"Fallout" by Brandon Clarkson
- Roi Fainéant
- 2 days ago
- 7 min read
Charlie Russell sat cross-legged on the seat of his dad’s F-1 pickup, bundled up in his thick coat, his mittens laid on the dashboard. There was an hour or so of daylight left, allowing him to read the latest issue of The Incredible Hulk while he waited. The monster was taking on General Fang and his communist cronies in the pages of his twelve-cent comic while the truck idled in the icy parking lot of Sheen’s Hardware and Materials. Charlie’s dad was inside the store buying nails.
These after-school errands had become a drab tradition over the past month. They started with trips to the concrete plant—two and a half tons of concrete over six trips. One hundred and thirty-five concrete blocks in total. Then, there were trips to the lumber yard. Charlie was dragged along to help load and unload, or maybe just for the appearance of bonding. His dad was deep in his new obsession: the booklet. It contained a list of the materials, diagrams, and building instructions. Build it yourself beneath the floorboards. Preparing for the worst—it’s not just for pessimists anymore.
Charlie and his dad spent afternoons after school picking up supplies and evenings building in the basement. They spent more one-on-one time than ever these days, yet they’d never spoken so little. That was A-OK for Charlie, who didn’t have much to say since August anyway. It was called the “Basement Concrete Block Shelter,” and it was the centerpiece of every sparse phrase or dialogue between the two. The shelter was the third such design outlined in the Family Shelter Designs booklet issued by the Office of Civil Defense. His dad had brought the thirty-page booklet home from the V.F.W. hall just two weeks after Charlie’s mom had passed away from stomach cancer. That was three months ago. It was designed to fit a family of four, but Charlie’s dad made no alterations to the design.
When he wasn’t helping haul materials, Charlie was in the basement with his dad, mixing mortar and laying blocks. Dinner was squeezed in somewhere, usually a quick sandwich. Then Charlie would do his homework while his dad continued to build before going to work. The concrete was steps one through five in Dad’s booklet. When he wasn’t pouring and cutting and hammering in the basement, Charlie’s dad sat in the living room watching the news and reading his booklet. It was his scripture.
Charlie was left on a cliffhanger in The Incredible Hulk when his dad emerged from the hardware store carrying two boxes of nails. He remembered his dad reciting it from the list: two pounds of sixpenny nails and two pounds of sixteenpenny. He loaded them into the bed of the truck, and Charlie folded the comic and stuffed it into his back pocket. He would have to find out later how the Hulk defeated Fang’s paratroopers and won the day. It was never a question of if—just how.
“…help positioning the boards tomorrow,” his dad said, starting the sentence before opening the truck door so Charlie only heard the second half.
He navigated his response carefully. “I was going to spend tomorrow at the lake. We talked about it yesterday.”
Charlie’s dad never yelled—not like Mike’s dad. But he did show his disappointment through a particular sigh that was part exhaustion and part defeat. To Charlie, this was somehow worse than yelling. There was no sigh this time, though. As Charlie’s dad pulled the truck out of park, he gave an approving grunt. “I’ll just apply the water repellent to the boards tomorrow, then. Don’t need two people for that.”
Charlie didn’t mask his smile. He hadn’t seen his friends Mike and Stanley outside of school in nearly two weeks—a new record for them. Their time together had been a comfort to Charlie these past few months. They never asked how he was feeling, and they never mentioned his mom. He liked that.
That night, Charlie did his homework to the noise of more construction in the basement. When his dad left for his night shift, Charlie stuffed his notes inside a textbook, poured a bowl of cereal, and made his way to the TV in the den. Rawhide was on, and Rowdy was taking on a pack of wolves that night. Three hours later, Charlie was asleep on the couch as credits ran for The Alfred Hitchcock Hour.
The next morning, Charlie met up with Stanley first. Stanley and his mom lived behind the bowling alley just up the hill from the lake. It was the largest body of water in Sojourn. It wasn’t frozen solid yet, but it was getting there. After meeting Stanley in the parking lot of the bowling alley, they walked down together to catch up with Mike, who was waiting for them at the edge of the lake next to the shallow woods. He was skipping rocks along the ice, trying to see if he could reach the center of the lake. He got close a few times. There was a large wooden sign by the embankment that was painted orange with black letters. It read “CAUTION THIN ICE” and “Sojourn Sheriff’s Department.” Charlie and Stanley walked up just as Mike was running out of rocks. The three of them planted elbows on the top of the wooden sign and fidgeted with their coat pockets. Tradition dictated that each boy bring a cigarette. Charlie and Stanley produced theirs first. Mike didn't. “My dad started counting them,” he confessed to the others.
