Regarding which, had by then achieved Fifth Degree; could break brick with edge of hand, knee, foot. But didn’t after learned could. Prospect distressed Daddy. Poor dear could visualize with professional exactitude pathological consequences of attempt by untrained; knew just what each bone splinter would look like, where would be driven; which tendons torn from what insertions; which nerves destroyed forever, etc. Had wistful ambition I might follow into medicine; considered prospects bleak for applicant with deformed, callused hammers dangling from wrists.
Needless concern; calluses unnecessary. With proper control body delivers blow through normal hands without discomfort, damage. Is possible, of course, to abuse nature to point where fingers, knuckles, edge of hands, etc., all turn to flint, but never seen outside exhibitions. Serves no purpose in practice of Art; regarded with disdain by serious student, Master alike.
So much for happy memories.
Not long ago world situation took turn for worse. Considering character of usual headlines when change began, outlook became downright grim.
Daddy tried to hide concern but spent long hours reading reports from Washington (appreciated for first time just how renowned was when saw whom from), watching news; consulting variety of foreign, domestic officials by phone. Seemed cheerful enough, but when thought I wasn’t looking, mask slipped.
Finally called me into study. Sat me down; gave long, serious lecture on how bad things were. Made me lead through house, point out entrances to emergency chute leading down to shelter (dreadful thing — 200-foot vertical drop in pitch dark, cushioned at bottom only by gradual curve as polished sides swing to horizontal, enter shelter). Then insisted we take plunge for practice. Although considered “practice” more likely to induce psychic block, make subsequent use impossible — even in time of need — performed as requested. Not as bad as expected; terror index fell perhaps five percent short of anticipation. But not fun.
However, first time in shelter since age three. Scenic attractions quickly distracted from momentary cardiac arrest incurred in transit Concealed below modest small-town frame house of unassuming doctor was Eighth Wonder of World. Shelter is three-story structure carved from bedrock, 100 feet by fifty; five-eighths shelves, storage compartments. Recognized microfilm viewer immediately; identical to one used at big hospital over in next county. Film-storage file cabinets same, too — only, occupied full length of two long walls; plus four free-standing files ran almost full length of room. Rest bookshelves, as is whole of second floor. Basement seems mostly tools, machinery, instrumentation.
Hardly heard basic life-support function operation lecture: air regeneration, waste reclamation, power production, etc. Was all could do to look attentive — books drew me like magnet. However, managed to keep head; paid sufficient attention to ask intelligent-sounding questions. Actually learned basics of how to work shelter’s vital components.
Because occurred to me: Could read undisturbed down here if knew how to make habitable. (Feel bad about that, too; here Daddy worried sick over my survival In The Event Of — and object of concern scheming about continued selfish pursuit of printed word.)
Tour, lecture ended. Endless spiral staircase up tube five feet in diameter led back to comfortable world of small-town reality. Life resumed where interrupted.
With exception: Was now alert for suitable opportunity to begin exploration of shelter.
Not readily available. As Fifth was qualified assistant instructor at formal classes; took up appreciable portion of time. Much of rest devoted to own study — both Art (wanted to attain Sixth; would have been youngest in world) and academics, both under approving eye of Master. Plus null time spent occupying space in grammar school classroom, trying not to look too obviously bored while maintaining straight-A average. (Only amusement consisted of correcting textbooks, teachers — usually involved digging up proof, confrontations in principal’s office.) Plus sundry activities rounding out image of “normally well-rounded 11-year-old.”
But patience always rewarded. If of sufficient duration. Daddy called to Washington; agreed was adult enough to take care of self, house, Terry during three days’ expected absence. Managed not to drool at prospect.
Terry? True, didn’t mention before, by name; just that had responsibility. Remember? First page, fourth paragraph. Pay attention — may spring quiz.
Terry is retarded, adoptive twin brother. Saw light of day virtually same moment I emerged — or would have, had opened eyes. Early on showed more promise than I: Walked at nine weeks, first words at three months, could fly at 14 weeks. Achieved fairly complex phrases by six months but never managed complete sentences. Peaked early but low.
