Fallout

by Wil Mara

Sarah put the window up as they pulled away. “Ooo, that reminds me,” she said, pulling out her phone again. “Paul? It’s Sarah. Have all the flags been taken off the telephone poles? You’re sure? Okay. And the garbage cans are in? Okay, good. Listen, get inside as soon as you can. All right, I’ll talk to you later.”

  Emilio made a left onto Hawthorne, where the lots were wider and the houses taller than in the River Road district they only half-jokingly referred to as Atlantis. Beside him, Sarah’s eyes unfocused and she started drumming on her knees; a sign of restlessness, Emilio knew. She flicked on the radio.

  “… can now confirm that the warm Canadian front we spoke of earlier has indeed made a southeastern turn and is heading our way.”

  “My God,” she said, “they can’t be serious.”

  “Pretty much a perfect storm.”

  “It’s gonna be the worst the town has seen in decades.”

  Emilio nodded. “It looks that way.”

  * * *

  They parked in the front lot of Silver Lake Elementary School twenty minutes later and got out. The town prided itself on the quality of its educational system. Test scores were consistently higher and the disciplinary rate dramatically lower than in most other Pennsylvania schools. Silver Lake offered top salaries for teachers, made a strenuous effort to keep the politics to a minimum, waged an aggressive and mostly successful campaign to get parents involved in homework and extracurricular activities, and had zero tolerance for bullying and other nonsense.

  The only blemish on the picture was that the school had been built in the late 1940s and was badly in need of structural updates. Sarah and others pushed every year to have it razed and replaced, and every year her side was outvoted by a narrow margin.

  Entering the gymnasium, she and Emilio saw about three dozen kids playing in a gleefully chaotic manner with various sports equipment while four aides—all female, all in post-retirement positions—looked on. Classes had been cancelled for the day due to the storm, but the school provided care for students whose parents couldn’t find anyone else to look after them. This service cost twenty bucks for a family’s first child and ten for each one after that. Half the take would be divided among the aides, the rest went into the school’s petty cash fund.

  With Emilio shadowing her a few steps back, Sarah cut a straight line to Caroline Murphy, the oldest of the monitors, assuming she was in charge simply because she was wearing a whistle around her neck.

  “Andrew!” Murphy bellowed, her voice still strong despite her age. “Andrew Hall! Stop swinging that hockey stick right now, or I’ll—oh, hello, Sarah.”

  “Hi, Caroline. Having a good time?”

  “Grand,” Murphy said with clear sarcasm as her eyes remained on her charge. “We’ve already had three time-outs and one bruised elbow in the nurse’s office.”

  “It’s not easy being you.”

  “No, it’s not. What can I do for you, hon?”

  Sarah shook her head. “Nothing, I’m just stopping in to see if you need anything. We’re making our rounds before the other shoe falls.”

  “How about thirty-four kid-sized doses of Xanax?”

  “And four adult doses for you and the others?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Anything else?”

  Murphy turned to her harried-looking confederates. “Ladies? Sarah wants to know if we need anything.”

  The others murmured, conferring amongst themselves. Alice Hunt, a tiny, bird-faced thing whom Sarah considered a blue-ribbon pain in the ass, said, “When are you going to do something about the leaks in the roof? I would’ve thought getting them fixed before the storm would’ve been a good idea.”

  Sarah nodded. “I know, yes—we do need to get the leaks fixed. We need to do a lot of things to this building. But we can’t take care of it right this minute, so I’m going to have to ask you to just do your best for today.” Turning back to Murphy, she said, “You have enough buckets if it starts to drip, don’t you?”

  “Oh, it’ll drip,” Hunt muttered, shaking her head as she turned away. “You can bet your pretty little self on that one.”

  Moments like these were emotionally draining for Sarah. The primal part of her wanted to give Hunt a can of sealant and a ladder and tell the old wheezebag to go up and fix the leaks herself. But the stronger and more judicious part knew that the woman’s complaint was justified. Sarah was more pained by the fact that they simply hadn’t gotten around to taking care of the problem yet.

