Fallout

A sense of alarm spreads. Mr. and Mrs. Shaw push themselves up and go see. The rest of us follow. Soon we’ve all squeezed into the narrow corridor watching while Mr. McGovern climbs down the rungs. Dad hands him the flashlight, then turns and looks at us through his mask. Is he going to tell us to go back into the shelter? No. He starts to climb.

Above him is the trapdoor. This is the first time I’ve seen it since the night we came down here, and back come all the awful memories of the struggle and the desperate cries of those above who didn’t get in. Dad was right. Of all the things that have happened, those horrible sounds and haunting pleas are still what I remember most clearly. And somehow, even though I’m only eleven, I know they’ll follow me forever.

Dad has to stop partway up the rungs to catch his breath. Come on, I think anxiously. Hurry!

He starts to climb again, then places his hand against the trapdoor and pushes up. The door rises a fraction of an inch and then falls closed with a loud clank! He tries again, straining, and the door rises a tiny bit higher before falling. Dad lowers himself a rung and stares up, catching his breath. Even though he’s been weakened by lack of food and exercise, he should have been able to push the trapdoor open.

Mrs. Shaw says what’s on all our minds: “We’re trapped.”

50

When Mr. Kasman asked if we’d watched the president on TV, Paula’s hand shot up. “He ordered the navy to stop the Russians from giving missiles to Cuba.”

“And now what happens?”

I raised my hand. “We wait to see whether the Russian ships will turn back or keep going.”

“What will happen if they don’t turn back?”

I raised my hand again. “It could be war.”

The class grew quiet. Was everyone thinking that the sirens might start at any moment? That right at this very second, Khrushchev could be ordering an attack? That Russian bombers might already be on their way and missiles could be blasting off?

Dickie Keller raised his hand. “My father says we should bomb them before they bomb us.”

“But what if they don’t really intend to attack us?” asked Mr. Kasman.

Eric Flom raised his hand. “Then why are they putting missiles on Cuba?”

“Some people think it’s because we have missiles in Turkey aimed at them.”

“We do?” Freak O’ Nature asked in his normal voice, sounding surprised.

Mr. Kasman pulled down a map of Europe and eastern Asia and used a wooden pointer. “Turkey is almost the same distance to Moscow as Cuba is to Washington.”

Dickie Keller raised his hand. “Why did we put missiles there?”

“I’d guess for the same reason that the Russians are putting missiles on Cuba,” Mr. Kasman answered.

“To attack them?” Eric Flom asked, reflecting the confusion many of us felt. Could this really be true? On TV, President Kennedy had said we wanted peace, not war, and that we would never attack Russia unless they attacked us first.

“Does that change the way you think about the situation?” Mr. Kasman asked.

Maybe it was still too early in the morning. Or maybe this information was too confusing, but we sat there like bumps on a log. The room would have been completely silent were it not for a faint scratching sound. Mr. Kasman frowned, then stepped quietly toward the back. We all turned to watch.

Puddin’ Belly Wright’s head lay on his arm as if he were asleep, but he wasn’t. He was busy scratching his initials into the scratch-proof desktop with a paper clip. Mr. Kasman tiptoed close and craned his neck. After a moment, Puddin’ Belly must have sensed that it was too quiet. He straightened up with an astonished expression when he realized that we were all watching him, then quickly placed his forearm over his handiwork.

“Move your arm, Stuart.”

Puddin’ Belly slid it away, revealing the initials SW scratched nearly a quarter of an inch into the new desktop. Everybody held their breath and waited for Mr. Kasman to send him to the office, where Principal Sharp would probably suspend him and make his parents pay for a new desk.

“Looks like you’ve been working pretty hard, Stuart,” said our teacher. “Imagine what would happen if you applied all that energy to your schoolwork.”

Puddin’ Belly hung his head remorsefully.

Mr. Kasman patted him on the shoulder. “Think about it, okay?”

51

“We’re not trapped,” Dad says as he climbs down the rungs.

“How can you say that?” Mr. McGovern demands.

“The door moved. We just have to get whatever’s on top of it off.”

“And how, if I may ask, do you plan to do that?” Paula’s dad asks.

“Give me a moment, okay?” Dad grumbles.

“Lot of good that will do us,” Mr. McGovern mutters.

Sparky kicks Mr. McGovern in the leg. My brother’s not strong enough to hurt him with his bare foot, but Mr. McGovern jumps and looks surprised.

“Edward!” Dad snaps.

But I think, Good for you, Sparky.

Are we doomed to slowly starve to death in this dark, damp, smelly dungeon?