Todd Strasser - Fallout

Petrified with fear, I crouch on the concrete floor beside Janet, who climbed down after Mom fell. The still forms of Mom and Sparky lie in the dark while Dad clings to the metal rungs and tries to pull the trapdoor closed. But people on the other side are trying to pull it open.

The light’s gone on in the playroom, and the shelter brightens each time the trapdoor rises a few inches, then darkens again when Dad manages to yank it down. With each flash of light, I glimpse Mom on her back, one arm stretched out, one leg bent at the knee, the other propped against the wall, Sparky sprawled on top of her.

My brother begins to whimper. Janet draws him off Mom and into her arms. I can’t tell if he’s hurt, but at least he’s moving and making sounds. Unlike Mom, who lies perfectly still.

The trapdoor rises enough to let in the wail of sirens. Someone shouts a curse. Dad’s feet are wedged into the metal rungs. His teeth are gritted with exertion as he struggles to close the door. I want to beg him to let the others in. But I don’t because this is something I’ve been scared of ever since he first told me about the shelter, since I realized we were the only family on the block who had one. What if there are dozens of people up there? What if more are coming? What if they all try to squeeze in until those of us at the bottom are crushed to death?

The trapdoor rises. A thin metal tube slides in and swings around as if trying to hit Dad’s arms and break his grip. It’s a pole from the badminton net.

“Scott, the rope!” Dad shouts.

My eyes meet Janet’s. “Do what he says,” she tells me.

I look up at Dad. “Where?”

“On the wall!”

We’re in a narrow corridor lined with cinder blocks. From a previous visit down here, I know that the wall he’s talking about is around the corner, in the shelter itself. But the small amounts of light seeping in from above don’t reach that far. “I can’t see!” I yell.

“The light!” Dad shouts. “On the string from the ceiling!”

I scuttle into the pitch-black shelter. Stopping in what I think should be the center of the room, I wave my arms around until I feel a string and pull. A lightbulb bursts on, and in the glare I see the kitty-corner double-decker bunks and wooden shelves lined with food and other supplies. On the wall, a coiled rope is looped over a hook. I grab it. Back out in the narrow corridor, Janet is comforting Sparky, who’s staring fearfully up while Dad struggles. Mom still hasn’t moved. Something dark is pooling under her head.

A tennis racket slides through the gap between the trapdoor and the closet floor. They’re using it as a lever to pry the door open. Dad reaches down and grabs the coil of rope from my hands. Now, in addition to the badminton pole and tennis racket, fingers appear along the edge of the trapdoor. First a few, then more and more, turning white around the fingernails as they strain to pull upward.

The trapdoor starts to rise. The rope falls to the floor beside Mom as Dad tightens his grip on the latch. He grits his teeth and struggles, but the hands from above pull the door higher, and through the gap I see bare feet, pajama-clad legs, the hems of robes… then faces peering in — tight lips and clenched teeth like Dad’s. The door rises another inch. Dad is being stretched, the skin of his stomach showing between his pajama top and bottoms.

“Uhhh!” he grunts, and lets go.

The trapdoor flies open and light spills in, accompanied by yelps and thuds as the people who were pulling fall backward. The badminton pole and tennis racket tumble down on us with dull thunks. Janet and Sparky cower. Mom doesn’t react. Familiar faces crowd around the square opening above. Ronnie and his father. Mr. McGovern and Paula…

Clinging to the rungs in the wall, Dad gapes up at them. “There’s no room,” he protests meekly.

The faces grow determined and grim.

“Go down, Ronnie!” Mr. Shaw shouts.

“But Scott’s dad said—”

“Go!” Mr. Shaw yells.

Ronnie’s bare foot feels for the top rung. Dad reaches up and swats at it.

“He’s stopping me!” Ronnie cries.

Ronnie’s feet rise as if he’s flying away. They’re replaced by bigger feet. Dad swipes at them, but the feet kick back. Legs in blue pajamas force Dad down the rungs.

“You’ll kill us all!” he protests.

Ronnie’s dad answers with a curse and takes another step down.

“Watch out for Mom!” I cry at Dad, who momentarily freezes when he sees her crumpled below.

Meanwhile, Mr. Shaw and Ronnie are coming down, while others crowd around the trapdoor waiting their turn. Dad hops from the bottom rung, trying not to step on Mom.

“Get her into the shelter!” he yells at Janet as he quickly slides his hands under Mom’s shoulders. Janet grabs Mom’s ankles, and together they maneuver her around the shield wall. Sparky runs into my arms, his heart beating as fast as a hamster’s as we follow Dad and Janet. My last glimpse is of Mr. Shaw helping Ronnie off the rungs while more people climb down. The nightmare is coming true. We’re going to be crushed.

You never knew what might come out of Ronnie’s mouth, but on that June afternoon, our heads filled with baseball and cheesecake, the suggestion that we could all be dead tomorrow was unexpectedly jarring.

“What are you talking about?” Freak O’ Nature asked him in a normal voice.

“Nuclear war,” I said, since that was the only thing that could result in all three of us being dead by the morning. All year long, the Communist threat had been growing as the Russians spread their influence in Asia and South America and even to a little country called Cuba, which was an island somewhere south of Florida ruled by a Commie named Castro who had a scruffy beard, wore a green army uniform, and smoked cigars.

“My dad heard the Ruskies are sending ships filled with fighter jets, bombers, and missiles to Cuba,” Ronnie said. “And if we try to stop them, it’ll be war.”

The Russians were evil. Their chubby bald-headed leader, Nikita Khrushchev, had crooked teeth and an ugly gap between the front two, which showed that Russians didn’t even believe in orthodontia. And if that didn’t make him anti-American enough, there was the time he’d come to the United Nations and banged his shoe on the rostrum, which proved beyond a doubt that the Commies were unpredictable, violent, and crazy enough to blow us all up.

Clover stem squeezed between his lips, Ronnie pushed himself up to his feet and reached down, offering me his hand. “Come on, let’s eat.”

I felt my stomach tighten at the thought of the proposed criminal enterprise.

“Well?” Ronnie’s hand was still out. I grabbed it, just like always.

Freak O’ Nature scooped up the transistor radio and sprang to his feet. He was the only kid we knew who could go from sitting Indian style to standing without using his hands, this being one more piece of evidence of his general freak o’ naturedness.

We walked along the sidewalk past our neighbors’ homes, each on a quarter acre of property with a front lawn just large enough for a bunch of eleven-year-old boys to play touch football.

As the three of us neared Linda’s house, I couldn’t help wondering how Ronnie expected to get a cheesecake out of the freezer without one of the numerous Lewandowski children, or Mrs. Lewandowski herself, catching us.

Relief washed through me when the Lewandowskis’ garage came into view. “It’s closed,” I announced, trying not to let on how much better I felt now that I wouldn’t have to help Ronnie steal.

“Because they’re not home,” said Ronnie. “Linda told me she was going to the doctor this afternoon.”