Boom
BY MICHAEL FLANAGAN
IT STARTED late on a Saturday, a summer evening in August, the terrible strikes, if that’s what they were, beginning sometime after nine o’clock. The McGoverns on Laurel Drive had hosted a barbecue, a get-together for friends and neighbors, poolside in their lovely backyard. The sun had gone down but it was still hot, humid. There were no stars in the sky, no moon, light was scarce away from the patio lanterns. The party had been well stocked with beer and wine, hot dogs, hamburgers. Someone had brought two strawberry pies for dessert. The children had eaten ice cream from a Mister Frosty truck. They were done swimming, the water lapping the sides of the empty pool. The guests had thinned out. Conversations were still going among the remaining people, voices loud or subdued, depending on the rise of the humor, the point being made. The first boom was a shocker, some kind of explosion, too large and deafening a thing to be fireworks. Missy Broderick, holding her drink, made a startled noise. There were those who right away began questioning what was going on. Others, with maybe too much alcohol in them, laughed.
Seconds later, there was a follow up boom, possibly louder than the first. The McGoverns’ dog sank on the stone patio, shaking. “Geez,” Bill McGovern said. “We’re not near any air bases. Sounds like a jet breaking the sound barrier.” He stood up, as if he might be able to see something outside the fencing of his property, which would be unlikely, but he was a decent sort, and felt an immediate obligation to his guests. He thought of M80s set alight in steel barrels, but no, even set off right there in the yard, they wouldn’t be as loud, as earth shaking, as this.
Missy Broderick’s husband, Lane, came over and stood with Bill. “Maybe a gas explosion,” he guessed. “Tanks at a station.” Lane was a structural engineer, a serious, practical man. Putting his beer down on the side tray of the barbecue grill, he raised his hands, palms up. He looked around at the others, as if to say, could be anything, who knows. The dog had gotten up. It was pacing the yard now, panting. Within minutes, two more booms sounded. Following those, there was a silence as complete as any the revelers had experienced since gathering together earlier in the day. The world hushed around them, as if accommodating their sudden need for serious thought.
Will Harrison, a neighbor from just across the street, was standing now too. “Christ,” he said, “we oughta’ have a look, whattya’ say?” Tall and muscled, tanned by the summer, sporting a buzz cut, Harrison moved and looked like some version of an ex-marine, which he was not. Football might have been his game in high school, but that also wasn’t the case. Oddly, he often mentioned both the gridiron and the Semper Fi life, going a ways toward leaving the impression they’d been an integral part of him. Somewhat of a depressive, Harrison had still managed, in his forty-three years, to become a highly successful developer, specializing in subdivisions.
“What, Will. I mean, what do you think?” McGovern asked.
Will Harrison didn’t answer. Instead, he walked over and opened the fence gate. Holding the gate open, his demeanor implied he wanted the others with him before he went any farther. After a little talk among them, with the wives mentioning they ought not to be overzealous, the other men—McGovern, Lane Broderick, and Chuck Schultz—decided it was best to go ahead with Harrison and check things out. The block, the neighborhood, was tree lined, made up of curvy roads full of cul-de-sacs. There was a main entrance to the planned community, and one other route out, which led to a back highway of sorts. There weren’t any sidewalks to speak of or public lighting on the streets. Moving down the quiet road, the men began to feel a little foolish, embarrassed about presuming some awful thing when there probably wasn’t any. Their wives had probably been right, they thought. But then there was another boom and a window shattered from the concussion, glass flying out from a house only a few yards in front of them. Schultz, a shortish man with a buster brown haircut, an owner of a string of profitable ladies apparel stores, Polly’s Fine Clothing, named after his wife, bent at the knees. Staring from ground level, he wondered what in God’s name was going on.
