The Post-Apocalyptic Life of Harry Milk

How do you describe someone like Harry Milk? He stands five feet seven inches and weighs one hundred and eighty-three pounds. Harry is forty-nine years old and is balding, though he combs the few strands he has neatly across his head. If asked to describe his facial features, all anyone can recall are his thick horn-rimmed glasses. Unfortunately, for the most part, nothing is outstanding about him.

Another thing is that Harry is a creature of habit and lives his life by the clock. He rises at five-fifteen sharp every day.  From five-fifteen until five-thirty, he showers, shaves, and gets dressed.  From five-thirty to five-fifty-five, he makes and eats breakfast: two pieces of toast lightly browned and buttered, one over-easy egg, and one crisp slice of bacon. After that, he cleans and rinses the dishes and places them on the rack to dry. Then, opening the refrigerator, Harry takes out the lunch he had prepared the night before and says goodbye to his deceased mother’s picture on the nightstand before heading for the subway station by six o’clock.

The train arrived early once, and Harry missed it by seconds. So to ensure it would never happen again, he always arrives at the station ten minutes early. No matter how many seats are available, Harry stands. Some people on the subway will read the newspaper or a magazine, but most look at their cell phones. 

Harry works in the filing room of a large life insurance company, so he is more interested in learning about new filing systems and such. His mother always told him that a company pays to have people do good work, so he should do his best. If Harry arrives at work before the official starting time, he will wait until eight o’clock and punch in. He is never early and never late but always on time. The same is true of his two fifteen-minute breaks and lunch hour. Like clockwork, he is always on time.

 While riding the subway home, there seems to be much talk and chatter, but Harry pays no attention, for it would be rude to listen to the conversations of others. 

Arriving home, he changes into something more comfortable, a pair of silk pajamas and a smoking jacket.  After this, he hurries through his supper, puts all the dishes in the dishwasher, and then makes the next day’s bag lunch, an egg salad sandwich. Harry is quite excited, for he bought a trade magazine at the newsstand that contains an article about a new computer program that promises to make filing more manageable and efficient. After finishing the article, he washes his face, brushes his teeth, gargles, and wipes out the sink. Harry then retires for the night promptly at eight o’clock.

 Harry never listens to the news or reads the paper, so he does not know what is about to take place. The world’s two most significant powers have been at odds all week over the shipping of nuclear waste energy to Middle Eastern countries, where it might be converted into nuclear weapons. This very night, as Harry sleeps, negotiations break down, insults are hurled, and war is declared. Ending in red buttons are pushed.

At five-fifteen, the alarm clock is ringing its wake-up call. Reaching to shut it off, Harry discovers that it’s not on the nightstand but on the floor next to the picture of his mother. The lite of glass in the frame is broken. Harry can’t help wondering what has happened. He tries to turn on the lamp, but there is no electricity. Harry thinks, “What the devil?” and looks out the window to see that the city is dark. Feeling very put out, Harry washes his face and gets dressed in the dark with the aid of a flashlight. For once, he wishes he had a radio.  He eats a bowl of granola with a glass of juice, which Harry finds most unsatisfying. Harry checks his watch and sees it is time to leave for work. Removing his lunch from the fridge, he says goodbye to his mother’s cracked picture. “I must remember to get that repaired.”

Harry opens the basement apartment door, steps outside, and discovers a man lying in the stairwell. Shocked, Harry tries skirting past the derelict man, but on closer inspection, he notices the mouth gaped open, and his eyes rolled up into his head. “Good God!” Harry whispers, “Is this man dead?” He instinctively holds his breath as he stumbles up the few steps. Reaching the street level, Harry encounters a horrific sight. Traffic isn’t moving, and cars are scattered every which way.  There are cars smashed into one another, some on fire, and a tiny one trapped beneath a tractor-trailer truck. He can see people slumped over their steering wheels, horns blaring. Dazed, Harry places his trembling hand on his forehead.

Hearing footsteps, he sees a man running toward him. Harry reaches out his hand to ask him what’s going on. The man does not stop because he is being chased by another man carrying a butcher’s knife. Harry shrinks back down the stairwell.  Routine helps him gain some control as he sets off on foot while fretting that this will be the second time he has been late for work in the past fifteen years.

Harry scurries down the sidewalk while listening to sirens blaring and something like gunfire in the distance.  Clutching his jacket, Harry weaves between the cars to reach the other side of the street and arrives at the United Insurance Company building. The door is open, and Harry sees Hank, the security guard, lying dead in the dark. Picking up Hanks’s flashlight, Harry enters the dark building, heading for the filing department. Entering the filing room, Harry hears someone moving about. He swipes his flashlight around until he sees Mr. Dickerson, his boss.

“Mr. Dickerson, sir. What are you doing here?” Harry asks quizzically. Dickerson answers in quick, tense words, his voice on the verge of breaking.

“They’ve gone mad! They’ve all gone mad, I say!”

“Who, sir? Who’s gone mad, and what exactly has happened?”

He looks at Harry in utter amazement. Dickerson’s tie is crooked, and his hair is a mess. His hands have seemed to take on a life of their own, flying from his face to his hair to his tie. “What do you mean, man? The United States and Russia went to war last night for three hours! Russia won by launching missiles!”

“Are you saying the Russians used atom bombs on us?” Harry whispers, then covers his mouth in shock.

