by Robert Price
Billy ran for all he was worth. He caught a brief glimpse of a crowd of dark figures clustered around the station door, a few heads turning in his direction as he broke into the open. Joey’s feet pounded out a frantic beat on the hard dry dirt behind, forcing him to focus on maintaining his forward momentum.
He reached the hot rod and vaulted into the seat, coming up in time to see Joey toss something over his shoulder. As it arced through the moonlight, Billy was able to identify the object: a cigarette lighter, and it was lit.
Billy had exactly enough time to realize what was about to happen before it did. As Joey leapt into the driver’s seat the lighter touched down square in the center of the still-expanding gas pool.
There was a deathly silence as flame radiated out from the point of impact, followed by a soft concussive whoosh as the fumes ignited. Shortly after, the screams began.
Bearing not the remotest resemblance to human utterances, these outcries were high-pitched and piercing, the death knell of things that were unnatural and unwholesome. Then the pumps blew.
This was louder, more violent, and brighter, lighting up the countryside for two hundred feet around. Thankfully, the flames concealed the figures that had been trapped in and around the station. Oil cans, small tools and flaming debris peppered the road around them, though both the rod and its occupants somehow managed to avoid serious injury.
Joey fired up the rod and floored it, laying a patch away from the station. Billy figured the cops would be showing up soon and Joey didn’t want to be making the scene when they showed up. To prove him wrong yet again, the gas storage tanks under the station blew.
A fireball of immense proportions erupted into existence, obliterating Keller’s service station and everything near it, rolling over the road where the hot rod had been standing and melting the macadam to slag. The furnace heat of it slammed into Billy’s face like a right cross, forcing him to turn away from the conflagration.
When next he risked another look back the receding fireball was ascending into the night sky, leaving behind a gaping, charred crater in the earth and very little else. As the fireball rose higher, the scene was consumed by gloom.
Joey took a roundabout route back to the other side of town, pulling up at the corner nearest the Sundown. “This is where you and I split up,” he told Billy. “Nobody could’ve seen you in the dark but they sure got a good look at my machine, so it’s a good bet The Man’ll be after me real soon. You just go back in there, be cool, and you’ll be out of it.”
“What about you?” Billy asked as he climbed out of the car.
“I’m gonna fade. It was time I blew this burg anyway. I know a guy who’ll give me a new paint job on the QT, and with a new set of plates I’ll have it made in the shade.”
“Well, okay then. But be careful.”
Joey treated him to a lopsided grin. “Ain’t I always? And hey, Poindexter? You’re okay.”
“Thanks Joey.”
Joey revved his engine. “Well, it ain’t like were getting married or anything.” He floored the accelerator and, as Billy watched, faded swiftly away into the night.
There was a big investigation. Men in black suits who were not part of the local police force were seen all over town and at the nuclear plant for two weeks following that night. No one knew who they were, but they had absolute authority over the investigation. Billy was certain their appearance had a great deal to do with the phone call he’d placed from Mr. Blodgett’s office.
A couple of those men even came to the Sundown, and for Billy the experience was more frightening than facing a dozen lizard men. They were taciturn, unsmiling men who observed the world through dark tinted sunglasses that never came off, even at night. A cold chill hit his spine when he realized that, aside from the colored lenses, those glasses looked exactly like the ones that had incited the entire nightmare.
Those rose-colored glasses had vanished into the night along with Joey Spadona, and Billy did not expect to see either of them again. For the moment, though, he had other things with which to occupy his mind.
They knew. Those men in black knew he’d been involved in everything that had happened, though they never brought it up, never even hinted at it. That made the torture all the worse.
Billy did indeed keep his cool and his silence for those two interminable weeks, and then the men in black were gone. Behind them they left the story of Communist saboteurs and a plot against the nuclear plant. Joey was painted as a kid who was in the wrong place at the wrong time and heard something he shouldn’t have. In this version of the truth, Joey had been killed in the explosion at Keller’s.
