talked at once. Mrs. Wasserman held up her hand as if she were in a classroom. When Blake nodded at her, she said, “Would we have to worry about radon?”
I saw my dad shaking his head in the negative. Blake said, “No. Radon is only dangerous over long periods of exposure. And even if there is radon down there, it’s a whole lot better than gamma rays up here!”
But Mrs. Wasserman frowned. “I still don’t understand why we should bother. I thought nuclear war was not survivable.”
“That’s a common myth,” Blake said. “Most people believe that but it’s not true. The only time you can’t survive nuclear war is if you’re in the direct hit zone or a fallout zone without shelter; or if you didn’t store food or water. Otherwise, with shelter and supplies—you can wait out the worst danger.”
Mrs. Wasserman asked, “But wouldn’t the air and soil be poisoned for decades?”
Blake shook his head. “The worst fallout happens in hours, and that’s when it’s most dangerous. There are particles small enough to be in
haled by humans that pose a continual threat, but most of them take longer to fall—weeks or months—and by the time they do, they’ve gone through radioactive decay and are far less dangerous. Now, if there’s snow or rain following a blast, that could rain down those smallest particles that otherwise would have time to decay. Aside from that, air and soil get safer by the day.”
Mrs. Wasserman nodded as she listened. She had three-year-old Emma, the youngest Wasserman, on her lap asleep. Emma is a cute, chubby-legged toddler when awake, and she has huge dark brown eyes that always make me smile.
Blake continued, “Nuclear weapons are made to do the greatest amount of damage possible, and sent to military targets and maybe huge population centers. And nuclear power plants are targeted because they have their own payload.”
“What do you mean, their own payload?” asked Mrs. Buchanan, who, like the rest of us, had been listening intently.
“They’ve got radioactive elements that will leak out to the surrounding area in a hit, so it magnifies the damage of a strike.”
As I sat beside Blake watching him answer questions, my heart swelled with love. I couldn’t stop noticing how cute Blake is—it’s like he keeps getting more attractive. He’s got a great profile, a Roman nose and high cheekbones, and though he shaves often enough to hold back a full-blown beard, he often wears a “five o’clock shadow” (as my mother calls it). It makes him look mature and handsome in an earthy way. So either he’s gotten more handsome, or—I’m in love!
Anyway, while I was sitting there admiring Blake, my father said, “Look, folks, we’re 35 miles from the nearest air force base—it is a target, no doubt about it—but we’re upwind. That's the good news.”
“Isn’t it precarious to think we’re safe just because we’re upwind?” asked Andrea. She surprised me with that question because normally she didn’t speak at council meetings. She was usually cornered up with Roper whispering, and often seemed less interested in the discussion than most of us. She added, “What if the wind shifts? We can’t just assume it’s always gonna blow the same way, can we?” She turned her gaze to Blake, naturally.
“The high wind movement is very predictable,” Blake said. “The mushroom cloud sends particles into the atmosphere really high up, so the trade-winds take them, the prevailing globally predictable winds. The fallout that happens down by the ground, what they call deposition, happens immediately following the blast, but hundreds of thousands of pounds of particles are sent up and out, and they can travel tens of thousands of miles before landing. Those travel pathways are pretty well predictable.”
“So yeah,” he continued, “to a large degree, being downwind or upwind makes a huge difference. These high atmospheric movements are generally the same for any given area of the globe. The trade-winds over the U.S. blow west to east.”
Mrs. Wasserman raised her hand. “I don’t mean to change the subject, but how could we build a shelter that’s big enough for everyone?”
Blake said, “That’s not really my department--."
My father broke in and said, “If we do this, we ought to do it as quickly as possible because it’s a distraction from everything else we’ve been trying to accomplish here, which is to build a safe, working compound, with enough food production and water to take care of everyone. If we stop to build an underground shelter, we’re still going to need lookouts, we’re still going to need people working on the cabins, and garden workers, and kitchen workers, and we’re still going to need waste disposal, and washing, and everything else we have to do daily around here.”
He looked around, letting his words sink in. “What I’m saying is that we can’t hire this out, people. If we do this, WE do it. And not instead of everything else that keeps us busy but in addition to it.” Again he paused while everyone listened silently, faces somber. “Be sure you’re ready to sacrifice extra hours for this. We can’t afford to let our other endeavors lapse.”
Mr. Simmons said, “Why don’t we stop cabin work? Those who already have a decent roof over their heads can make do. Those who are still waiting for a habitable cabin have been getting by in the Martins’ household—they can do that longer.”
My mother slowly nodded. “I agree. We can keep our people.”
Mr. Simmons frowned. “The thing is,” and he paused, his face hard in thought. “What we’ve been talking about is how to last it out after a blast, maybe two. But we haven’t discussed what would happen if there are dozens of them. The last time I heard, Russia had thousands of warheads. Thousands. What if they used them all?”