It wasn’t long before a string of small, rat-a-tat pops echoed at a distance, muted but clear-sounding. The four men moved from the street onto the lawn of a neighbor’s house. The air was thick and they’d begun to perspire. Finding a cluster of trees and bushes at the edge of the property, they stood there, hoping for camouflage. “Sounded like a damned automatic rifle,” Harrison said. “I know the sound of that type of weapon.” McGovern and Broderick exchanged a look. Both of them understood Harrison knew about guns and armed conflict the way anyone who had watched a war movie did. They knew too, though, that they didn’t feel safe where they were. “I’d bet fireworks,” Broderick said finally. “We ought to go back. This is strange. We should turn on a television set.” The kids had been corralled a while ago; they’d piled into the house when called and were spread out in the den, watching a movie. McGovern said they could use the set in the kitchen.
They were moving toward the McGoverns’ when a helicopter, low flying with bright colored insignia on its tail, went over. It seemed somehow like the most unusual thing any of them had witnessed in the neighborhood, maybe ever. By the time it was gone from view, another one trailed over. They did not know the cause of it, did not see a reason, but this second chopper, in a quick flash, exploded in the sky. Within the span of a single human breath, it became a fireball of black smoke. The sound, a roaring rush of noise, faded quickly. There was a whistling like wind as objects fell. People on the block came to their windows. Doors opened. The four men moved quickly. They arrived back in the yard without even realizing how fast they’d been running. Everyone at the McGoverns’ was in a state. Something from the sky had fallen into the pool, a large, blackened hunk of metal or plastic.
“This is a goddamn invasion,” Will Harrison bellowed. “We’re under attack.”
Lane Broderick folded his hands on top of his head. “Come on,” he said. “It’s a military exercise. An accident. A terrible accident.”
Anne McGovern took hold of her husband’s hand. She whispered that the children were standing in the window. Three or four of them were there, staring out at their parents, frightened looks on their small faces. The adults hurried into the house. They wondered, aloud, if this might really be some kind of invasion. Perhaps it was a terrorist act. Had the U.S. turned on itself? Was it a civil war? Might Lane Broderick be right? Was it simply a military exercise gone bad? Since when did they have military exercises near here? That would be news to all of them. Someone remembered the television, and a small flat-screen mounted on a wall near the kitchen counter was turned on. Lined patterns showed on the screen. There was no sound but a fuzzy buzzing noise, a signal not heard probably since the late seventies, when TV used to have an end to its broadcast day.
“It’s all right,” Anne said to the kids. Gesturing with her hands, she ushered them back to the den, telling them they could put on another DVD. The children’s ages varied. The oldest was nine. For the most part they still trusted the adults in their lives. Having their parents inside, with a movie on again, was enough to settle them.
Pounding his fist rhythmically against his leg, back pressed against the refrigerator, Will Harrison scrunched his face into a scowl. When he spoke, though, he sounded more frightened than angry. “This is going south fast, I can tell you that,” he said. Pale in the overhead lighting, he looked at the rest of the group, all but pleading for some answer, some help. Schultz, watching, felt contempt for the man. Of the partiers that had come that day, these four couples remained probably because they were neighbors all living on Laurel Lane. They’d known each other for years. Their children played together. Some of them, McGovern and Broderick, for instance, were good friends. All of them were at least friendly. Schultz understood Harrison was a blowhard. He hadn’t realized until now that he was probably a coward.
