by A. K. Meek
He waited.
Finally, she gave a wide grin. “When’s your birthday?” she said.
“My birthday? June twenty-fifth.”
She rolled her eyes and put her hands on her thin hips. “What year?” she puffed.
“Nineteen eighty-three.”
“You were born on a Tuesday during a full moon. I was born on a Thursday.”
Nate, who had begun scribbling in the margins of one page, stopped and stared at her.
She giggled. “My doctor says I have hyper, hyperth...something.” She laughed again, covering her mouth.
“Tuesday, wow, that’s quite a gift,” he said, not really interested in the revelation.
“Momma says it’s a gift from God.”
“Your dad must be proud.”
“Papa says it ain’t no talent if it don’t make no money,” Desiree said. Then a whirlwind caught her and she was off, spinning out the door into the crowd, continuing some unknown song and dance.
Her father, Reginald, was a bum, as near as Nate could tell. During the interview, all he did was complain about his disabilities and why he couldn’t do anything around the shelter. He was the reason Nate originally coined the term “baggage.” If Reggie worked as hard at a job as he did getting out of work, he would’ve been a millionaire.
He entered Desiree’s name in his composition book. The last one. Next to her name he wrote “special,” then “24.”
Twenty-four people caught in Fallout Shelter 1710, the Ark. Twenty-four lives, maybe the only lives left on earth.
Nate stared at the page for a minute. One more to add.
He skipped a couple lines and wrote his name, Nathaniel Bowen, underneath Desiree’s. Next to his name he put “25.” All of the shelter had now been accounted for.
Twenty-five went in the shelter, and then the bombs fell.
01.05
LIFE UNDERGROUND
After the initial bombing that drove the twenty-five underground, after those first terrifying hours of bombing and gunfire, little more was heard from above.
A couple days later an explosion or two shook the Ark, rattling bodies and souls, but then subsided to the usual silence.
Still several days after that a few of the people who had scrambled to safety underground started to wonder what was going on outside and if it was safe to leave so they could look for lost loved ones.
But many more wanted to leave because they were going insane from being cooped up in the shelter since the bombing days ago.
In the office, Nate sat on the floor, back against a metal shelf, his composition book on his lap.
Brandon, the kid with the red hair, sat in a corner, playing with the radio, hoping to get any signal, any news of the war. They had not heard anything else since the Vice President’s speech.
Charles was in the armory, looking over the weapons, again.
“So out of the group of us”—Will stared at Nate’s book—”there are some that can’t do anything?”
“What do you expect?” Bruce said, sitting on the edge of the desk. He continued after pushing a mouthful of dip aside with his tongue. “It’s just like on the outside. You have those that want to work and those that don’t want to work.” He spit in a canteen, black specks covering his teeth.
Nate closed his book. “There are some that are unemployed, and maybe I can understand why they’re unemployed. They’re more like baggage than anything else.”
Both Colton and Bruce chuckled. Will just stared, unflinching. “How many can fire weapons or have knowledge of shooting?” he said.
“I think your best knowledge is right here.” He nodded toward Colton. “So I guess you were pretty good in picking him to be security.”
Bruce started for the door. “Nature calls,” he said without a look back.
“Out of the group,” Nate continued, “almost half. Twelve I’ve identified as capable of handling a gun.”
“Rifle,” Colton said, giving a quick wink.
Nate returned an apologetic smile, then scratched his two weeks of beard growth. Whoever stocked this shelter forgot an important male necessity: razors. Most of the men were beginning to look the same. He had never gone more than a day without shaving. Now, he was dropped headlong into dealing with the itchy, annoying thing.
One more thing he hated about the shelter. Number 573 on his mental list of things to hate.
A scream ripped through the Ark.
“What in the world?” Will said, jumping from his chair. He turned to Charles. “Secure the armory. Let’s go.” He ran into the main hall, Colton and Nate close behind.
A crowd of people were yelling, surrounding a fight. Arney, the special-needs man who had panicked during that first night, was curled up on the floor, clutching his head and screaming. Above him stood Bruce, swinging his heavy-booted foot into Arney’s side. The man yelped like a dog with each foot strike.
Two men grappled on the edge of the fight, one wanting to break it up, the other wanting to let it play out.
“If I ever catch you touching her,” Bruce screamed, “I’ll rip your eyes out!”
Will pushed through the spectators and grabbed at Bruce’s arm. “Stop! Stop this!”
Two of those who had previously cheered the fight were now silent, stepping aside, acting innocent, like they had nothing to do with anything. Will shoved one out of the way, then wrapped his arms around Bruce, pulling him away from the man on the ground.
“Let me go, I’ll kill him!” Bruce yelled.
“You’re not killing anyone.” Will tightened the bear hug, his face turning red with exertion. “I said stop.”
Colton pushed through the group, also restraining Bruce.
“All right, all right,” he said. He stopped wrestling and wiped his head, staring at the sniveling man on the ground. He lunged forward one last time and spit on him. “If I ever see you touch my girl again, I’ll kill you. I swear I’ll kill you.”
Colton pulled him away from the scene, through the crowd toward the kitchen. “C’mon, let’s go get something to drink.”
