Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 1, February 1961

A loud thud in the distance! Then a rumble. The windows in the house shattered. He was lifted from the chair by a great, invisible hand.

He opened his eyes. The room was filled with brilliance.

Pure reflex action took over. He knew he musn’t turn and face the radiation. He ran from the room — through the kitchen to the door leading from the service porch, shielding his eyes as best he could.

He slammed the door behind him. Leaned against the cold metal for only a few seconds, his heart beating, wildly.

There was another explosion — more violent than the first. He felt the ground shake. He clutched at the door. He trembled in the darkness.

He stood, frozen, for what seemed like an hour. But only a minute passed.

His eyes were open but they saw nothing. Groping around in the dark his hands located the large candle. He was half-afraid to strike a match, convinced that the radiation had blinded him. But he felt no different — no burning sensations.

He struck a match and thanked God as the room lit up. He was alone with the slowly quivering flame.

The next explosion nearly toppled the book shelf. A horrible vision of the outside panic raced through his mind.

When everything was still again he went to the door, slid the steel bars over and fastened them in place. He pushed shut the padlock, sealing himself in and everyone else out. It served the stupid fools right — they’d been warned for years.

The portable radio failed to bring in the Konelrad stations — it was dead. He imagined things were pretty bad when there wasn’t even an emergency broadcast.

“How in the hell had they surprised us so?” He asked no one in particular.

The rest of the night was punctuated by wailing sirens, clanging bells, and the raucous blasts of frantic horns. At least there were other survivors.

Outwardly calm, he sealed off the major portion of his mind as he drank a cup of black coffee. It helped to loosen the lead-tight muscles of his stomach.

Surprisingly, he slept through the night.

The next morning he ate a hearty breakfast. He hadn’t depended on it but there was still gas coming through the pipes. He was supposed to have turned off the main valve — it was only one of the many things he had not done.

He spent the day reading and listening. It was much quieter than the night before.

The second night he spent in deathly silence, except for the steady ticking of the clock, which became unbearably loud.

He passed most of the next day reading Shakespeare.

If only he knew what was happening outside. He had never gotten around to installing some sort of radiation detector that would tell him when it was safe to leave the shelter. He had depended on the radio for instructions but he had also never gotten around to putting up an antenna.

Gotten around to it, hell! He told himself. He’d never even tried the radio until it was too late. The portable was useless to him.

It was a quarter past one in the afternoon when he heard the first sounds of the day from the “outside world.” Someone was walking around in his house.

He heard voices calling his name.

“He must be in the bomb shelter. We’ve looked everywhere else,” said Neil’s wife, concernedly.

There was pounding on the door.

He remained silent but alert, his mouth grimly taut but his eyes wide and alive.

“He must be in there. Maybe, he was injured from the explosion and he’s in there, unconscious. We’ll have to break down the door.”

“Stop!” Ed shouted. “Get away from the door and leave me alone.” He would kill every one of them before he’d ever open the door.

They were silent for a moment. “What on earth are you doing in there, Ed?”

“I’m trying to survive. That’s what I’m doing.”

“Survive what? You must have been in there for two days now. Nobody has seen you since the explosions.”

Ed’s laugh was wild. “Why do you think I built this thing? I was in here twenty seconds after the bomb went off.”

“Bomb? What bomb?” Neil’s short laugh caused Ed’s mind to leap forward to the present.

Neil was repeating, for the fifth time, “Those were explosions down at the lab.”

The battering started again.

Ed pulled the trigger of the rifle. He heard a woman scream, then the murmuring of voices.

“You’ve just killed old Miss Willowby, Ed. I don’t know what’s gotten into you.”

He looked at the gun. Dropped it to the floor. Stared at the hand which had fired the shots.

He shook his head, rubbed his eyes, blinked three times.

What had he done?

It was like awakening from a dream. Numbly, he made his way to the door, shoved the key into the lock — it snapped open with a loud click. He slid the bars to the side.

He started to pull the door back when it rushed at him. It knocked him backwards. He heard their low, gurgling mumbles as they rushed in.

He was half-way behind the door so they were able to pass him without trampling him to the floor. But he could see the horrible splotches and burns on their faces and arms. He could see the crazed expressions in their eyes — eyes which had seen unbelievable sights during the past two days.