A Modern Chernobyl
Alvin has been sleeping in the basement lately, so when I wake up to the sound of him snoring, it makes me feel somewhat nostalgic. We were watching Kiss Me Deadly and must have fallen asleep about ten minutes in. Our relationship had entered a noir phase in many ways since Alvin had started working nights.
I look to the couch and try to imagine Alvin as he once was, that wild, intense twenty-year-old I crashed into on a backpack trip across South America. But no matter how far I stretch my mind, Alvin remains just what he is: a soft-middled forty-something, chortling on our worn-out IKEA couch.
When the alarm rips forth from our cell phones, Alvin struggles from slumber like a stunned bat in sudden sunlight.
Our screens flash to life in unison.
The words “Possible Incident at the Nuclear Station” track across our screens. “No Action Currently Required – Stand-By For Further Instructions.”
We look up from our phones and it’s only about half a breath before Alvin says, “Let’s roll.” We scramble out the front door, jump in the van, and squeal out of our subdivision with the breath of Satan at our backs.
“Where do we go?” I ask Alvin as we hit the highway.
“South. As far outside the hot zone as we can get.”
“When do we stop?”
“When we run out of gas.”
By the time we figure out it’s a false alarm, we’re almost to Parry Bay, so we decide to stop for waffles despite being decked out in our housecoats.
Later on, the neighbors come over to share a good laugh and to delight in the absurdity of us fleeing the jaws of the false apocalypse dressed only in our pajamas and slippers.
We smile and nod as they expect us to. We are, after all, that nice middle-aged couple on the corner.
But once they have gone, Alvin leans into me and whispers, “When the real one comes, babe, they will all fry like fucking chickens.”
I rest my hand on his thigh, higher than I have dared in a long time, and think about how we hadn’t even needed to discuss it, how when the moment of truth was upon us, we just knew what we needed to do.
Kate Felix (She/Her) is a writer and filmmaker based in Toronto. Her work has appeared in The Malahat Review, Litro, and Cream City Review, among others. Her feminist short films have been selected for over fifty independent film festivals worldwide, and she recently won the Bumblebee Prize for Flash Fiction. Her small daughter describes her as being “like a rainbow but with one stripe made of darkness.” Find her online at www.katefelix.com or @kitty_flash on twitter.