“Ford…It’s Bomb Day…Bring igniters.” The voice on the other end did a TV impression including the sounds, “As usual, if you or any member of your team is captured, the secretary will disavow any knowledge of your existence. This message will self-destruct in five seconds…Sssssss, sizzle, sizzle, crackle, crackle…click.” After hearing the encoded dialogue, Rod Davis hung up the phone.
With “Theme from Mission: Impossible” playing reflexively in his mind, Rod’s two-hundred-pound frame lumbered toward the kitchen like a man on a mission. The term “Bomb Day” told Rod that his friend’s parents were not home and they would be breaking out the firecrackers. Opening a cabinet, Rod reached into a small box on the second shelf and pulled down a handful of paper matchbooks. Being a resident of a smoking household had its advantages for a teenage boy learning about pyrotechnics. He stuffed the matchbooks into the front pockets of his plaid shorts. Next, Rod opened the junk drawer and dug through the spatulas, measuring spoons, and rolling pins until he found three incense sticks hiding at the bottom. These long-burning sticks were more effective at lighting fuses than masking cigarette odors. He stuffed the three punks in the back pocket of his shorts and went to the coat closet.
In his father’s camouflage jacket, Rod found three gems: three M-80 explosives used by hunters to herd deer into the waiting sights of an ambush. These babies would provide a lot more oomph than those namby-pamby firecrackers his buddies had been collecting. “Yes!” Rod exclaimed as he headed for the garage.
In his exhilaration, Rod threw open the garage door too hard; the door went all the way up, bounced off the back of its tracks, and came slamming back down with a thunderous crash. “Cock-knocker!” Rod exclaimed as he jumped back to dodge the hurling door.
Rod held onto the door as he lifted it this time, ensuring it stayed in its full upright position. Then he straddled his bicycle, put up its kickstand, and waddled to the garage door. In a move that prevented him from parking his bicycle, putting down the garage door, and hopping back on, Rod yanked the door down with his right hand while leaning to his left and starting on his way.
On the ride to Clark Barnes’ house, Rod recalled their last baneful adventure – Firing Squad Day. One by one, half a dozen brave soldiers were lined up and executed by a firing squad of three. Their only crime was that they were owned by boys who had outgrown them. Destruction was always chosen over bestowing a toy on a younger sibling. Even with three BB guns, it took several minutes to break the limbs off the bodies of each G.I. Joe. The plastic didn’t shatter so much as crack and splinter. Dented heads and torsos were left to rot in the small woods behind Clark’s house.
Rod’s Schwinn Typhoon glided to the right side of the gray pavement as a car passed on the opposite side of the road. The ten-speed revolution was still years away, and for kids who’d graduated from banana-seat bikes, the Typhoon, with its coaster brakes and red-and-white trim, was as cool as it got.
When Rod saw the public mailbox, it reminded him of the downside of hanging out with Clark Barnes: his annoying brothers. They were two little blonde-haired squealers who always seemed to be around when mischief was afoot. After watching Rod and Clark use a stick to dump dog poop in the public mailbox, they both ran home and told on them. When it got back to Rod’s parents, he was grounded while his father and brother went to the best drag race of the year. It was the best because his racing hero, Bob Glidden, brought his 428 Cobra Jet Mustang to the local track and embarrassed all of the hometown Chevys and Plymouths. That would have been something to see. “Little turds!” he muttered to himself. If Clark’s brothers were going to be spectators, there would have to be some serious threats and warning pain inflicted to ensure secrecy.
Rod turned the corner and had several hundred yards of straight road in front of him. He seized the moment, letting go of the handlebars and sitting back in a full, no-hands cruise. Rod reflexively put his palms together and began pumping air through the heels of his hands. If fourteen-year-old boys were proficient at finding ways to make flatulence sounds with their bodies, Rod Davis was a prodigy. Adept at the standards: palm-to-palm, palm-to-armpit, palm-to-back of the knee joint, there were five other places where Rod could reproduce the fart sound. Starting with the head and working downwards, Rod could press the heel of his hand into his eye socket to produce a short “ripper,” his whole palm covering his ear made a squeaky, kind of “trying-to-repress-but-still-snuck-out” fart, the heel of the hand into the side of the neck just below the jaw line produced a “flapper” flatulence sounds (but only worked reliably on fat kids), with left calf flexed, the right palm produced “sit-down on a leather cushion” fart, and his favorite, palm-to-arch of foot, made what he named “the burble.”