Not fair description. Actually Terry is brilliant — for macaw. Also beautiful. Hyacinthine Macaw, known to lowbrows as Hyacinth, pseudointellectuals as anodorhynchus hyacinthinus — terrible thing to say about sweet baby bird. Full name Terry D. Foster (initial stands for Dactyll). Length perhaps 36 inches (half of which is tail feathers); basic color rich, glowing, hyacinth blue (positively electric in sunlight), with bright yellow eye patches like clown, black feet and bill. Features permanently arranged in jolly Alfred E. Neuman, village-idiot smile. Diet is anything within reach, but ideally consists of properly mixed seeds, assorted fruits, nuts, sprinkling of meat, etc.
Hobbies include getting head and neck scratched (serious business, this), art of conversation, destruction of world. Talent for latter avocation truly awe-inspiring: 1500 pounds pressure available at business end of huge, hooked beak. Firmly believe if left Terry with four-inch cube of solid tungsten carbide, would return in two hours to find equivalent mass of metal dust, undimmed enthusiasm.
Was really convinced were siblings when very young. First deep childhood trauma (not affected by loss of blood parents; too young at time, too many interesting things happening) induced by realization was built wrong, would never learn to fly. Had stubbornly mastered perching on playpen rail shortly before began walking (though never did get to point of preferring nonchalant one-legged stance twin affected — toes deformed: stunted, too short for reliable grip), but subsequent step simply beyond talents.
Suspect this phase of youth contributed to appearance of symptoms leading to early demise of Momma Foster. Remember clearly first time she entered room, found us perched together on rail, furiously “exercising wings.” Viewed in retrospect, is amazing didn’t expire on spot.
(Sounds cold, unfeeling; is not. Momma given long advance notice; knew almost to day when could expect to leave. Prepared me with wisdom, understanding, love. Saw departure as unavoidable but wonderful opportunity, adventure; stated was prepared to accept, even excuse, reasonable regret over plans spoiled, things undone — but not grief. Compared grief over death of friend to envy of friend’s good fortune: selfish reaction — feeling sorry for self, not friend. Compared own going to taking wonderful trip; “spoiled plans” to giving up conflicting movie, picnic, swim in lake. Besides, was given big responsibility — charged me with “looking after Daddy.” Explained he had formed many elaborate plans involving three of us — many more than she or I had. Would doubtless be appreciably more disappointed, feel more regret over inability to carry out. Would need love, understanding during period it took him to reform plans around two remaining behind. Did such a job on me that truly did not suffer loss, grief; just missed her when gone, hoped was having good time.)
Awoke morning of Daddy’s trip to startling realization — didn’t want him to go. Didn’t like prospect of being alone three days: didn’t like idea of him alone three days. Lay abed trying to resolve disquieting feeling. Or at least identify. Could do neither; had never foreboded before. Subliminal sensation: below conscious level but intrusive. Multiplied by substantial factor could be mistaken for fear — no, not fear, exactly; more like mindless, screaming terror.
But silly; nothing to be scared about. Mrs. Hartman would be working in office in front part of house during day; house locked tight at night — with additional securit
y provided by certain distinctly nonsmall-town devices Daddy recently caused installed. Plus good neighbors on all sides, available through telephone right at bedside or single loud scream.
Besides, was I not Candy Smith-Foster, State Champion, Scourge of Twelve-and-Under Class, second most dangerous mortal within 200-mile radius? (By now knew details of Filthy Four’s “stumble,” and doubt would have gotten off so lightly had I been intercessor.)
Was. So told feeling to shut up. Washed, dressed, went down to breakfast with Daddy and Terry.
Conduct during send-off admirable; performance qualified for finals in stiff-upper-lip-of-year award contest. Merely gave big hug, kiss; cautioned stay out of trouble in capital, but if occurred, call me soonest — would come to rescue: split skulls, break bones, mess up adversaries something awful. Sentiment rewarded by lingering return hug, similar caution about self during absence (but expressed with more dignity).
Then door of government-supplied, chauffeur-driven, police-escorted limousine closed; vehicle made its long, black way down street, out of sight around corner.
