No Bombing in the Pool

The swimming pool sent the morning sun’s rays dancing across the mansion’s facade.

Behind his Ray Ban shades, Theo King – one letter away from ‘The King’ – closed his eyes and let out a world-weary sigh. Peace at last. Had it been too much to ask for? With a flute of Krug champagne and the newspaper opened to the financial section, he shuffled to the pool’s edge.

Theo’s flip-flops slapped against the tiles. The sound reverberated off the eight-foot fences he’d erected for privacy. But, other than that, there was almost silence. Somewhere, birds chirped. In the distance – far enough away that he couldn’t complain – a dog barked, and a lawnmower droned.

This quiet was how it should be: no kids running around, screeching like pterodactyls. They’d only been back two days since their holiday in the Bahamas before they’d started to drive Theo crazy. Couldn’t they read the ‘NO BOMBING IN POOL’ sign? After all, he paid for the most expensive tutors, so he should expect basic literacy. He’d begged their nanny – Linda? Sara? Something with an ‘a’ – to take them on another trip. She’d agreed, and why not? She got to holiday on his dime. But she insisted that the kids had had too much sunshine, which wasn’t good for their skin. So, they’d decided on a two-week ski trip to Switzerland. Bliss.

Theo kicked off his flip-flops and lowered himself with a cholesterolic groan. He sat on the lip of the pool, dangling his meaty trotters into the crystal-clear azure. Theo lifted his glass of Krug to the sun in cheers and took a swig, draining half in one go. He unfolded the newspaper, holding it up and out to read it over his barrel-shaped chest.

Somewhere, some construction company detonated something.

Theo frowned. There should be laws banning them from doing this noisy work so early in the morning. He’d lobby the cheapest political party to get that sorted out. He didn’t let it bother him. Theo remained engrossed with his best friends – numbers telling him how much money he’d made that day.

A brief, bitter wind threatened to rip the newspaper from his hands.

He paid it no mind. Theo read on, pausing to sip from his Krug.

The morning sun on his left was bright and hot, warming his gammon-hued skin. But the other sun on the right was even hotter, burning that side of his face.

Theo sighed, flopping his newspaper down in his lap. He’d forgotten the suncream inside, and he didn’t have the nanny to go and fetch it for him. Sometimes, he felt like he needed a nanny as much as his eleven children. He—

His grip tightened on the champagne flute’s neck, snapping it.

His heart tried to fight its way out of its padded cell.

Two suns?

He turned to face this second source of heat and light.

A mushroom cloud billowed on the horizon, blotting out the city beneath.

Theo woke up only when the shards of broken glass dug into the meat of his paw. He yelped and let go of the flute, dropping the pieces into the pool.

A few droplets of blood swirled into the waters.

He gaped in horror.

The skin of his right arm had lobstered. A few angry-looking boils had already started to bubble up.

No, no, no, this couldn’t be right. Theo couldn’t get radiation sickness; he ought to live forever! What else was he paying those youthfulness doctors for? Why else had he had so many spawnlings if not for their de-ageing blood with which he could inject himself? Theo scrambled to his feet, which took a minute and looked like a baby’s first steps.

A flock of birds squawked as they fled across the sky as one.

Theo’s chest shuddered with each Richter-triggering heartbeat. Yes. Flee. Escape. Get to safety. Survive.

The bunker.

He had no time to collect any belongings; he’d already exposed himself to the radiation for too long. Besides, there would be more bombs on the way. It’s what he’d do if he were in charge of the big red button. Wearing nothing but his floral swim shorts and his Ray Bans, Theo burst out into a “sprint”. He didn’t even bother to don his flip-flops; they only slowed him down. He waddled – ducklike – around the pool’s edge, leaving wet footprints that dried too fast. Theo ran at walking speed, already out of breath and sweating, down the path away from the house.

Another detonation went off, this one closer. The shockwave almost knocked Theo off his feet.

He staggered along the path. How on earth had he missed the first one? How could stupid numbers on a page consume him so much? Well, if it hadn’t been for those numbers, he wouldn’t have been able to afford to build his nuclear fallout shelter.

After five minutes of running, he reached the bunker doors, gasping for air.

The blast doors stared at him like a nightclub bouncer who’s decided you’re not getting in because of your shoes. They had twelve-inch thick, steel-reinforced concrete.

Theo sobbed as he collapsed onto the doors, clutching them to remain upright. He’d made it. He was safe. Now, all he had to do was—

Oh.

Uh oh.

The key.

He’d insisted on tight security for his doomsday bunker. He didn’t want any old riffraff coming in to join him, some average Joe from the street. No, thank you, he’d seen ‘Mad Max’. He knew the types of folk who’d wander the wastes after all had settled. There was a single key to open the doors. In his haste, he’d left it at the house, in a safe hidden behind a handsome portrait of himself. Theo slapped the door and swore. He turned and glanced back at the mansion – did he have time to return and get it?

Another explosion rocked the world. The home’s glass facade detonated, raining chunks. The pathway split beneath his feet, a crack zigzagging its way along. Car alarms started to go off in a discordant chorus. From the city streets, sirens began to blare. The light of day dimmed as this nearby mushroom cloud covered the sun.

No, no. No time, none at all. The next nuke would hit here. Seconds, Theo had seconds. Thirty if the enemy was being generous. Luckily, he had a failsafe built in: a number pad. The code was Zlaxon 7’s birthday – his eleventh child by his ninth partner and fifth ex-wife. Hands trembling, legs shaking, Theo fumbled with the buttons.

He paused.

His eyebrows fused like deuterium and tritium in a thermonuclear fusion bomb. His jaw dangled like a cow’s would if you tried to explain the intricacies of said thermonuclear bomb.

The number pad stared at him, taunting him.

What the hell was that kid’s birthday?

Was it June or July? March? September? How on earth was a man supposed to keep track of these things? He had eleven of the brats, for God’s sake. He ran his hands through his hair, now lush thanks to those plugs he’d gotten.

The sweat drip-dripped. The sky continued to darken. The number pad stared Theo down.

Theo recalled something through the hazy lens of an old ketamine binge. He’d once paid doctors to control a pregnancy with hormones so that the kid would share his birthday. He entered it.

The LED flashed red. An angry buzz told him to try again.

Why, oh why, had he insisted on a lockout after three wrong passcodes? If the nanny were here, she’d know the correct date. She knew everything about those kids. But she wasn’t here – he’d sent her away with his offspring. And she and the gang were likely safe over there in neutral Switzerland. Blubbering, hands twitching like octopuses on cocaine, he took a stab at a random date.

Red light. Angry buzz.

Theo wailed, hopping from one foot to the other, putting severe strain on his knees. Was that a bomb’s high-pitched whistle? Theo went to try another random code and realised he’d forgotten what the previous random code he’d tried was. If he entered it again, it’d lock him out. Balling his eyes out, he mashed the keypad with his fist.

The red light came on and stayed on. The long, angry buzz lasted ten straight seconds.

He screamed, slapping the door with all his force. ‘Please, PLEASE! I PAID FOR YOU! OPEN UP! I CAN’T DIE, I’M THEO KING! OPEN U—’

A blinding white flash blinded him.

Theo screeched.

The blast stripped the flesh from his bones in the time it took his net worth to tick up another grand.

His charred skeleton, indistinguishable from anyone else’s, collapsed into the ashes.