Will knelt by Arney, who was sobbing, a trickle of blood escaping from the corner of his mouth. One side of his face was red and already swelling. Blood also ran from a wound in his hairline.
Earlier, when Nate attempted to talk to Arney, he quickly realized that he was special-needs.
Arney was white, middle-aged, and relatively docile. But there was something about him that made Nate feel uneasy. He couldn’t put a finger on it, but something.
“Take it easy, we’re going to help,” Will said. “What’s your name?”
“He hurt me,” Arney said.
Nate knew talking with him was a chore for anyone.
“I know he did,” Will said. “What’s your name?”
“Arney,” Nate said. “His name’s Arney.”
“Arney, that’s your name? You’re Arney?”
“I want Momma,” Arney said. He started sobbing again, louder than last time.
Nate leaned closer to Will, despite the urge to walk away from the sniveling man sprawled on the floor. “Will, he’s, uhm…His mom isn’t here.”
Nate looked around, hoping someone would come from the group and claim Arney. Fear, indifference circled him. He understood those feelings, having the same, but it still didn’t make it right. Many feelings he had over the past few days weren’t right.
Yvonne, the large black lady who wore the floral pattern dress that clung to her came from the bathroom and, seeing the commotion, started to push through the group, but they quickly parted before her.
“What happened to you, Arney?” she said in her matronly voice, her only voice. “Let me help you up, baby.”
Despite her grim demeanor and mouth welded in a permanent frown, her voice made up for it. It soothed in a way that only someone who spent a life doing it could.
She bent to Arney and hooked her arm under his. With strength that belied her body she lifted the heavy man with relati
ve ease to his feet. She ripped the cuff off her dress sleeve and dabbed his head.
“Someone get me some gauze and wrapping.”
“There’s some first aid kits in the supplies,” a female voice said, moving toward the supply room.
Arney clung to Yvonne’s arm, head dug into her shoulder. His sobbing diminished as she rubbed the back of his head. Blood from his wound contrasted with the thin blond hair on his head.
“Arney’s all right,” she said. She looked around at the group circling her, watching Arney. “He’s just a little slow at gettin’ things. He has to think a little longer is all.” She turned back to him. “Your momma’s safe, honey. She’s safe.”
Will also looked to the group. “What happened here?”
“I’ll tell you what happened,” Amber said, pushing her way to the center, Paige, her baby girl, on her hip clutching the teddy bear. “Bruce said he saw Paige sitting on his lap.” Amber pointed at Arney. “I didn’t see it, but Bruce did. Everyone in town knows he’s a filthy pervert. Who knows what despicable things he was trying to do to her.”
Amber, Bruce’s wife, never wore enough clothes to keep guys guessing. Her shorts were too short, exposing too much white leg, and her blouses were probably from the kid’s department; they never made it to her waist, exposing the dragon tattoo on her lower back. She probably thought she looked better than she actually did.
“I didn’t do nothing to her,” Arney said. “I wanted to see her bear.”
“You can’t believe a pervert.” Amber stormed off toward the kitchen, after her husband.
“What was that all about?” Nate said.
“Oh, Arney was accused of molesting some children years ago,” Yvonne said. “He was released from the state hospital a month ago to his momma. But she’s not here. I live down the street from him. He’s spent hours with my kids and never hurt them one bit.”
“Can you watch over him in here?” Will said.
“I’ll do my best, but I have my own family and my husband has a bad back.”
Will smiled. Nate had already picked up when his smile was forced, like now.
“Given the situation we’re all in,” Will said, “that’s all I can ask.”
She cradled Arney, who stood at least a foot taller than her, into her shoulder and walked through the crowd. The ones that stayed to watch the scene parted, allowing the two through.
Desiree, Yvonne’s daughter, who had been doing dance routines off to one side, ran up to the odd couple and hugged Arney.
Nate woke with a chemical protective jacket draped over his head, hiding him from everyone in the shelter. He had grabbed one from the stash of biological protective gear found in the supply room. The jacket beat his soiled, sweat-soaked dress shirt.
His watch said it was two-thirty-eight in the morning, but in this world of perpetual day, the idea of turning off a light to make it dark sometimes didn’t work.
The two men’s argument continued.
Henry and Reggie still raged against each other over where one would sleep, or some other trivial thing such as that. This was the latest of many fights, over just as many days.
Nate had hoped they would kill each other after the first hour.
That was two hours ago. Now, he just wished for a large chunk of ceiling to break free and fall on top of him, leaving everyone else to deal with the two.
He pulled the clothes off his head and stretched. Something from the kitchen would help get his mind off—
An explosion rocked the Ark.
Ceiling, walls, and floor shuddered with the violent burst. But this bombing was different, not like the others. This one came from inside the shelter, not outside.
People screamed and the lights flickered.
The ever-present muffled roar of the engine stalled, ran rough, then settled back into an unsteady rhythm, quite different from the one everyone had grown used to over the past few weeks. The odd, different sound was unsettling.
Will and several others, startled from sleep, ran to the direction of the explosion, the generator room. Nate also ran to the large door and found a handhold as the group disengaged the handle to open it.
