Todd Strasser - Fallout

“We’ll all be killed?” I asked.

“Well, some people are building bomb shelters. They say that if you can stay belowground and away from the radiation for two weeks, you can probably survive.”

“Should we have one?” I asked.

“I’ve been thinking about it.”

It seemed odd that he’d only be “thinking” when it could save our lives.

As if Dad could read my mind, he said, “They’re expensive, Scott, and a lot of people think that because we’ve reached the point of mutually assured destruction, war no longer makes sense.” He sighed. “The problem is, wars almost never make sense — but that never stopped anyone before.”

My eyes open and it takes a moment to remember where I am, but the sounds of the others breathing in their sleep quickly reminds me. I yawn and stretch, then become aware of dampness around my middle — and the unmistakable smell of urine. My body goes rigid. I’ve wet the bed, something I haven’t done in years. And not only that, but I’ve done it in front of Ronnie and Paula…

Forget about perishing in a nuclear war; I could die from shame right now — unless I can keep it a secret. If I can somehow get Dad’s attention without the others noticing, maybe he can help me figure a way out of this mess. I inch toward the edge of the bunk and look over in the dim light, where my eyes immediately meet Mr. McGovern’s. He’s sitting against the wall with Paula’s head on his thigh while she sleeps. Against the other wall, Mr. and Mrs. Shaw lean into each other with their eyes closed. Janet sits with her head tilted down, her chin on her chest. Dad’s directly below me, his head also tilted down. Lying on her back on her bunk, Mom doesn’t look like she’s moved at all. I inch away from the edge until I feel Sparky behind me.

Wait … I touch the front of my pajamas. They’re dry. It was Sparky, not me! I feel a moment of relief, but then turmoil returns. How can I let the others know it wasn’t me without humiliating him?

There’s nothing to do except wait for Dad to wake up, but it’s chilly on the wet mattress. I curl up for warmth and still shiver. Meanwhile, unwanted thoughts invade my mind: What will happen to us without water? The grown-ups will probably decide that one of them will go out and look for it, even though it may mean getting radiation sickness. What if the water they find is full of radiation and makes us sick, too?

Or what if we find water and stay down here for two weeks, and when we get out, we’re the only ones left around here? Dad said we’d have to rebuild. But how could just the nine of us — ten if Mom gets better — do that? We’d need a lot more people.

What if Dad wasn’t only talking about rebuilding things like houses and roads, but the human race as well? If Mom gets better, she could have some more babies. And so could Mrs. Shaw. And Janet, who is pretty and slim and a little younger than both Mom and Mrs. Shaw, so maybe she could have a bunch. But that still wouldn’t be very many. Could Paula have babies? Maybe not right away, but soon? Like in a couple of years?

Then it hits me. If Paula is going to have babies someday, it’s going to have to be with Ronnie or me.

How’s that going to work? I don’t feel like I’m ready to have babies with anyone, but Ronnie probably can’t wait. If it was up to him, he’d probably want to start before we even get out of the shelter. There’s no doubt in my mind that when it’s time for Paula to have babies, Ronnie will be the father. He’s stronger and a better athlete and better-looking. I won’t stand a chance, which is kind of okay because I never really cared that much for Paula anyway.

But once Ronnie and Paula start having babies, there’ll be no one left for me.

I hear a rustle below and peek over the edge. Dad’s leaning over Mom’s bunk, but I can’t see what he’s doing. After a while, he stands up to check on Sparky and me. Our eyes meet and his nose wrinkles. I point at Sparky. Dad nods and then he’s still for a moment. His eyes slide away toward the water tank. Is he thinking that if there’s no water to drink, then there’s none for washing pee-soaked pajamas?

Early in July, big sheets of blueprints appeared on our dining-room table. A few days later, Sparky and I followed Dad around the backyard with two men who hammered short wooden stakes into the grass and tied a string that outlined the rectangular boundary where the new addition to our house would go — a new playroom and a bedroom for me.

The next morning, three men with pickaxes, shovels, and a wheelbarrow began digging inside the staked-off area.

By the afternoon, the hole was knee-deep and the size of big kiddie pool. Sparky and I stood on the other side of the string and watched; the men, who were Negroes and wore overalls, stole glances at us. Overalls were not an item of clothing that hung in my father’s closet nor, I was pretty certain, in the closets of any of my friends’ fathers. Under the overalls the men wore dingy T-shirts with small holes and tears in them.

Each man had his own way of digging. The tall, wiry one with long, sinewy arms slammed the heel of his boot against the top of the shovel to drive the blade down into the soil. Then he would arch back and use his whole body to leverage the dirt into the wheelbarrow. The paunchy man with thick undefined arms would lean against the shovel and wiggle the blade back and forth into the dirt. Then he would jam the handle against his hip and, without moving his feet, swivel toward the wheelbarrow. The third man had broad shoulders that narrowed down to his waist, and muscular arms. He looked like a dark version of the muscle builders in the magazines Dad sometimes read and was strong enough to thrust his shovel straight into the dirt, then bend his knees and toss shovelfuls into the wheelbarrow. Hardly any dirt missed.

Within a few days, the men had dug as deep as their thighs, and the rectangular hole reached to the string on all three sides. Beneath the dark brown topsoil was a layer of lighter soil mixed with sand, and below that appeared to be grayish clay. They used the pickaxes now as well as shovels, and the work went more slowly as they heaved shovelfuls of dirt and clay up onto a canvas tarp at the rim of the hole. It seemed strange that they would be digging so deep for rooms that were supposed to be above the ground.

“Maybe it’s an indoor swimming pool,” Sparky said.

Could that be it? Were they not only building an addition but a surprise swimming pool as well? Having our own pool would be a thousand times better than the pool at the country club. Not only because we’d be able to swim anytime we wanted but because we could have just our friends over instead of sharing with everyone. We could float on rafts, which weren’t allowed at the club pool, and private pools had lights, so we could even swim at night.

But the best thing about having our own pool would be doing all the cannonballs we wanted! My friends and I had spent a considerable amount of time the previous summer perfecting cannonballs off the diving board at the club pool. The perfect cannonball resulted in a spoutlike splash of water that rocketed straight upward from the point of entry, sometimes even splashing against the bottom of the diving board. Unfortunately, sometimes our splashes veered off at an angle and sprayed the ladies who sunned on the lounges. When that happened, they’d complain to the lifeguards and cannonballs would be banned for the rest of the day.