Oddly energized, Missy Broderick ran outside and came back with a bottle of cognac that had been set out after dessert. She took rock glasses from a cabinet and laid them on the counter. When the drinks were poured, she handed them out. There were three more booms before any of them had a chance to lift their glasses. More of the rat-a-tat noise each of them now believed was some kind of gunfire pierced the evening. Pacing, they peeked out windows. They wondered, are we going to die here? Suddenly, without fanfare, without words announcing his intentions, Chuck Schultz left the house, darting out the back sliding glass doors, across the patio, into the night. It was less than ten minutes before he was back, carrying a backpack, slung over one shoulder. Unzipping the thing on the floor of the kitchen, he unveiled an assortment of pistols. The cache included a WWII-era Luger, two Mauser P38s, a Walther PP and a snub-nosed .38 Detective Special. The guns were all collectibles. Over the years, Schultz had fanatically cleaned them, keeping the weapons in working order. Despite not caring much for the sport of target shooting, he hauled his prized pieces to a range several times a year, testing their firing ability, their precision. Not a great shot himself, he sometimes paid the range captain to hit the targets for him, a humbling enterprise enacted to ensure the expensive collection was in top working order. For each member of this tiny arsenal there was ammunition, tucked down at the bottom of the hand-stitched, Louboutin-studded leather backpack he’d ordered just last year.
Boom. Boom. Boom Boom Boom Boom.
Jittery as hell, the couples sat themselves on the floor of the kitchen, wary of stray bullets, collateral damage. Missy Broderick rubbed her face with the palms of her hands. She couldn’t help questioning why there weren’t any sirens, police, firemen, paramedics—where were the telltale signs of those who were supposed to respond to this kind of crisis? Why wasn’t anyone on a bullhorn telling them what to do? Missy thought of the men there. McGovern was a tax attorney. Schultz owned dress shops. A developer. An engineer. Not one of them had served in the military; it didn’t matter a damn that Will Harrison liked to pretend he had. None of them were even hunters. Not even Schultz, with his pristine toys. Besides, she thought, it’d be a strange day indeed when a handgun beat a rocket. And wouldn’t it be a miracle if any little handgun could take out a soldier with a machine gun? Protect your loved ones indeed. For a while Missy’d had a thing for Schultz, his strange throwback hairstyle, coiled little body. She’d always been attracted to shorter men, though she’d married a tall one. Schultz, who polished his guns, cut his lawn to the right inch, weeded it so it was immaculate. She’d imagined him a fanatic in bed, pounding, grunting like a hog. He seemed a little pathetic now. Though at least he was trying. At least he’d taken a first step toward doing something.
Polly Schultz, staring at the gun bag, at her husband, began to cry softly. Those awful guns. She’d never understood the reason for them. With Chuck’s temper, his short fuse, she always worried he’d have a break, momentarily snap, that there would be an outbreak of ugliness. Keeping up with fashion, selling women’s clothing day after day—he resented it, she knew that he did. A cousin of Chuck’s, trying to have a little fun with him once, had told Chuck it was nice he was in touch with his feminine side. Chuck had hauled off and punched the poor man in the mouth. Polly thought her husband was hampered by wanting to prove himself. He worked out furiously at the gym. He fired pistols at a range. Two years ago he’d bought a large sport utility vehicle they hardly needed. His patriotism, too, was a thing to behold. The word she thought best to describe it was “overwrought.” The American flag hung in its place outside their door not only on all the holidays deemed appropriate, but on each Presidential birthday, every single one of them, from Washington to Lincoln to Chester A. Arthur. And his lethal bag of tricks. What had they been brought out for but to show he was the one to stand up to fear, dominate the unknown, make everyone safe, the country as well. What terrible thing would come of this, she wondered, who was going to be hurt here?
“Look it there.” Bill McGovern exhaled his words with a hushed awe. He pulled Schultz’s bag to him, poked through it and spotted the .38 revolver. “Right out of Warner Brothers,” he said. Normally, guns bothered McGovern. They were nothing at all, he always said, but instruments of death. But he was a fan: Cagney, Bogart, and Edward G. The great old flicks: The Roaring Twenties, White Heat, and Angels With Dirty Faces. Robinson had been transcendent in Little Caesar. As a boy, Bill had been swept away, watching these wisecracking gangsters sport their guns like appendages, shoot their way out of trouble, silence rivals with quick, hard pistol smacks. A snub-nosed .38 was irresistible to the man who had been that child. Those Saturday afternoons alone with his wonder, in front of the family television set, watching the Million Dollar Movie—how desperately he’d practiced Cagney’s lines, Bogart’s twitch of the eye, his pull of an ear. Violence genuinely appalled McGovern. But it also excited him. Senseless death on the six o’clock news. Pointless wars, third world revolutions, thugs on robbery sprees. The blood of the young was too often spilled for no reason, it held no flavor for him. Still. He was a man. The cold steel appealed to him. Whatever was going on here, it wasn’t the Fourth of July. Those pops and booms outside the door—something terrible was unfolding.