They decided to share. Charlie brought out a book of matches and they lit up—two cigarettes alternating between the three boys after every drag. This immediately spurred a competition, as hangouts at the lake always did. One by one, they each exhaled to see who could create the biggest cloud of breath in the cold air. The warm smoke contrasted against the woods behind them as the boys alternated between coughing and laughing. Charlie lost.
Eventually, the boys got tired of standing and sat on the edge of the lake where the ice was thickest. After a comfortable silence, Stanley addressed the others. “Notice anything different?” He touched the tips of his boots together on the dead grass and Mike and Charlie immediately noticed the shine. Stanley’s shoes never shined. “My feet are finally bigger than George’s, so Mom had to get me a pair that’s just mine.”
Stanley had never had an article of clothing in his life that wasn’t first worn by his older brother George. “Mom said these count as my Christmas, though,” Stanley added.
“Boots aren’t a Christmas present," Mike argued. “Christmas is for the shit you don’t need.”
“Tell that to my mom.”
“Did you guys watch Rawhide last night?” Charlie interrupted. This question was rhetorical, of course. It was always just a matter of time before their conversations turned to their favorite subject, TV. Mostly westerns, but not exclusively.
“You think there are wolves round here like the ones Rowdy had to deal with?” Stanley asked the group.
“Of course!” Mike asserted. “I even shot one once.”
“Bullshit.” Stanley chortled.
“Well, my dad did. And I was with him. It was in the woods behind the school.”
Charlie hadn’t seen any wolves, but he did hunt deer with his dad. Or, he used to before Mom got sick. A lot had changed since then. Just about the only thing that stayed the same were his hangouts with Stanley and Mike, and their favorite TV shows. Same time. Same channel. Same ol’ Rowdy.
The only thing the boys loved more than Rawhide was Gunsmoke. Mostly because more people got shot in Gunsmoke. Clint Eastwood’s Rowdy was cool and all, but Matt Dillon didn’t put up with any shit, and he didn’t mind smoking guys who needed to be smoked. Gunsmoke also had Kitty. It was worth watching just to see her.
Over the next two hours, the conversation waxed and waned—their cigarettes long cold. They talked about other shows like Route 66 and Candid Camera, and they talked about school and Ms. Butler and all her goddamn homework. Naturally, the shelter beneath Charlie’s room eventually came up too. How could it not? “Are you gonna be able to watch TV down there?” Mike asked.
“I don't think so,” Charlie answered. “The only thing Dad mentioned putting in it is food. Like cans and stuff.”
“Can you play games and stuff in it? It could make a bitchin’ fort.”
“Dad said I’m not supposed to use it,” Charlie answered.
“Why build it if you’re not gonna use it?” Mike asked.
Charlie didn’t have an answer.
“So what is it this week?” Stanley asked.
“Nails,” Charlie said—realizing that this was the last thing on earth he wanted to talk about. He groped for a new subject. Competition was always a safe bet to make the time pass. In the summer months, it was the highest jump in the water from the rope swing, or the fastest sprint along the lakeshore, or the longest held breath underwater. Fall and winter required something new. “What if we see who can go out on the ice the farthest?” Charlie propositioned. “Like Mike’s rocks.”
“Rocks are different,” Mike responded. “My dad said I’m not allowed to go out on the ice until it gets colder.”
“You wouldn’t last a day in the Old West!” Stanley replied. “I’m in. I’m not chicken.”
This seemed to be enough for Mike, as it usually was. So, Charlie laid out the rules. They would each sit on the edge of the frozen lake with their butts, feet, and palms on the ice. Then, one by one, they would each scoot one foot further from the edge onto thinner and thinner ice. Whoever was brave enough to go the farthest won.
The sun was directly above them when they began to scoot. Round after round, the ice thinned. After seven rounds, the boys were about seven feet out into the frozen lake. It was Charlie’s turn. One foot further.
“You can give up now if you want a truce,” Stanley told Charlie—his voice shivering.
Charlie released his palm from the ice and heard a crack. He wiggled forward as the ice began to split beneath him. Two inches more. Then five inches. He continued. The weight of his body produced a crunching sound as it slid along. The other boys shot quick glances at each other and then back at the ice. “Okay, let’s just agree we’re all brave as hell and just go. I’m goddamn starved,” Mike said, offering a way to end with their dignity intact. Charlie thought of the Hulk and Rowdy, and he thought of Kitty. He was nearing eight feet—ahead of Mike by at least nine inches. Would they catch up this round? Doubtful. But he would finish the remaining three inches, and this time he would win. Not if, just how. Charlie worked to accomplish the final movement. The thin ice cracked once more, then again. Finally, there was a violent sound, and the contest was settled.