The Boys Are Hungry

“Why does the sun look like that, Daddy?” the young boy asked, pointing to the blinding glare from the distant mushroom cloud forming on the horizon. 

“Go get ready for dinner, Owen.” the older man said, snapping the shutters closed. 

He guided his son to the dining room and returned alone. Peeking out, he sighed. On the table was a record player. He dropped the needle. “White” by Miles Davis played. It was a haunting piece with a signature shrill trumpet and ringing chimes. Eyes shut, he envisioned the surrounding world drowned in man’s hellfire. The part he had trouble picturing was what everything would look like afterward. Sticking up his thumb, the man opened one eye, looking out the window. The shock wave would soon arrive. 

He walked over to the closet. Inside was an atomic clock, frozen at 6:33:02 p.m. A jumble of wires connected it to a makeshift steel lever. Sweat pooled at the man’s temples. If he had waited any longer, the bombs would’ve annihilated them. He heard footsteps in the hall and slammed the closet shut.

“What was that, Michael?” a woman asked, standing by the door.

“Nothing, my love. I just got a call from the Senate leader. Everyone needs to stay inside and don’t open any windows.”

“Why? Did something happen?”

“Of course not. I just got a heads-up about some government tests. You know how everything’s been lately.”

“Is that why my phone isn’t working?”

“Yes. Now, don’t fret—you can finish dinner.”

“It’s done. The boys are hungry. I sent Owen in earlier. I’d thought he’d told you.”

“Oh. I’ll be right there.” 

Michael waited for her to leave and pulled a phone out of a drawer. There was a text from Senator Green: Remember, the clock doesn’t freeze time—it only slows it down. Get to the shelter.

Did we have to start this war today? One of my son’s friends is over, and my other son is back from boarding school. There won’t be enough room in the shelter.

I don’t know what to tell you. Blame the Democrats. Maybe if they had approved our bill, we wouldn’t be in a fucking war. 

Do you know how many others made it?

Time will tell. Everyone needs to text me when this is over so we can do a headcount. That includes you, got it?

Michael opened the closet again. The clock read 6:33:04. Two milliseconds had already passed. He was running out of time. Michael’s knees buckled. His palm against the wall held him up as he stumbled to the bathroom and ran his face under the sink water. His usually neatly groomed, greying hair was in a tangle of disarray. It felt like his breath had escaped him as he loosened his collar. Top button undone, tie missing, and his pale face still soaked, he emerged into the golden haze of the dining room lights to a host of concerned faces. 

“Michael?” the woman said, rising to his side.

“I’m fine, Bianca. Let’s eat.”

“Hello, Mr. Fitzgerald,” a small boy beside Owen squeaked. “I’m Chris.”

“Nice to meet you,” Michael said, pausing and squinting. “How old are you?”

“I’m six, but I skipped a grade.”

“Ah. I wish I could give you a more enthusiastic welcome, but I’m not feeling great.”

“Who fucking cares?” an older boy beside Bianca asked.

“Josh!” she exclaimed, slapping up top the head. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What?” Josh asked, looking up from his plate and making eye contact with Michael. “We’re all going to die anyway.”

“What?” the two younger boys asked in confusion. 

“That’s not true,” Michael said.

“No? Look outside.”

“Josh, you’re fourteen years old—act like it. You’re being a brat.”

“Fuck you.”

Michael rose and walked over to Josh, who looked up at him defiantly. Grabbing the boy by the collar, he pulled him into the hall and pinned him against the wall.

“What point do you think you’re making?” Michael hissed at him. 

“Are you kidding? I know we’re under attack.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“You can’t possibly think I’m that stupid. I know about that closet over there. What are you waiting for? Why aren’t we running to the shelter? Do you think what you’ve done will go away if you close the blinds? Or are you just choosing who to save?”

Michael released his son and punched him in the stomach, watching him fold to the floor. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“How can you lie like that?” Josh asked, gasping for breath.

“I’m not. Everything is under control. You don’t have to believe me. Walk out the door, and the heat will incinerate you. Is that what you want? For me to carry you in a fucking urn?”

“Maybe I’d rather that than be stuck with a politician while the world ends. At least there would be a sliver of  honesty around.”

“Well, I don’t give a shit. You’re my son, and you’ll listen to me. Let’s eat. I don’t want to hear a damn word from you.”