Mr. Martin said, “They’re not gonna empty their armament on us. They’ll be getting the same back from us, for one thing, and no one wants to make the earth uninhabitable or spread that much nuclear fallout over the globe.”
“But the reports we’ve heard say there were numerous blasts on the West Coast. That’s fallout coming our way; and what if these blasts cross the country?”
“We still have to do what we can,” said Mrs. Wasserman, looking sadly at little Emma. She looked up then, with indignant eyes. “Just because that may happen doesn’t mean it will. Think of all the guerrilla soldiers around—they wouldn’t nuke their own army, would they?”
“We may not be dealing with just one nation’s strength, here,” Mr. Prendergast returned. “If a number of different nations come against us, we could be in worse trouble.”
“So what are you saying, that we do nothing? Just give up?” In a high, wavering voice, Mrs. Wasserman continued, “Blake just told us if there’s a blast, maybe even a few, we can survive by waiting it out. I think we need to act on that instead of your worst-case-scenario which might not ever happen. We do what we can and pray that it’s enough!”
An immediate murmur went around the room, agreeing with Mrs. Wasserman.
Emboldened by the approving nods of those around her, the young mother added, “If we build a big enough shelter, it can be a place to run to in case of a ground attack . So that even if everything up here is destroyed we can still survive!”
My father shook his head. “You’re talking about something we don’t have the tools or the technology to make. We’d have to think about food preparation, waste disposal, clean drinking water—each of these things requires systems, extensive systems and pipes and—heck, more than we can possibly put in place. I think, if we’re going to do this, we need to stick to the original idea of a temporary shelter for waiting out the worst fallout.”
He looked around and added, “Every family is responsible for its own food. You need to pack jerky and hard tack. No one is going to have good food if something like this happens. We’re talking about survival food.” He paused. “We will assign areas for each family. We will stock bedding. There will be no washing up except for the smallest ways. There will be one area for bathroom needs.” He looked at my mom. “I believe you still have a good number of plastic bags and we have a few makeshift toilets—storage buckets with a seat.” Looking back to the rest of us, he added, “We’ll put them in one area, along with a bucket of dirt. You who are mothers have to teach your kids to cover waste with dirt, and tie up those bags tight to keep down odor.”
I glanced at Andrea and had to stifle a chuckle. She looked like she was enjoying the current topic about as much as I was. If we’d been alone, we’d have happily announced how grossed out we were.
My father must have seen our faces. “Look, girls, we have to talk these issues out. We don’t want any surprises or false expectations. And if a lot of us have to survive together underground, this is just as important as any other issue.”
I nodded. Andrea and I shared a smile.
My dad continued, “But first, let’s get this thing dug out. If we get it dug and we still haven’t been attacked with nuclear, then we can stock the place and get it livable.”
Blake said, “I think we should build into the side of the hill as Mr. Martin suggested. That gives us three walls. All we need then, is a way to close up the opening.
Fortify that—instant nuke shelter.”
“We could run into rock, though,” said my dad. “We cleared a lot of rock on this farm with a bobcat when we first got here.”
“Then we’ll clear more if we have to,” said Mr. Prendergast.
“With only man and horsepower,” cautioned my father.
“There IS equipment that still works,” Blake said. “Not all power vehicles use electronics.”
My dad nodded. “That’s true. If we get more gas, we can use my small tractor.” His gaze swept the room. “Okay, folks, we’re all tired. Let’s wrap this up. We need to go home—well, to your cabin or room—(everyone chuckled)—and pray about this. We’ll go out tomorrow and see if there’s a good place to dig into the hill.”
“Has there been any word from Jared and Roper?” Mr. Simmons asked. Andrea’s head went up sharply.
My father shook his head. “They’re out of range. But we’ll keep trying.”
chapter 28
JARED
Sharp bumps thrust Jared awake. His first sensation was—pain. His left arm and hand, his head, all were throbbing. He blinked, trying to get his bearings. He was on a horse. Someone held him firmly about the middle. Then it came rushing back. The airbag fiasco, the shoot-out—and that Roper had saved his neck.
Roper was seated behind him, one hand holding the reins while the other held him fast. “How ya feeling, buddy?” Roper asked.
Jared sniffed. “How do you think?”
“You nauseous?”
“Check.”
“Weak?”
“Check.” Then, “How long was I out?”
“Not too long; we’re almost home. How’s the pain?”
Jared hesitated. He was no whining sissy. “What you’d expect.” He saw that Roper had bound up his left arm in a cloth and strapped it high against his middle so as not to dangle. The measure stopped the worst bleeding but did nothing to mitigate the explosion of pain that was his arm.
The Pulse Effex Series: Box Set Page 77