Radiation Children

7

"It's a long story," Markus replied. "I don't have a ton of time, so listen to me: if you're still planning on going to Washington D.C, I think I can get you there. Are you out of the storm shelter?" 

"Yeah; we're on the entrance ramp off of Exit 153, near the Pilot gas station." 

"Are there any cars around you?" 

"Yeah, but most of them either have chunks out of their sides or are smoking from the hoods. I can look for keys in them, but—"

"No. You don't want to risk the cars breaking down. There are bioterrorists crawling the streets looking for kids, and if they don't take you, they'll definitely take Lucia. The terrorists are riding in Jeeps. If you steal one of the Jeeps, I bet you'll be less likely to get pulled over."

"Where are you?" 

Markus's answer was drowned out by the piercing screech of metal on metal. Static sizzled through the radio. 

"Markus?" 

"Can—me—?" The hissing of the radio continued to drown out his words. I shook it, rapped it against my fist, but it didn't do any good.

"Wait!" I exclaimed to the radio. To Markus, I asked, "How am I supposed to steal a car from the terrorists?" 

"Chlorine—brake fluid—" The static was louder now, hardly carrying what was left of Markus's answer. The radio finally clicked off, plunging the car into silence. I clutched the radio to my chest, feeling as if I had just sprinted uphill. Tears were worming their way down my cheeks. Markus was alive—but was he okay? Where was he? What had happened to him? 

Lucia tugged on my fingers. "Who was that?" 

"Markus, the friend who was gonna join us in the storm shelter but never made it." I pushed the radio into my backpack. Chlorine and brake fluid. Markus and I had been lab partners in chemistry last year; as part of an extra-credit science project, we had crafted an improvised mini-bomb out of chlorine pellets and brake fluid to describe the properties of oxidizing agents. If an explosive on a much larger scale could stop a terrorist Jeep in its tracks and get the terrorists out of the vehicle, then maybe I could distract them long enough to steal it. 

I bit my knuckle. Getting brake fluid and chlorine would be easy, but you couldn't put the two chemicals together until it was time for both of them to start reacting. The explosive also couldn't damage the Jeep, or the whole plan would be a bust. How could I make this work? 

"I'm hungry," said Lucia, tearing me out of my thoughts. "What are we having for breakfast?" 

"Right," I replied sotfly, hands shaking. "How about goldfish?" 

"For breakfast? That's silly!" 

"Think of it as a treat." I pulled out a pack of goldfish for Lucia and myself, and as I munched on the slightly stale crackers, Lucia chattered on about her unicorn-zombie filled dreams last night while plucking all the deformed goldfish out of the bag. I didn't listen to her; my mind was still whirling with the skeleton of a half-assed plan that probably wouldn't work. 

But half-assed plans that probably wouldn't work were much better than nothing. I pulled out an apple, tossed it in the air, and asked Lucia, "How would you like to go on an adventure to stores abandoned and possibly infested with cannibals that aren't affected by nuclear radiation?" 

Lucia looked up at me, wide black eyes glistening against the pale ribbons of gray light. She scrubbed a hand against her sweaty forehead and shrugged. "I don't know what that means." 

"Let's build a bomb." 

"Bombs make things go boom, Eliza." 

"Yes, and I really, really feel like making something go boom."