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"Bring 'em here," Mr. Del Carlo had advised. "Maybe the fire will pass over. The house is brick. We've got a new tile roof. If we hole up in the basement, we might get through this awful mess and get him in the morning." Mr. Del Carlo began packing supplies and shuttling them to the basement. He could hear the roar of the flames and feel the heat coming from outside. He had to hurry - this could be their only chance of survival.
Richard had felt joy and relief that he had someone to tell him what to do next, that they could come back to this safe haven where the grandfather clock still ticked, as if the world were still normal.
But now, as he stood at the back door carrying a soaking wet bedsheet that Mr. Del Carlo thought might serve as a makeshift stretcher, he drew back. Outside, the wind roared, and red ashes soared by. The dry brush on the hill at the end of the street would surely catch, too, if it hadn't already. The fire had already burned through the neighbor's garage roof, and red-orange embers rained down on the street. Even inside, smoke from the fire burned his nose and eyes.
Mr. Del Carlo, who had leaned heavily on Richard as they climbed the basement stairs, now stood beside him. "Go on," he ordered. "Hurry. I'll be waiting when you bring them out."
Holding a wet towel over his nose and mouth, he opened the door and ran. In a moment he was at the wall. He scaled it quickly and with minimal effort, he hoisted himself over and raced over the hot, sticky blacktop to the shelter entrance. He used the wet towel to filter out the smoke and heat from the fire, making it easier to breathe as he worked. He pulled at the metal cover, cried out as it seared his hand, then quickly let himself down the ladder into the tiny room.
"Richard!" Stacey rushed to his side. "I was so scared, I thought you might not come back! She had been anxiously keeping watch for him ever since he had gone out on his mission, and when she saw him safe and sound, she could hardly contain her relief. "It's hard to breathe! It's so hot!"
"We're buggin' out," he announced. "Washington! Washington!" He shook his brother awake. "Come on, get up. We're moving to the Del Carlos. How's mom?" he called over his shoulder to Stacey.
Stacey opened her eyes, blinking. "She's not feeling well," she said softly. "She's coughing a lot and I think she's feverish."
Washington rose unsteadily to his feet, then bent over, hands clutching his stomach, and began to retch again. His stomach was in knots and he felt like he was going to be sick. He tried to stand up, but his legs felt weak and he stumbled before regaining his balance. He bent over and dry heaved again, his body shaking from the effort.
"Oh, Washington!" Richard turned to Stacey. "It's up to us. We've got to get Mom onto this wet sheet and up that ladder. We've got to get out of here." He started to cough. Between spasms he barked, "Washington, c'mon! Help us!"
"Can't...." Washington mumbled, crumbling to the floor again.
"Damn you, get up!" Richard yanked at his arm. "You can throw up at the Del Carlos'. Get your ass up!"
Slowly his brother forced himself up and turned bloodshot eyes, barely focused, on Richard.
"Now help me get mom on this, then grab an end." If he could keep Washington going, he probably wouldn't notice how awful he felt. "Stacey, be ready to pull the sheet under her. Come on, guys. In five minutes, we could be sitting in that nice cool basement next door drinking mint juleps."
Stacey laughed, then began to cry as she shook out the wet sheet with Richard. He jumped as a burning cinder landed on his shirt and began to burn his shoulder. Smoke was making it harder to breathe. They were all coughing. "Tuck it under her a little," he said in as normal a tone as he could manage. Looking at his unconscious mother, so red and blistered, he fought back a wave of nausea. "Washington, let's get her up. Then Stacey can pull the sheet under her."
Gingerly, with Washington at one end and himself on the other, they lifted their mother, and Stacey hurriedly pulled the rest of the sheet beneath her.
"Richard!" he cried in sudden anguish. "How do we do this?" When Mr. Del Carlo had thrust the sheet at him, he'd said only that it might make a good stretcher. Now he couldn't see how they'd hand her up the ladder in the thing. She'd just slide down to whoever was at the lower end. Should he just forget the sheet and try to carry her?
Washington turned a twisted face, soiled with vomit, to Richard. He clamped a hand over his mouth and started to heave again, then quit. Weakly he said, "We'll wrap it around her and tie some big knots at the ends. You go first. Stacey can stay in the middle so she can help support her."