Josh glared wrathfully at Michael across the table as they sat back down. Everyone else awkwardly looked down at their food. 

“Your phone buzzed while you were gone,” Bianca said, flashing a smile and caressing Michael’s hand.

“Thank you, Baby.”

Michael opened his phone under the table. There was a message from Ruth: Is it true? 

Yes, I love you. Take shelter. It’ll be over soon.

Oh, God. What about Chris? I wish you had told me this would happen. 

Sorry, there was a scheduling error. I’ll figure out what to do with Chris. See you when this is over.

The woman sent a photo of her holding her exposed breasts and smiling at the camera. On the table in the corner of the photo was a small picture of her with Chris. The caption in a colorful, whimsical font on the bottom of the frame read: Walt Disney World Family Trip!

“Honey?” Bianca asked. 

Michael looked up. “What?”

“Chris needs a ride home. He lives down the block, remember? Do you think you could drive him? I’ll have dessert ready when you’re back.”

“No! Let’s just eat dessert now. It won’t take so long. Besides, we can’t go outside until the testing is over. Remember?”

“Right,” Bianca nodded, rising, “I’ll start the dessert then.”

“Do you just listen to everything he says?” Josh asked, looking up and then turning to Michael. “Why didn’t we hear about this ‘testing’ beforehand?”

“Son—”

“No,” Bianca said, holding her hand up to Michael, “I've had enough of your disrespect, Josh. Go to your room. We listen to your father because he wants what’s best for us. This country runs on men like him—people who still believe in what the flag represents.”

“I thought they founded the U.S. on freedom of expression. Now I can’t ask questions?”

“Go to your room. Now.”

“No.”

“Now! You’re an embarrassment!”

Grumbling, Josh pushed out of his chair, glasses clinking on the table.

“And fuck the flag, too,” he said on the way out.

“Sorry about that,” Michael said to Chris, who peered around uncomfortably. “So, Ruth, er, uh—your mother would be fine with you staying a little longer tonight, right?”

“She doesn’t care. I’m worried about my dad. He’ll be home from work soon.”

“Oh,” Michael sighed, rubbing his face. He envisioned Owen’s father’s skeleton drifting through a wasteland like a tumbleweed. “I’m sure he won’t mind.”

“Yeah.”

Michael picked at his food when, suddenly, something shattered in the kitchen, and Bianca’s ear-splitting scream pierced the air.

The kids jumped, but Michael put his hand up at them.

“No! Everyone stay right here! Honey!”

Rushing to the kitchen, Michael saw Bianca lying on the floor, enveloped in light pouring in from the window, writhing in excruciating pain with her hands over her eyes. A bowl of cake batter lay in the pieces on the floor beside her.

“Help me!” she screamed. “I can’t see! I can’t see!”

Michael slammed the blinds shut. “Why did you look out the window? Goddamit, I told you not to, you Beverly Hills fucking broad!”

Owen stood, watching the scene with his hands clasped under his mouth, his lip quivering. “What’s wrong with her, Daddy?”

“Nothing, Mommy didn’t listen, is all,” Michael said, lifting Bianca as she moaned despairingly. 

“Oh, god, it hurts so bad!” she yelled.

“Let’s get to the shelter, everyone!” Michael said. “That includes you, Chris!”

“Are we in trouble?” Owen asked.

“No, everything is fine!”

Suddenly, the house rumbled, and ceiling dust descended like foreboding snow. The air was noticeably hotter. 

“What about Mommy?

“Mommy will be fine, too. Come on!”

Bianca fainted in Michael’s arms. He led the boys through the hall, the drawing room with the closet. He reached inside, pressing a button. A dank staircase emerged in the adjoining wall. At the bottom was a smooth, humming metallic door that slid away when Michael pressed his palm to it. A dark void faced them. 

“It’s okay,” Michael said to the children. “The lights will turn on when we step inside. I promise. You can trust me.”

They stepped inside, and the basement remained pitch-black.

“Shit,” Michael said.

“I’m scared, Daddy,” Owen whispered.

“Me too,” Chris agreed.

“It’s okay, guys.”

“Is it?” Josh’s voice echoed.

Michael jumped. “Son? How did you get in here?”

“You left the door open.”

“Oh…”

“You don’t have a clue what’s going on,” Josh said, his voice breaking. “You just lie and expect us to go along with it.”