  Murphy rolled her eyes. “Yes, we’ve got enough, Sarah. It’s just a little water. Don’t worry about us, we’ll be fine.”

  “Okay. You have my cell number if you need to call?”

  “I sure do.”

  “Good. All right, see you later.”

  “Take care, hon.”

  * * *

  Main Street in Silver Lake was as close to the Main Street of vintage America as anyone was likely to find in modern times. Each side was lined with mom-and-pop shops of a broad and satisfying variety; the only evidence of corporate encroachment was the Starbucks at one end and the Burger King at the other. Jenkinson’s Hardware was running on its fourth generation and the Wash ’N Wear Family Laundromat had just entered its sixth decade. The present owner of the latter had even gone to considerable expense over the years to keep the original neon sign intact. And Thompson’s Bakery had a line out the door every Sunday morning; a Silver Lake tradition since time out of mind.

  Parades rolled through town every Thanksgiving and Memorial Day, and during the evening hours of the winter holiday shopping season, the main thoroughfare was barricaded off to accommodate the “Holiday Stroll.” Residents could enjoy the cold night air, get a free cup of hot cocoa at tables set up by the Boy Scouts or the VFW, and hear the mayor’s annual address on Christmas and Hanukkah.

  As Emilio turned the Honda onto Main, Sarah sensed only ghosts of those happy times. The sky had darkened to an ominous shade of gray during the brief drive from the school. Every parking spot along the street was empty and the sidewalks appeared to be deserted. Plywood had been nailed over the shops’ doors and windows.

  “Creepy,” she said.

  “Very.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever—whoa, wait a minute. Don’t tell me.…”

  Emilio didn’t wait for instructions, just swerved across the center line and slowed to a halt in front of Ebbett’s Trading Post, Silver Lake’s sole antique shop. A man who looked old enough to be one of the items for sale was struggling with a plywood sheet, trying to prop it on a column of milk crates so he could hammer it into place over the huge display window.

  Sarah just about leaped from the car. “Oliver! What are you doing?”

  Oliver Ebbett gave a half turn with an embarrassed smile. Perspiration had formed a brilliant sheen across his forehead.

  “I’m trying to get this damn thing nailed up,” he said with good-humored frustration. There was still the faint trace of a European accent in his speech, though he and his family had immigrated from Poland back in the mid-1960s. “And how are you doing today?”

  As Sarah took hold of one side of the sheet, Emilio, also out of the car now, grabbed the other.

  “I’m managing, Oliver, thank you,” she said. “I can’t believe no one’s helped you with this. You should’ve called me.”

  “I have been getting help, Sarah. Calm yourself. Michael has—”

  The door to the shop opened and a much younger man stepped out. In his midthirties, tall and slender, of good build and handsome features, he was carrying a smaller section of plywood in his gloved hands. Seeing the others, he set his burden down carefully and said, “Ollie, what did I tell you?”

  Ebbett groaned. “I know, I know.”

  “Crazy old coot, you’re going to give yourself a coronary. Good morning, Sarah. Good morning, Emilio.”

  Michael Garvey owned the vintage clothing and consignment shop, Yesterday’s Look, next door. When he’d
opened the business three years earlier, Sarah and a few others on the town council feared there would be some static between the two of them—Michael, the aging hippie who never conformed, and Oliver, the Old World conservative who thought the fifties were the greatest years in human history. But to everyone’s astonishment, the two became good friends. Both were easygoing, with a sharp sense of humor and no particular ax to grind. The fact that Michael had become a widower at twenty-nine when his wife succumbed to pancreatic cancer and Ollie had no remaining relatives in the States helped seal their bond. Their businesses complemented each other nicely, too, as Ollie had never been interested in selling used clothing. When customers visited one shop, there was a good chance they’d wander into the other.

  “Hello, Michael,” Sarah said. “Let me guess, he wouldn’t wait for you to come back?”