"Right!" Now, why hadn't he thought of that? Hands trembling, he knotted an end while Stacey did the other. Then, following Washington's instructions, he climbed halfway up the ladder. Crouching, he held onto a run with one hand and with the other reached down for the sheet knot. He could hear the wind raging above. He could feel the heat and smell the smoke. Too late, he realized they should have used whatever water was left to wet themselves down.
"Lift!" Washington cried.
"I am!" She was so heavy, and he was so skinny. His strength was in running, not in lifting. His arms were long and thin. A scholar's body, his mom had once said, trying to ease his self-contempt. "You're not a jock---neither is your dad."
"Lift!" Washington repeated. "Go on, move! Quit standing there!"
He was trying, damn it! He clenched his lips, hating his brother. If Washington was so smart, so strong, why wasn't he up here? Didn't he realize that he didn't dare let go of the rung to move up, or he'd fall, pulled back by Mom's weight?"
"Stacey, lift!" Washington commanded.
In the moment that she gave support, Richard was able to pull the knot so that he could grasp the rung, too, freeing his other hand to move up a step. And so, step by agonizing step, he finally reached the top. He knelt on the ground, the heat scorching a hole in his jeans. Trying to keep the sheet from touching the metal rim of the entrance hole---hearing steam hiss each time the wet sheet made contact, he pulled out his mom. At last Stacey emerged, and then Washington.
And then the three of them, supporting the heavy, sheet-wrapped burden, ran across the remaining ground to the wall. There Mr. Del Carlo waited with a ladder set in place to help hand them down.
The moment Richard reentered the house, he began breathing more easily. In the normalcy of the almost unblemished home, the horrors of outside seemed unreal. In the light of Mr. Del Carlo's lantern he saw ornately framed paintings, old-world tapestries, and rosewood cabinets filled with porcelain and china figurines. Here there were people to help; there was a sense of order and calm. He let himself feel the exhaustion he'd dismissed, wanting only to collapse somewhere and sleep, leaving the others in the capable hands of grownups.
They moved immediately to the basement. In his brief absence, the Del Carlos had gathered towels and blankets, bandages and ointments, even cans of juice and a platter of cookies from an upstairs freezer. He helped lower his mother to the old couch, then let Mrs. Del Carlo take over. She gently unwrapped the sheet, then gasped and turned away as tears sprang to her eyes. But before long she was applying ice cubes, with Stacey's help, to the painful burns.
Richard dropped wearily onto an old packing crate while Washington went off with Mr. Del Carlo to find a bathroom. He couldn't believe it; everything seemed so normal. They could live comfortably in a place like this, if it didn't burn. There was food upstairs, and they could bring down mattresses. If they ran out of canned or bottled drinks, they might even drain the hot-water heater. They were probably safe, at least for tonight. As soon as the fire passed over and subsided, he would leave to seek help.
"Well," Mr. Del Carlo said, hobbling back, flashlight in hand. "Your brother seems pretty sick. We'd better get some fluids in him soon, or he'll become dehydrated, run a fever."
"Mr. Del Carlo, what happened? Do you know? We didn't have a radio in the clubhouse."
"No, I don't know," Mr. Del Carlo said. "It must have been an accident." He looked around the room. "A radio? Oh, yes! I found one while you were gone. I got so busy, I forgot to see if it works." He dug into his back pocket for a small transistor radio and switched it on. The static filled the room with an unearthly rhythm, an eerie contrast to the silence before.
Mr. Del Carlo slowly turned the station dial to and fro until an indistinct voice came on over the static. He adjusted the tuning knob until the voice became clearer. Soon, Richard could make out a few words and phrases. It was a news broadcast from a distant station.
"......message is transmitted at the request of the Federal Emergency Management Agency. This message is part of the national emergency alert system. This is designed to provide information to the public in the event of a disaster or other emergency situation. At 3:40 p.m. Pacific Standard Time a nuclear bomb exploded in the Los Angeles region. The government is issuing a state of emergency and is asking all residents to remain indoors and to shelter in place. All transportation services are suspended until further notice. The military is actively investigating the incident. President Reagan will speak shortly on all television and radio stations. All citizens are urged to cooperate with military personnel in the investigation. The government has urged the public to remain calm and patient as the situation is assessed. More information will be released as it becomes available. All TV and radio stations in the United States will now cease their regular programming to carry this special message from the president. They will also report on the news of this incident. For now, shelter is in place. If you have a basement or windowless room, shelter there. Remain calm and wait for further instructions. If you are outside, seek shelter inside and stay away from windows. Close and lock all doors and windows. If neither option is available, cover broken windows and pull drapes. Stay tuned to the news for updates. If your home is on fire, take cover anywhere you can. Stay low to the ground and cover your mouth and nose with a cloth or shirt. If you must evacuate, do not run and stay away from damaged buildings. Remain calm. Move away from the danger and seek help as soon as possible. Stay in contact with......"
