Bobby Akart - First Strike

Satisfied with his efforts, he powered down the phone and fell asleep.

Until seventeen minutes after midnight.

All three of their cell phones were jolted out of sleep mode simultaneously. Their initial reaction was different from most Americans from coast to coast that sounded like this:

“What’s that?”

“Did somebody set the alarm?”

“Is that damn disaster app malfunctioning again?”

“Do you think we should check it out?”

“I’m going back to sleep. Let me know what you find out, will ya?”

Lacey and her family had heeded the warnings given to them by her brother. She was able to trust Peter’s judgment, and they immediately sprang into action.

She found her phone and read the alert aloud. It was the same one that had wrestled her dad and uncle out of bed three time zones away, as well as Peter, who was the closest of the family to a high-profile target.

Tucker was the first to speak. “What do we do, Dad?”

Owen thought for a moment before responding, “Okay, guys. Let’s stay calm and think this through. We’re over a hundred miles away from San Francisco. I’m pretty sure that’s beyond the blast radius.”

“What if they miss?” asked Lacey. Then she clarified. “What if this is real and whoever fired the missile overshot their target?”

Owen climbed out of his sleeping bags and rested on his knees. He went to the Yahoo! News home page to see if any form of announcement had been made.

“I guess that’s possible, but I don’t think it’s—”

“There’s a fallout shelter down the street,” Tucker blurted out. “It’s a high school. We kinda passed it when we drove back here. I swear it’s only a few miles.”

“Owen, let’s go there,” Lacey pleaded. “Just to be safe.”

Owen glanced at his watch. Remarkably, it had been several minutes. “Come on. Gather everything up and shove it in the truck.”

“I’ve got room in the backseat,” Tucker offered as he slipped out of his sleeping bag and unzipped the tent door.

Lacey began to hand him their sleeping bags and inflatable pillows through the opening. Within a minute, the three of them had cleared out the tent, and Tucker was running up the hill to the truck.

The ballistic missile warning continued. Inside the Expedition, Owen drove quickly along the winding mountainous road, being cognizant of the trailer he was towing. Lacey frantically searched the radio for information that didn’t consist of the monotonous, repeated warning.

Tucker leaned forward and rested his arms on his parents’ seats. He held his phone so he could follow their progress on the Google Map app.

“Turn left at the stoplight by that bicycle store over there,” he began, pointing toward the intersection. “That’s Lewis Street. Then take a right when the street ends.”

In less than a minute, Owen had steered the truck onto Orange Street. After driving several blocks through a residential neighborhood, they began to see brake lights ahead.

“Everybody else had the same idea,” said Owen calmly. “Same thing happened at Patterson Elementary the other day. There wasn’t a fallout shelter anyway.”

“There’s one here, Dad. I saw the sign on the map. I swear.”

“Park the truck, Owen,” suggested Lacey.

“What?”

“We’re running out of time,” replied Lacey in a much firmer tone. “Park the truck. We have to beat all of these people in the door.”

Thursday, October 24

Near Sacramento, California

“Follow me!” shouted Tucker as he dashed between slow-moving cars headed toward the front of the high school. He crossed Orange Street and raced across Finley Street, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to confirm his parents were keeping up. When he reached a short flight of steps leading to a sidewalk to the left of the school’s main building, he waited for his parents. He caught his breath and looked around at the traffic.

Everyone was waiting in line to turn left toward the auditorium as if they were dropping their kids off for a basketball game. Follow the leader, Tucker thought to himself. Like sheep walking off a cliff.

“Where to?” Owen asked.

“Let’s see if there’s a back way,” replied Tucker. “Come on!”

He led them down the side of the one-story administration building until they reached a courtyard filled with benches and trees. Tucker used his recollection of the high school’s layout on the map to wind his way through several classroom buildings until he arrived at the two-story, white stucco auditorium.

“There are people gathered around the front of the building,” observed Lacey, pointing toward the front of the gymnasium on Agard Street.

Owen started running that way when Tucker called his name.

“Dad, wait! I’ve got a hunch.” Like father, like son .

Owen stopped, and Tucker ran down the back of the gym, trying all the door handles. He reached the middle of the building and found one door ajar, propped open by a gray metal wastebasket.

“Here!” He waved his arm like a third-base coach imploring his runner to head for home plate.

His parents quickly joined him, and seconds later the trio was inside the hallways. Shouts and crying could be heard echoing through the mostly empty building.

“Spread out,” instructed Owen. “Tucker and I will take each end of this corridor. Lacey, you head through the gym to the front. Try to text, or meet back here once you find the entrance to the shelter.”

They took off in their separate directions in search of the stairwell leading below the gymnasium floor. Once again, Tucker’s instincts paid off. He reached the end of the hallway and found a door marked concessions. He opened it slightly to listen.

Hurried voices shouting instructions could be heard from the other end of the space filled with refrigeration equipment and sales counters. He moved closer to the ruckus and found people pushing and shoving toward the rear of the concession’s storage area.

He turned and rushed back into the rear corridor that ran the length of the building. His parents stood in the dimly lit hall, looking in his direction.

“I found it! Hurry! There are a lot of people trying to get in.”

The family was off and running again. They followed Tucker into the concession area, and then they merged with the crowd, who continued to shove their way toward a single door entrance.

The three of them held hands and then locked arms to prevent being separated by the crowd attempting to force their way inside.

“What’s taking so long?” asked Owen, who glanced at his watch. It had only been sixteen minutes since the alarm was sounded.

They were being shoved from behind, but they managed to keep their balance. Babies were crying, as were their mothers. Somebody in the rear screamed women and children first. The McDowells silently disagreed as they kept their place in line.

When they finally reached the doorway, a man dressed in the green-and-gold school colors with Placer emblazoned across the sweatshirt flanked the door along with a uniformed police officer.

Owen arrived at the door first.

“ID!” the officer shouted.

“What?” asked Owen, who was genuinely confused as to what the purpose of presenting identification was.

“ID, sir! We need to confirm you’re a resident. Let’s go.”

Owen started to reach for his wallet, and then Lacey grabbed his arm.

“We were afraid and ran out the door. We don’t have it.” She presumed, rightfully so, that they would try to turn back someone from outside their community.

“Where do you live?” the Placer coach asked.

“Over on Finley,” replied Tucker.