  “I can’t just sit here doing nothing,” Ebbett argued.

  “Of course not,” Garvey said, gently taking the hammer from him and finishing the job. Then the trio—Michael, Sarah, Emilio—fitted the long rectangular sheet over the door while Ollie cursed under his breath about the burden of infirmity.

  Once the shop door was sealed, Emilio said, “Please tell me you can get back in.”

  The two men laughed. “Yes,” Ebbett said, “there are fire doors around back. No need to cover those.”

  “Do you know if there’s anyone else who isn’t ready?” Sarah asked.

  “Nope,” Garvey said. “We’re the last of the Mohicans.”

  “Then you should get inside,” she told them. “It’s going to start anytime, and it’s going to be bad.”

  “We will,” they said in unison.

  “Oliver, is your house prepped?” She was watching him carefully, looking for signs of deception. He was honest to his core, but she knew of his loathing for being tended to.

  “It is,” Garvey cut in. “We did his and mine yesterday. We’re ready for whatever wrath this great bitch throws at us.”

  “Okay, well, call me if you need anything.”

  “We will,” Garvey said. Ebbett, nodding and looking mildly ashamed, mumbled a thank-you as he turned away.

  * * *

  They pulled up to the EMT station a few moments later.

  “It’s going to be quite a day for you,” Sarah said, leaning over and massaging Emilio’s cheek. “I wish I could be there to help.”

  “Me, too. But I’m sure I’ll be hearing from you.”

  “You can count on it.” She moved in and they kissed the way true lovers always do. When they parted, she said, “All right, get in there and let’s tackle this thing together.”

  Emilio nodded. “Let’s do it.”

  They jumped out of the car at the same time.

  * * *

  The town’s offices, about a hundred yards farther down, were in a long, two-story structure with a neat split-level design of red brick and white concrete. A cylindrical glass atrium swelled from the front like a blister, the words SILVER LAKE MUNICIPAL COMPLEX high above the revolving door. A trio of flagpoles stood within a manicured island nearby, currently bare against the grainy sky.

  There were about a dozen other cars in the lot—a veritable horde by current standards—and Sarah recognized them all. She parked in the spot reserved for her at the front, shoved her papers and devices into her bag, and got out. She paused to look at the building across the street. It was smaller than the complex on this side but clearly designed as a companion. It also had a fresher look about it, e.g., the white concrete on the top half bore no water stains or bird-crap splotches like the one over here. Getting the tightasses who commandeered the town’s budget to agree to build a new community center had been a Herculean struggle, but she loved the final product. The fact that her father’s name was prominently emblazoned over the front door in bold steel letters only deepened that pride.

  Today was supposed to be the grand opening, and she’d been looking forward to delivering her speech to an expected crowd of at least fifteen hundred. There was a planned tour, outdoor games for the kids, and a raffle to win a new SUV that Toyota had generously donated. Instead, the location would be used as a refugee center.

  She sighed and turned toward the atrium. A few steps shy of the revolving door, she felt something strike the top of her head. Then she saw a dime-sized dark spot appear on the pavement. A moment later there was another … and another.…

  “Here it comes,” she said pensively.

  5

  “That’s where it all happens,” Corwin said, pointing downward through the tilted glass of the observation deck. “That’s nuclear fission going on right before your very eyes.”

  The room below them was easily the size of a school gymnasium. Hundreds of pipes of varying sizes snaked along the concrete walls, some running into the floor or through the girdered ceiling. The main feature was a massive pool of water in the center, crystal clear and tinged a neon blue. Modules at the bottom, lined up in tight rows, looked like stacks of plastic soda-bottle crates; narrow rods protruded up through some of the nodes. Lighting in this particular area had the propulsive glow of a rocket booster.

  “There’s a certain beauty to it,” Corwin said, “you have to admit.”

  He’s trying to warm me up again, Marla thought, all buddy-buddy. She had no intention of going along. She thought about the untraceable email that had dropped into her inbox just a few weeks ago. The writer had warned her that Corwin would try this approach.

