I watched a desert town disintegrate, clapboard planks and roof tiles flying off like grains of sand in a dust storm. It was the glass in the window panes that went first, scattering into a splash of clear shards, but for a moment, I could see the outlines of figures within the buildings. A customer stood at the counter of the general store, his hand hovering above the cash register, gesturing towards a pack of cigarettes on a shelf. A waitress at the corner cafe held a tray with a glass of milk for a toddler perched in a high chair, their legs stretching out mid-kick. A priest stood at the altar of the provincial chapel, arms outstretched, awaiting, sharing an omen with an empty congregation. I knew it was coming, but I still shuddered when the sky bloomed, when the light overtook Main Street. The general store, the cafe, the chapel lost their distinctions, their identities, becoming no more than dust, no more than spilt milk and fragments of fiberglass flesh. The light expanded, a burst wound, an infection spreading to conquer the landscape, until its touch corrupted even the camera, the portal through which I was watching the destruction unfold. Burn marks like bacterial growths marred the lens, distorting my view of the town, and behind me, Jason swore to himself, muttering something about faulty equipment, improper calculations, promising that, next test, we’d get real footage. As the rest of the office joined in on his conversation, I kept watching as the videofeed flickered and died. Even through the melting lens, I could glimpse bits and pieces. A melted amalgamation of coins. A shattered cup. A mannequin’s head lodged underneath a collapsed pew.
And I’d say that I was sorry and that I loved her and that one day, things would be better.
Amber was a paralegal at the public defender’s office. We had a nightly routine where she’d come home, hang up her coat, sigh loudly, and take a seat at the table. Instinctively, I’d ask her what was wrong, and she’d laugh and say I can’t tell you. You should know that by now. Of course, I knew that, but I still asked to see if one day, she would crack, if one day, I could share her burden, if only in a vicarious sense. After dinner, she would curl up against me in bed and tell me that I was lucky that numbers didn’t have any drama. And I’d laugh and say yes, aren’t I lucky. Lucky that I had a real job, one that paid. Lucky that my office had working air conditioning, though we both wished the drive was a little shorter. Lucky that, though she knew it was too complicated for her to understand or me to explain, it was simple work, work that I could leave there and not carry with me. I’m dealing with lives every day. Every decision I make has the capacity to destroy someone, you know? It's a terrible feeling. And I’d say that I was sorry and that I loved her and that one day, things would be better. She always laughed at the final part.
Amber had warned me that she wouldn’t last long when we’d got her, but I had been foolish and had chosen not to worry about it.
I had known that Bea’s time was limited. Amber had warned me that she wouldn’t last long when we’d got her, but I had been foolish and had chosen not to worry about it. Now I was kneeling beside her, watching her gaze soften and fail, seeing her headlights flicker and desperately shaking my head, as if a car could sense or respond to my disappointment. It was early enough that there were few cars on the road, but the sign in the window of the convenience store across the road had just come to life, a neon oasis that had materialized to rescue me, though I did not wish to approach it. The cashier blinked at me when I entered–I assumed I was better dressed than their typical clientele–but then looked back down at her magazine when I just wandered over to the payphone. Part of me hoped that Amber would not be awake, that some divine force had crushed her alarm clock beneath its fist, but she answered at the third ring, her voice hesitant, expecting a response from a stranger, and she was shocked to hear mine instead and even more surprised when I asked her for a ride. This was against protocol, and though I had never told her that, perhaps she had figured that there was a reason behind my strict reliance on Bea, on my insistence that the lab was just too out of the way for carpooling to be practical. In the background, I heard her scrambling to pull on her shoes and the jangle of the car keys in her hand, and I wanted to tell her that she could slow down, that she did not need to be in such a hurry, but I envisioned the day ahead and the time that I was already missing and did not say anything other than thank you when she said she was on her way.
“Amber, you can just drop me off here."“But we’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“You could’ve just pulled over back there. It’s fine, you can just let me out.”
“You’re not inconveniencing me or anything like that. I don’t mind.”
“Amber, drop me off.”
“I don’t want to make you walk that far. Seriously, it’s not a big deal.”
“Amber, pull over.”
“There’s not even a sidewalk or-”
“Amber.”
“Aren’t we almost there anyway? Why does it matter…oh.”
She saw the gate before I did, the sign that I had allowed her to go too far. I could see the lab on the horizon, a nondescript white building behind the metal fencing, and the guards watching from their post. Amber’s eyes traveled to the “NO TRESPASSING: MILITARY PROPERTY” sign, then to the gun at Arnold’s hip as he approached the car.
“Ma’am, this is private property. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“She’s just dropping me off at work,” I cut in, already opening the door. Arnold looked at me with a flash of recognition and a slight frown, and I just said, “My car broke down.” I knew this would travel, that perhaps my lunch break would be replaced with an interrogation, but in the moment, Arnold said nothing and just nodded.
“I’ll pick you up around six?” Amber said, and I nodded briefly and watched her back away, with a little more haste and a little less caution than typical.
There was smoke in the rearview mirror. I adjusted it quickly, and when Amber looked over, I feigned that I was simply smoothing down my hair. Perhaps she had already glimpsed it. Perhaps she knew what we were driving away from. I closed my eyes and saw a bent arm beside a rocking chair, a plaster dog speared upon a fencepost, and when I opened my eyes, the road was rushing at us too quickly, the desert moving towards us in a great tan surge, and I felt sand against my skin and a wave of nausea climbing up my throat. I swallowed the bile down and tried to pass my chokes off as a simple cough. She was watching me again, and this time I chose to smile in response.
“What’s for dinner?"
“I don’t know,” she said. “I was just planning on picking something up from the store.”
“That’s nice. Yeah. That works.”
There was a pause, too long, and I tried again, testing the waters to see if our routine could remain unchanged. “How was work?”
Her laugh was bitter, sharp. “Fine. Had to go to court. Can’t tell you much about it, though.”
“I get it. No worries.”
“And you? How was work?”
“Just crunched some numbers. You know how it is.”
She glanced behind me, searching for a hint of something, the lab or the smoke or the gate we had just left behind, but all she could see was the road.
Author’s note:
This story was inspired by the “doom towns” constructed at nuclear test sites in the 1950s. Here is a short video from the Smithsonian and a short article from Archaeology Magazine with a little more information and some footage and pictures of what these “towns” (and the mannequins that resided in them) really looked like.