Spent morning at school, afternoon teaching at Y, followed by own class with Master. Finally found self home, now empty except Terry (voicing disapproval of day’s isolation at top of ample lungs); Mrs. Hartman done for day, had gone home. Silenced twin by scratching head, transferring to shoulder (loves assisting with household chores, but acceptance means about three times as much work as doing by self — requires everything done at arms’ length, out of reach).
Made supper, ate, gave Terry whole tablespoon of peanut butter as compensation for boring day (expressed appreciation by crimping spoon double). Did dishes, cleaned house in aimless fashion; started over.
Finally realized was dithering, engaging in busywork; afraid to admit was really home alone, actually had opportunity for unhindered investigation of shelter. Took hard look at conflict; decided was rooted in guilt over intent to take advantage of Daddy’s absence to violate known wishes. Reminded self that existence of violation hinged upon accuracy of opinion concerning unvocalized desires; “known wishes” question-begging terminology if ever was one. Also told self firmly analysis of guilt feeling same as elimination. Almost believed.
Impatiently stood, started toward basement door. Terry recognized signs, set up protest against prospect of evening’s abandonment. Sighed, went back, transferred to shoulder. Brother rubbed head on cheek in gratitude, gently bit end of nose, said, “You’re so bad,” in relieved tones. Gagged slightly; peanut-butter breath from bird is rare treat.
Descended long spiral stairs down tube to shelter. Ran through power-up routine, activated systems. Then began exploration.
Proceeded slowly. Terry’s first time below; found entertaining. Said, “How ’bout that!” every ten seconds. Also stretched neck, bobbed head, expressed passionate desire to sample every book as pulled from shelf. Sternly warned of brief future as giblet dressing if so much as touched single page. Apparently thought prospect sounded fun, redoubled efforts. But was used to idiot twin’s antisocial behavior; spoiled fun almost without conscious thought as proceeded with exploration.
Soon realized random peeking useless; was in position of hungry kid dropped in middle of Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory: too much choice. Example: Whole cabinet next to microfilm viewer was catalog!
Three feet wide, eight high; drawers three feet deep, six inches wide (rows of six); ten titles per card (thin cards) — 72 cubic feet of solid catalog.
Took breath away to contemplate. Also depressed; likelihood of mapping orderly campaign to augment education not good. Didn’t know where to start; which books, films within present capacity; where to go from there. Only thing more tiresome than being repressed genius is being ignorant genius recognizing own status.
Decided to consult Teacher; try to get him to list books he considered ideal to further education most rapidly from present point, cost no object. (Was giving consideration to Daddy’s ambition to see me become doctor; but regardless, no education wasted. Knowledge worthwhile for own sake.) Didn’t feel should report discovery — would be breach of confidence — but could use indirect approach. Not lie; just not mention that any book suggested undoubtedly available on moment’s notice. Ought to fool him all of ten seconds.
Started toward switchboard to power-down shelter. Hand touching first switch in sequence when row of red lights began flashing, three large bells on wall next to panel commenced deafening clangor. Snatched hand back as if from hot stove; thought had activated burglar alarm (if reaction included thought at all). Feverish inspection of panel disclosed no hint of such, but found switch marked “Alarm Bells, North American Air Defense Command Alert.” Opened quickly; relieved to note cessation of din, but lights continued flashing. Then, as watched, second row labeled “Attack Detected,” began flashing.
Problem with being genius is tendency to think deep, mull hidden significance, overlook obvious. Retrieved Terry (as usual, had gone for help at first loud noise), scratched head to soothe nerves. Twin replied, “That’s bad!” several times; dug claws into shoulder, flapped wings to show had not really been scared. Requested settle down, shut up; wished to contemplate implications of board.
Impressive. Daddy must be truly high-up closet VIP to rate such inside data supplied to home shelter. As considered this, another row flashed on, this labeled “Retaliation Initiated.” Imagine — blow-by-blow nuclear-war info updates supplied to own home! Wonderful to be so important. Amazing man. And so modest — all these years never let on. Wondered about real function in government. With such brains, was probably head of supersecret spy bureau in charge of dozens of James Bond types.
