The warning, p.7
The Warning, page 7
“It wasn’t a meltdown. It was a nuclear plant explosion.”
“Answer the question!” She let go of my hand, which was a bummer.
“Honestly?” I said. “I’m better than I used to be, and there’s no good reason for it. I’m faster. I’m stronger. While I was lifting yesterday, I bench-pressed forty more pounds than I ever had. How does that happen?”
“You’re a year older. You’ve got a year’s more muscle. Come on, you’re a college football fan. You can tell the difference between the freshmen and the seniors. You’re a growing boy, Jordan. And you exercised in the sick camp.”
“I also broke lots of bones,” I said. “I jogged as part of my physical therapy, but there wasn’t a weight room. It was a camp with lots of hospital beds for people with radiation sickness.”
“Well,” she said, “maybe radiation could make your tendons tighter or springier or whatever to make you faster, but it didn’t teach you the instincts to play football better. That’s on you.”
“What about the fight?”
“Radiation definitely didn’t teach you mixed martial arts.”
Well, someone did, I thought.
“Did you go to practice today?” she asked, her head tilted back to take in the stars.
“I did.”
“Was that such a good idea with your concussion and all?”
“I know,” I said. “But I felt fine. More than fine. It was weird, like I’ve been saying.”
It was amazing, actually—as if someone had flipped a switch in my head, and I could read the defense like a kids’ board book. I could tell who was coming after me and could see the whole field and calculate each movement. When the offensive line missed a coverage, I found a solution—every time. At first I thought it was because I used to be on the defense and knew their plays already. But this was more than that. It was like I was plugged in and could keep track of what every one of the twenty-one other guys on the field was doing at all times. During drills, I never missed a pass, and when we scrimmaged, I completed eighteen of twenty, with my two misses due to receivers dropping balls.
But I didn’t want to think about football anymore right now. I breathed in Maggie’s fresh, floral scent.
“You ready for school tomorrow?” I asked.
“I don’t think anyone’s ready. This town is too screwed up. But it’ll be a good distraction.”
“Still, you like school,” I said. “So that’ll be nice, right?”
“I like learning,” she replied. “School itself is hit-or-miss. I’m looking forward to physics ’cause Dr. Carlozo is supposedly an awesome teacher. U.S. History, I dunno—I’d rather read the less official version.”
“Nerd,” I said with a nudge of my elbow. I’d been calling her that since first grade, which I realize isn’t too original, but by now it was tradition. The truth is I loved how smart she was. She always had something interesting to say about a documentary she’d watched or a book she’d read or the latest issue of Scientific American. For a while I watched Nova every Thursday night with her and her mom; she became emotionally invested in the plight of woolly mammoths the way others did in The Bachelor.
“I’m the nerd?” she shot back, sitting up. “You make Caddyshack references. ‘Lighten up, Francis!’”
“That’s Stripes.”
“I rest my case.” She smiled and leaned her head back again. I did, too. The stars were as bright as I’d ever seen them.
“Have you heard of something or someone called Ishango?” I asked.
Maggie wrinkled her nose. “No, what is it?”
I told her about my father’s odd behavior and how that name seemed to trigger him. “I’d google it, but there’s no Google.”
“Alas, we’re back in the Dark Ages,” Maggie said. “But I do have an old set of encyclopedias and can look it up when I get home.”
I smiled. “Thanks, nerd.”
She elbowed me in my surgically repaired ribs.
“Ow!” I exclaimed, wincing in pain.
“Oh, sorry!” she said, flustered. “I forgot.”
“Nah, I’m good,” I said, smiling. “It didn’t actually hurt; I was being a jerk. Just be glad I didn’t unleash some superhero moves on you.”
“Okay, Spidey,” she said, and took my hand. Nice. “Hey,” she added, “the homecoming dance is in two weeks. Will you go with me?”