After calling Rod and making a second phone call, Clark went to inspect the bomb targets. In a moment of panic, he realized they were not complete. Clark had run out of time the night before, due to his appointment to hang out at the bowling alley with his buddies. In desperation, he promised his brothers they could watch the destruction if they finished decaling the models. But there on his desk, in the middle of the used car lot, sat a blank, 1960s “Flower Power” VW Beetle. The model, purchased for its psychedelic decorations, appeared naked without its multi-colored flowers, peace emblems, and “love” insignias spread randomly over its bug-like body. “You shitheads! They’re not done!” Clark hollered in the general direction of his brothers, who were downstairs watching cartoons.
Clark filled a bowl with water and started feverishly cutting out the assorted flower power decals. Once separated from the sheet, the decals floated on top of the bowl. With the surface of the water covered in floating decals, Clark started the task of decorating and verbally abusing. “Gimme a break! Why are you doing this to me!?” Clark screamed at the model decals that kept sticking to themselves like Scotch tape. After the decals were separated from their paper backing, they transformed into viscous pieces of plastic wrap. If the decal did not make it from the water to the model intact, it was like unraveling a gob of slime. “Don’t stick to that! What are you insane!?” Clark screamed at two psychedelic flowers that were inseparable on the hood of the car.
“Easy there, Chevy. It’s going to be a hunk of melted plastic in an hour,” said Mike Agnew as he entered Clark’s room.
Mike had received the second “It’s Bomb Day” phone call from Clark. Still in his pajamas when he’d answered the phone, it had taken him half a bowl of Count Chocula cereal to understand what the call meant. When he realized the firecrackers were coming out, he pulled on a red t-shirt, blue jeans, and his Converse All-Stars. The brisk fifty-yard walk took only moments, and he banged on the front door until one of Clark’s brothers heard the knocking amid Clark’s screams.
“Ah, those little turds,” Clark responded referring to his younger brothers. “They were supposed to do this last night.”
“I don’t think the firecrackers will care if they have decals on them,” Mike offered as he looked over the doomed victims. “Look at these cars: AMC Gremlin, Chevy Corvair, MG Midget, Fiat 128, Love Beetle. This isn’t Bomb Day. It’s Justice Day.”
“Exactly,” Clark agreed as he gave up on the task of decaling the Beetle, which was only sparsely decorated.
“Um, Chevy, what’s up with the Tiger tank?” Mike asked.
“Authenticity,” Clark replied, pausing for a moment before adding, “that Tiger is going to set things straight as it rolls down an American residential street.”
On that note, the boys gingerly picked up a model in each hand and headed downstairs. As they passed through the family room toward the side door, Clark’s younger brothers deduced that mischief was on the way. Ten-year-old Jed, dressed in red Toughskin jean shorts that his mother’d cut off from his former Toughskin jeans, and a two-tone purple T-shirt, stood up and began to head for the side door when the Looney Tunes theme blared from the TV. Jed recognized that the title, “Rabbit Fire,” meant the upcoming cartoon was Saturday morning gold: a special episode featuring both Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck. This intrigued him, so he returned to the couch. “Knowing ‘Mr. Everything’s Got To Be Set Up Correctly’ Clark, it’ll be hours before they torch those cars,” Jed said to his seven-year-old brother.
Kurt didn’t respond. He was too filled with anticipation for Daffy and Bugs’ banter to reply.
Models in hand, Clark and Mike headed for the small patch of woods behind the house. From behind came the familiar phrase, “These cards are marked!” Rod Davis greeted the other two with a phrase he picked up from an M&M’S candy commercial featuring gruff cowboys playing poker with chocolate-smeared cards. This saying was so endearing to Rod that he used it often: as a greeting, to acknowledge correct statements, to retort incorrect ones, or as an icebreaker during awkward silences. Initially, it elicited laughter, but now it was simply part of hanging out with Rod.
The boys stopped and turned as Rod pedaled past the driveway, then veered onto the grass to meet them. “Na, na, na, na, na, na, na, Hot Rod!” Mike sang a modified Batman theme.
“Mopar Mike,” Rod replied with a nod, hopping off his bike.
“Mr. Ford, looks like a good day for some explosions,” Clark said, eyes gleaming.
“And some pyromania,” Rod grinned.
For a moment, they stood together, pondering the impending carnage.
