What if the bomb had actually been dropped? What if your family was the only one with a shelter?In the summer of 1962, the possibility of nuclear war is all anyone talks about. But Scott's dad is the only one in the neighborhood who actually prepares for the worst. As the neighbors scoff, he builds a bomb shelter to hold his family and stocks it with just enough supplies to keep the four of them alive for two critical weeks. In the middle of the night in late October, when the unthinkable happens, those same neighbors force their way into the shelter before Scott's dad can shut the door. With not enough room, not enough food, and not enough air, life inside the shelter is filthy, physically draining, and emotionally fraught. But even worse is the question of what will—and won't—remain when the door is opened again.Internationally best-selling author Todd Strasser has written his most impressive and personal novel to date, ruthlessly yet sensitively exploring the terrifying what-ifs of one of the most explosive moments in human history.
It is insane that two men, sitting on opposite sides of the world, should be able to decide to bring an end to civilization.
I wake to a hand on my shoulder. Dad’s voice is urgent. “Get up, Scott!” The light in the bedroom is on, and I squint up into his face. Dad’s eyes are wide, and he’s shaking me hard, not gently, the way he usually does when he wants to wake me.
“Up! Now!”
I rub my eyes. An inner clock tells me that it’s the middle of the night. My heart starts to race with alarm. “What…?”
“We’re being attacked.” He swivels to my little brother Sparky’s bed. “Edward!”
Sparky groans and tries to roll over. Instead of arguing, Dad scoops him up, blankets and all. “Put me down!” Still half asleep, Sparky kicks as Dad cradles him and turns to me.
“Come on!”
Barefoot, heart heaving with panic, I race after him out onto the cold hall tiles, where we nearly crash into Mom, who’s carrying an armful of things she’s just gotten from the kitchen.
“Hurry!” Dad barks, and we scurry down the hall. In the dark playroom, he opens the closet and, with a loud clatter, sweeps away whatever toys and games lie on top of the square metal trapdoor. Outside, the sirens continue to blare.
“What’s going on?” Sparky cries, awake now.
Mom dumps the things from the kitchen on the floor and pulls him close. “It’s okay. Don’t be scared.”
But now loud banging sounds echo down the hall from the front of the house.
I gasp. “What’s that?”
Without answering, Dad yanks the metal trapdoor up and points down into the square of darkness. “Go!”
I can’t see a thing. “How?”
“What’s happening?” Sparky wails.
“It’s okay,” Mom says soothingly. Then to Dad: “Hurry!”
I feel Dad’s arms pick me up and lower me into the emptiness. My feet dangle in the dark air. Frightened that he’s about to let go, I dig my hands into his arms. “I can’t see!”
“Feel the rungs with your feet!” he commands.
I find a cold metal bar with my toes just as footsteps slap into the playroom. It’s Janet, our maid who stays over one night a week. She’s pulling a light-blue robe closed, and her eyes are moons of terror.
“Go down!” Dad barks at me.
“Richard?” From somewhere in the house, a man’s voice calls through the dark.
The metal rungs hurt the bottoms of my bare feet as I lower myself. The dark air in the shelter is cool and damp and smells like mildew. Suddenly boxes and bags of things shower down, bouncing off my head and arms, and falling into the shadows below. I cry out in surprise, even though it doesn’t really hurt. Already Mom’s feet are on the rungs just above me.
“Hurry!” Dad yells.
“Ow!” Sparky cries, and I wonder if Dad accidentally banged him into something as he tried to lower him through the trapdoor.
One of my feet touches the cold concrete floor; the other steps on a box that collapses with a crunch.
“In there!” a man’s voice shouts.
Above me, Mom yells, “Careful, Edward!”
Suddenly there’s scratching and grunting overhead. Sparky cries out, and Mom gasps loudly. Something big is plummeting down, and I barely have time to jump out of the way before Mom crashes to the floor with a horrible, crunching thud, Sparky on her chest.
“Mom!” A terrified cry tears through my throat. “Sparky!”
“Me could eat horse, Kemo Sabe,” Freak O’ Nature said in the diction of Tonto, the Lone Ranger’s Indian sidekick. Freak O’ Nature’s real name was Norman Freeman, but his friends called him Freak O’ Nature because… well, because that’s what he was.
It was the last week of fifth grade, and he, Ronnie, and I were lounging on his lawn listening to Freak O’ Nature’s black transistor radio, which lay on the grass broadcasting the game between the Yankees and the Cleveland Indians. Mickey Mantle, playing for the first time after a month on the disabled list, had just smashed a come-from-behind pinch-hit home run to put the Yanks ahead 9–7.
“Who wants to bet they still lose?” asked Ronnie, wearing a colorful Indian madras short-sleeve shirt that was the current height of style.
“Me hungry,” said Freak O’ Nature, who sat cross-legged, all sharp, bony angles, with brown hair, freckles, and thin metal wires across his upper and lower teeth from his bite plates.
Lying on my back, feeling the grass tickle my neck and ears, I gazed up at the puffy white clouds in the blue sky. The June sun warmed our faces and arms. In a few days, school would end, and we would have all summer to play baseball and swim and have fun.
