The Incredible True Story of the Making of the Eve of Destruction

by Amy Brashear

  “Why?”

  “It was scary,” I said.

  “It was scary,” Max said, chiming in.

  “You look okay now,” Terrence said.

  “She had to talk to Mrs. Martin.”

  “The school counselor?” Terrence said, making a face. He had to see her too after the great affair became known to the whole school/town.

  “Stop talking like I’m not here,” I said.

  “Well, are you cured?” he asked.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “I’m going to take that as a no.”

  “Yeah, no. There is no cure for nucleomituphobia. You just have to deal with the symptoms and hope there are no consequences.”

  “There’s not going to be a nuclear war,” Terrence said.

  “You don’t know that. There could be . . .”

  “There could be a nuclear accident,” Max said, nodding. “There was one before. There could be another.”

  “Helpful, Max, helpful,” Terrence said. “Laura, you need to get your mind on something else, that’s all.” He grabbed my notebook. “Now, don’t forget to describe the boobs.”

  * * *

  65 A political satire black comedy that premiered January 29, 1964, directed by Stanley Kubrick and starring Peter Sellers in three roles. Also starring Sterling Hayden, Keenan Wynn, Slim Pickens, and Darth Vader himself, James Earl Jones.

  66 Nucleomituphobia: the fear of nuclear weapons. Some people with this fear believe they will die because of a nuclear weapon. Also called nucleomitaphobia or nucleomitophobia. Associated words: fallout, radiation, thermonuclear warfare. Causes: external events and internal predispositions. Symptoms typically include extreme anxiety, dread, the fear of going outside and standing under the bomb, which would result in turning into a skeletonized version of a fleshless body, and of course anything associated with panic, such as shortness of breath, rapid breathing, irregular heartbeat, sweating, excessive sweating, nausea, dry mouth, inability to articulate words or sentences, and shaking. There is no cure.

  67 An adaptation of H. G. Wells’s novel, The War of the Worlds, which was published in 1898, but the radio show occurred in 1938. People listening to the broadcast thought it was real, and it caused mass chaos.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Not everyone felt the same way I did about the thought of being blown off this planet. But a few did. And what do people say about grassroots? They grow with only one person—and that was me. I wanted to stay on planet Earth for as long as I could. I didn’t want any outside forces deciding it for me. Besides, Mr. Truitt owed me. (For Kevin Barnes.) I stood at the front of the room and asked the class one simple question: “Do you want to die?” By the look on Mr. Truitt’s face, he didn’t like the direction my question was going.

  “Yes, I had a panic attack. Yes, I am afraid of nuclear war. I have nucleomituphobia. It is a condition with no cure. And yes, I am embarrassed by it,” I said.

  Mr. Truitt’s brow literally had sweat dripping from it. My little desire to talk to the class about my little episode yesterday made him nervous.

  But I continued. “The whole idea of mutually assured destruction is a useless figure of speech that politicians use to scare the bejeebers out of everyone on this planet who has access to modern technologies. If you think about it, if a thermonuclear bomb destroys half the world, sending it back to the Dark Ages, we as a planet would be on even footing. No one would be better than the other. I’ll ask y’all three questions. One: What would happen if a bomb exploded over Griffin Flat? Two: What would we do? And three: How would we survive? Don’t kid yourself; no one wants to live through a nuclear war. Who would want to be around after? It would be easier to sit down on the couch and patiently wait to be vaporized than live during the unknown.”

  “Laura,” Mr. Truitt said, standing up from his chair.

  “Mr. Truitt, I’m almost done,” I said.

  He nodded, sitting back down.

  “Just some thoughts. Imagine this scenario: a blinding flash outside your home is followed by a blast that shatters every window and wall. You are probably hurt pretty badly. Cut, broken, and bruised. A first aid kit will help, but only so far. You try to turn on a TV or radio, but who knows if there is a signal. But that will only help if there’s not an EMP. If there is an EMP, then you’re SOL. And I wouldn’t try the phone—it’s probably dead too. If you’re getting an Emergency Broadcast System message, you’ll be one of the lucky ones, so congratulations. You just lived through the first wave of a nuclear attack. But there’s one problem . . . you’re dead. By the time help gets to you, radioactive fallout will already be in your system. Not to mention the burns that cover your body, with the flash of light that you probably immediately looked at—remember to keep your eyes closed and covered—you’ll be blind possibly have first-, second-, or third-degree burns. Wear white—it saves lives. And even if you lived through that—blind and patchy—then you’ll have to deal with winds up to one hundred plus miles per hour and a firestorm that burns for hours on end. And sad to disappoint you, we’re not turning into Firestorm. True, this is only speculation. No one knows what living hell is waiting for us if or when this actually happens. We’re not prepared. The USSR has courses in their high schools. They know what to do to survive a nuclear war.”

  “So what’s the point of doing homework? We’re all going to die of radiation sickness,” Rodney said.

  “That’s a pretty great outlook on something that’s never, ever going to happen,” Mr. Truitt said.

  “You optimist, you,” I said. “Not many people worry about a world war that goes nuclear, but what about one that gets started by mistake?”