There were so many holes in that story you could have strained noodles with it, but only if you knew what had really happened, and Billy never spilled the beans, not even to Cindy Potillo, whom he later wooed and wed, nor to any of his four children, whom he considered his finest achievements.
He was wrong about one thing, though; he did see Joey Spadona again.
It was years later, and Bill was in Los Angeles living his Hollywood dream. The kids were at school and Cindy was shopping with friends, leaving him a quiet house in which to work on his next script.
The doorbell rang and Bill set aside his work, secretly grateful for the distraction. There was no one on the porch when he opened the door, just a small black case resting in the center of the welcome mat. He retrieved the case, eased it open and peered inside. He froze, instantly transported back to that nightmarish evening at the Sundown.
Inside the case rested a pair of rose-colored glasses. The pair of rose-colored glasses. How…?
An engine revved out on the street. A large black sedan hulked by the curb in front of his house, a vehicle almost identical to those driven by the mysterious men in black all those years ago. Almost the same.
Someone had worked on this car, customized it, souped it up. Bill’s eyes found the driver, a black-suited figure sporting a black fedora and a pair of impenetrable black sunglasses. But unlike those other occasions, this time the figure reached up and removed the shades.
He looked older, but who didn’t? There was wisdom in his eyes now, and experience was clearly written in the lines of his face. He didn’t recognize him at first, but once that face brightened and shifted he found himself staring at the patented lopsided grin of Joey Spadona.
They never spoke a word but exchanged volumes. Together they forged a connection to another world, where alien beings walked amongst us to evil purposes, a world of men in black and strange 3-D glasses that offered glimpses of a horrifying reality.
It was Joey who broke the spell. Offering Bill an enthusiastic thumbs-up he gunned the engine, nearly popping a wheelie as he tore off down the street. Bill watched him go a second time, acutely aware of the case in his hand and those rose-colored glasses he knew he was destined to wear once again.
THE PRESERVED ONES
BY CHRISTOPHER M. GEESON
Day 44
I can hear it lurking outside again, the hideous screeching from its throat audible beyond the metal hatch. It knows Frank came from this shelter and it knows there are more of us.
Day 1
“It took God six days to create the Earth,” I say. “It took us a matter of minutes to destroy it.” Granted, events had been building up for some time, but most of us doubted anyone would actually press the button. “I can’t believe we defeated fascism, only to destroy ourselves little more than a decade later.”
“What do you mean—destroy ourselves?” Harve MacNeil says. In the dim lamplight, the shadows accentuate his sneer.
“You heard the siren; the explosions. What do you think I mean?”
“Sure,” he says, puffing on a cigarette, “I heard the explosions from in here, alive and well, with four months’ supply of food, water and a nice little generator.”
“You think four months are enough?” I ask, smoothing my tie (we’ve got to have standards, even in here).
Harve laughs. “Course I do�
��and I’ll bet the damned Soviets and Chinese ain’t got shelters beneath every street.” He smirks at his wife, Carol, who of course smiles back. “No sir, we’ll have incinerated them—just like we did the Japs.”
Up in their bunks, a few of the others laugh with him. Frank looks uncomfortable, though, and old Mrs. Henderson folds her arms. Carol continues to smile, as if her face is made of porcelain. Harve turns on the battery radio. Static, no matter which way he winds the button. His thick brow furrows over his small eyes.
“And we’ll just crawl out of our cozy shelters in four months and pick up where we left off?” I ask. “Rebuild the American Dream all over again?”
“Sure we will, Doc,” he says. I recognize that fanatical gleam in his eye, the one he had when he barred the shelter door before the black family from Number Twelve could join us.
Day 3
I’m already tired of canned pork and canned beans. “We should work together,” I say, putting down the empty can, the fork leaning in it. “Make a meal on the stove instead of eating separately.”
“Good idea,” Ed Cassidy says. “The food will last longer.” Dan Cassidy nods too. They’re the kind of brothers you only see in movies—Ed is tall and dark with an Elvis quiff; Dan shorter, blond, like a boyish James Dean. It’s like they’re played by actors with no relation to one another, apart from their plaid shirts. “Dan’s a pretty good cook,” Ed says.
