However, like everything else in this shelter, maintenance had been lax or nonexistent since the 1980s, and the rope cords had disintegrated over time. There was no fresh air flowing into the space. As a result, the carbon dioxide expelled from the occupants’ lungs remained mostly within the shelter, and the lack of oxygen resulted in their breathing becoming more labored.
After twenty-four hours, the effects were noticeable, and many became concerned. Especially when a heavyset man collapsed while sitting on the latrine with the door pulled down. He’d been inside the latrine for an inordinate amount of time. He’d entered the shelter alone, so there was no one familiar with the man or his health conditions.
At the time, there wasn’t anybody waiting their turn to use the latrine, so his presence in there for nearly fifteen minutes went unnoticed. Then a loud crash followed by a thud was heard by those sitting on the floor nearby.
A man jumped to his feet and began to pound on the corrugated steel door. This woke up everyone in the shelter, and soon the group was chattering excitedly. When there was no answer, he tried to pull up on the brass handle to open the door, but he was unsuccessful.
“Help me open this door!” he shouted to two men who stood nearby. They brusquely shoved their way past a woman and her three children, knocking them to the side. “It’s stuck.”
They slid their fingers into the groove of the door and, after a count of three, lifted it up until it rolled into itself. The man sitting on the latrine had passed out. He’d collapsed onto the floor with his pants around his ankles and his hefty body rolled up against the door. The latrine barrel he’d been sitting on had toppled over and spilled excrement on top of him.
It was a very undignified way to die, if dying could ever be considered dignified.
The police officer rushed to cover his dead body with a blanket. He used another towel to throw over the top of the urine and feces that covered the floor around the man.
People closest to the latrine immediately complained of the stench while others began to sob at the sight of the dead man. Some surmised the lack of fresh air must’ve triggered a heart or lung ailment. Regardless, the increasingly hot and stuffy shelter now smelled of sewerage and death.
People started to grumble again. Arguments broke out between one know-it-all and another. The coach was being pressured to let some people out who wanted to leave, but several people objected to that, as they were certain enough radiation would enter through the open doorway to kill them all or turn them into zombies.
Yes, zombies. A handful of people were firmly convinced that death by nuclear radiation would result in zombie-like creatures roaming the earth. When others countered that it was physically impossible for the dead to walk, the pro-zombie contingent countered that the planet had never been through nuclear Armageddon either, so nobody really knew for sure.
Oddly, the McDowells found the interaction between the other occupants of the shelter to be humorous. They made a game of labeling the most vocal among the group with nicknames from cartoon characters. With the zombie discussion, Walking Dead character names were being used to identify the other refugees.
The death of the man cast many in the shelter into a solemn yet sober mood. People had died in the nuclear blasts. For all they knew, the people locked out of the shelter the day before were lying dead in the stairwell. Suddenly, the cramped quarters and uncomfortable concrete floor didn’t seem so bad.
The conversations quieted down, and the man’s body was moved to one end of the latrine. It was surrounded by several empty meal boxes and water barrels to segregate it from those who had to do their business. However, several people made it known that his body would start to rot within twenty-four to seventy-two hours. As his internal organs began to decompose, his body would begin to leak fluids from all its orifices. It would stink and become a health hazard for everyone in the cramped space with no outside ventilation.
The coach and the police officer gathered in the corner of the storage room nearest the McDowells. They talked in hushed tones in an effort to prevent their discussion from being heard by the refugees.
“Are you sure about forty-eight hours?” asked the coach.
“Yeah, I think so. Listen, between us, we weren’t trained on this stuff. I made it up so these folks would believe me. I really have no idea, but I think I saw it on a news report last week. Anyway, with the dead guy, we’re gonna have to do something in the next day or so.”
Lacey, who was closest to the two men, rolled her eyes. She almost interrupted them to give them a piece of her mind, but she held herself back. The coach continued.
“You realize the air isn’t working, right?” he asked the officer.
“I figured that out already. It was the first thing I thought about when the power went out. We just need to figure out a way to hang on for another day.”
The coach caught Lacey eavesdropping, and he quickly turned his head away from her. She did the same out of embarrassment, so she didn’t hear what he said next.
“We’ve got another problem, one that you can only smell near this vent,” he said, pointing over his head.
The officer shrugged and asked, “What?”
“I smell smoke.”
Chapter Twelve
Saturday, October 26
Placer High School Fallout Shelter
Auburn, California
“Owen, wake up.” Lacey hesitated to bring her husband out of his restful sleep. She’d debated for several minutes because she wasn’t certain her senses weren’t betraying her under this pressure-filled environment. She’d stood to stretch her legs