They listened as the message faded away. Mr. Del Carlo. He looked around the room and saw the sad faces of the people there, all of whom had been deeply moved by the message they had heard. He wanted to give them a chance to reflect on what they had heard, so he quietly shut off the radio.
For a long moment they just stared at each other. Richard thought of what he'd read about Hiroshima. But that had been a ten-kiloton bomb. Today, people spoke in terms of one megaton, which was fifty to a hundred times the strength of the Hiroshima bomb. His mind began racing with fear and dread, imagining a world destroyed by the power of nuclear weapons. He shivered at the thought of the immense power of a one megaton bomb, let alone a ten to twenty megaton bomb. He was terrified at the thought that this might be the place where he and the others would meet their end.
"Richard," Stacey called from across the room. "Your mother wants you."
In a dreamlike state he rose and crossed the room to stand before his mother. Her lobster-red color was now a bright pink. She put out her hand to him. "Hi, honey..." He took it in his own, the warmth radiating between them, and thought he'd never felt so safe and secure in his life.
"Hi, Mom," he said, swallowing tears. She looked at him with a sad expression and pulled him into a hug. He buried his face in her shoulder and let the tears flow freely.
"Did you burn your shoulder?"
"It's nothing. How do you feel?"
"Fine. Where's Washington?"
"In the bathroom. Got stomach trouble---you know him."
"Was it---was that a----nuclear---bomb?" She knew that the loud explosion and bright light could be indicative of a nuclear bomb, as they are known to be incredibly loud and bright in comparison to other weapons.
Richard nodded.
"Oh, God...."
"It's okay, Mom. We're safe here, and as soon as the fire burns down, we'll get you to a hospital." He knew that the intense heat could cause the Del Carlos's metal garage door to melt, blocking them in, or that the car could explode, further endangering their lives, but he kept those horrifying scenarios to himself. "Just hold on, Mom."
"George....oh, God......George...." She turned her face away.
"Dad will be fine, Mom. I don't think they got it any worse in Pasadena than we did here. We'll try to reach him tomorrow."
"It's a home-made bomb, I just know it. I know it." She spoke with effort. "The development of nuclear weapons isn't cutting-edge science; it's not even as "complicated as people think. All it takes is one capable person, and the atomic bomb is 1940s technology. The greatest danger is the most profound discovery---the knowledge that cannot be unlearned!" She started to cry. Richard squeezed her hand, not knowing what to say. Then he bent and kissed her swollen face before turning away. He stood, surveying the room. He knew he had to be the strong one. He had to be her anchor in the storm. He had to protect her and make sure that nothing ever hurt her again.
It seemed a long time since Washington had left, so Richard went in search of him. He knocked at the bathroom door, calling his brother's name. There was no response. On the other hand, it could have only been a few minutes since Washington had left. Richard may have just misremembered how long ago it was.
"Leave me alone," Washington answered. "Go away!" It was as if Washington had slammed the door in Richard's face, metaphorically speaking.
"Washington? Can I help? Can I get you anything? Black coffee? Mom says it settles...."
He could hear Washington retching again, then panting and crying. He felt so helpless standing there, listening. If only he'd gone out to bring their mother back or at least offered to help. Maybe Washington wouldn't be so sick now. He waited at the closed door a long while, calling, but all his brother replied was, "Go away so I can die!"
"Stacey and I will bring down some mattresses," he told Mr. Del Carlo. "Washington's gonna need some sleep, and Mrs. Del Carlo looks pretty done-in."
"Good idea. I'll give you a hand." The old man rose to his feet, but the bad leg gave under him. Richard helped him up.
"It's okay. We can manage. We'll just slide the mattresses along and push them down the stairs. Stacey, let's go."