  “And on that note,” Mr. Truitt said, interrupting me and my train of thought, “thanks, Laura, for your informative and yet dismal look on the outlook of—”

  Mr. Truitt was interrupted by the sound of a boom. We as a group jumped. Someone ominously said, “It’s the bomb,” and then the sirens blared. It wasn’t a Thursday.

  We moved out into the hall and sat by the white lockers and waited. It was stupid. It was idiotic.

  “What’s the point?” I heard Kevin say across the hall. “Laura’s right. We’re all going to die.”

  He reached into his pocket and retrieved one of his clove cigarettes. And right there in front of teachers and his fellow classmates, he lit a match and blew smoke in his neighbor’s face.

  Coach Brooks pulled the cigarette from Kevin’s mouth and stomped it out on the floor. But that made him grab another.

  “No, Kevin’s right,” I said, not realizing I was speaking. The brain worked that way sometimes. “Come on, they’re lying to us. Sitting here with our arms over our heads is not going to save us. This so-called drill won’t save us. If this was real—if there were bombs coming right at us, it wouldn’t matter anyway—what would we do? Hide under a desk like our parents did? Fallout shelters?” I stood up. The teachers stared at me. “Don’t just sit on the floor with our arms over our heads as they tell us to do. What they don’t tell you is that in the case of extreme apocalyptic disaster, there is nothing they or we can do. If you manage to survive, your very own neighbors will shoot you and steal your food—but that’s if the radiation doesn’t get you first. First comes headaches and the continuous vomiting and hair falling out, skin falling off—”

  “Laura, you’re not serious,” Kathy said.

  “I am serious,” I said.

  “You’re scaring us,” Dana said.

  “You should be scared,” I said. “We will be praying for death.”

  Coach Brooks was walking toward me now. He grabbed my arm and dragged me down the hall.

  “The Soviets are coming! The Soviets are coming! America is under attack—America is under attack from within.”

  I was in a lot of trouble. I was suspended from
school again, this time for inciting a “riot.” Suspended for telling the truth. I guessed truth equaled fear. And that made Principal Parker and Mrs. Martin nervous. Whatever. They’d probably die in the first wave anyway. Heartless? Maybe. Honest truth? Absolutely.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Pops sat at the dining room table drinking his black coffee and eating leftover brownies from last night’s dessert while reading the morning newspaper.

  “You’re here as my babysitter?” I asked, sitting on the bench beside him.

  “I’m here as your pops,” he said.

  Mom and Dennis were at work, and I was at home. Suspension did that to you. Sure, I caused a ruckus, but I didn’t say anything that was untrue.

  “Do you want a brownie?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “I’m not hungry.”

  He nodded and went back to reading his newspaper.

  I sat twisting my scrunchie on my wrist like I always did when I was anxious or excited.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me about why I’m suspended from school? But I bet Mom and Dennis already told you, didn’t they?” I asked.

  “They told me a version,” he said. “When you’re ready, you can tell me yours.”

  “I didn’t say anything that wasn’t the truth.”

  “Laura, are you truly afraid that there is going to be a nuclear war?” he asked.

  “Who told you that?” I asked.

  “Your parents—your mom and stepdad.”

  I twisted the scrunchie around my wrist and nodded.

  “And that’s why you painted the living room white?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  The day after Mom brought in five cases of canned green beans, four gallons of water, and sixteen bags of soil and stashed them in the storage shed in the backyard, I decided to dig out my old clothes and hunt for painting brushes in the garage. When you were inspired by the fear that your mother has by her desire to horde away supplies like a survivalist, you would be amazed by how much you can get done on your own. I painted the living room and dining room, and I was about to start on the kitchen when I ran out of antiflash white paint.

  “It looks good,” he said, taking a big gulp of scalding hot coffee.

  “You’re patronizing me,” I said.

  “No, I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You know you can come to me about anything. I’m not blood, but we are related,” he said.

  I nodded but didn’t look at him. It was embarrassing.

  “Get your coat; we’re going to McDonald’s.”

  Suspension meant a Big Mac, fries, and a chocolate milkshake.

  We sat in the corner booth and ate. Pops even dipped his fries in his milkshake. He liked them that way now.

  We were mostly alone. The only other people were women with toddlers eating Happy Meals and pleading to go play outside on the playground.

  “All they care about is being the first to get that damn mushroom cloud in the sky,” I said. “Ready. Set. Die.”

  “The children?” he asked in his southern drawl.

  “No, not the children.”

  “Good, I was worried for a second there. That one with the puppy dog tails looks a little guilty,” he said with a chuckle.

  “People say not to worry, that the government has this handled. That the government wouldn’t do anything like ignite a nuclear war,” I said. “It’s like Sesame Street and their weekly stories about how we’re all the same on the inside.”

  “Laura, listen to me—”

  “I know what you’re going to say, Pops. Write to my congressman—but we do, and they keep voting for missiles,” I said.