Don’t know how long mindless rumination went on; finally something clicked in head: Attack? Retaliation? Hey…! Bolted for steps. Terry sunk -in claws, voiced protest over sudden movements.
Stopped like statue. Daddy’s voice, tinny, obviously recording: “Red alert, radiation detected. Level above danger limit. Shelter will seal in thirty seconds — 29, 28, 27…” Stood frozen; listened as familiar voice delivered requiem for everything known and loved — including probably self. Interrupted count once at 15-second mark to repeat radiation warning, again at five seconds.
Then came deep-toned humming; powerful motors slid blocks of concrete, steel, asbestos across top of stairwell, did same for emergency-entry chute. Sealing process terminated with solidly mechanical clunks, thuds. Motors whined in momentary overload as program ensured was tight.
Then truly alone. Stood staring at nothing for long minutes. Did not know when silent tears began; noticed wet face when Terry sampled, found too salty. Shook head; said softly, “Poo-oor bay-bee…”
Presently found self sitting in chair. Radio on; could not remember turning switch, locating CONELRAD frequency. Just sat, listened to reports. Only time stirred was to feed, water Terry; use potty. Station on air yet, but manned only first three days.
Was enough, told story: Mankind eliminated. Radiation, man-made disease. International quick-draw ended in tie.
Final voice on air weakly complained situation didn’t make sense: Was speaking from defense headquarters near Denver — miles underground, utterly bombproof, airtight; self-contained air, water — so why dying? Why last alive in entire installation? Didn’t make sense…
Agreed, but thought objection too limited in scope. Also wondered why we were still alive. Likewise didn’t make sense: If invulnerability of NORAD headquarters — located just this side of Earth’s core under Cheyenne Mountain — proving ineffective, how come fancy subcellar hidey-hole under house in small town still keeping occupants alive? And for how long?. Figured had to be just matter of time.
Therefore became obsessed with worry over fate of retarded brother. Were safe from radiation (it seemed); but plague another matter. Doubted would affect avian biochemistry; would kill me, leave poor baby to starve, die of thirst. Agonized over dilemma for days. Finally went downstairs; hoped might turn up something in stores could use
as Terry’s Final Friend.
Did. Found armory. Thought of what might have to do almost triggered catatonia; but knew twin’s escape from suffering dependent on me, so mechanically went ahead with selection of shotgun. Found shells, loaded guns. Carried upstairs, placed on table. Then waited for cue.
Knew symptoms; various CONELRAD voices had described own, those of friends. Were six to syndrome. Order in which appeared reported variable; number present at onset of final unconsciousness not. Four symptoms always, then fifth: period of extreme dizziness — clue to beginning of final decline. Was important, critical to timing with regard to Terry. Desperately afraid might wait too long; condemn poor incompetent to agonizing last days. And almost more afraid might react to false alarm, proceed with euthanasia; then fail to die — have to face scattered, blood-spattered feathers, headless body of sweetest, jolliest, most devoted, undemandingly loving friend had ever known.
Which was prospect if acted too soon — intended to stand 20 feet away, blow off head while engrossed in peanut butter. Pellet pattern expansion sufficient at that distance to ensure virtually instantaneous vaporization of entire head, instant kill before possibility of realization, pain. Would rather suffer own dismemberment, boiling in oil, than see innocent baby suffer, know was me causing.
Thus, very important to judge own condition accurately when plague sets in.
Only hasn’t yet. Been waiting three weeks, paralyzed with grief, fear, apprehension, indecision. But such emotions wearisome when protracted; eventually lose grip on victim. I think perhaps might have — particularly now that journal up-to-date, catharsis finished. Book says therapy requires good night’s sleep after spilling guts; then feel better in morning. Suspect may be right; do feel better.
Okay. Tomorrow will get organized…!
Good morning, Posterity! Happy to report I spent good night. Slept as if already dead — first time since trouble began. No dreams; if tossed, turned, did so without noticing. Appears psychology-text writer knew stuff (certainly should have; more letters following name than in). Catharsis worked — at least would seem; felt good on waking. Wounds obviously not healed yet, but closed. A beginning — scabs on soul much better than hemorrhage.
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