“Ah…uh…dealio,” I stuttered. Smooth. Dealio? C’mon, Jordan! I was such a dork, always blowing it with this girl—but, wait, she was smiling and wrapping her arms around me and squeezing hard. Well, okay.
After nearly a year apart, this is what I’d wanted most of all. I slipped my hand behind her head and wound her hair around a finger. She leaned her face back and locked her liquid hazel eyes into mine.
“It’s a moment,” I said softly.
“Shut up.” She laughed.
Damn, she wanted me to kiss her. I could feel it. Everything since we got back to town had been so messed up, but now I was about to do what I’d dreamed about doing for most of my life. Her lips looked so soft, buttery, inviting, and they were inches from mine. I could smell a wintergreen Tic Tac on her breath—she must’ve sneaked it into her mouth when I wasn’t looking. I preferred spearmint, but still…I tried to process the moment, make it indelible.
“If this were a movie,” I murmured, “some terrible thing would happen right now, just as my lips were moving toward yours.”
Her eyes widened, incredulous. “Jordan, I’m not in a movie. I’m right here. Do you need an engraved invitation?”
I smiled, inhaled her fresh scent through my nose, and moved in for what we’d forever tell our kids and grandkids was our First Kiss.
Then…
Boom!
Chapter 16
Jordan
I FLEW OUT of my chair and crashed onto the brick patio, then felt like I was being sucked up by a tornado. Everything was illuminated as if it were noon. The flash was bright, continuous.
I looked for a mushroom cloud.
Maggie was tumbling, as if in slow motion, off the patio and onto the lawn.
Glass was flying everywhere, sparkling in the yellow-orange light like a million diamonds.
Everything paused, as if the whole world were heaving a deep breath, and then the sky filled up with burning debris.
I was moving, running, grabbing Maggie off the grass, lifting her in a fireman’s carry. A burning tire bounced onto the garden and toward the woods, leaving a trail of flaming prints. Then came a two-by-four, followed by a hundred more flaming meteors of various sizes.
A wall of heat hit me like a football helmet to the chest and sucked the oxygen from my lungs. I stumbled and tried to breathe but felt like I was swallowing fire.
I set Maggie down in the safest place I could see: a window well outside our basement. The army’s emergency-survival handbook, which I read at the evacuation camp, said that if there was a nuclear blast, you needed to get underground. The glass was already blown out of the basement window.
“Climb inside,” I shouted, and realized I couldn’t hear anything.
She sat up, saying something to me that I couldn’t understand. She was bleeding from the back of her head. I took her hand and placed it on the wound, yelling at her to keep pressure on it. She gestured that she couldn’t hear, and I took her hand and put it back on her head.
“Stay here,” I shouted, and held out my palms to her, trying to make her understand.
I planted a quick kiss on her lips.
Then I ran—into the house through a door that was broken off its hinges. The brightest light was gone, but everything glowed orange.
“Mom! Charlie!” I screamed, but the words sounded hollow in my ears. I doubted I would hear their answers.
Every cupboard in the kitchen was open, broken dishes scattered everywhere. My mom lay on the floor. Not moving.
Oh, God.
Shuddering, I dropped to my knees and felt her neck for a pulse.
There it was, beating softly. She took a breath.
She had a piece of glass—a ten-inch-long sharp dagger—plunged into her shoulder.
I pondered whether to pull it out or leave it in. Sometimes in the movies they leave it in because removing it will open the bloody floodgates. But this didn’t look too deep, and I didn’t want her to roll over onto it. I yanked it out, and she didn’t even stir. I patted her face, softly, then a bit harder.
“Mom!” I yelled.
She opened an eye halfway.
“You’re okay,” I said, more to myself than to her. I pressed her hand to her shoulder, telling her to hold it. I jumped up to grab a towel from the kitchen but couldn’t find anything in that mess. I pulled down one of the short drapes dangling in front of the shattered back window.
Maggie emerged from the basement door with blood running down her face and onto her shirt. Her mouth was moving, but I wasn’t hearing anything, and I motioned to my ears. She pointed upstairs, and I saw she was mouthing, “Charlie.”