Harve MacNeil snorts at that and sits up. “This is turning into a goddamned commune.”
“There’s plenty of cold rubbery meat in those cans if you prefer,” says Frank Finkelstein. “Or we can share resources. Think of it like the army canteen, Colonel MacNeil—I’m sure you can stomach that,” he says with a smirk. Being a journalist, he has a way with words.
“All right, Finkelstein,” Harve scowls, “if we’re all gonna eat together, do you want ham or bacon with your eggs?”
“You know full well I don’t eat pork.”
“I know you’re a goddamned communist!”
I’m still quick enough on my feet to insert myself between them before it gets violent. “It’s alright Frank,” I say. I turn to MacNeil. “You’ve had your say, Harve. Back off, please.”
I wait for him to apologize to Frank, but no apology comes.
“I could cook us a nice stew.” Mrs. Henderson breaks the silence. “A family recipe from the colonial days, tried and tested.” Shuffling in her rocking chair, she turns to Mrs. O’Brien from Number Nine, who’s lying on one of the bottom bunks. “You could help me, dear,” she says with a sugary smile.
Mrs. O’Brien is smoking, her back to all of us, accentuating the curve of her hip.
“Now Marcy,” Mrs. Henderson croons, “I know you’re worried about Adam and the children, but I’m just certain they got to a shelter in time.”
Mrs. O’Brien’s shoulders quiver. “There aren’t any shelters in the mountains.”
Mrs. Henderson turns to me, eyebrows raised. “Tell her, Doctor Burroughs. Go on. Please.”
I shrug, mumble something. I’m hardly the best choice to reassure anyone about a lost spouse. There was a time I was better at reassuring patients, but it’s been a while. “Listen Marcy: the sirens came at around 4:30pm, yes? Well, Adam and the kids would’ve been up at dawn, out on the lake. By four, they would’ve had a full day’s fishing. If I know Adam, he’d be thirsting for a cold beer by then.”
Mrs. Henderson nods at me with encouragement.
“I could sure do with a beer,” says Harve. He turns and stares at his wife. “Did you hear me?”
Carol trudges over to the small icebox—though it’s probably not cold any more.
“So,” I continue, “I’d be amazed if they didn’t all get into your Plymouth Savoy and head for the store at Devil’s View. That’d put them near a shelter at the precise moment.”
“By Jove, the Doctor’s right,” Mrs. Henderson declares.
Marcy turns over. Tears have made her makeup run, but she looks younger than her years; still beautiful. “Thank you, Doctor,” she says, stubbing out her cigarette. “That’ll be what happened. Yes.” She nods over and over, deluding herself.
“There,” Mrs. Henderson says. “Now let’s agree on a menu for the rest of the week. Everything’s going to be just fine.”
Day 43
I didn’t sleep last night and I shan’t tonight either. Even though he died yesterday, I can still hear Frank’s terrible screams as he hammered on the outer hatch. “My God! There’s something out here!” With a dreadful rending noise, his screams were silenced, but not until he yelled one more thing: “You’re all trapped in there!”
Day 15
I never thought I’d say this, but I feel like we’re safe down here, despite the deep rumbles outside. Sure, there are times this prefab shelter feels like a sealed can—when the re-circulated air gets stifling with the generator on, the stove cooking and only flushing the lavatory once a day to preserve water—but the air filter takes a quick gulp from outside, removes the radioactive particles and we’re back in business.
I didn’t like him one bit, but thank God President McCarthy was paranoid enough to build shelters on every street corner in all the nice areas. This place is starting to feel like home. The meal idea has taken off; we’ve stacked crates for a table between two bunks and we’ve even got a red and white checkered tablecloth that old Mrs. Henderson brought in the panic.
My skills—and the supplies I packed—are in demand, whether it’s treating one of Marcy’s headaches, Harve’s old war wound, or reminding Mrs. Henderson to take her pills.
