Authors: Colt Triarii
Nuclear War Club: Seven high school students are in detention when Nuclear War explodes.Game on, they are on their own.
The Nuclear War
Club
by Colt Triarii
© 2015
All Rights Reserved
United States Copyright TXu 1-877-825
None of the procedures or medicines described in this fictional novel should be used for any actual medical treatment, under any circumstances, as severe personal injury, or death may result
.
All inventions, modifications, or descriptions of current or imaginary products are fictional and any replication, modification, or reproduction should not be attempted under any circumstances, as severe personal injury, or death may result
.
Readers may e-mail comments directly to:
1.
“Son, I have to be back at Flight Operations in forty five minutes, and won’t be back for several days,” he said, tossing his flight bag and climbing out of the bed of the blue pickup truck. David Phelps caught the flight bag as his Dad thanked the driver, and hustled towards the open garage door. David returned the wave of two pilots as the truck was already backing out of their driveway.
The driveway was lit up by the truck headlights. He could see his Dad’s green flight uniform was wilted, limp, stained with dried sweat and coffee. He desperately needed a shave. His combat boots were scuffed and dirty, his eyes were sunken, red around the edges.
When they reached the garage floodlight he confirmed that there was a 9mm handgun in his Dad’s shoulder harness. He also had a knife sheaf sticking out of his right boot. David wondered about the gun as they hurried silently through the open garage door. Dad took a folded, handwritten list out of his lower leg pocket.
Dad never wore the gun home. David didn’t even know he had a boot knife. And he always wore an immaculately clean uniform, and shiny boots. Dad said it was just part of his job as a United States Air Force officer. But now he could line up with the homeless men on the sidewalk at the downtown Mission for a free meal, no questions asked.
Dad reeked of too much stale coffee, which even overpowered the musty sweat of the garage gym. David began to calm down. Whatever had happened, Dad was fine now. He watched him consciously focus on his list, which had, as number 1, “Give David truck keys”.
“I will be gone a while, so I am leaving my truck with
you. Drive it to school, it has a full tank of gas. Keep it that way, don’t let it get below three quarters. Be sure to park my truck with Bob, a retired Air Force friend of mine, near your school, and not at the school. Here is the Google map printout,” Dad said, handing him the keys.
David waited for more, but apparently that was all he was going to explain.
“Some of your Mom’s gear in the truck box can’t go to school,” Dad emphasized, looking him in the eye.
“Yes Sir. The truck box cannot go to school,” David read back, so his Dad knew he understood. He had written that in capitals and underlined on his list.
“Stay out of the truck box,” Dad read.
“Except, of course, in an emergency,” Dad added, with forced casualness. David’s wariness escalated, “Emergency?” he thought, but did not say.
“Your Mom texted me last night. There is a problem selling the house, she may be a few days late.”
Mom was a week behind in moving here already, more delay was a complete disaster from David’s food standpoint .He was weary of restaurant meals, frozen dinners, and his own cooking. When Dad transferred to Bead Air Force Base, David came early so he could start football practice before high school started.
“Here is the credit card, get some more food, and e-mail me the receipt,” Dad smiled. “Your Mom e-mailed a grocery list and several quick recipes.”
“No problem,” David replied, trying to project cheerfulness. But he especially missed the surprise breakfasts his Mom made for him and put in two large styrofoam coffee cups to eat on his drive to school. Mom wrote reminders of things he needed to do on the side of the cups. One time she even diagrammed a football play he had fouled up with xs and os and arrows on the side of the cup, but usually it was a daily Bible verse . She laughed and said those styrofoam cups were the only things she knew he would never forget to take to
school.
“And you keep my phone so she can text you,” Dad said. David took the phone, and the two charged, spare battery sticks.
Dad’s last text this morning to Mom was still on the screen
Lori
-
Get here soonest, don’t worry about selling the house. Leave it with broker. Don’t worry about cost of airfare, even if you have to fly first class
.
“Is everything OK with you?” Dad asked.