I nodded, and she ran for the stairs.
Wadding up the drape, I headed back to the living room, where Mom was trying to sit up. I wrapped the cotton curtain tightly around her shoulder wound. She was saying something to me, but I didn’t understand. I took her hand again and put it on the cloth, yelling at her to apply pressure.
Instead, she grabbed my hand and kept trying to say something. She was hysterical. Of course: Charlie.
She moved to get up, and I didn’t stop her. She took a step, then bent over and coughed, hard. I got down on one knee and tried to sit her down.
A loud rushing sound, like river rapids, overwhelmed my senses. I put my hands to my ears, covering and uncovering them, trying to tell whether the noise was all in my head. It wasn’t. It sounded like a fire hose.
“Can you hear me?” I shouted at Mom. She looked up at me, nodded, and said something back. I could almost pick out syllables this time.
Mom’s eyes widened at the sight of something behind me, and I turned to see Maggie coming down the stairs holding Charlie’s hand as he walked beside her. He looked petrified but unhurt, with a little blood on his spaceship pajamas. I grabbed him, hugged him, then ran my fingers quickly over his head and chest. The blood appeared to be Maggie’s. He was shaking; dirty tears streaked down his face as he gripped Maggie’s hand.
She mouthed something to me, but I wasn’t getting it. She placed her mouth against my ear and shouted: “Fire!”
She pointed upstairs, and I realized a low cracking sound, which had been there all the time, was getting louder. Mom grabbed Charlie’s hand, and the four of us ran toward the front door. It was old and oak, original to the house, and a thick shard of metal was protruding through its center.
I grabbed the hot knob and flung open the door to reveal a picture:
Hell on earth.
Chapter 17
Jordan
EVERYTHING WAS ON fire…or worse.
As I stood in front of our porch steps, I realized that the Carters’ house across the street was gone, nothing left to burn. The only thing remaining was the concrete slab on which it had been built.
I’d seen this house every day of my life and now struggled to remember how it looked. The world had gone upside down. A huge tree lay in the street, roots and all, in flames. Other trees, such familiar parts of the scenery, were missing altogether.
In place of the Carters’ garage was a pile of brick and burning chunks of roof. Their barn was in flames, and their aluminum-walled mechanical shed looked like crumpled-up foil. Down the road to the west, the Moores’ house and garage were burning, too. Five mangled bicycles, arranged big to small, lay in the yard as if for sale. A pickup truck lay on its side, wheels spinning, fuel leaking and blazing. Looking to the east, I saw that the Allens’ farm was an inferno, an upended tractor in flames by the burning house.
I looked in the direction of the nuclear plant’s coolant towers, curious as to whether they were still standing, but I couldn’t have seen them from my house even on a clear day. There was no mushroom cloud, at least, or bright glow over the hills.
As Mom and Charlie crouched together on the front yard and Maggie grabbed my arm to pull me farther away from the house, I suddenly could see ground zero: a circle next to the Carters’ foundation, with a radius of maybe thirty feet, that was clear of debris. Whatever was there had been scoured from the face of the earth. I pointed at it and yelled at Maggie.
Maggie nodded and kept trying to pull me away from the porch.
I followed her down to the street and turned back to look at my house. The roof was on fire, smoke billowing out of the upstairs windows. Glass was gone from all the windows, and the porch was on the verge of collapse. As I looked closer, I realized the whole house had been pushed back about eight inches off its foundation.
Adrenaline rushed through me, as if a switch in my chest had been flipped and chemicals were pumping into my heart and head. I suddenly felt dizzy and dropped down to my knees.
The Carters had been home when I got home. Their minivan had been in the driveway. It was nowhere to be seen now, and I couldn’t tell whether it had been thrown out of sight or vaporized. Maybe the metal shard that pierced our front door had been part of the engine or body.