  “That’s how he is,” the mystery informant wrote. “That’s how he gets you on his side, just like his father used to do.” And they had been right. In fact, Marla’s unknown contact had been on target about everything so far. The details she had received in that email and many more afterward—about Andrew Corwin, Leo Corwin, this plant, and about nuclear energy in general—had proven both accurate and astonishing.

  She was all but certain the source was someone who worked here, maybe someone reasonably high up. During her tour, Corwin introduced her to several people, most of them in hard hats in lab coats. And with every one, Marla had wondered: Was it you? Are you my Deep Throat? Not that knowing would have changed her plans in the least. She had a very clear notion of how to handle the cards she’d been dealt—Play dumb. Just like her own father had taught her during their head-to-head poker battles at the kitchen table when she was young. When you’ve got the best hand, he used to say, you’ll be tempted to let your opponents know it. But if you let them think otherwise, the payoff will be much bigger in the end. That advice had proven invaluable over the years.

  “Shouldn’t it be covered up in some way?” she asked as they began walking again.

  Corwin shook his head. “Water does such a good job of containing fissile material that no further shielding is required. This is called an open-pool reactor, and it’s one of two reactor types that we have here. This is the newer of the two, and it’s very impressive. People can work around it without fear of irradiation. The water also acts as a coolant as well as a neutron moderator. And because the pool can remain open, all the materials and equipment down there are easily accessible.”

  “Is that what’s known as ‘heavy’ water?”

  “Yes, heavy water. Do you know what that means?”

  “Educate me,” Marla said.

  “It has a larger-than-normal amount of deuterium, aka ‘heavy hydrogen.’ The increased hydrogen content means the water will absorb fewer neutrons than ordinary water. And the advantage there is that we don’t need to utilize enriched uranium, which is more expensive and also more radioactive, i.e., more dangerous.”

  “What level of explosive force are we talking about here?”

  Corwin stopped and turned to her, smiling. “Explosive force? What do you mean?”

  “If the whole thing blows. You said yourself that there was nuclear fission going on down there. The power involved is tremendous.”

  “Yes, the power involved is tremendous. But it’s not explosive. It doesn’t work li
ke that.”

  “See, now I know you’re lying,” Marla said flatly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “What about the Chernobyl disaster in ’86? You’re going to tell me that wasn’t an explosion? The core of reactor number four blew the building around it to pieces.”

  “That’s not what happened.”

  Marla took her iPhone out of its holster. “You want to see some pictures?”

  Corwin put a hand up. “I’ve seen plenty of pictures of Chernobyl.”

  “Then how can you say—”

  “It wasn’t nuclear.”

  “What?”

  “It wasn’t a nuclear explosion,” Corwin said.

  “How can you say that?”

  “The explosion at Chernobyl was thermal, not nuclear. It never ceases to amaze me how many people assume it was a nuclear detonation when the facts are there for all to see.” He cleared his throat. “Okay, here’s what happened at Chernobyl—the people who managed the plant wanted to run a test to see how the safety systems would react to an electrical failure, so they began shutting down those defenses one by one.

  “At the same time, the channel through which the heat and steam passed into the turbines got closed off. As a result, the pressure built up to such a point that it ruptured the lines and damaged the reactor core container. A second explosion blew off the biological shield that covered the reactor, flipping a concrete disc—one that weighed more than a thousand tons—into the air like a coin.

  “When the lid came down, it landed over the hole crookedly, allowing outside air to rush in while radioactive material rushed out. If it had landed in a better position and resealed the reactor, there might have been a chance to avoid most of the catastrophe, but that didn’t happen.

  “So anyway, no, it wasn’t a nuclear explosion that caused Chernobyl. It was a thermal blast that ultimately caused a core breach. But the real cause of Chernobyl was unimaginable stupidity. It was a man-made situation that was completely avoidable.”

  “But this reactor here,” Marla went on, “your reactor. If there was an explosion of nuclear material, it could easily—”