  “No, that’s not what I was going to say. You should not trust the government. Look at me. The very first page of my life story is a warning sign that clearly states you should not trust the government. Don’t take everything they say at face value. I like your distrust of the government. It gives me hope for your and Terrence’s future. I don’t want to see my grandkids living in some Mad Max68 wasteland.”

  “You know Mad Max?” I asked.

  “Your hip Pops knows Mad Max,” he said with a laugh. “I’ve been to the movies.”

  I laughed too.

  “Your dad mailed me this to give to you,” he said, pulling out an envelope from his back pocket.

  Had everyone talked to my dad except for me?

  “He was afraid you weren’t getting his letters,” he said. “But that’s between your mom and him.”

  I stared at my name on the envelope: Ms. Laura Ratliff—so official. I was hoping for the best but expecting the worst.

  “Go on,” Pop said.

  I nodded but took my time tearing it open. I read it out loud, pausing over the black marks.

  Ladybug,

  I haven’t been the best dad lately. I hope to work on that in the future. If there is a future, I mean. What I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry. And I hope to say this in person one day. But for now, I can’t. And honestly, I don’t know if I ever will be able to. There’s been here. We’ve been on for weeks. going off. is routine. I’m afraid. I’m afraid for you. And I’m afraid for your mom. And I admit that was really hard to write. We screwed up everything—forever. Ladybug, I am sorry. Worst case scenario,, it will create throughout the area, and there will be . I may never see you again, and that scares me. You are my daughter, my Ladybug. may be . I’m sorry, Ladybug.

  Love,

  Your dad

  “Ladybug,” Pops said. “That’s a cute nickname.”

  “It’s so redacted. What was the government so afraid of little ol’ me, a nobody, finding out?” I asked.

  “Your dad wants to protect you because he loves you,” Pops said. “We all do.”

  “I know.”

  “I wonder what’s under the black marks,” Pops said.

  “Pops, Granny said there were men in suits with gas masks near the house the last time I talked to her. Do you think there’s something wrong?”

  “No, of course not. Your dad would let us know,” he said.

  “Could he?” I asked, pointing at the redacted letter.

  “We shouldn’t worry,” he said.

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Really. When I start to worry, I’ll let you know.”

  “Can I tell you a secret?” I asked Pops.

  “You can tell me anything,” he said.

  “I don’t want to die.”

  He nodded, scooted over in the booth, and wrapped me in his arms.

  I cried. And he did too.

  Then he bought me a box of Chocolaty Chip cookies to go. We had somewhere to be. The governor had never been to our town. Even when he was running for governor, he never made a campaign stop. I didn’t blame him. But today he was accompanied by two black cars in Griffin Flat. Hollywood was making its appearance, and now so was the governor. Governor Clinton would not be playing himself; that role went to DJ Crazy Bob from 95.6. He’d be playing Governor Holt from the fake state of Whatsitsname, where fictional Pikesville was located. Governor Holt would be the one to announce the end of the world war here.

  We used to be happy before we knew the future.

  The sidewalks were cluttered with actual citizens and people who didn’t live here but were pretending to live here in fictional Pikesville as extras.

  And people were getting their picture taken with the governor. I did. I planned on having it framed.

  “Don’t tell your mom and my son,” Pops said.

  I locked my mouth and threw away the key.

  Protestors showed up. They lined half the sidewalk in front of Dane’s Ice Cream Shoppe and Dewayne’s bookstore, which he probably loved, I said sarcastically.

  end the arms race—save the human race

/>   nuclear power is not for healthy children and other living things

  no nukes is good nukes

  no nukes

  nuclear weapons would kill millions—indiscriminately

  atom kills

  let pikesville live

  let there be a world

  peace

  Not much had changed since my mom marched, braless with make love not war signs. They’d even brought red balloons, but the police shut that down real fast.

  The governor was coming to town right when school was in session, but the administration made the executive decision to end school early. A civics lesson, so to speak. But Pops made the executive decision for me. I wasn’t going to miss the governor here for a little suspension.

  You could tell the director was annoyed at the mesmerizing control that the governor had over the crowd. All eyes were on him, and it was quiet. The director wished he had that influence.

  “My fellow Arkansans,” Governor Clinton said to the crowd, “I’m happy to see so many smiling faces this afternoon. Rumor has it there’s going to be a nuclear war.” The crowd erupted in laughter. “I want to reassure many of you that this is just a movie—a movie about average Americans going about their business as usual”—until everyone gets fried—“until the unthinkable happens. Though nuclear deterrence is on the forefront on all Americans’ minds, it is”—And I tune him out. Political speech, blah blah blah—“Tonight, I ask all of you to stand with me for a future that will make us proud. God bless you all. Thank you.”

  Governor Clinton had a way about him. The way he talked in a slow, deliberate, and comforting manner like nothing was wrong. He had a way about him that made me want to forget, at least for a moment, all the scenarios of nuclear devastation and the collapse of a working society that could occur: Cannibalism, famine, disease, death of the American dream, you know? Even though Arkansas had its very own nuclear warhead out on a cow pasture. But Governor Clinton was a politician, and he was just one man closer to the button.