Anne McGovern had no trouble recognizing the transformation in her husband. She’d watched him carefully as he removed and handled the odd-shaped, toy-like weapon from Chuck Schultz’s gaudy bag. Shame on him, she’d thought, shaking her head. This serious man, her partner. For all his success, steadiness, common sense, he could be a troublesome child, a benign menace. Sadly, with that G.I. Joe whirligig of steel to twist on his finger and point at the sky, things tonight might be a little less benign and manageable. “Put that garbage away,” she snapped at her husband, setting as much menace into her voice as she could muster.
“Who’s here to protect us but us, Anne?” Schultz showed his hostess a tight smile. “We’re the front lines here. You realize that, yes?”
Lane Broderick raised his eyebrows. His voice was strained, agitated. “You starting a militia, Chuck?” he asked.
“Someone is throwing those bombs,” Schultz replied.
Marybeth Harrison, a quiet, sharp-witted woman, a pixieish blonde with a nose that hadn’t, but appeared to have been, broken at some point in her life, cleared her throat. “Or dropping them from planes, thousands of feet up,” she said.
“You gonna shoot a plane out of the sky?” Broderick asked.
“We do nothing?” It was Missy Broderick, angry now. Her Lane. Always sensible, direct. How many years now had she felt numb around him, her senses dulled. It wasn’t that he was even a particularly dull man. Familiarity breeds contempt. Sure as anything, she knew he’d begin to plan, talk, reassess. What action would he take, though?
Despite the directive from his wife, Bill McGovern was still holding the pistol in his hand. Chuck Schultz said he’d sensed movement out there when he’d crossed yards to retrieve the guns. He’d heard sounds, things that struck him as unfriendly. Regardless of the accuracy of all Schultz reported, there was a definite threat. Boom after boom after boom. The helicopter blown out of the sky. They’d probably been hearing small arms fire all this time. Why wasn’t there anything on the television? What was being taken over? Who was out there in the dark? Who was up there in the sky? Anne was angry with him, he knew. It wasn’t unusual for her to think he was foolish. If the door was kicked open, though, and an army arrived full of ill will, maybe he could save his children.
Something loud, the engine of a jet perhaps, went by overhead. There was a flash of light, far away but clear through the window of the kitchen. Black smoke rose some miles away. Harrison, an accusatory tenor to his voice, demanded a radio. “Someone’s broadcasting somewhere. They might have forgotten about radio, knocked out the television stations but forgot the radio.” Marybeth, her knees pulled up to her chest, crossed her arms around them and rested her head there.
“We load the guns and wait,” Schultz said. “Back door. Front door. We post ourselves there. Protect what we can.”
Missy Broderick agreed. Her husband laughed. Bill McGovern asked for shells for the .38. His wife scowled. “Why do people always have to go crazy when a crisis hits?” she asked. “What in the world are you going to stop with a small bullet from a tiny gun?”
“We don’t have to battle,” Lane said. “We don’t have to die. We’re citizens. We’re not the army.”
“You want to hang out a white flag?” his wife asked him. “You want to surrender?”
“Surrender what?” he wanted to know. “We have no idea what is going on here. We’re huddled like frightened refugees. We wait. We see. We remain peaceful and see.”
“Like the Jews in Germany,” Missy said.
“For Christ sake.” Lane grabbed his head, frustrated. What populace had ever risen up and defeated an army? Something outrageous was happening. When had his wife become an extremist, an idiot?
