“What’s this?”
“PRD. Personal radiation detector. When the white disk in the middle starts to glow green, it’s time to find cover. The brighter the glow, the heavier the fallout.” I hesitated a moment, then told him, “Keep it. I’ve got a few dozen of them. Besides, if you’re going to help out with the shelter, you’re going to be staying with us. And as long as you do, we’ll all have to treat each other as if our lives depend on one another. Like a family.”
I thought again of my Dad back at the shop, and my mother… some friends who were as close as family. I had left behind a lot of people whose fates I didn’t know, and probably never would, a lot of people I would probably never hear from again. “Family is going to be a lot more important from now on, Ken. I intend to do whatever it takes to help keep mine safe.”
He held my gaze for a moment, then shook his head. “I can’t. I appreciate the gesture, but that thing is like gold right now, even if you have dozens of ’em.” He started to hand it back.
“No, I’m serious. I want you to keep it. I know it’s valuable. I’m counting on it being valuable. But I really do have plenty of them!” I chuckled. “And they’re worth a lot more now than when I bought them. I figured they might be a good barter item after this is all over. Think about it. People will be worrying about radiation for a long, long time. In their food, water, soil, rains, strong winds… a long time.”
I hung it back around his neck and continued talking, never giving him a chance to protest. “These things are waterproof, and they have an indefinite shelf life. I bought them ten years ago for fifteen bucks each, so don’t sweat the cost. Just don’t lose it. It has a chemical base, so it won’t wear out like a dosimeter will, and EMP won’t affect it.”
“EMP?”
“Electromagnetic pulse. It’s a vicious surge of electricity that’s released by the explosion of a nuclear warhead. It’s the reason that your power has been out all day, and your car won’t run if it has an electronic ignition.” A thought struck me that caused my heart to pound. “Your backhoe doesn’t have an electronic ignition, does it?”
Ken smiled. “Not to worry. All diesel engines.”
My surge of panic subsided, and we spent a couple of minutes altering the sketches on Ken’s advice. When we were finished, he asked, “Do you think you can drive a backhoe? I don’t mean operate it. Just drive it to Amber’s.”
“I can drive a forklift. If it’s anything remotely like it, I can do it.”
“Close enough. It looks like we’re going to need a backhoe and a bulldozer. It’ll be faster if we just drive them straight down to Amber’s, rather than load them on a trailer and tow them. We can leave the women here to load the food and supplies in your van. You drive the backhoe, and I’ll drive the ’dozer, and we’ll get started on this shelter of yours as soon as I get dressed.”
“Good!” I clapped him on the shoulder and rose. “Let’s tell the ladies, and we’ll get things rolling.”
“Hey, Leeland,” he said softly, as we walked to the house. I turned, and he raised the detector up from his chest. “I appreciate it. Thanks.”
Twenty minutes later, Ken had the beginnings of a good-sized trench started about fifty yards behind Amber’s house. The rest of us grabbed flashlights and started working on some of the other projects that would be needed for the shelter.
Megan and Zachary pulled the gutter spouts off of the house for use as ventilation pipes, while Debra and I began construction of an accurate fallout meter. The little PRDs were fine for actual detection of fallout, but they weren’t calibrated to accurately measure the amount of exposure. I had precise plans for the making of a calibrated fallout meter out of a soup can, aluminum foil, wire, cellophane, and various other household items.
An hour and a half later, we had finished the main trench. It was better than I had dared hope for, at twenty-five feet long, ten feet deep, and four feet wide at the bottom, with a slight taper up to about a five-foot width at the top. Ken had started a dogleg addition, as well. Once he finished the trench, the rest of us dropped the other projects we had been busy with and got busy covering the sides with plastic sheeting to help waterproof what would likely be our home for at least the next few weeks. We also worked on shoring up the walls with some of the lumber Ken had brought.
I quickly saw that the small quantity of wood we had would never be enough to shore the walls and cover the top of the entire trench. It wouldn’t even come close. But even as I started to worry, inspiration struck.
I remembered seeing plans for a fallout shelter that had a roof covered with doors taken out of a house. That would solve our problem, if there were enough doors in Amber’s house. I quickly grabbed a flashlight, ran inside, and started counting. Closets, pantries, bedrooms, bathrooms, and the actual entry doors in front, back, and garage amounted to eighteen doors, each one almost three feet wide by six and three quarter feet long.
Obviously, they would have to be laid lengthwise across the top in order to span the top of the shelter. Eighteen doors times their three-foot width meant fifty-four feet of roof. More than enough!
I ran back outside. “Debra! Where’s the toolbox?”
“I put it in the garage.”
I left before she could ask what I was doing. Armed with a screwdriver and hammer, I removed the pins in the door hinges with as much speed as I could muster. I pulled down only the interior doors for the moment. Fifteen doors were still forty-five feet of covering. Twenty-five feet for the main trench left us with twenty extra feet of covering. Heading out to tell Ken how much leeway he had, my heart began to pound as I saw light filtering through the trees, then slowed again almost immediately as I realized that it was nothing more than the sun rising, oblivious to the destruction mankind had wrought upon himself.
I looked at my watch. Twelve minutes after six. I had been working on the doors for half an hour. We had all been on the go since the blasts just before midnight, even after a grueling day relieved by less than four hours of sleep. Fear was a truly remarkable incentive.
Two hours later, we were nearly finished with the shelter. The doors, covered with layers of dirt, plastic sheeting for waterproofing, and more dirt, sealed the trenches. The only way in or out of the shelter was through one of two entrances at either end, which we would cover with improvised blast doors, one of which we had already made. Megan, Amber, and Cindy had also constructed and installed a ventilation system, complete with a simple air filtration system, following plans in an old survival article I had dug out. Ken and I assembled the second blast door. Debra had finished the fallout meter with Zachary’s help, and they began work on a makeshift electrical system out of the car batteries, wiring, and twelve-volt lights.
As Ken and I finished up, he suddenly stopped and stared at me, stared at my chest rather.
“What’s wrong?”
For an answer, he reached under his shirt and pulled out his PRD. My spit dried in my mouth when I saw the faint green glow. I lifted the detector dangling from my neck.
“Debra! Get that fallout meter.” I scrambled to my feet. “Zach, Megan… Everybody! Get in the shelter. Now!”
No one wasted time asking questions, immediately hustling inside. Ken and I dragged the partially completed second door to the opening at the other end of the shelter.
“How long do we have?” Ken kept his voice controlled, but fear was in his eyes.
I tried to reassure him. “The indicators are barely glowing, and there isn’t much wind. I’d say we’ve probably got at least a few hours. We’ll know more once we get a reading on the KFM.”
“KFM?”
“Kearny fallout meter. It’s a homemade fallout meter made out of a soup can and strips of aluminum foil.”