James Morrow: This Is the Way the World Ends

The suit salesman hammered the contract with his extended index finger. ‘You think we’re talking cash on the barrelhead? We’re talking installments on the barrelhead, teeny tiny installments .’ The finger skated across a pocket calculator. ‘Figuring a five percent sales tax and an annual interest rate of eighteen percent or one-point-five per month, we can amortize the loan through a constant monthly payment of three hundred and forty-five dollars and seventy-one cents, so in two years you’ll own little Holly’s unit free and clear. You probably spend that much on beer.’

George took the contract, attempted to read it, but the words refused to resolve into clear meanings. Holly liked to draw. She produced an average of four crayon sketches a day. Their refrigerator displayed one that looked exactly like George – exactly.

On the other hand, if a war occurred of the sort John was predicting, it wouldn’t matter how much art schools cost.

‘Do you happen to have the kind for a six-year-old with you? I mean… I’m just wondering what they look like.’

John’s nod was smug. ‘When you work for Perpetual Security, George, you’re prepared for anything.’

They left the office and wove through the tiny cemetery. Most of the stones embodied a macabre optimism; there was nothing inscribed on them. First came the Protestant district, then the Catholic section, finally the Jewish neighborhood. John opened the back of his truck and hoisted himself into the dark cavity, where several dozen scopas suits of varying sizes hung like commuters packed into a subway. George noticed one suit intended for a dog, another for a baby.

To the casual observer it might have suggested a nineteenth-century body-snatching scene, two men hauling a limp and pallid shape through a graveyard. First George – short, muscular, with rough-hewn features attempting to reclaim themselves from a scrub-brush beard and a jungle of hair. Then John – tall, clean-shaven, aggressively handsome, self-consciously suave. The white children followed them into the office. John and George arranged the little scopas suit on the swivel chair. George struggled to recall the names of the Frostig boys. The youngest was in the same nursery school as Holly and had once murdered the hamsters. Rickie – was that his name? Nathan?

‘Mr Paxton wants to see your units,’ John announced grandly, lining up his sons like army recruits. ‘Gary, show him your cranial gear.’

The fifteen-year-old removed his dinosaur-egg helmet. He had inherited his father’s disconcerting good looks. ‘Upon sensing the detonation,’ Gary recited, ‘the phones shut down – hence, no ruptured eardrums from blast overpressures. As for the fireball, the wraparound Lexan screen guards against flashblindness and retinal scorching.’

‘Excellent, Gary.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

John went to his second son. ‘Lance, Mr Paxton wants to know about the fabric.’

When Lance removed his helmet, George recognized the ten-year-old he had once caught spraying WALTERS BITES THE BIG ONE on a headstone Toby Walters had ordered for his dead mother. Lance looked middle-childy – casual, unassuming. He tugged on his front zipper, making a V-shaped part and revealing a sweat shirt emblazoned with the logo of a rock group called Sperm. ‘Alternating layers of Winco Synthefill VII, Celanese Fortrel Arcticguard Polyester, and activated charcoal,’ he chanted, folding back one flap to display the lining. ‘In terms of initial ionizing radiation and subsequent fallout, the protection factor is a big one thousand, shielding you from a cumulative dose of up to two hundred thousand rads. As for… as for…’ The boy twitched and turned red.

‘Thermal radiation, son.’

‘As for thermal radiation, a scopas suit can deflect over five thousand degrees Fahrenheit. You can be one hundred yards from the hypocenter, and all you’ll get is a sunburn.’

Again John consulted his first son. ‘Gary, let’s hear about blast-wave effects on the human body.’

‘Because the material is interlayered with fibrosteel mesh,’ said Gary, ‘it can withstand dynamic pressures of up to sixty-five pounds per square inch, such as you might experience one mile from ground zero. Flying slivers of glass – a significant hazard in any thermonuclear exchange – cannot penetrate. Finally, even though the overpressures could catch you in a cyclonic wind and hurl you nearly three hundred feet, the padding in your nuke suit guarantees that you’ll walk away without a bruise.’

‘They aren’t “nuke suits,” lad,’ the salesman corrected cheerfully. ‘What are they?’

‘They’re Perpetual Security scopas suits, sir.’

‘You probably think the Eschatological people forgot about Mother Nature,’ said John, rapping on George’s shoulder with his index finger. ‘No way. Each unit gives you a built-in commode – the Leonardo Porta-Potty.’

Now it was the little one’s turn. ‘Nickie, show Mr Paxton your utilities.’

Nickie – ah, yes, that was his name – unbuckled his sashlike belt, removed his helmet. His hamster-killer’s face was swarthy and firm. ‘Let’s see… here I have an indiv— , indiv—’

‘Individual.’

‘Individual radiation… doze… er, doze-matter.’

‘Dosimeter, Nickie. Say dosimeter .’

‘Dosimeter. Then I’ve got a Swiss Army knife, a canteen, vitamins, and my’ – joy flooded through the child – ‘my Colt Mark IV forty-five caliber automatic pistol!’

‘Way to go, Nick!’

With a clumsy flourish the boy flipped the gun out of its holster. George pulled his hands in front of his face and said Jesus’ name.

‘Note your Pachmayr grips,’ said the suit salesman, ‘your King-Tappan fixed combat sights, your—’

‘Is that real?’ George asked.

‘She’s not loaded. Safety first.’

‘We have target practice in the basement,’ Nickie explained, waving the pistol around in a manner that made George say not loaded to himself several times. ‘We shoot paper Communists.’

John strutted behind the line of boys, patting them on their sleek, narrow backpacks. ‘Last but not least, you have your survival gear. The bottom compartment is an oxygen tank – those warheads could touch off a conflagration or two, and that means smoke and toxic gases. You also get a primus stove, a portable water purifier, and a vacuum-packed can of vegetable seeds, including soybeans, barley, and other species resistant to ultraviolet light. In the medical kit you’ll find penicillin-G tablets, tetanus toxoid, hydrocortisone, and a bottle of nitrous oxide for anesthesia. And, of course, each pack includes an item from your basic assortment of survival guns. Gary is carrying a disassembled Armalite AR-180 light assault rifle. She fires – tell the man, Gary.’

‘The standard US military five-point-five-six-millimeter round. Effective range – four hundred and fifty yards.’

‘Right you are. Now Lance here is toting all the parts for a Remington 870 twelve-gauge shotgun. Most useful of all’ – John caressed Nickie’s pack – ‘is the Heckler and Koch HK 91 heavy assault rifle with collapsible stock. That’s the piece you’ll get with Holly’s suit. Effective range – one thousand yards.’

George had to admit that thermonuclear exchange worries crossed his mind occasionally, and that he did not know where to seek reassurance. It would be wonderful to lose this anxiety, which erupted at odd moments. Assuming they could squeeze another hundred dollars a month from Justine’s paycheck, there was every reason to put this thing under the Christmas tree.

‘If I give you the first installment today, can I take it home?’

An elaborate smile appeared on John’s face. ‘Sure, you can take it home. Hell, next you’ll order a suit for your pretty wife, then one for yourself, and then you’ll both sleep a lot better. Any more kids in the works?’