Mopar Mike Agnew was the archetype of the 1970s teenage boy. With stringy brown hair cut in a bowl style, standing five-foot-eight and still growing, Mike only had one hundred twenty pounds on his wiry frame. Preferring automotives over athletics, Mike had already demonstrated his mechanical skills at fourteen while working on engines with his father. He was the only one of the three boys with experience in motor assembly. Unlike the other two, he was indifferent to car makes. They called him “Mopar Mike” due to the alliteration and his fantasy of leaving their suburban town at eighteen in his father’s Dodge Dart and returning at twenty in a 1971 Hemi-Cuda with Peggy Lipton riding shotgun.
In the middle stood the five-foot-four Clark Barnes. Already addicted to weightlifting, Clark’s muscular build, shaggy blonde hair, and pronounced jowls gave him a youthful Robert Redford vibe. As the most analytical of the three boys, Clark understood that the Corvette was unparalleled in its combination of aesthetics and speed. The Vette was the first and most elite American sports car, and the mere mention of its name would silence proponents of any new muscle car sedan. Unfortunately, the Corvette was rarely used for drag races, forcing Clark to embrace the duties of a Camaro enthusiast to maintain brand loyalty. Hence, “Chevy” became his favored make and nickname. Clark’s vision of a triumphant return involved leaving town in the family Malibu Station Wagon and re-emerging in a 1955 Corvette convertible, with Raquel Welch at his side in her One Million Years BC bikini.
Rod Davis, with his six-foot, pear-shaped frame, stood to Clark’s right. His red hair, freckles, and round, boyish face still hinted at childhood softness, yet his mind was set in stone. His life was going to revolve around dragsters. From the Street Eliminators to the Funny Cars, Rod loved them all. He enjoyed the noise, the smell, and the thrill of watching high-powered vehicles blast down the quarter mile. He especially loved the Fords. He understood that the engines were basically the same, but it was quality that gave Fords the edge. More than a dream, it was Rod’s destiny to win at the local track in a modified Mach 1 Mustang and drive the car to their bowling alley with his trophy in tow, accompanied by any girl flaunting a full set of tits.
Mike Agnew, Clark Barnes, and Rod Davis – the Hot Rod Trio. Three boys who represented the tail-end of the Muscle Car generation, which, it would be generally agreed on later, went from the production of the hemispherical V-8 engine in the early 1950s and ended as a casualty of the 1974 Energy Crisis. Pontiac GTOs, Dodge Chargers, Plymouth Road Runners, Ford Boss 302s, Buick Skylarks: muscle cars symbolized high speeds, custom modifications, wicked exteriors, hot pants and halter tops, and a thirst for gasoline unparalleled by succeeding automotive eras. During that time, the guy with the coolest ride was held in the same esteem as the quarterback of the football team.
Saving himself from hearing Rod’s catchphrase repeated, Mike coaxed, “Let’s get to it.”
They placed the models at the edge of the woods and looked at Clark for guidance. “I was thinking we’d build a little town to blow up,” Clark announced. “We have several plastic houses from an old train set in the garage. I think we have five cars and five houses we can sacrifice.”
“Plus, a Tiger tank,” Mike added with a grin.
“How do we make the street?” Clark asked.
The other boys looked bewildered. Was a street necessary?
“These cards are marked!” Rod stated to proclaim that Clark’s question was superfluous.
After a moment, Mike walked several paces into the woods. He leaned down and picked up something heavy. He came back carrying a blackened cinderblock. “We’ll make a path using our trusty burn chamber.”.
“Excellent idea, Mopar Mike,” Rod said, gesturing toward the sky with his fist.
The boys got to work. Clark and Mike rounded up the other models and the plastic houses, while Rod dragged the cinder block across the ground to create a flat surface and remove the top layer of leaves and pine needles. Once the houses were in place, the boys took turns clearing the driveways. Next, each house received a car by its side. The AMC Gremlin was unanimously chosen as the car driving down the street, which meant it would be the first victim.
The scales of the cars and houses did not match. The scale of the car models was 1:24, meaning a person would stand three inches tall. The houses were, in electric train terminology, O Scale, which indicated a person would stand one and a half inches tall. Clark was the only one perturbed by the discrepancy.
With the Tiger positioned at the street entrance, the three boys went to retrieve the ammunition. They paraded past the cartoon watchers and up the stairs to Clark’s room.
