Amy Brashear - The Incredible True Story of the Making of the Eve of Destruction

“Laura,” Mr. Truitt said, standing up from his chair.

“Mr. Truitt, I’m almost done,” I said.

He nodded, sitting back down.

“Just some thoughts. Imagine this scenario: a blinding flash outside your home is followed by a blast that shatters every window and wall. You are probably hurt pretty badly. Cut, broken, and bruised. A first aid kit will help, but only so far. You try to turn on a TV or radio, but who knows if there is a signal. But that will only help if there’s not an EMP. If there is an EMP, then you’re SOL. And I wouldn’t try the phone—it’s probably dead too. If you’re getting an Emergency Broadcast System message, you’ll be one of the lucky ones, so congratulations. You just lived through the first wave of a nuclear attack. But there’s one problem… you’re dead. By the time help gets to you, radioactive fallout will already be in your system. Not to mention the burns that cover your body, with the flash of light that you probably immediately looked at—remember to keep your eyes closed and covered—you’ll be blind possibly have first-, second-, or third-degree burns. Wear white—it saves lives. And even if you lived through that—blind and patchy—then you’ll have to deal with winds up to one hundred plus miles per hour and a firestorm that burns for hours on end. And sad to disappoint you, we’re not turning into Firestorm. True, this is only speculation. No one knows what living hell is waiting for us if or when this actually happens. We’re not prepared. The USSR has courses in their high schools. They know what to do to survive a nuclear war.”

“So what’s the point of doing homework? We’re all going to die of radiation sickness,” Rodney said.

“That’s a pretty great outlook on something that’s never, ever going to happen,” Mr. Truitt said.

“You optimist, you,” I said. “Not many people worry about a world war that goes nuclear, but what about one that gets started by mistake?”

“And on that note,” Mr. Truitt said, interrupting me and my train of thought, “thanks, Laura, for your informative and yet dismal look on the outlook of—”

Mr. Truitt was interrupted by the sound of a boom. We as a group jumped. Someone ominously said, “It’s the bomb,” and then the sirens blared. It wasn’t a Thursday.

We moved out into the hall and sat by the white lockers and waited. It was stupid. It was idiotic.

“What’s the point?” I heard Kevin say across the hall. “Laura’s right. We’re all going to die.”

He reached into his pocket and retrieved one of his clove cigarettes. And right there in front of teachers and his fellow classmates, he lit a match and blew smoke in his neighbor’s face.

Coach Brooks pulled the cigarette from Kevin’s mouth and stomped it out on the floor. But that made him grab another.

“No, Kevin’s right,” I said, not realizing I was speaking. The brain worked that way sometimes. “Come on, they’re lying to us. Sitting here with our arms over our heads is not going to save us. This so-called drill won’t save us. If this was real—if there were bombs coming right at us, it wouldn’t matter anyway—what would we do? Hide under a desk like our parents did? Fallout shelters?” I stood up. The teachers stared at me. “Don’t just sit on the floor with our arms over our heads as they tell us to do. What they don’t tell you is that in the case of extreme apocalyptic disaster, there is nothing they or we can do. If you manage to survive, your very own neighbors will shoot you and steal your food—but that’s if the radiation doesn’t get you first. First comes headaches and the continuous vomiting and hair falling out, skin falling off—”

“Laura, you’re not serious,” Kathy said.

“I am serious,” I said.

“You’re scaring us,” Dana said.

“You should be scared,” I said. “We will be praying for death.”

Coach Brooks was walking toward me now. He grabbed my arm and dragged me down the hall.

“The Soviets are coming! The Soviets are coming! America is under attack—America is under attack from within.”

I was in a lot of trouble. I was suspended from school again, this time for inciting a “riot.” Suspended for telling the truth. I guessed truth equaled fear. And that made Principal Parker and Mrs. Martin nervous. Whatever. They’d probably die in the first wave anyway. Heartless? Maybe. Honest truth? Absolutely.

Pops sat at the dining room table drinking his black coffee and eating leftover brownies from last night’s dessert while reading the morning newspaper.

“You’re here as my babysitter?” I asked, sitting on the bench beside him.

“I’m here as your pops,” he said.

Mom and Dennis were at work, and I was at home. Suspension did that to you. Sure, I caused a ruckus, but I didn’t say anything that was untrue.

“Do you want a brownie?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I’m not hungry.”

He nodded and went back to reading his newspaper.

I sat twisting my scrunchie on my wrist like I always did when I was anxious or excited.

“Aren’t you going to ask me about why I’m suspended from school? But I bet Mom and Dennis already told you, didn’t they?” I asked.

“They told me a version,” he said. “When you’re ready, you can tell me yours.”

“I didn’t say anything that wasn’t the truth.”

“Laura, are you truly afraid that there is going to be a nuclear war?” he asked.

“Who told you that?” I asked.

“Your parents—your mom and stepdad.”

I twisted the scrunchie around my wrist and nodded.

“And that’s why you painted the living room white?” he asked.

I nodded.

The day after Mom brought in five cases of canned green beans, four gallons of water, and sixteen bags of soil and stashed them in the storage shed in the backyard, I decided to dig out my old clothes and hunt for painting brushes in the garage. When you were inspired by the fear that your mother has by her desire to horde away supplies like a survivalist, you would be amazed by how much you can get done on your own. I painted the living room and dining room, and I was about to start on the kitchen when I ran out of antiflash white paint.

“It looks good,” he said, taking a big gulp of scalding hot coffee.

“You’re patronizing me,” I said.

“No, I wouldn’t do that.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You know you can come to me about anything. I’m not blood, but we are related,” he said.

I nodded but didn’t look at him. It was embarrassing.

“Get your coat; we’re going to McDonald’s.”

Suspension meant a Big Mac, fries, and a chocolate milkshake.

We sat in the corner booth and ate. Pops even dipped his fries in his milkshake. He liked them that way now.

We were mostly alone. The only other people were women with toddlers eating Happy Meals and pleading to go play outside on the playground.

“All they care about is being the first to get that damn mushroom cloud in the sky,” I said. “Ready. Set. Die.”

“The children?” he asked in his southern drawl.

“No, not the children.”

“Good, I was worried for a second there. That one with the puppy dog tails looks a little guilty,” he said with a chuckle.

“People say not to worry, that the government has this handled. That the government wouldn’t do anything like ignite a nuclear war,” I said. “It’s like Sesame Street and their weekly stories about how we’re all the same on the inside.”

“Laura, listen to me—”

“I know what you’re going to say, Pops. Write to my congressman—but we do, and they keep voting for missiles,” I said.