“Son—”

“No! I don’t want to hear any more of your bullshit! I want you to open the shelter.”

“Son, I don’t know if there is room.”

“Well, if there isn’t, you can stay outside.”

“How could you do that to your own father?”

“Because,” Josh said, a phone illuminating his teary eyes in the distance, “you did this to yourself. If it were up to you, we would’ve all fucking burned up there.”

“Daddy?” Owen said, yanking Michael’s pant leg, his voice trembling. “Are we going to die?”

“No, son. Josh, turn the light on now!”

The beaming industrial lights flickered on, filling the concrete basement with a white, artificial glow. Josh stood in the corner beside an unassuming steel door, low to the ground, about five feet in height and width, nearly small enough to be a trapdoor. His right hand was on a power switch, and his phone was in his left hand, facing Michael and the boys. On it was a photo of Michael lying in his underwear on the couch upstairs beside a woman in lingerie—Ruth.

“Mom?” Chris said, furrowing his brows. 

“I took this picture last week through the window while I waited for the bus,” Josh said, crying. “You let her in through the backdoor when I stepped out.”

Michael sighed, pushing the boys behind him. “This isn’t the time.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“What? You’re acting like I killed someone!” 

“You’ve never told the truth, yet you dig yourself deeper!”

“Josh,” Michael calmly began, “as you grow older, you discover that the people you thought were perfect aren’t. That starts with your parents! None of us are angels!”

“I’m not getting in that shelter with you,” Josh said, his teeth clenched and tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Do you want me to die? This—” Michael pointed up, referring to the bombs, “isn’t my fault. My specialty is impeaching presidents, not being one.”

“Nothing ever is your fault, is it, Mr. Senator?” Josh asked, pinching his breast pocket, referencing  Michael’s American flag lapel pin. 

“You spoiled little prick,” Michael muttered. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“Fine. Open the door.”

“What?” Owen asked. “What’re you doing, Daddy?”

Josh pressed a button, and the tiny steel door fell away. Inside was a dim crawlspace engulfed in dust. A few roaches scattered away as Josh peeked inside. The house shook again.

“Come on!” Josh yelled, motioning to the shelter. “We don’t have much time!”

 Michael pushed the children over to him, who clutched them protectively, nervously eyeing Michael. 

“Daddy!” Owen cried.

Michael passed Bianca to Josh. He pushed Bianca’s limp body inside the shelter once the boys crawled in. Josh knelt and wedged himself in after them. A faintly forlorn but bitter smile passed over Michael’s hand as he waved goodbye.

“Bye, Dad,” Josh said hushedly, looking away and clenching his teeth.

“No!” Owen shouted, scrambling out and hugging Michael. “Daddy, come with us!”

“Owen!” Josh snapped. “Get back in here, now!”

“It’ll be okay, son,” Michael whispered to Owen, patting his back. “I’m sure the house will be intact. It’s just a little testing out there. Go to your brother now.”

Josh pulled Owen inside, and through the sliver of the shutting door, Michael saw Josh cover his face with his hand, taking a deep breath. Chris was wide-eyed, suspended in shock, with his mouth frozen open. Owen had burst into tears, snot leaking from his nose. Then, the door shut, and suddenly, Michael was the loneliest man on the planet. He checked his phone.

Did you make it to the shelter? Ruth asked.

Michael’s hands trembled as he typed. I’m going there now.

Turning to the wall behind him, Michael pressed his hand to the wall. It fell away, and inside was a clean, spacious, and well-lit room with chairs, a couch, and a bed. In the corner were rows of boxes labeled ‘Supplies.’ As he stepped inside, Michael looked back at the metal door his kids and wife were behind and observed his warped, nearly unrecognizable reflection. Slightly below, at the bottom of the door, was a small engraving beside a caution sign that read: U.S. Military Earthquake Shelter—DO NOT SUBJECT TO HIGH HEATS. Shutting the door, he could already hear their screams. His phone buzzed. It was Ruth again. 

Meet me at the corner when this is all over. I’m so excited. We can finally start over. I love you.

On the wall was a lever attached to another clock. Michael pulled it as the shelter shook from the explosion outside. He cracked open a beer from one of the supply boxes, looking down at his phone to text Ruth back, sighing.

I’ll be there.