“Sure. It’s an unusually short week in football practice, this is the only midweek game scheduled,” David said.
Dad seemed distracted and didn’t ask any questions. David wondered how long he had gone without sleep. His mind seemed to wander, like he had to struggle, and consciously focus on his list.
“They brought in the portable ATM cash vans this morning to Flight Ops because of the drill. Keep some cash in your wallet, and put the rest in the glove box. Lock it, and give it to your Mom when she gets here,” Dad said, handing him two thick rubber banded stacks of cash from his flight bag pocket, and the credit card. He marked that off his list.
“I made you a list of preparations for your Mom’s arrival. Study it, and ask any questions before I leave,” he said, handing David a printed list on a clipboard.
“I am so proud of you. I realize what a sacrifice it was to transfer from Alabama to California at the start of your senior year of football. And you never whined. Your Mom and I appreciate that,” Dad said, then turned to the kitchen, and left the garage.
I sure don’t deserve that praise, David thought as he lifted weights. He had been devastated, talk about fouling up his life. He was angry at God, California, and the United States Air Force for the transfer in his Senior year.
He made friends quickly here in California. But it just wasn’t the same as his friends in Alabama. And he was still on all his old friends’ text lists. He would read the text messages every day, look at the photos, pull out the yearbook, and read the comments. He would stare at the ceiling in the dark, and curse all things California.
But it was true, he had never complained to his parents. Transfers were part of military life. After all, a transfer had brought him to Alabama. Mom and Dad seemed to understand the sting of leaving his football team for his Senior year, and did what they could. They let him convert the new garage into a full size weight gym, with bench press, free weights, pull up tower and curl bench. Mom had shipped him thick black rubber mats hoping he would not crush the floor with his weights. At least he had not made his Dad’s life more difficult.
David read the list his Dad had handed him:
1. Your Mom will return tomorrow. Flights may be delayed. She will text you for a pickup. There may be traffic problems.
2. Stop and check traffic with binoculars from one of the hills
before
you commit to entering the commercial airport, as it has no exits once you are inside the airport perimeter.
3. If traffic is blocked, park your truck where you can drive away, and enter on foot.
4. Lock up a bicycle at the airport McDonalds at the terminal with the combination lock for your Mom.
5. After school and football practice, drop my truck off at that all night strip club about two miles outside the airport entrance. Be sure to leave this map in the glove box.
David struggled to understand what this all meant. The gun, the cash, the credit card, and the new truck with all the gear. But the most important flashing warning sign was his Dad’s condition. He was saying a lot, as he said nothing.
He read the list again, and was just finishing his workout routine, when the Air Force motor pool truck pulled into the driveway.
“Dad, they are here,” David said, as he walked into the kitchen.
Dad looked up from the kitchen table, nodded, and stopped writing. He folded up the letter written on blue paper, put it in the envelope, drew a big heart with an arrow through it, wrote “from Steve to Lori”, and placed it in the Bible. He grabbed his flight bag and stood up.
Dad walked out the kitchen door into the garage gym with a steaming cup of coffee, and a packed flight bag. A shave, hot shower, and crisp uniform made a world of difference. Dad could no longer pass for homeless, David thought, with relief.
“Any questions about the list?” Dad asked.
“Mom, at a strip club parking lot?” David asked.
Probably a mistake, he thought. Dad was tired. He couldn’t help but question leaving a truck for his Mom at an all-night strip club. She went to Church every Sunday, studied the Bible every night, and never even drank alcohol. She had probably never even been to a bar.
“Overnight vehicles at a bar parking lot usually do not attract attention because the drunks take cabs home and leave their car, and this bar has direct access to three different roads,” Dad explained.
“I don’t want her stuck in the Airport parking garage, and traffic jams. Also, she needs to have a bicycle close to the terminal,” Dad explained.
David studied the map. It was an aerial photo, probably from Google. The three highways at the bar were marked in yellow highlighter back to the base, and he started to ask why
the power line right of way was also marked, but didn’t.