Greasy smoke billowed from the room along with the smell of burning gas and oil. Several ran inside.
Nate stayed away from the mess, still clutching the door.
After minutes the smoke that welled from the generator room diminished. Colton and Jacob emerged from the room, each covered in oil.
“What happened?” Efrem said, standing by the door.
“One of the generators blew, flew apart,” Colton said. “It damaged the engine, tore part of the cowling. Oil is pouring from it.” Another shudder vibrated through the Ark, as if to support his diagnosis. The lights flickered and remained a duller yellow.
Will came from the room, also covered in oil. “It’s gonna shut down any moment.”
“Well, we’ll be without power, but we’ll be okay,” Nate said.
“No. No, we won’t.” Colton wiped his arms on a tattered shirt.
Nate turned to Colton. “What do you mean?”
“He’s right,” Will said. “The engine runs more than the generators. How do you think we get air down here? It also pumps water from an underground water table. Look at the lights. One generator will not support us. We need to get everyone out of here before it shuts down.” He wiped his hands on a shirt and slung it to the floor.
People came running, asking Will what had happened. He raised his arms as if they could ward off the questions. “We need to have a meeting.”
At the meeting, everyone agreed it was time to leave the shelter, the Ark.
One of the many other topics discussed was the flash to the north that day that the world fell apart. Most agreed that it could’ve been a nuclear detonation, and there was the real possibility of radiation outside.
So everyone would be given chemical protective gear.
Charles volunteered to sort. He also volunteered Nate to help. Juan volunteered to help as well.
In the supply room, they sorted through boxes and stacks of aged war equipment, the chemical protective suits, gas masks, and flak vests.
Juan Vargas was seventeen, a junior in high school. One of the younger ones in the group. He and his mother were at the courthouse filing citizenship paperwork when the bombing started. Their work and student visas were close to expiring.
Melanie, Juan’s mother, a young, husband-less woman, spoke no English. She had dark features and flowing black curls. Nate thought that at any moment she could’ve hopped into a Spanish soap opera and fit right in. Many of the other men probably thought the same by the way they watched her.
Her son, Juan, was her translator. He was youthful and thin, and he moved with that same youthful enthusiasm as he separated boots and boot coverings into various piles, based on size. Nate felt old and slow watching him, even though Nate was only in his thirties.
He picked up a once-sealed plastic bag labeled as a large chemical suit. The plastic had degraded, becoming brittle. The coats and jackets, when opened, puffed with little black clouds of charcoal. The charcoal lining acted as a chemical agent nullifier, according to Charles. The nasty stuff covered Nate’s hand and anything else that came in contact with it; who would want to wear that?
Earlier, Nate, after a quick discussion with Will, had sorted through the people, based on his interviews, and assigned basic roles for the population.
First there were soldiers, those who could carry firearms and who could shoot. The protectors of the group.
Then there were mules, those who could carry weight: bulky military backpacks loaded with necessities such as food and water.
Then there were those who could do neither, neither fight nor support, otherwise known as the old, the sick, and the very young. Efrem and Jordana, too old. Although Efrem had good ideas, they needed muscle now.
Yvonne, she was too heavy; overweight. Her husband, bad back.
With those like
that, he couldn’t think of any way to identify them in his composition book besides BG, for baggage. He had kept that to himself until it slipped before Will and some of the others. Nate’s compartmentalization at work. Not everyone would understand.
“Hey, Charles,” Nate said, pulling a couple duffel bags off the mound of military gear. He pulled a metal box from underneath. “Look at this.”
Charles took the box and moved it away from his face and shifted his glasses. “P-tabs, for chemical poisoning.”
“You know a lot about this stuff,” Nate said.
“I grew up in the day we had to know about this.”
Nate pulled another box, this time wooden, from the pile. “Hey, here’s some dosimeters,” he said, reading the label. He remembered the manual Will had been reading. “Aren’t they radiation detectors?”
“Yes. They probably don’t work, though.”
Nate unhooked the latch and lifted the top. “Oh yeah, everything’s corroded, like batteries popped or something.”
Will stepped through the supply room door just as another brownout rolled through the Ark. He looked up at the pendulum lights dangling from the ceiling as they flickered. “Did you get the helmets together? We need to hurry.”
“We’re working on it, boss.” Nate left the box of dosimeters and high-stepped off the pile of gear.
Will nodded, then left the room. Nate grabbed the bag filled with helmets and dragged it into the main hall.
People ran from one place to another; a sense of barely-contained panic permeated the dust-covered shelter. A bunch of scurrying ants.
Henry, Nate had labeled as “Henry the Hick,” was in charge of loading supplies into backpacks and assigning people to carry them. The mules.
Colton was training everyone capable of firing, to handle the guns—rifles—and shooting basics.
No one knew what existed outside, and they prepared for the unknown. Did the bombs level the town, the state, country? That flash, that terrible nuke. Was it really a nuke? Did everything glow now? What about Atlanta? His apartment, his job. Did they still exist?
Even Father, though he hadn’t talked to him since forever. Was he still alive?