Narrative #1

When a madman is left to his own vices, he paces like he intends to outrun something terrible. When a man is left alone for too long, he begins to grow mad. Therefore, Jack was a madman, and indeed he was pacing.

He looked towards the solar powered clock at an unhealthy rate. When he descended to the fallout shelter, it was exactly 2:47 p.m. As he looked at its face again, he noted it was now exactly 2:47. As it turns out, solar power, no matter how noble a cause, becomes wholly useless when the sun is cowering behind several inches of industrial grade steel. And, more than likely, several hundred rads of lethal radiation. Still, he felt proud that he had sought after only the most environmentally safe materials and electronics. He was truly concerned what those green house gasses he had heard about on T.V. could do to the earth.

His legs were screaming for a reprieve from the endless pacing. He walked to the far back corner, where an almost complete living room was set up, television and coffee table included, along with the standard grey leather couch and loveseat. He flicked on the television, and was greeted cordially by a blast of static. Antenna must be knocked loose.

He looked at the clock again. It was 2:47.

He ran his hand over his almost nonexistent gray hair, a nervous tick that was more than likely responsible for his baldness. He wished he had remembered a few more hats as he made his mad dash to the shelter. He did not wish any of the survivors to be greeted with a wide grin and a blindingly shiny head. First impressions and all.

With a step as steady as a warplane balanced on a pinhead, he navigated across the fields of tiled linoleum. Jack, not without some struggling, opened the great white refrigerator opposite his living room. He was greeted by a chill of cool air and the unsettling sight of empty shelves. He had intended on storing all of his perishables, had in fact spent most of his money on a generator solely for the cooling monstrosity, but he was so exhausted lugging the television down the stairs, he instead went back inside for a drink. Clearly he had simply forgotten about it.

With a sigh, he let go of the door handle, as the fridge slammed itself shut. He had a habit of leaving the fridge open, so he had the auto-shut feature installed. Not that it would do him much good down now, of course.

He glanced at the clock again. 2:47.

With a step as steady as a fault line, he raced to the kitchen-like set up on the wall adjacent to the television. He supposed it made more sense to place it nearer to the fridge, but he heard from a friend it wasn’t as pleasing to the eye. It wasn’t “fung shwee” or something like that. He wasn’t sure what the word meant, but it was not his job to question, and he did not want to risk looking ignorant. The bald head made him feel silly enough as it was.

The cabinet was lined with Spam. Months and months worth of Spam. He detested Spam, and weighed the pros and cons of starving to death to consuming nothing but Spam for weeks on end. He found the balance tipping slightly in the favor of starving.

The clock still read 2:47.

With a step as steady as nuclear combat, he approached the last of the four white walls, which held for him no solace and a single steel door.

Inside was the bedroom.

Well, in actuality, it was more of just a room, since in order to fall under the definition of a “bedroom”, he assumed it required an actual bed, which was sorely lacking in his. He smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand with enough force to echo throughout his new home. He had asked Jeff Olson, his next door neighbor, to help move the bed from inside to the shelter, but he claimed he was busy and would come next weekend.

He cursed under his breath, then realizing there was no one around to be insulted nor could the echoes penetrate the thick walls, began shouting and stomping his feet. After a dignified session of tantruming, he fell to the floor, pounding his fists as if trying to knock on the roof of hell to inquire about their living arrangements.

With a move as steady as death and taxes, Jack crawled on all fours out the door, like a child playing soldier. He imagined the neighbors, especially that fool, Jeff, seeing him in such a state. They’d probably insult him behind his back, laugh at him, call him a baby. He hoped they laughed until they wet themselves, so he could get the chance to call them a baby. That would show them.

Unfortunately, it was also after that thought he realized he never installed any plumbing. When it came to basic and disgusting bodily functions, he tried not to think about them too much. He filed that thought under the rest of the issues that may come back as troublesome later.

He pulled his skinny body along the clean floor and ascended to the couch, where like the fallen hero he knew deep down he was, he pulled his knees to his chest and put his thumb to his mouth and began to cry.

He blamed Jeff and he blamed the government, ignoring his past friendship and the unimportant fact that he had voted for the elected party for every election he could remember. He blamed the fridge for being empty and he blamed the Spam for tasting so God awful, which was really the only thing that deserved the damning, and he blamed the fallout shelter for being incomplete and the stupid clock for not moving an inch since he had been down there.

He heard on the television not long before the bombs began to drop it took around six weeks for nuclear fallout to clear out of the air.

It was 2:47.