by Harley Tate
She stepped back in relief and sucked in breath after breath. It covered the hole.
Would it be enough? Would it protect her from the fallout? She didn’t have a clue. She looked around her at the hundreds of books on the floor and scooped them up, adding them to the spaces around the bookcase as filler. If small amounts of air could penetrate the cracks between the bookcase and the broken glass, the books might stop it.
Leah ran back to her bag, grabbed it and the tire iron, and hurried through the store, passing the coffee shop in the middle, the tables lined with gifts, and tucked herself into a corner. With solid walls on two sides and a bookshelf stuffed to the gills in front of her, Leah felt as safe as she could be.
She sagged to the floor, heaving and panting.
As the adrenaline seeped from her body, her teeth began to chatter. Her arms and legs shook. I’m going into shock. Her body was shutting down to keep her alive. She glanced at her watch.
6:01. Thirty minutes since the blast, at least. There was no leaving the bookstore now. She would be there until she deemed it safe to go outside. But when would that be?
What had Andy said? Two weeks? She looked around her in a panic. What would she eat? How would she keep herself warm?
Sitting on the floor, Leah couldn’t see more than a few feet in either direction. The light from outside grew increasingly dimmer. Was that fallout? Cloud cover? She shivered. She couldn’t stay there on the floor all night with no light and nothing to keep her warm.
Leaving her bag on the floor, she stood up and walked toward the middle aisle. Bookstores always kept their gifts in the middle. She found a table full of reading lamps and ripped one open. She clicked it on and used it like a flashlight.
In the teen and children’s section, she found throw blankets and pillows embroidered with characters from popular books. Leah grabbed one of each.
A bag of chocolate-covered almonds would work for dinner. In the morning, she could debate searching the rest of the store. For now, calories and warmth would do. She hurried back to the little corner and sat down.
With the book lamp clipped to a shelf in front of her, she ripped open the blanket and took the wrapping off the pillow. Never in her life had she been so thankful for the commercialization of everything. She slipped the pillow beneath her cold backside and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders.
The almonds were trickier to open, but after a handful, she stopped shaking. Snot and sweat dried across her face and she snuffed a glob of congestion down her throat. The book lamp lit up the shelves in front of her.
Military history. Of all the luck. She scanned the titles and froze. An entire shelf on World War II sat at eye level. Leah reached out and plucked a book from the shelf and read the title. After Hiroshima: An Oral History of the Aftermath.
Tears pricked her eyes and she cradled the book in her lap, unable to open it. The reality of what happened threatened to overwhelm her. A nuclear attack. Millions must be dead and countless more injured.
Her eyes overflowed and she wiped away the moisture. Crying wouldn’t do her any good. But as long as she had a reading lamp, she could read. Leah settled in and opened the book. If what Andy said was true about the fallout, she had nothing but time.
Chapter Twenty-One
GRANT
Highway 72
South Carolina Border
Saturday, 5:25 p.m.
Grant drove down the road with a smile on his face and the cold January wind whipping through his short hair. With not a car in sight and the beauty of nature all around him, Grant could almost forget the horror of the past day and a half.
A river came into view and the smile turned into a full-blown grin. Pushing the accelerator, Grant crossed into the state of Georgia as the sun set behind him. The gas gauge read three-quarters full and Grant had a good feeling. Everything was coming together.
With the flatter terrain and acres of pasture surrounding the road, he guessed he was close to Athens. If all went well, he could be pulling into Hampton in an hour and a half. He hoped his wife would greet him when he knocked on her sister’s door, glass of wine in hand and relief on her face.
As he glanced behind him at the red and orange sunset, a tremendous light blasted the Cutlass from the south. Grant slammed on his brakes and shielded his face with his hands. He blinked into the light, trying to find the source.
The harder he tried to focus, the more blurry everything became. Grant put the car in park and blinked to clear his vision. It was like stepping into a dark room on a clear summer day, but no matter how many times he blinked and shook his head, his vision only worsened.
All he could see was the light. Panic rose up in his throat. He slammed the car into park on gut feel of the shifter and fumbled for the door handle. The door swung open and Grant swung with it. His feet hit the asphalt and he stood, trying to see anything but the vast whiteness in front of him.
He took a step and stumbled, barely catching his balance. Another step and his foot slipped into a pot hole. Grant’s hands hit the blacktop first, the bits of rock and tar scraping his skin. As his knees followed, slamming to the ground and sending waves of shock up his bones, he screamed.
I’m blind! What if it’s permanent? What if my sight never comes back?
His breath caught in his throat and his chest hammered louder than the idling car engine. He didn’t know what to do. How could he reach his wife now? He was in the middle of nowhere with a full gas tank and car that could get him home, but he couldn’t see to drive.
He rolled onto his side and sat up before closing his eyes against the horror. There was only one thing the flash of light could have been: a nuclear bomb.
Baker, the hacker from the tournament in Charlotte, was right. A kid with computer skills and no common sense found out what no one else could. And Grant didn’t listen. Not really.
He’d been nervous and harried and made some tough choices, but he hadn’t fought as hard as he could. He didn’t move heaven and earth to find his wife in Atlanta. Was there anything left of the city? Did she make it out before the blast?
