text: Someplace Safe Ten minutes. Jake closed his laptop and sat thinking. Cold sweat trickled down his back. I’m dead. How could the safety nets have failed Mankind so miserably? So fatally? I’m fucking dead. All had failed -- the politicians, the diplomats, the generals, the spies, the presidents. Now there was nothing left but decimation. Outside his window, the campus mall looked perfectly normal. The sun was out for the first time in days; bees flitted among the hedges. A mockingbird sat blithely on a limb. Normality. Jake’s stomach clenched as he realized it was nothing more than a mirage, a dream, a lie. He started to reopen his laptop and take another look at the headlines, but knew there was no point. Most of the major news outlets had taken themselves off the air. They were letting people go. There was nothing more to say, nothing left to report. Civilization had been canceled. Nine minutes. Jake snatched his cell phone and dialed the most important number in the world. His mouth was as dry as a bone. What would he say to Will, if his son even answered? Will had a family of his own. They would be making arrangements. Finding a place to hide. “Jesus,” Jake whispered, getting no answer. He disconnected and tucked the phone in his pocket. Will was no doubt doing the right thing: gathering his wife, Catherine, and their twins, Lindsey and Donny, into a safe place. Being a good dad. Jake might live to see them again -- if he got off his ass and found safety. His limbs flooded with inertia. His fingers squeezed the chair arm. Where to go? What to do ? Eight minutes. He clasped his throat, desperate for breath. Fuckfuck FUCK -- The phone suddenly chimed in his pocket -- the customized alert he’d assigned to Will’s number back when trivialities still mattered. He yanked out the phone and jabbed the green TALK button. “Hello? Will?” “Hi, Dad.” Jake felt instantly relieved. “Hey, kid. Wh--where are you?” “Dad, there’s no time.” Seven minutes. “I know, son.” “We’re headed down to the basement. I wanted you to know we’ll be fine.” “Yes, okay. Good.” “Are you in a safe place?” Jake glanced uneasily at his west-facing windows. “I’m at work.” “Find a place.” “I will. How are the kids?” “They’re downstairs. Dad. Take care of yourself. We love you. Have you spoken to Mom?” “No.” Wouldn’t even attempt to. No point. “Dad, I gotta go. I love you so much.” “Will-” The call was disconnected. Simultaneously, the lights went out. The AC unit clanged once, like a spoon caught in a disposal, then whirred to a grinding halt. Silence filled the space. Jake inhaled sharply, his throat tightening. He jabbed “redial,” but the cell was completely dead. No dial tone on his desk phone. Jake flipped open his laptop. It, too, was without power. His cellphone slid from his hand. “Jesus. Jesus.” EMP? An electromagnetic pulse, detonated in the atmosphere would paralyze an area the size of-- Outside, someone screamed. Jake peered out the window, eyes probing the April morning. He wished he could stroll across the mall to the cafeteria for a bite of lunch. He would sit and trade quips with Dr. Brady, the History 1 prof, or Dr. Schneider, who taught Renaissance Art. He wished he could help the young woman who had collapsed just now on the sidewalk, her legs and arms thrashing. Panic attack? Stroke? People poured from their buildings, milling aimlessly, craning their necks skyward. Isn’t someone going to help that poor girl? His pulse hammered in his temples. Where were all these people going ? They ought to be digging holes with their bare hands! Outdoor exposure would be fatal -- those who survived the initial flash would be broiled alive in a radioactive oven, reduced to bubbling, cancerous puddles. The only place safe was underground. Was there a basement in Yowell Hall? He backpedaled from the window, banging his hip against the edge of his desk. In the corridor, a melee erupted -- screams, shouts of profanity. Jake rushed to the door, then thought twice. Yowell Hall doesn’t need a bomb shelter. It is a bomb shelter. Constructed in 1939, it was your classic brick-and-mortar structure, complete with four-inch-thick concrete walls. Over the decades, the building had housed everything from a residence hall to science labs to administrative offices. Jake’s wing overlooked the campus ... but there were other interior spaces without windows. No exterior walls or doors. Five minutes. Jake snatched up his cell phone, stuffing it in his hip pocket. A quick glance turned up nothing else worth saving. Nothing but -- A framed photo of his son and grandchildren. It had been taken only months ago, on the twins’ birthday. Their upturned, smiling faces gave him a flash of hope. He smashed the glass rectangle on the corner of his desk and carefully plucked the photo from its frame. As he folded the picture, Jake took one last, distracted look outside. From his vantage, he could see one green corner of the mall, a tree trunk, and the west wing of his building. There was no sign of humanity. Even the mockingbird had abandoned its post. Suddenly, a voice spoke, as if from Heaven itself. Jake startled so severely that he sat down hard in his chair. The voice was robotically grating, enormous, inescapable. “ATTENTION ... THIS IS THE AUTOMATED CAMPUS ALERT SYSTEM ... TAKE SHELTER IMMEDIATELY ... THIS IS NOT A DRILL.” Jake ran to the door. Flinging it open, he hardly noticed he had dropped the picture of his grandchildren. He dashed down the empty corridor ... past the Office of the Registrar ... past Financial Aid and Career Services ... to the T-shaped junction at the end of the hall. He paused, breathless, considering his options. To his left: the exit door on the east end of the building. Adjacent to the frosted-glass exit: the men’s bathroom. Jake started towards it, then realized the restroom had one exterior wall. He had to go deeper. “ATTENTION ... TAKE SHELTER ... FIND A STURDY INDOOR STRUCTURE ... DO NOT ATTEMPT TO SHELTER INSIDE YOUR CAR ... THIS WILL BE INSUFFICIENT COVER ...” Jake had worked in Yowell Hall for six years; he knew every nook and cranny. The Copy Center contained storage space, bathrooms, even a staff kitchen. He bolted down the inner corridor into the customer service area. Jake dove across the front desk, scattering pens and papers. “ATTENTION ... THIS IS NOT A DRILL ... THE UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT RECOMMENDS ALL CITIZENS HAVE ENOUGH FOOD AND POTABLE WATER TO LAST A MINIMUM OF SIX DAYS ... STAY INSIDE ... LISTEN TO YOUR LOCAL RADIO FOR FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS ... ATTENTION ... TAKE SHELTER ...” Though muffled by the walls, Jake could still hear the PA blaring outside. Anyone within six blocks would hear it. The terror the message conveyed made him want to cover his ears. Jake yelled in pained surprise as he stumbled blindly into a table. No light reached these rooms. Good. If light could reach him, so might the fire. He slammed headlong into a closed door. Blinking dazedly, Jake seized the knob and rattled it. Locked. “Goddammit!” He tried the next door down -- also locked. “CAUTION ... DO NOT STARE INTO THE BURST ... IT WILL RESULT IN BLINDNESS ... TURN AWAY FROM THE BURST ...” Sprinting full-speed down the corridor, Jake tripped over an object in the dark and sprawled across the carpet, biting his tongue damn near in half. I believe that’s what we used to call a face plant . Chuckling morbidly, Jake clawed his way back to his feet, darting toward a shape he knew to be a doorknob. He grabbed it one-handed. The knob turned. Grunting his victory, Jake lunged into the black hole beyond, slamming the door shut behind. Dungeon or oubliette, it served the same purpose. His shoulder banged against a set of shelves and an avalanche rained down ... reams of copier paper ... ink pens and staple guns ... manila folders and ink cartridges. Something that felt like a typewriter struck him on the neck, knocking him to his hands and knees. He burrowed beneath the detritus, scuttling lobster-like toward an opening in front of him -- a space beneath a heavy wooden desk. How many layers separating him from the outside? How many interior walls? The goal was protection against not only the "burst" but fallout. Everything he’d read on Hiroshima told him he would rather die from thermal heat than radiation. Not that either was to be desired. Jake folded himself beneath the desk, pulling armfuls of office supplies in after him. He might have been lining the walls of a cave. Would it be enough? One minute ... maybe less. He threw his arms over his head, pressing his body to the carpet. The walls and ceiling were solid masonry, the floor concrete. Jake squeezed his eyes shut. In the darkness he saw his grandchildren at their birthday party. He heard their laughter and shrieks of delight. Donny had clambered up into his lap, a chocolate-coated grin stretched from ear to ear. “I love you, Papaw,” the boy said, planting a kiss on his cheek. Jake had kissed him right back. “I love you, too.” Outside, the PA cut off in mid-spiel. WaitwaitwaitWAIT -- ## Silence. Jake could no longer tell whether he was awake or dreaming, living or dead. The air was thick enough to touch. How long had he lain like this, with his knees touching his chin, his arms paperclipped to his face? Time had ceased to exist. His pulse had slowed to a mere trickle; his legs might have been amputated at the knees. For days, there had been no sound. Jake counted silence as a blessing. At least the winds had died, and the explosions had stopped. He slowly raised his hand to graze his fingers across the rough underside of the desk that had become his sanctuary. Jake knew the desk was there. He did not know what else there might be. What has become of the world? A dry croak escaped his lungs. “Hello?” He stirred his legs, surprised they still responded to impulses from his brain. “Hello?” He tried unfolding his body. Ground glass filled his joints. Jake cried out in pain -- not much of a cry. Dehydration had reduced him to a cicada husk. Hunger and thirst were now his main motivators. Even here, in this enclosure, the air tasted like soot. It took 24 hours for Jake to stand without falling. ## The door to the women's restroom stood open. Jake had found his way to it by memory. The windowless Copy Center was now a labyrinth navigated only by guesswork. With a cry -- and the last of his strength -- he managed to lift off the tank lid. The scent of the pre-war fluid inside was overwhelming. Jake scooped handfuls into his mouth. He drank until he regurgitated, then drank some more. ## Gray, murky light filtered in through the frosted-glass exit. Jake watched the light, unsure of its source. It appeared to be snowing, but it was far too warm for that. Somewhere above, a thin, piercing howl arose. He’d been hearing it for the past several days. Hornets crawled around inside his skull. It took every scrap of will not to dig his fingers into his eye sockets and set them free. The howling went on for hours, finally trailing into sobs. Jake shook himself . He treaded softly down the corridor toward his old office. The muted light -- smoky, heavy, foul-smelling -- illuminated fallen ceiling tiles and overturned furniture. There was no sign of human visitation. He found what he was looking for and knelt beside it, a small sigh of gratitude slipping from his parched lips. His grandchildren smiled up through a layer of dirt. Jake gently lifted the photo and wiped it clean. He tucked the picture in his pocket next to his dead cellphone. I will see you again. ## Jake paused at the exit door, one gloved hand resting on the handle. His son’s words echoed in his memory. I wanted you to know we’ll be fine. God, he needed that to be true. One way to find out. He pressed the bar, popping the door open. Grinning behind his mask, he exited into the world.