Mike grabbed the key off the bookshelf and unlocked the gun rack where the BB guns hung with pride. The BB guns were shared by Clark and his father, an ex-scout master who demanded the boys know how to shoot straight. The lock was only for show since the key was always in plain sight. Rod reached under Clark’s bed for a Playboy magazine and immediately liberated the centerfold. The boys had found four issues tied together in the woods. Clark’s mom knew of their existence but did not discard them. An ex-prom queen, she held the unconventional belief that the female body was not obscene, especially a pretty one. Clark dug through boxes in his closet and pulled out a Converse All-Star shoebox. Clark’s parents believed in a curious double standard: BB guns and Playboys were just boys being boys, but fireworks were for deviants. The old warning, “You’ll shoot your eye out,” was replaced by, “You’ll blow your fingers off.”
The firecrackers were a prized collection of Mike and Clark. They were purchased “on the black market” from classmates who had passed through South Carolina on their way to the recently opened Disney World. Once unwrapped, they could be separated and set off individually, or lit all at once via a central fuse. As with all black market goods, they came at an exorbitant price.
On their way back outside, the boys noticed two parasites were tailing them. Once out the door, Rod spun around and lunged at Jed. Although four years his junior, Jed was far too nimble, dodging Rod’s clumsy attempt. Instead, Rod clutched Kurt’s arm and barked, “You little shits better not squeal again or you’re going to feel real pain!” Kurt, still in pajamas and bare feet, just gazed back with disarming puppy-dog eyes. Everyone knew that a fourteen-year-old wasn’t about to hit a seven-year-old. “You can watch, but stay back,” Rod snarled over his shoulder as he continued to the bomb site.
The explosions began with a fizzle instead of a bang. The first firecracker was positioned under the hood of the Gremlin, with only the fuse sticking out. Rod used an incense stick to light the fuse and took half a step back. Sparks flew out for a few seconds, but there was no pop: it was more like a shower than a blast.
“Let’s double it,” Mike said. He twisted the fuses of two firecrackers together and stuffed them under the hood. Rod did the honors again. This time, the hood blew open with the first detonation, but the second one went off a beat later, causing minimal damage. The Gremlin sat there defiantly: hood flung open, but the rest of the car still clinging to its original shape.
With an air of dissatisfaction, Clark said, “Let’s double it again.”
Mike got to work, trying to twist the fuses of four firecrackers into a single bundle, but they kept unraveling like rebellious spaghetti. The idea of using tape had not occurred to them, so the backup plan was to place two twisted pairs under the Gremlin, with Rod lighting both fuses as quickly as he could.
Despite the increase in firepower, the result was the same. It was several seconds between the ignition of the first pair and the second pair. The first pair went off in unison, which knocked the Gremlin onto its side. The second pair lagged behind and did little more than puff up some dirt. “These cards are marked!” Rod barked in frustration.
Rod grabbed a sixteen-pack of firecrackers out of the shoebox, ripped the paper off, crammed the entire string into the Gremlin’s interior, and lit the common fuse. “This is for being ugly.”
Bliss! A cacophony of pops reduced the Gremlin to rubble. Windshield, roof, seats, doors, all blown in different directions. The boys cheered and clapped as the wreckage smoldered.
“Now that’s how you do it,” Rod exclaimed.
Rod was right. He taught the Gremlin a lesson it would never forget. Unfortunately, Rod also broke protocol by using a quarter of their fireworks on one car. There was no way they could destroy four cars and five houses with the remaining ammunition.
“That was great, but what do we do now? We’ve got three packs of firecrackers left, and we only blew up one victim.” Clark said, calculating the blast-to-target ratio.
“Have no fear!” Rod said as he fumbled in his pockets. These cards are…,” he opened his hand to reveal the three M-80s: “Clarked!” It was the first time Rod modified his catchphrase for effect.
There they were: delight and danger in three little, round packages. Mike had never seen an M-80 before, but he’d heard about them. As much as he wanted to take a step up from firecrackers, he was skeptical. Mike said, “I don’t know, Ford, aren’t those things dangerous? What if someone blows their hand off?”
Rod scoffed, “Oh, cinch up your little agates, Mike. I’ll light the M-80s, and you can watch. Let’s do a house.”
The largest of the plastic buildings was a red, one-story schoolhouse. Since it was summer, there was a certain irony to the selection. It featured double doors in the front that actually worked. The boys positioned the MG Midget and the Fiat 128 on either side of the schoolhouse. Rod planned to light the fuse and flick the M-80 into the open doors. There was no discussion of closing the doors after the M-80 was inside, but Rod fumbled with them for a few seconds before retreating several paces.
Bang! Instead of a series of pops, there was one deafening crack with a shock wave that wasn’t felt before. Rather than joy, there was awe. A smoke cloud billowed up from where the schoolhouse had stood. Red plastic shrapnel was scattered in a ten-foot radius, not a piece of the schoolhouse standing. The cars were blown sideways several feet but each remained whole.
