The Age of Cities by Brett Josef Grubisic Page B

muster for decorating a themed holiday social or graduation dance.
    Alberta frowned and said, “Doesn’t look like it would withstand a strong gust of wind,” then strode toward the door-less entrance.
    â€œI suppose it would be underground, Mother, not just sitting there on somebody’s front lawn,” Winston replied.
    Winston could not say for sure. He remembered that Cameron McKay had touched on the topic during one of his staff room harangues. Was it that a shelter had to be at least ten feet below the surface or that they must spend ten days underground before it was once again safe to creep back outside into the light? Winston clearly recalled that the chemistry teacher had claimed that people would fry —the image of sputtering bacon in a cast iron skillet had instantly leapt up in his mind—but was hazy about the details.
    He’d never spent many minutes worrying about it. The Bend was so far away from any place that might look tempting to those Fate-like bomber pilots speeding through the heavens: why waste effort on flat farmland? Even the school’s Safety Committee—student welfare watchdogs Delilah Pierce and Cameron McKay had combined forces at the tail end of the Korean War and no one had joined up since—had deemed atomic bomb drills unnecessary. The pair would meet at the beginning of each school year and then immediately afterward offer their assessment in the staff room, always closing with a proviso: “Pending political developments.” Winston believed their caution was actually paranoia.
    A pretty young blonde woman approached them just after Alberta stepped outside the shelter. She smiled and bade them “Good afternoon.” As she handed a pamphlet to Alberta, Winston noticed her gloves were coloured a rosy pink. The blonde said, “It’s going to be the death of all,” and moved toward another clutch of pedestrians. There was no anger or hysteria in her voice; her forget-me-not eyes suggested calmness and focus. She seemed matter-of-fact, her certainty unruffled—as though she had just studied the approaching clouds and her years of expertise had let her determine with unquestionable authority that rain would fall any minute. All of her faculties were intact, clearly.
    Like the Jehovah’s Witnesses with their end of the world proclamations who used to visit Wilson Manor—Alberta had shooed them away rudely enough that they had apparently decided that the Wilsons were beyond salvation—this young lady had permanently made up her mind about a singular idea. No amount of evidence to the contrary would seep into her peculiar awareness of the world. Winston granted that she had greater cause for worry than those door-to-door evangelists with their predictions of the imminent arrival of the Four Horsemen that once uttered were then regularly revised. Even so, it was possible to err too far on the side of caution. The poor girl might end up like a mole living in a windowless basement.
    â€œWell,” Alberta exclaimed, and showed him the folded paper. Its message was deadpan, as though typed by a dour scientist: indisputable data for the reader to consider—
    You live in a target area.
You must get beyond this 20 mile
limit to be reasonably safe.
    A long list of related facts filled the sheet. An address had been printed on the back. Readers were implored to contact their local political leaders. Winston could not imagine what one would say should he decide to write a letter. The likelihood of any local politician getting riled up about the threat of nuclear bombs looked remote: what could he hope to accomplish, after all? The matter would be out of his league.
    â€œNow there’s a fine reason not to take that job at the Hudson’s Bay,” Alberta remarked. “Unless of course Bailey’s Farm is also a target. Those damned strawberries. Then we’ll be done for.” She slipped the pamphlet into her