“NO! NO! NO!” Dickerson screams. “They did much worse. They used neutron bombs! Neutron bombs only kill organic living things, like you and me! I came here because there is an old bomb shelter in this room. That’s how I survived, but now I’m wondering what I survived for?” Dickerson pauses and then yells at Harry, “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“I’m Harry Milk, sir. I work in this department.” Harry ponders what Dickerson has just told him and tells Dickerson what he thinks happened to let him survive as well. “I have a basement apartment over on the East side, and I’m guessing that’s what saved me?”

Dickerson becomes excited and animated. “Yes, yes, that’s it exactly! It worked like a shelter, a bomb shelter! That’s what it did!  You’d better go. You better go back to your shelter NOW! Prepare, Harry, prepare for the worst, for the world has gone mad! MAD!”

While Dickerson rants and raves in the background, a confused and frightened Harry finds his way back to the lobby and exits outside. He stands there for about twenty minutes, trying to think of what he should do when he hears the sound of glass shattering. Looking up, he sees an office chair sailing through the air.  As it plummets toward earth, someone follows it with their hands covering their face. He races back inside the doorway and ducks into the corner of the wall. First, he hears the clamor of the chair hit, and then a sickening splat follows. Harry turns and peeks through his fingers to see the sickening mess. He can’t tell who the person is but recognizes the business suit. It’s Mr. Dickerson. Harry slides down the wall in despair. He is on the verge of tears as he thinks perhaps Dickerson is right. Who would want to live in this world now? Instinctively, he looks at his watch and sees that it is lunchtime. Harry seems to remember dropping his lunch bag somewhere, but it doesn’t matter; he is too upset to eat. Looking back on the way he came, Harry starts to go home.

Being cautious, Harry keeps low to the walls and ducks in and out of the doorways. He even peeks down alleys before crossing them. Rounding the corner of Thirty-sixth Street, Harry is within sight of his apartment building when suddenly, a shot rings out, and a bullet ricochets off the pavement right behind him.  Harry scampers in complete terror to hide behind a big blue mailbox. Harry whimpers, his heart pounding rapidly, and he steals a glance over the top of the mailbox. He sees a man with a rifle standing on top of a four-story building, laughing maniacally. Shaking the rifle in the air, the man shouts, “I almost got you that time, you little bastard!” He laughs some more, “Come on, get out from behind there and give me another chance at you!” Harry ducks down just in time as two bullets rip through the top of the mailbox. Harry looks around franticly for a way to escape when he spots a bullet-ridden police cruiser. The officer is dead on the pavement. Harry races to the cruiser in a zig-zag fashion, catching the shooter off guard.

“Ho, Ho!” the shooter yells. “You’re pretty fast for a little fat fella! Don’t worry, I’m still gonna kill you!” 

Harry crawls to the dead officer and takes his police revolver and ammo. He slinks to the front of the cruiser and jumps up, wildly firing the gun in the man’s direction.  The man takes cover as Harry runs with all his might to his apartment and jumps down the stairway. He hits the door hard. Harry fumbles with his keys, cursing himself for locking it in the first place! Once inside, he relocks it and backs away. Panting and sweating, Harry stands for a long time with the gun pointing, trying to keep it steady. Something catches his eye in the filtered light, and he realizes it’s the photo of his mother. Picking it up, Harry looks at his mother’s face through the broken glass and starts to cry.

“I’m sorry, Mother.  I’ve tried to live my life as you taught me. I’ve always been a gentleman. I never was mean or cruel to anyone. On the contrary, I’ve always been nothing but kind and considerate at all times. I always gave my best at work and did as I was told, never causing the company any trouble.  I always put the other person’s needs before my own and look at what it has got me. At the first sign of trouble, they turn on one another instead of trying to band together and help one another. Just now, some crazy man tried to shoot me, and I think his only reason is that there is no law left. My boss, Mr. Dickerson, saw how the world was going and committed suicide. I’m sorry, Mother, but I fear this may also be my only option.

Suddenly, the front door burst open in a shower of splinters.  Harry’s eyes grow wide with fear as he backs up. He grips the gun with both hands.

“Thought you could get away from me, did ya?  Well, guess what?  I saw you take to the ground like a scared little rabbit!” The man laughs and looks around the apartment, “Nice digs.” However, when he looks back, he sees Harry pointing the police revolver directly at his head.

“Ho, ho, ho, look at you!” the shooter exclaims. “But let me ask you something.  Have you ever shot anybody, let alone killed them? I think not! It’s hard to do, even when you know you have to! I’m pretty sure you can’t do it, right?”

Harry feels a sense of calm wash over himself. His mind is sharp and clear, his breathing has returned to normal, and his hand is steady. Holding the gun feels quite comfortable and gives him confidence. Harry looks at the intruder, “Oh no, I’m quite capable, see,” he pulls the trigger. In the nano-seconds before the bullet enters the man’s forehead and exits through the back of his skull, Harry sees the expression of disbelief flash across his face as if thinking this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Harry remains undisturbed by what has just happened. He hated to admit it, but it felt good. Turning back to the table, Harry picks up the picture of his mother,    “I’ve changed my mind, Mother. I’m not going to stand by and let innocent people suffer at the hands of these assholes. Pardon my French.” Out of habit, he looks at his watch and then chuckles. He takes it off and places it beside his mother’s picture. “I don’t believe I’ll need this anymore, Mother.” Harry pushes his glasses up his nose.  “If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to save the world.”   

 Living through this nightmare has turned Harry into a true hero!