Maggie placed her hands on my head and spoke into my ear, though the only noise that was getting through was the waterfall-like roar of the fire. The sound—and flames—surrounded us: houses and buildings burning and small fires scattered around the small neighborhood.
Maggie was still bleeding from her head, and I placed her hand back on the wound, but she pushed my hand away and pointed to the Allens’ house in one direction and the Moores’ in the other, both on fire. She pointed at herself and then the Moores’ house, then at me and the Allens’. I nodded.
I wish she would’ve stayed to tend to her wound, but I knew she wouldn’t, and I wasn’t about to debate her when I couldn’t hear a word she was saying. Maggie ran west toward the Moores’ while I shouted for Mom, who kept the curtain pressed into one shoulder with Charlie nuzzled against the other, to stay put. Then I took off for the Allens’.
Their house was in flames and looked to be tilting. A big dogwood tree I’d climbed a hundred times as a kid had fallen onto the Allens’ truck. As I got closer, I shouted, trying to be heard over the fire’s roar. I could hear my voice’s vibrations in my head but not the words.
As I reached the house, part of the roof collapsed, and flames shot out. Mrs. Allen had died of cancer a couple of years ago, but Mr. Allen still lived here with his two teenage kids, Henry and Violet. I’d been friends with Peter, Henry, and Violet when we were growing up. Now Peter was in college, and the only thing I had in common with fourteen-year-old Henry and Violet, a petite, consciously social high school sophomore, was that we rode the same bus to school.
Fire spat out of every window I could see, including the broken glass porthole in the front door. There was no way to get into this place. There was no way anyone could be alive. I ran around to the back, just to be sure.
The rear of the house was in better shape than the front, but smoke was billowing out of the second floor. I thought I’d leave, but then I heard more glass breaking and looked up to see a window shattering and a pale hand reaching out. Then a face.
Someone was inside—about to die.
Without thinking, I leaped onto the trellis on the side of the house to climb toward the skinny roof over the sunroom. If I could reach that roof, I could get to the window.
Although I wasn’t light, the trellis held as I climbed, and I scrambled onto the roof as a window above my head burst and flames and glass showered over me. Ducking and covering my head, I crunched over the glass shards to reach the window, where the hand no longer waved.
I wrapped my hand in my jacket and punched out the rest of the glass. Gray smoke poured out as I vaulted myself inside and dove to the ground, where the air was better. Kneeling under the window was a girl. Violet. I hoisted her up, she wrapped her arms around my neck, and I scrambled to the window and deposited her onto the roof, gently, so she wouldn’t roll off.
I ducked back down and crawled around the floor, my lungs feeling raw and strangely cold. I bumped into another body, this one heavier and more solid. Mr. Allen? I found his arms and pulled him to the window, then climbed out and dragged him through from the roof, where Violet was lying and coughing.
How to get them down? It was too far to jump. I thought for a moment, then leaped back through the window as Violet protested weakly. Having knocked into a twin bed moments earlier, I yanked off the mattress, folded it as much as I could, and shoved it through the window, taking care not to knock Mr. Allen and his daughter off the roof in the process. Once outside again, I dropped the mattress to the ground below us, a ten-foot drop. It would have to do.
“I’ll let you down!” I shouted to Violet, who nodded as I grabbed hold of her arms. She lay on her belly facing me and let her legs dangle over the side, then inched herself backward until her stomach was against the roof’s edge. Gripping her tightly by the wrists, I lowered her down slowly until there was about a five-foot gap between her and the mattress. She landed feetfirst, her hand hitting the ground. She was okay.
Mr. Allen remained unconscious, and time was tight; I didn’t want us to be up there when the next explosion or collapse came. I positioned him as I had Violet, but I had to push him slowly over the roof’s edge with my feet while hanging on to his arms.
“Dad!” Violet was crying as her father dangled above her.
I jutted my arms forward and let go, and he plunged backward, hitting the mattress with his shoulder blades, his neck not snapping back too far. That was a bull’s-eye as far as I was concerned.
