He spots Rosalie, mingling happily. She always looks good in her diligent way, but in a social setting like this a kind of nimbus surrounds her. He watches her for a few moments in wonderment. He is aware of her quiet power, the daily feat she performs of parenting his children, of navigating the politics of schools and township, what she refers to as the community. He becomes aware of her partnership as a boom to which he clings. She alone has made it possible for him to join gatherings like this, gatherings that to him court all manner of attack—crazed gunmen, terrorist sieges, biological pandemics—and send his imagination reeling.
He knows that this feedback loop is its own biological pandemic, likely caused by deficient serotonin in his amygdala. He has learned not to fight the fear, but to welcome it as an inborn advantage, compelling him to prepare where others might procrastinate. Still, once the panic begins, it takes all his will to push it away. He is seized by the myriad ways he could be killed at any moment. Car accident—blunt trauma to the brain, impalement by the steering wheel column, snapped rib through the heart. Electrical fire—third-degree burns, asphyxiation from smoke inhalation. Brain aneurysm—subarachnoid hemorrhage, intense headache, collapse. Nuclear blast—immediate dismemberment or slow, painful death from radiation poisoning. Just the sound of fireworks out of season makes him jump. The apocalyptic moment is skulking closer all the time. There is a script of actions that he is prepared to take when it finally appears like an ornate rising dragon, breathtakingly hideous. It is almost a feeling of welcome, of feverish anticipation for the beginning of something. He has charted the variables so studiously that there would be a certain disappointment if they did not occur.
Standing beside the pool, he pictures the sky lit up, bleached like a photo negative. The atmosphere would flare white-hot, sending radioactive particles raining down within seconds. Standing there, he does the calculations. It would take several minutes to locate their car in the assemblage on the front lawn. He and Rosalie would have to split up to find it. Being the first into their vehicle would be crucial if they were to avoid the inevitable jam of guests bottling the Christensens’ elegant driveway. If they succeeded, they could be back on Whistle Hill Road in twenty minutes, more or less, allowing for detours onto back roads. If those roads were also clogged, they would proceed on foot via wooded shortcuts. Once home, it would take another five minutes or so to get the kids into the dugout under the tool shed. Not fast enough, but better than it could be. And although the underground bunker itself is not yet finished, it would be serviceable—large enough for sardine-tight sleeping pads—and more than what most others would have. When Rosalie sees what he has done for them, how thoroughly he has seen to their safety, she will be dumbstruck.
He has, over the course of a year, reinforced the tool shed walls with concrete blocks. The supplies are hidden behind a false wall: a waste bucket, bins of clothing, a pyramid of water jugs, three months’ worth of shelf-stable food, and first aid kits with iodine tablets. He is always adding, little by little, to the survival kit: an assortment of pocket knives, fire starters, flares. The gold—about fifty Good Delivery bars with serial numbers, twenty-seven pounds each—is buried a hundred feet away in a spot marked by a loose triangle of rocks.
And he has done even more with the money from Harold Christensen, who had wanted to attend his own wife’s surgery. After months of persuasion, Michael had finally accepted his donation, then put it toward an arsenal to keep roving mobs at bay: a .38 pistol for each of his boys, plus his own Ruger; a .22 rifle, a Remington 700 with Leupold scope; and his newest acquisition, a set of four AR15s, one for each male in the family. He has rubbed the weapons with rust-preventing grease and secreted them in a cache tube made of industrial piping, itself buried in a cavity adjacent to the dugout. With the rest of the cash, he has bulked up his ammunition supply. There is no such thing as too much personal ammo, or too much wampum for barter.
It might take another year of digging, removing buckets of dirt after dark, before the bunker is up to standard. He will need to go down far enough for earth arching to protect against radiation. He will need to install some sort of ventilation and, crucially, create a second exit. Even with two exits, however, there is always the possibility of the shelter collapsing, of being buried alive—a scenario that has already bored its way into his imaginative repertoire.
He breathes deeply. The rise and fall of conversation and laughter, like ocean waves, insist on normalcy, the stubborn continuation of the world as it is.