McGovern, swelling with warm-worried feeling for her, took his wife’s hand. They’d met in high school. They’d dated starting in their junior year. They’d broken up once, for a week. They’d been together ever since. He knew that he loved her. He was certain she loved him. What did their frustrations with one another matter? They’d built a life together. Upset, but moved, Anne put her head on Bill’s shoulder. They squeezed hands. When Will Harrison stood up, Anne watched him closely. She thought she saw something unhinged in his eyes. Harrison’s wife touched his leg and he flinched. He told her to get up and waited. When finally she was standing next to him, he took her by the arm and they went together to the den. They returned with their son and the overnight bag the boy had brought with him. He looked scared, watching his parents cautiously.
“We’re done here,” Harrison said. “We’re going home.”
“You walking away?” Schultz wanted to know.
“I warned you this was bad,” Harrison said.
“What the hell does that mean?” It was Missy Broderick again. She was indignant. Will squeezed Marybeth’s arm. He told her to bring the boy. They started for the patio doors off the kitchen.
“You goddamn traitor,” Schultz yelled. He pulled a pistol, one of the Mausers, from the bag. He stood up and pointed the gun at Harrison. Without hesitating, he pulled the trigger. The entire room flinched. Schultz had failed to remember the guns were not loaded. Will Harrison looked stunned, unnerved. Fearing he might be gunned down right there in a neighbor’s kitchen, he corralled his family out the door and disappeared into the black night.
“Deserter,” Schultz shouted after him. “Yellow bastard.”
“Are you insane?” Lane Broderick asked, horrified by Schultz. “You’re going to kill a man for walking out a door?”
“He should stand with us. It’s treason,” Schultz said.
“We are not a country, you maniac.” Veins protruded on Broderick’s neck. His face had reddened. He wanted to hurt Chuck Schultz, make him disappear. Before he had a chance to move, Anne McGovern lunged at the gun-toting dressmaker. Reaching him, she hit him hard with an open palm across the face. The next boom arrived a second later. It came with a tremendous aftershock. It must have detonated awfully close to the McGoverns’. Windows in the house rattled. Everyone expected glass to blow out over them any minute. The children came into the room, frozen, frightened looks on their faces. McGovern loaded his weapon. He was surprised it only took five bullets. There was a moment of trouble closing the cylinder, but he got it.
Lane stared at his friend. “Bill,” he said, “you’re smarter than this.”
Bowing his head, McGovern felt slightly sick to his stomach. Hadn’t he always agreed with his wife, been adamantly opposed to the human animal’s reactionary nonsense, to violence? Blood was real, after all. Breath was real. Death was real. The days gave you one life. Smarter than this—his friend said it and it was true. Or was it? After all, he was a man, and this was his home. It was his job to protect his family. Hadn’t every man fantasized the day some horror would visit his kin and he would be there to unleash a fury that would prevail? Wasn’t it, in part, what his gender was programmed for? Who the hell was anyone to take what was his, harm his own? The front lines, Schultz claimed. The front lines and where was the world?
Seconds later a sudden flash and white light filled the room. All of them were momentarily blinded. Some percussion had sounded. There was banging, like a wall being forced down, or the front door being rammed, cracked off its hinges. There were screams. Missy Broderick shouted. Whatever, whoever it was coming, she wanted them murdered, shot until they were dead. For a brief few seconds, Bill McGovern placed his whirling mind just out of its own line of sight. Hands shaking, he raised the gun, snub-nosed and shining, loaded at last and ready, and fired blindly down the hall, aiming at air, at sound, pulling the trigger long after any bullets continued to be discharged.
Michael Flanagan was born in the Bronx, N.Y. Poems and stories of his have appeared in many small press periodicals across the country. His chapbook, A Million Years Gone, is available from Nerve Cowboy’s Liquid Paper Press.
