Fallout

I wonder if Dad will get mad, but he bows his head. “He’s right. I could’ve done better. I should have. I mean, what was the point of building this shelter and then leaving the job unfinished?”

That’s the thing about Dad. Maybe he isn’t as smart as Mr. McGovern or as suave as Mr. Shaw, but when he realizes he’s wrong, he admits it. Not a lot of parents do that. Kids, either. Mrs. Shaw must feel bad about being so critical of him because now she says, “You did just fine, Richard. If it wasn’t for you, none of us would be alive.”

“Whoop-dee-do!” Mr. Shaw goes, like he doesn’t think being alive is so great.

“Steven!” Mrs. Shaw hushes him, as if instead of being angry at Dad, she’s now angry at him.

Mr. Shaw goes back into silent mode, but it’s scary to see him act like he’s giving up. What if he’s right?

42

When the leaves began to fall, Dad bought a lawn sweeper. It had four long brushes on a rotating drum followed by a leaf catcher. You pushed it across the lawn, which made the drum rotate and the brushes turn, sweeping up leaves into the catcher.

I had to sweep the whole lawn, which was hard work. But when I’d dumped a few loads at the curb and had a good-size pile, I was allowed to pour gasoline on the leaves and light them. Fires were great entertainment.

I’d just made a big pile when Freak O’ Nature rode up on his bike and told me not to burn them until he came back. A little later, he returned with Ronnie and a jar filled with crickets. I got the red gasoline can from the garage and sprinkled some on the leaves.

“That’s all?” Ronnie asked.

“You don’t need a lot,” I said. “Leaves pretty much burn by themselves.”

“Put some more on,” Ronnie said, so I did.

“More,” he urged.

The leaves glistened and the odor of gasoline was strong in the air. I carried the can far away, then returned, pulling a pack of matches out of my pocket. Normally I’d crouch down and light a few leaves, then wait for the flames to reach the gas. But now there was gas everywhere. It had even started to seep from the leaves and spread onto the street.

Freak O’ Nature spun the lid off the jar and dumped the crickets onto the pile. Some started to hop away on the street. Others landed on the gasoline-soaked leaves and seemed stunned.

“Do it!” Ronnie yelled.

I stood back and tossed a lit match toward the pile, but it went out before it hit the leaves. I lit another and tossed it, but the same thing happened. Meanwhile, more crickets were getting away.

“Gimme that.” Ronnie grabbed the matches and crouched close to the pile.

Whoomp!

I could have sworn that for an instant Ronnie disappeared in the eight-foot-high ball of flames. The initial burst quickly died down; the crackling leaves burning rapidly, turning bright red and then into ashes. Crickets jumped around frantically in the orange and yellow flames before being immolated. A few even managed to launch themselves, burning, to the pavement, where they kicked once or twice, then lay still, tiny carcasses and smoke.

My friends and I took in the charred devastation. The smoldering heap of gray ash, the wisps of smoke rising like ghosts. All that remained of the crickets were burned carapaces, except for a few dead ones that had managed to hop away before the fire began, only to be poisoned by the gasoline.

“Just like what could happen to us,” Ronnie said.

43

When Dad turns the valves, more water gurgles into the tank. “Looks like you were right,” he tells Mr. McGovern.

Paula’s father nods like he knew he was right all along.

“Then no one else survived,” Mr. Shaw mutters.

“Certainly very few,” Mr. McGovern agrees.

“How do you know?” asks Mrs. Shaw.

Mr. McGovern explains how water towers are built to hold about a day’s worth of water for the population they serve. “So, if we’ve been down here nine or ten days… ”

“Or six or seven,” says Dad.

“Whatever the number,” Mr. McGovern says irritably, “it must mean very few people are using it.”

Is it day up there? Night? What day of the week? How many more days do we need to stay down here? Sometimes if I think about it too hard, I feel queasy like after a roller-coaster ride. Mr. McGovern says without knowing day from night that we’ve become disoriented.

Nobody plays games anymore. It takes too much energy. We sit, or lie down, or sleep. Sometimes someone stands up because they can’t sit anymore.

I think about Tootsie Rolls, Milky Ways, Frosted Flakes, Rice Krispies, Pop-Tarts, Premium Saltines, Oreos, Wise Potato Chips, Fritos, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, milk shakes, hamburgers, Chinese food, spaghetti, pizza, sweet-and-sour meatballs…

My stomach churns and cries. Sometimes drinking water helps, but sometimes it doesn’t. The air is always stuffy. We take turns cranking the ventilator, but no one has the strength to crank it more than three or four times. So there isn’t enough food and barely enough air. But that’s not the scariest part of being down here. The scariest part is the way the grown-ups act.