I’m such an idiot. He should have told her everything via voicemail instead of hedging and trying not to worry her. All he did was wreck her chances. She was so good, so kind. The caretaker part of her would want to stay at the hospital no matter what.
If she didn’t leave, then she was most likely dead. Grant swallowed. Had the other bombs gone off as well? Was it a coordinated attack? Were the major cities all across the United States suffering?
Millions of people would be dead. The country would be thrust into chaos. Anarchy.
I’m at least a hundred miles from Atlanta, maybe more. Am I safe here from the fallout? Do I need to hide?
With shaky hands that still stung from the fall, Grant clambered back inside the car and shut the door. He reached beneath the steering column and found the run wires.
As he pulled them apart, he took a deep breath. This couldn’t be the end. He thought positive thoughts, repeating over and over again in his mind that the blindness would fade and he would see again.
Leaning back on the seat, visions of his wife swam in the afterglow of the explosion behind his eyes. He sent up a prayer, begging for her safety.
It didn’t take long for exhaustion to overtake him. Grant drifted into unconsciousness, his wife the only thing on his mind.
7:30 p.m.
His leg jerked in his sleep and Grant slammed his knee into the steering wheel of the Cutlass. He groaned and opened his eyes. The dark, blurry world swam before him as the horror of the bomb filled his mind.
He rubbed his eyes. Opened them again. I can see!
He whooped for joy, beating the steering wheel with both fists. I can see!
According to his watch, it was 7:30. Grant rushed to start the car. He didn’t know where to go or what to do. How far did radiation travel? Was it coming his way? He wished he’d paid more attention to history all those years ago.
&nbs
p; All he could do was keep moving. Leah’s sister lived close to forty miles from downtown. Fallout couldn’t reach there, could it? Grant shifted the Cutlass into drive and kept heading deeper into Georgia. If he could find an open business, maybe someone there would know.
Ten miles later, the road opened up and signs appeared for a larger, divided highway heading north and south. Grant slowed the car. Taking the highway would get him closer to Atlanta. But could he risk it?
Continuing on would put him on the western side of the city and north of Hampton. He kept going. As he crossed over the highway, a parking lot full of tractor-trailers caught his eye. The signs above the gas station were dark, but he could still make out the words.
24-Hour Truck Stop
Showers, Internet, Hot Food
They didn’t have power. The place was probably closed. But as Grant was about to drive past, Logan’s words popped into his head. The man claimed to learn about the attack from truckers on ham radios. Grant slowed and pulled into the lot.
Twenty or so trucks were parked in extra-long spaces beside the building. If even one driver was active on a radio, maybe he could find out what happened.
A dim light glowed from inside the truck stop and as Grant eased closer, he could make out a small crowd gathered around a table. He parked in the empty car lot and opened the door. The shotgun sat on the seat beside him and Grant hesitated. He couldn’t leave it, but he couldn’t bring it in.
In the end, he decided to shove it in his suitcase and roll the whole thing inside. As he opened the door, bells jingled. About fifteen men of varying ages, most with ball caps perched on their knees, turned around. Beards. Mustaches. Tattoos up and down arms.
Truckers.
Grant nodded. “Good evening.”
A few men nodded in return.
He smiled a tight smile. “I was hoping someone might know about the explosion. I’ve got a wife in Atlanta.” His voice cracked. “I don’t know if she’s all right.”
Faces around the table softened. One man pulled out a chair. “Come and sit. We’re talking about it now.”
Grant bobbed his head in appreciation and wheeled his suitcase over to the empty chair. He sat down and faced the crowd. “I’m Grant Walton. I’m from just outside of Atlanta. My wife is a nurse at Georgia Memorial.”
He felt like he’d just introduced himself at an AA meeting and everyone around the table should say, “Hello, Grant.” But they didn’t. A few averted their eyes. A couple nodded.
One man cleared his throat. Twenty years older than Grant at least, he sported a crew cut that spread into graying lamb chops across his jaw. As he leaned back in his chair, his cowboy boots scraped against the floor. “From what we’ve pieced together over the radio, we’ve confirmed bombs in Atlanta, Charlotte, Dallas, Houston and… where in Florida?”
Another man chimed in. “Miami, Orlando, and Tampa.”
“We’re not sure about anywhere else. The radio reception isn’t great right now. Since truckers are almost all grounded, we’re not able to chain relay the information like we usually do.”
Grant wiped his face. “That’s seven confirmed nuclear bombs. Anyone know the size?”
“No. Most of our contacts live outside the city. We’re not big on urban living, are we, fellas?”
A smattering of no’s and naw’s and nu-uh’s echoed back.
The man nodded at Grant. “You know anything?”
“The first I heard about it was Friday at a computer convention in Charlotte. Some kid said he found evidence of an impending attack online.” Grant focused on the scrapes across his palms. “The top twenty-five cities were targets, timeline unknown.”
“Anything else?”
Grant glanced up. “He thought the bombs were smuggled in via container ships.”