Stacey didn't answer. She just followed him and did what he said. When they had slid 3 mattresses down the stairs, Alexei led the way back to the kitchen and began checking cupboards. "See what's in the fridge, Stacey. Get a bag and bring down anything edible. Oh, here's the coffee for Washington."
He turned around to find Stacey staring with wide-eyed horror out the window. "Don't...." he said. "We're safe here."
"What's happening to my Mom----my sister? Maybe my mother's been burned, and who's helping her? I want to go home!"
"You can't. You know you can't."
"The Russians did this to us! I can't believe they could do something so cruel! We'll all die. There'll be radiation, and the water will be contaminated, and everything will be burned up, and...." she listed all her fears. Her voice trailed off as she realized the gravity of the situation. She was overwhelmed and didn't know what to do. She began to sob, unable to contain her fear and despair.
"Stacey," Richard said, reaching awkwardly to hold her. "Stacey, I don't think so. If it was the Russians, why are we still alive?"
Stacey looked at him. "Maybe they don't want us dead," she said softly. "Maybe they want something else."
"As far as they know, it was only one bomb." Stacey and him exchanged glances. "Do you think they might be after something else?" he asked.
"It's possible," she replied.
"If it were an all-out war, I am sure everybody'd be dead, us included." He hadn't realized he'd thought that until the moment he said it. She shivered and looked away, her eyes wide. He had never seen her so shaken. He tried to think of something to say, but the only thing he could think of was that war was not an option. "Come on, don't look. He put his arm around her shoulders and started walking. He hoped his body heat would be enough to warm her. He knew what she was thinking, and he knew that war was never an option. The fire seemed more intense because of the winds. It'll pass over...." He hurriedly stuffed whatever he thought they might use into a bag and, with one arm around her, guided her back downstairs.
They were greeted by Mr. Del Carlo's elated voice. "Come here, listen!"
".... Emergency Broadcast System, broadcasting from KKG69 in Fresno, California. We urge all citizens in the area to stay indoors. Listen to your local authorities for updates and instructions. Do not leave your homes, stay safe. The nuclear bomb that exploded in Los Angeles was likely a Hiroshima 'Fat-Man' class bomb, with a yield in the 18–23 kiloton range. Radiation from the blast is spreading quickly and will reach Fresno in the coming hours. We urge you to take precautions and seek shelter immediately. Do not panic, stay safe. We have not yet assessed the damage yet, but it is known that the ground-level explosion occurred approximately 1 mile north of downtown Los Angeles. People are advised to stay indoors and avoid contact with any exposed materials. The authorities are working on evacuating the area and providing necessary assistance to those affected by the explosion. People are urged to remain vigilant and follow the directions of the authorities. Experts say there is little hope of survivors within a 5-mile radius of ground zero. Major damage from the blast and fire extends to at least 20 miles. We repeat from earlier broadcasts: Shelter in place until the all-clear is given by the authorities. Stay tuned for further updates. One moment please..." There was static and an indistinct voice in the background. Then another voice came on the air, a more familiar voice, the voice of Ronald Wilson Reagan, 40th President of the United States.
"My fellow Americans," the President began, "it is my sad duty to inform you that the bomb, so to speak, has dropped.
"Southern California has today been reduced to a radioactive no-man's land. While the extent of damage to the state is still uncertain, and will probably remain so for some time, preliminary analyses have revealed that this was a grounded explosion rather than an airburst, such as would be expected from a Soviet-launched ICBM. Analysis of the seismic readings at ground zero suggests that the weapon was placed only a few hundred meters underground. The yield was at least half a megaton. The resulting shockwave was felt up to a hundred kilometers away. The blast destroyed everything within a radius of ten kilometers. The fallout is expected to cause widespread radioactive contamination over the coming days. The principal site, or ground-zero, of the explosion is believed to be in the San Fernando Valley, in North Los Angeles. The destruction was like a stone thrown into a still pond, with ripples radiating outwards in a concentric pattern, affecting everything it touched.
"Many of you are wondering if we are dealing with international terrorists. At this time, we have no evidence that this is the case. Now, I'm embarrassed to say this, but this looks more like a criminal act. That is why we are working with local law enforcement to ensure your community's safety. Everyone should remain vigilant and report any suspicious activity to the authorities.
