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

“Damn, man, what happened?” Terrence asked, kneeling down beside him.

Rodney shook his head.

“Where is everyone?” I asked, grabbing Terrence’s shoulder as I knelt beside him.

“Come on, man, you’re safe now,” Terrence said, trying to reassure him.

But all Rodney did was give one short laugh.

“Where’s everyone? Where’s Mr. Truitt?” I asked, grabbing his face with both hands.

He sat there, legs stretched out, hands on his knees, staring at me.

“Laura, did you die?” he asked, his voice shaky.

“Yeah, I died.”

“It’s just a movie,” he said, and then repeated, “It’s just a movie. It’s just a movie.”

“Come on, man,” Terrence said, slapping him across the face.

“What the hell, man,” Rodney screamed, rubbing his cheeks.

“Is everything okay?” Freddy asked, standing in the doorway with Owen, the director, and Dylan, who had tons of food in their arms.

“Let’s eat,” Owen said, his hand on Freddy’s coat.

Rodney joined us around two lab tables, surrounded by candlelight, eating bread and peanut butter, and drinking water out of a jug.

“Boy, are you in here? Bollocks, you all are alive,” Astrid screamed, her arms open, her eyes bloodshot, and her hair a mess, which the director pointed out. She gladly showed him the bird.

“Why wouldn’t we be?” the director asked.

“Ugh, the explosion kind of got out of hand,” she said, peering over our shoulders and seeing the food. “I’m so hungry. He went looking for food and I guess found all of you.”

“Here,” I said, spreading some peanut butter on a piece of bread, folding it in half, and handing it to her.

“Thanks,” she said, chewing with her mouth full. “So good.”

She sat between me and Max and told us a fantastic tale that had to be exaggerated, because it couldn’t be true.

“I’m going to set the scene: It was a sunny June day. We stood outside in our summer dresses on Main Street as Mayor Forte was telling us that we shouldn’t freak out when we hear sirens, that it’s only a test for a possible Red Warning,” she said.

“Are you giving us a synopsis of the script?” I asked.

“No.”

“Are you giving us a synopsis of the novella?”

“No.”

“Are you—”

“Shhhhhh.”

I zipped my lips.

“There were a lot of people waiting for Skeet to do his thing, which he did, and it was, like, so awesome. The sirens blared, and he counted down to one, and then the strangest thing happened. I’ve experienced nothing like that in all my life. He started screaming ‘Oh shit’ over and over again and telling us to run. The sirens were blaring and things were exploding. The next thing I know, my arm is being grabbed, and some chap is pulling me toward the school.”

“Huh?” Max asked.

“Yeah, I found this chap Rodney, right? We went into the basement and through this huge door. There were cots and blankets and smelled—so much potpourri. There were shelves and shelves of canned food. Rodney went searching for a can opener. But there was water and a few cartons full of Cokes. There’re books and medical supplies.”

“Medical supplies?” Freddy asked. “Owen needs some medical supplies.”

“So does Rodney,” Terrence said.

“The fallout shelter. You found the fallout shelter in the basement,” I said.

“Yeah, want to go?” she asked, standing up. “But bring the bread and peanut butter. We can’t find the can opener.”

“I think I can help with that,” the bus driver said, pulling out his Swiss Army knife.

“Go, you,” Astrid said, smiling, without a tinge of sarcasm.

Before we went downstairs to the fallout shelter, Max took Dylan to the A.V. Club closet to get a few unopened videotapes, and I stopped at my locker to grab a composition notebook. In case Dylan couldn’t get the tapes to work, I decided I would write everything down for posterity. Heck, it might make a great comic one day.

During the day, when the sun was shining and the power was on, the stairs were really scary, but I could contest they were much scarier now.

The vault door was made of some type of thick metal. I had no idea what kind. You had to watch that you didn’t slam your hand in the door because it would close fast and hard. They had it propped open with a chair and desk and a bookcase.

History:

The fallout shelter was built in 1962 but last year was remodeled. It was practically the entire basement. It was large enough to fit all of us students (remember Griffin Flat wasn’t that big of a town, so there wasn’t a lot of procreation), plus teachers and staff. It also had nonperishable items, medical supplies, cots, blankets, flashlights, candles, and radios. Everything that Astrid had said and more.

“Where’s everyone else?” Terrence asked.

“What do you mean?” Astrid asked. “There’s no one else, at least not here.”

Rodney wouldn’t look anyone in the eye. He held his flashlight up to the ceiling. It was painted blue, I guessed to remind everyone who had to be in here when the bombs went off that the sky was blue.

We lit more candles around the room. Though it was dark and smelled of mothballs, it was dry.

“Don’t you think we should close the door?” Astrid asked.

“Why?” Tyson asked.

“Because—”

“Are you afraid of the riffraff?” Terrence asked.

“No, it’s just already crowded in here and—”

“Stop talking,” Max said.

But Astrid didn’t listen, and with all the strength she had in her body, she moved the chair and desk and the bookcase, closing the vault door with a slam.

We, all ten of us, were stuck.

Owen sat in the corner with a flashlight on his eyes. You could see the reflection of the light on his sunglasses. He still couldn’t see. It was scaring him. To be honest, it was scaring me too. His eyesight should have been back by now.

Dylan was working with Max and the bus driver, trying to see which tapes were salvageable, while the director supervised. Astrid was supposed to be fixing their makeup, but she was focused on her chipped nail polish instead. Terrence, Freddy, and Tyson were in the corner discussing basketball, like boys did… or maybe like boys were supposed to do? I could tell this wasn’t a normal conversation. Of course it wasn’t. They were as scared as I was. But their pretend topic was the NBA draft in June. All three were talking over one another in a rapid stream-of-consciousness word-barf, arguing about who would have the greatest career: Hakeem Olajuwon, [70] He played center for the University of Houston and was the overall first pick in the 1984 NBA draft. He plays for the Houston Rockets. Michael Jordan, [71] He’s a professional basketball player. He’s a shooting guard. He played for the University of North Carolina. He was drafted in the first round but the third pick for the Chicago Bulls. Charles Barkley. [72] He’s a professional basketball player. He played for Auburn University. He’s a power forward who was drafted in the first round and the fifth pick for the Philadelphia 76ers. Terrence’s money was on the white boy, John Stockton. [73] He’s a professional basketball player. He’s a point guard who played for Gonzaga University. He was drafted in the first round and was the 16th overall pick by the Utah Jazz. Only Rodney was sitting under the makeshift window that had been painted yellow, like the sun was glistening in.

“Rodney, are you okay?” I asked, sitting beside him.

He didn’t answer. He looked at me and shook his head.

“Rodney—”

He shook his head. “You won’t believe me if I told you.”