“So the Lieutenant said there is such a book?" A paper book with codes in it? Alex wanted to say.
She was peering down at him him through her spectacles. Only the grey streaks in Wilma's hair marked her age. She looked young, not older than his thirty-five.
He was clutching the nectarine tight. Something in him told him if only he didn’t let go.
“There is a sequence.”
“So we're in trouble?”
“We’ve been in trouble, Alex. Ever since the Collapse—“
“I know!” He looked to his empty mug on the table. Maybe it sounded too harsh? "Wilma, I mean―"
She put up her hand and offered him a grin. “Don’t worry. I'll still get you another cup of tea.”
Reaching from her waist, she pulled on the fold up seat. Just then a gust of wind hit the outside sheeting. The tent shook furiously.
Alex’s eyes darted to the swaying gun-metal antenna a few feet away. He gulped, checking the tension on the cables.
She had slumped easily into the seat, watching him patiently. He turned to the oscilloscope near the transceiver. It was still flat-lined.
Damn! The nectarine. He scanned around the table for it.
“Oh, my God,” he grumbled, thinking it lost.
Wilma leaned forward, extending her arms toward him. He looked to her for a moment in confusion. She opened her hand and set his nectarine down in front of him.
He put both hands around it. Wilma went off his look.
"Henry suggests we bunker down in the service tunnel. It should protect us from the radiation,” she hesitated, “Of course, we still have to survive the initial fireball,” she paused, “then there’s the blast wave."
Her voice had trailed off at the end. Alex thought she was looking right through him, as if he were a ghost.
He looked down at his nectarine, waited for her. "Did he say when?"
She shook her head. There was a long moment of silence.
"I wish there was something I could do. I'm sorry. I shouldn't of written it down―"
"Alex, please. It's your job. It's what we asked you to do." There was a pause. She sat with her hands in her lap, looking at him. "You're last task is to monitor government broadcasts and try to reach survivors..." She got up and stood. "If there are any left."
"Yeah," he said under his breath. "So, I guess that's it, huh?"
"I understand the explosion to be in the megatons, so unless some miracle happens, like someone flying us away in a helicopter to Canada or someplace North, then yeah, sorry baby, it's over."
Alex perked up. "Whaa? You're serious?"
She had already walked near the exit. "Alex, it's going to be okay, now I'm going to get you some tea."
"Wilma, you said something, uh, going North―"
"Alex, I was just talking out loud, saying stuff―"
"But it's true, right?" He got up and walked to her. His face nearly nose to nose with hers. "Can we survive if we leave? If we go to Canada?"
"I suppose. Yes, I have to ask Henry first, the lieutenant, but he said the missiles will only hit us."
"Of course! Why would they want to attack Canada," Alex said, turning away from her.
Wilma put a hand on his arm. "Alex, you okay?"
"No," he said. He turned back to her. "Wilma, I think there is a way to get out of this. I've been listening to this broadcaster―"
"I know. The man on the government station―"
"No, no, not him. Another one. He plays music at night." A hysterical grin came on Alex's face. "He likes to put on Spanish music."
"What?" Wilma gave him a look.
"Yeah, he plays it off an old turntable. Vinyl. I'm pretty sure of it. His records are ballads and some rock. And for midnight, usually, he plays at least one song by Freddy Fender."