"According to an FBI memo I read some hours after the explosion, actress Jodie Foster says that over the past seven months a man, John W. Hinckley Jr., has left her dozens of poems, letters and love messages in an effort to compel her to take an interest in him. Normally, we dismiss such things as lunatic ravings. But I am told that enclosed with them were bizarre drawings, diagrams that at first were assumed to be plans for a radio, or some other kind of communications device; these have now been identified as schematics for a compact nuclear bomb. For instance, one of the letters he wrote included the words, 'My love for you is so strong that I am willing to destroy a city to prove it'. In the last few paragraphs of that same letter, Mr. Hinckley tells her that he is indeed in possession of a homebrew nuclear device. We assumed that this was his way of showing off to her, showing her that he could---and would--- do as he proposed.
"We know very little about Mr. Hinckley himself, or how he obtained the money and materials to make this bomb. Further investigation will be necessary to uncover the full story. It is possible that he had assistance from someone else, or that he was able to procure the materials from a black-market source. Whatever the case, this incident is a stark reminder of the dangers of unchecked access to explosive materials. What is known is that his obsession, his motive for perpetrating this terrible crime, began after he saw Ms. Foster star in a 1976 movie entitled Taxi Driver; she played a teenage prostitute named Iris......"
"That's it?" Mrs. Del Carlo cried. "All this because of a madman's obsession with a young movie starlet?" Mrs. Del Carlo shook her head in disbelief. It was shocking that that such a trivial thing had caused this much destruction and pain. The tragedy of it all weighed heavily on her heart.
"Let's all pray that they catch this Hinckley fellow before he blows up more than just L.A.," Mr. Del Carlo replied bitterly. "Remember that stolen plutonium they mentioned on the radio some days ago? I'd bet dollars on horses he's the guy who did that." His words were met with silence by the others in the room. Everyone was now aware of the danger this man posed. The thought of plutonium in his hands was a chilling herald of horrors yet to come if Hinckley was not apprehended, and soon.
"Will they catch him, Mr. Del Carlo?" Richard held his breath, waiting for the answer.
Mr. Del Carlo shook his head. "I can't say for sure. But I know he won't get away with it."
"Stacey, do you understand now? It's just L.A. It's not even terrorists, just some guy that cooked up his own nuke! That means we'll get help soon. Mom? Did you hear?" Richard ran to his mother's side and repeated what they'd heard, then he rushed to find Washington.
Washington was leaning against the door of the bathroom, too weak to move. Richard put Washington's arm around his shoulder and said, "Lean on me. Come on." Slowly he walked his brother to the other room where he lowered him to one of the mattresses, then found a blanket and covered him. He smelled awful. He looked awful. Richard wished he could think what to do for him, but the only thing he could think was to get him strong, hot coffee. He'd ask Mr. Del Carlo how to get water from the hot-water heater. It was the least he could do, the only thing he could think to do.
How long before dawn? The sky was still dark, so it must still be a few hours away. He would try to get a few more hours of sleep before the sun rose in the hopes that it would give him sufficient energy to make it through the day. But how long before it was safe to go out for help? It was already well after midnight. He hadn't had food or water or rest, but he wasn't hungry or thirsty or even tired. Washington had always kidded Richard about his endurance, about his indifference to mess and discomfort, except that he'd always made it sound kind of freaky. Now he was glad he could hang in there and put up with all this mess. He had to keep going. He had to find a way to get out of this mess. He had to keep pushing until he found help.
He looked around. Mrs. Del Carlo had curled up on one of the mattresses and gone to sleep. Stacey lay on the 3rd mattress, staring up at the ceiling. Mr. Del Carlo, looking frail and all of his 80 years, huddled in an old easy chair, chin on his chest. The only light was the single candle flickering on the table. The room seemed to sink into a heavy silence.
Richard pulled a chair to a spot near his mom and sat down. In the flickering candlelight he watched her, now and then applying water from the melted cubes to the most inflamed skin. He had grown used to the smell of smoke, and now the vomit and excrement, and to the faint banshee wails that came from the outside world. He thought of his dad, in his lab at the university, or maybe in his car, on the way home when John Hinckley Jr.'s bomb exploded. He thought of waking up in the morning and looking over the valley to the green hills across the way. What would it all be like this morning when---if---the smoke cleared? He knew he was safe here, under the collapsed ceiling and the piles of rubble. But he worried about the people beyond the walls, about his father and all those who were still out there, exposed to the danger. He wished he could do something, but he was powerless.
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