The Cassidy boys entertain us every night with a singsong—Elvis or Bill Haley—and the Glenvilles from Number Three are all musical. Clara, their nineteen-year-old daughter, brought her guitar, and their younger son, Paul, struts around like he’s Elvis. Say, I wonder if Elvis is in a shelter someplace?
Finkelstein is a great storyteller, the sort of fellow who’s swell with young kids. The Burtons from Number Twelve had two girls and two boys, until Harve shut them out. “There’s a colored shelter downtown,” Harve said. “I ain’t sharing with any of their kind.” And God forgive me, I helped him.
Day 16
I can’t sleep. My wife’s dead face, pale and serene, drifts into my mind. Her eyes snap open, accusing, as her body wracks with pain. She speaks, her voice wet with fluid: “Let me die again.”
Day 27
We finally got something on the radio. First, just an eerie buzzing noise, like a swarm of insects, but with a little tuning we found a broadcast repeating continuously:
“This is President McCarthy. I said I’d find a way to beat the communists and I have.”
Frank sags against the wall when he hears that. No doubt he was hoping, like I was, that McCarthy hadn’t survived; that his crazy rise to power had finally ended. Frank says nothing. We all have our little secrets.
The President’s voice is a droning monotone—tired, weighed down by all that’s happened, I guess: “The Soviets and the Chinese have surrendered. We are victorious. But I urge all citizens to stay in their shelters.” Something about the message bothers me. “You are quite safe,” he continues. “When the time is right you will hear the all-clear siren. God bless you all and God bless America.”
Harve MacNeil holsters the pistol he’s been cleaning and turns off the radio. “We should have ourselves a celebration tonight.” He winks at Carol. “You know what’d make this day even more perfect?” Harve grabs her arm and takes her off to a bunk, where—hidden under the covers—he takes advantage of the only privacy they can get.
The rest of us gather around the Cassidy boys and sing Rock Around the Clock, trying to ignore what MacNeil is doing to his wife. Ed Cassidy can do a pretty good Bill Haley impersonation but it’s not perfect. We’re on the second chorus when I realize what’s bothering me about the radio message: it sounds like President McCarthy but it’s not perfect.
Day 38
I wake up in the middl
e of the night, heart pounding, breathless, my face only a foot or so from the cold ceiling. Another horrid dream about the Burtons from Number Twelve. I see their four children as Harve and I shut them out; hear them pounding on the outer hatch as we seal the inner door. I’ve been telling myself they made it to the segregated shelter downtown, but there aren’t nearly enough places for every black family. There was a time when I tried to stop death—really tried.
I lie in the dark, taking deep breaths. A distant rumble vibrates the walls.
Harve doesn’t seem to have nightmares—I’ll bet he didn’t lose sleep over what he did in Korea either. But every time I drift, my thoughts dwell on death. And now we’ve shut out Mrs. Henderson.
I’m just drifting again when I hear a gentle footfall below, across the aisle between the bunks and then a faint rustle of covers. I’ve been expecting that young hormones won’t be able to contain themselves. One of the Cassidy boys, I reckon, with Clara Glenville, or perhaps even Marcy O’Brien. I inch towards the edge of my bunk and peer over, until my eyes adjust to the darkness. Well, I was nearly right.
Day 37
I stare at the dial; close my eyes; open them again. I cannot deny the evidence. Despite our miracles of technology, something has gone wrong. The human race created bombs to wipe out our fellow man, but we couldn’t make a batch of air filtration units and guarantee that one of them won’t be faulty.
I break the news at dinner, interrupting Ed Cassidy and Harve as they argue about whether John Wayne or Randolph Scott cowboy films are better. Personally, I don’t think either has made a film as good as High Noon. And now, they probably never will.
“The shelter can no longer support this many people,” I say.
They all look at me, as if I can save them.
“What do you mean?” Marcy cries. She points to the rack of unused bunks. “It’s designed to support twice as many—the Burtons, Adam—” she breaks down before she can add her children to the list.