Long Term Fallout

My wife opened one of the special cans, so I knew it must be some sort of occasion. Anniversary? Holiday?

Which one, I don’t know. I don’t keep track of those things anymore. It’s heavenly, really. I don’t have the daily grind, we don’t have to freak out about the bills, and I can spend quality time with the family, all day, every day.

The kids were doing their studies quietly. My wife was humming in low tones while rubbing the cans with sand, like I taught her, to keep water wastage to a minimum. Nice and quiet, no blaring TV, no radio blasting, no video games and their infernal bloop-bleep-ding-ding-dings.

No boss screaming. No dogs barking for attention, no roaring planes, no cars screeching down the cul-de-sac. Bliss.

“Yes, they do!”

“No, they don’t!”

Our home isn’t very big at all, but I could hear the beginnings of an argument from the classroom. I put down my book, stepped across the threshold. The squabbling was within necessary decibels, but why take the chance?

My presence alone quashed it, which was good. But Timmy still looked a bit mulish. “Dad, tell Suzie that dogs don’t exist! She says they do!”

Suzie’s jaw was firm as well. “Timmy, you’re too young to remember. We used to have one. They exist.”

I sighed. I reached over and selected a book from one of the piles. The room was much smaller because of all the books stacked wall-to-ceiling on three sides, but we’d tried to cram in as many as we could. This book was about dinosaurs.

My kids know me well. They knew they would get an answer, but it would be wrapped in learning a New Thing. Their eyes gleamed, knowing they would get more secrets of their world.

I smiled, sat at the one adult-sized chair in the room. They stood on either side, peering over the sides of the chair.

Together, we sounded out the syllables: Trai-SER-uh-tops, an-kai-luh-SAW-rus, tai-ran-ah-SAW-rus RECKS. They followed my pointing finger, learning about their habitat, their food sources, their history. Quite satisfying watching them learn something new, and giggle over the pictures. Feathers! And they chirped! And how we used to think they had scales, and roared!

Timmy was tracing a picture of a Maiasaur in the book, with its nest of babies, when Suzie frowned. “But, Dad, Goldie-”

I put finger to lips. “That’s my point entirely, my dear. Dinosaurs existed. Past tense, like verbs. That means they went extinct. They no longer exist. They only live in the past.”

Timmy wasn’t listening, trying to sound out more dinosaur names, utterly fascinated. Suzie’s face scrunched up. Her eyes filled with tears.

I gave her a sympathetic face, but also made the finger-to-lips sign again. We don’t make loud noises, like fighting and crying.

“Go play with Mommy a while, that helps,” I murmured, and Suzie nodded. She wiped her tears on her sleeve as she left. Good girl. Timmy didn’t even notice, he was so engrossed in how a spie-noh-SAUR-us has a big sail fin stuck to his back, but with no water, like a sailfish used to have. I patted him absently and left him to his own studies.

I went back to the living room, and I heard my wife’s whispered “it’s okay, dreams are like that.” I nodded to myself, and decided to check our food supplies.

Eventually the kids would need their own separate rooms when they got older. There were a few more rooms down here – not hidden, just in full use. Supply “closets.”

I flipped on the light, well pleased. I’d saved for a decade. Cans of food and meals in vacuum bags filled most of the room, minus about two years of used supplies. Beautiful green lights glowed from all the rat traps I’d set, to make sure vermin didn’t sneak in and take everything away from my family. I’d seen evidence they could chew through cement, and I didn’t want to test them against mine. Though the sturdy rebar might give them pause.

From a distant room, I could hear the generator humming faintly. The lights, water pump, plumbing, and circulating fans depended on it. They were built to last, but I’d stocked up on replacement parts as well.

Between the generator room and this one was a room of general supplies, like toilet paper. Soap. Cloth and sewing materials, for future clothing. I selected two bolts; the kids were growing like weeds. And I slipped a sewing kit in my pocket, along with a gewgaw for my wife. She deserved nice things, for keeping harmony in our little world.

When I returned, they were all giggling very quietly in the living room. Too quietly, if such a thing can happen to me. And I soon discovered why – my wife had pulled out a board game, and they were playing without me! I shook my head, but I couldn’t be angry. She’s right, I must admit, that some days just need to be free days, where some rules get upended. What did we used to call them? Mental Health Days?

No matter. I settled in, cutting and snipping and shaping. I was a tailor in the army, long, long ago. One of the few useful life skills I got from my father; the rest, I had to learn the hard way. But I swore to protect my family, exactly unlike he "protected" me, so that’s what I’m doing.

Simple, but serviceable. Linen is a very sturdy fabric that lasts much longer than most others. Long tunics and trews for myself and the kids, and a long tunic and bloomers for my wife. Cloth is much more practical that that full china service she insisted on bringing, which doesn’t get much use. But, to her credit, it comes out occasionally, and she ladles portions of the ready-to-eat meals onto the plates, and gently makes table manners a game, so there’s no clinking or food waste. Amazing, really.

I have the light panels on a timer, so the kids know when it’s time to get ready for bed. We both tuck them in, read a story, kiss them good night. I notice that their loveys are getting a bit ratty, maybe I should get another pair out of storage. Teddy bears, I think, should be safe.

Then my wife and I have a bit of alone time. I gave her the necklace in its presentation box, told her how much I appreciated her, and what she did for our family. We hugged, till she softly protested that the dishes needed to be done.

Fair enough, I had to take the trash out anyway. It was the only thing I couldn’t figure out, what to do with all the empties.

No help for it, I suppose.

I suited up, gathered a whole month’s worth of empty cans and meal wrappers. Our solid waste, the used toilet paper, both treated with powerful enzymes, tucked inside those same cans and wrappers. Waste not, want not.

I closed the thick door behind me, then punched in the code and swung open the even thicker door in front of me. Up the cobwebby steps.

At three in the morning, the world is beautiful. Peaceful. Quiet. Dark.

No neighbors with noisy lawnmowers. No teens speeding by in fast vehicles, no dogs howling up and down the street. No roaring planes in the sky. Everyone asleep. Lights out. No screaming arguments, no chattering busybodies to disturb my day.

It’s trash day. Dark bins line the street, except for our lot. Weeds obscure our doorway, and I spent a lot of money to make sure lawyers keep out things like HOA groundskeepers and nosy real estate agents.

I walked down the street, looking for a handy trash bin to dump my bag into. Ah, yes, this particular neighbor. Never liked him. Here, have another bag. I turned around and practically ran home, to safety. I make sure the door doesn’t clang behind me as I shuck off my muffling clothing.

Back to where it’s calm, peaceful.

Quiet.