Meltdown by Richie Zaborowske

We will soon join the others in the mass exodus. But first, I must convince Charlotte to go with us peaceably. This will not be easy.

To kill time, I pace the driveway. I double check to make sure the van is ready. Our neighbors, the Andersons, left a week ago. Soon after, I looted their garage and scavenged several tires. Hoping they’d deflect bullets, I strapped them tugboat style to the exterior of our Kia Sedona. Originally, when we purchased the Sedona years ago, we’d thought it would be perfect for shuttling the family to and from soccer games, maybe the occasional camping trip. Now the van looks like it’s outfitted for a trip to the Thunderdome, and I fear that we may be spending more time in the woods than we had anticipated.

The gas tank is full, as well as the oxygen canisters. I remind myself that compared to many families, we have been fortunate. We are healthy, and we have each other; all things considered, we are lucky.

I take a deep breath. I can do this. I just have to convince her and then we can join the caravan of vehicles on the interstate heading north. I just have to press upon her how dire our situation truly is. 

The screen door bangs like a gunshot and I grit my teeth. I can see Charlotte making her way toward me. She saunters with the drunk swagger of a pirate; her head is poised and stately, and yet she canters as if she’s testing her sea legs. She abruptly turns around and then careens back towards the house. The screen door bangs again and she is inside now. And then it bangs and she is outside. It bangs again, and she is inside. Then the screen door bangs once more and I can see her tiny profile in the doorway. She stands in the threshold, backlit from the light of the kitchen, defiantly holding the door open; the words “were you born in a barn” rise up like bile in my throat and I swallow them back. I remind myself that fallout has killed all the insects, and at any rate, flies in the house no longer matter. Then finally, the screen door bangs once more, and my two-year-old daughter makes her way toward me.

Charlotte doesn’t have hair yet, just a few stray wisps. I look down at that little dome and remind myself that I am the parent. I’m the one making all the sacrifices. She didn’t swallow a mouthful of gas siphoning off the Martin’s Buick, I did. 

She crosses her arms and looks up at me. Charlotte likes things her way, and she can do it herself. And we know from experience, that she won’t get into the van unless her long litany of stipulations has been met. With the threat of a temper tantrum strapped to her chest, she negotiates like an unhinged hostage taker. My wife and I have learned to tread lightly; Charlotte’s trigger finger is as itchy as it is sticky. She does not like to be told no.

Charlotte pulls the tab of her pink paci and pops it out of her mouth. She briefly holds it to the light and admires it like it’s a fine cigar. She wipes it on her shirt, and stuffs it in her pocket. The time has come; she is ready to put forth her demands.

Winters are now summers and summers are now hell, and our daughter prefers to sweat through it all in her long-sleeved Disney Queen Elsa dress. This has become her de facto post-apocalyptic uniform. She tells me she’s not going anywhere unless she can wear this dress. I quickly give in. I pray the long billowing sleeves will offer some protection against the radiation.

Our daughter also wants an Elsa braid. And this too is fine since it will keep her occupied. While my wife patiently combs her hair and works in the ribbons, I will pack the last of the ammo, assault rifles, and MREs. I will double check our bunker to make sure we have left nothing behind. 

And finally, Charlotte demands to bring her favorite doll. She holds up a startlingly realistic Caillou. I grimace and remember that this doll has buttons. And when you press the buttons, a speaker in Calliou’s head blares the inane phrase “Me No Likey” and asks “Why, Why, Why?” over and over, and over again. I imagine what it would be like to have to listen to this as we drive through the barren husk of what once was called the Midwest. Haven’t we all suffered enough? So I explain to my daughter about the apocalypse, and global warming, and how certain sacrifices must be made; I imagine building a funeral pyre in the backyard, placing Calliou’s bald shiny head on top. But I can see my daughter’s icy Elsa stare, she’s not going to back down on this. And then I notice fresh smoke billowing up on the horizon.

So, once again, we give in to her demands. Besides, as parents, we like to think of her as strong-willed and believe her tenacity will serve her well in the future. In the past, we thought that her steadfast ambition would lead to a career as a doctor or a lawyer. Now, in the end times, we know our daughter will fall in with a pack of marauders. She will lead them as they roam and pillage the bombed-out countryside. With her tattered Elsa dress flapping in the blast winds, she will rise like a royal phoenix from the smoldering refuse of civilization. And no one, no one will ever dare tell her no.

Richie Zaborowske is a dad, DJ, and librarian from the Midwest. He puts a contemporary twist on traditional library offerings; his monthly Short Story Night packs the local brewery and features trivia, comedy, and author interviews. His writing is forthcoming or appears in Barstow and Grand, Sledgehammer, and more.

17 December 2021