A trucker across from Grant with a Dolphins hat perched on his knee responded. “That would make sense. Those things are never checked.”
“They are when they get on the ground.”
“But not on the boat, you know that, Randy.” The man who was the first to speak eased off his chair and leaned forward far enough to stick out his hand. “I’m Dennis. I drive long-haul Tampa to Pittsburgh.”
Grant shook his hand and the man next to him spoke up. He was about Grant’s age, with sandy blond hair and a friendly smile. “Bill. I’m Atlanta to Memphis.”
The man with the Dolphins hat spoke up, his face tanned and wrinkled by years in the front of a cab. “Travis. Miami to Chicago.”
Each man around the table introduced themselves, one after the other, with their name and what route they usually drove. Grant smiled and shook each offered hand. “Good to meet you all. I wish it were under better circumstances.”
“Your wife’s in Atlanta?” Dennis shook his head. “You know it’s not good, right?”
Grant nodded. “I sent her a million messages and texts and told her to go to her sister’s in Hampton. That’s where I hope she’s at.”
“Are you headed that way?”
“I am, as soon as I figure out whether it’s safe. I don’t want to drive all that way only to get sick.”
“From the fallout.”
Grant nodded. “I don’t know much about it, but I remember talking about it in school. How it’s invisible, so you don’t know you’ve been exposed until you get sick.”
Randy cleared his throat. “Before you came in, I was sharing what I know. I could start over if the rest of the group doesn’t mind.”
A rush of “go aheads,” spread through the group and bodies shifted to get more comfortable. Randy pulled out a book.
Chapter Twenty-Two
GRANT
Highway 72
South Carolina Border
Saturday, 8:30 p.m.
“Mind you, some of this stuff is a bit dated, and maybe overkill, but I figure we’re in a new world now. We should know all we can.”
Randy flipped the pages on a worn textbook with beat-up corners and highlighting on every page. He pulled a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket and leaned forward. “At the height of the Cold War, there were about sixty-five thousand nuclear weapons available to be used.”
Grant blinked. Sixty-five thousand? He remembered the stories about the 1950s when people built fallout shelters in their basements and stocked a year’s supply of food in case they couldn’t come up to the surface, but that many bombs?
“Globally, now we’re down to about fifteen thousand weapons that haven’t been decommissioned.”
A trucker from across the table spoke up. “What’s that mean?”
Randy scratched behind his ear. “Different things to different countries. For us, it means the bombs were dismantled. For Russia, it could mean they were abandoned in warehouses in difficult climates with little protection.”
“You mean they aren’t guarded?”
“That’s exactly what I mean. According to some recent surveys, there are one to two thousand metric tons of enriched uranium available in the world. At least one hundred of those metric tons are very insecure.”
“How much is in a bomb?”
“The bomb dropped on Hiroshima only needed about seventy-five pounds of enriched uranium.”
“You’re joking.”
“Not one bit. The uranium needed would take up as much space as about eight cans of Coke.”
Grant swallowed. Someone only needed to smuggle in eight cans of Coke to blow up an entire city. It didn’t seem real. “Who knows how to make these bombs?”
“Anyone with access to the internet and a science degree could probably do it.”
Bill spoke up. “That light we saw was pretty bright. Keith looked at it and he’s still seeing spots.”
Grant nodded. “Same here.”
Randy frowned. “You’ll need to watch your vision. Looking at the blast is one of the worst things you could have done. You might be able to see now, but it might not last.”
Grant leaned back in his chair. He knew starin
g at the sun could blind him, so why had he stared at the explosion? He rubbed his eyes. Leah would never forgive him if he lost his sight… If she was still alive.
He looked back up. “Say the bombs are the size you mentioned, like in World War II. What kind of damage are we talking about?”
Randy flipped a few pages in the book. “Ninety percent fatal within a half mile of the blast site. Whoever was outside in the immediate vicinity would be vaporized. The explosion is unimaginably hot.”
“Beyond that?”
“Two miles out, there would be incredible damage to buildings with hurricane force winds. Almost total destruction, collapsed high-rises and overpasses, shattered windows. Nothing would be left standing. Most people within two miles would die from their injuries or burns from the blast.”
Grant thought about Georgia Memorial. It sat within two miles of the state Capitol, he was sure of it. If Leah stayed at work and didn’t leave for her sister’s place, there was a strong likelihood she was dead.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. I have to have faith. Leah made it out of the city. She was with Dawn right now, worrying about him. She had to be.
Randy flipped another page. “Up to eight miles out, people would have twenty minutes to thirty minutes to take cover until the mushroom cloud fallout would start falling back to earth.”
“That’s it? I thought it was an hour?”
Randy nodded at Travis. “It depends on the size of the cloud and the prevailing winds. But the fallout area can be as wide as twenty miles in the first twenty-four hours.”
Grant focused on his hands. “What happens if you’re outside in the fallout?”
“Depends on how much exposure and when. If you’re outside when the first fallout comes back to earth and you stay outside, you’ll die pretty soon. But radiation can be washed off. It’s invisible to us, but the fallout is really just radioactive dust. If you get inside, change your clothes and take a shower, you have a chance to survive.”