“Use enough dynamite there, Butch?” Clark quoted a line from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, but the comment went unacknowledged.
Jed and Kurt were a few feet behind Clark, but they saw the whole thing. This was not like stuffing dog poop in a mailbox. they felt like they’d just seen a new world, but despite their excitement, they stayed silent.
As they stared at the smoke dissipating, Mike said, “Man, that was great! Let’s do the Corvair!”
Mike held a special hatred for the Corvair. His family owned one. In the era of Plymouth Barracudas and the Firebird Trans AMs, Mike’s father drove a rear-engine embarrassment. Mike avoided riding in that barely moving humiliation at all costs. This was more than destruction: it was symbolic payback.
“Let’s do two,” Rod suggested. He balanced the Beetle on top of the Corvair.
Rod had violated protocol again. “Are we going for a level of realism here or are we just blowing shit up?” Clark wondered. Then he felt better when he realized that a pink Beetle on top of a light blue Corvair might imply something sexual about the configuration.
Rod positioned an M-80 in the Corvair with the care of a jeweler setting a diamond. Excited by his newfound catchphrase creativity, Rod said, “These cars are sparked!” as he lit the fuse and scrambled back.
Bang! Another sharp crack, shock wave, and cloud of smoke. The Corvair was obliterated. Light blue plastic fragments were scattered on the red schoolhouse debris. The Beetle was blown ten feet in the air and landed as cracked wreckage.
“You did it again, Rod,” Mike said. “Take that, you sputtering piece of crap!”
After examining the carnage, Clark asked, “What do we do with the last M-80?”
“The tank,” Rod responded.
“I don’t know,” Clark said. He’d never agreed to destroying the tank. Like the Corvette, the Tiger I was in a class of its own. As the first heavy tank of World War II, a single Tiger could destroy dozens of Allied medium tanks. Fortunately for the Allies, the Tiger I was not mass-produced like the Allied tanks. In addition, the Tiger I was not an easy model to make, like the cars. Clark spent hours assembling the rows of wheels and gluing on the accessories.
“C’mon, Chevy. A German tank just shot up a residential neighborhood. We’ve got to call in an air strike,” Rod goaded him.
Rod had a point. The Tiger I was an enemy tank. It was the model that should be blown up. Besides, tank models were only a few dollars at the hobby store. “Alright, destroy the bitch,” Clark acquiesced.
Clark unscrewed the turret, and Rod carefully placed the last M-80 inside the hollow body. After a few failed attempts to reattach the turret while keeping the fuse exposed, they settled on simply resting the turret in place.
“Stand back, boys. These Krauts are marked,” Rod said before lighting the last M-80.
Everyone watched the fuse burn down into the tank. Jed and Kurt winced in anticipation. Nothing happened. Seconds passed. Rod took a few cautious steps forward, trying to hear the hiss of a fuse still burning.
“You’re kidding me?” Rod asked. After another few seconds, his frustration boiled over, and he charged forward and kicked the tank onto its side. “You’re kidding me!?” he shouted.
The turret went sliding on the ground with the M-80 following behind. As the boys suspected, the fuse was gone. The last M-80 was officially a dud.
“Damn,” Mike said capturing their collective disappointment.
“Well, we still have firecrackers,” Clark offered.
Rod was crestfallen. He sulked for a moment and then perked up and said, “Napalm!”
Not only was it the time of Muscle Cars, but it was also the time of the Vietnam War. The nightly news aired footage of jets zooming over jungles, dropping incendiaries that engulfed the forest below.
Mike and Clark knew Rod was talking about burning the tank with gasoline. The boys were practiced arsonists whose victims included army men, plastic horses, Gumby, Batman, and the Joker action figures, as well as the Wolfman and Frankenstein Aurora models. The difference was that they always worked in a controlled environment, placing bricks or cinder blocks around the victim. This fire was going to be out in the open.
“Napalm spills everywhere,” Ron said excitedly. “Let’s torch the whole town.”
Clark thought of a way out. His mom only worked half days in the summer. “Jed, what time is it?” he asked.
Jed ran to the kitchen window and yelled back, “Quarter of twelve.”
Clark said skeptically, “I don’t know…our mom gets home in forty-five minutes.”
“C’mon. We can’t end Bomb Day on a dud,” Rod coaxed.
“How about the tank and one house?” Mike offered a compromise.
“Alright, but it’s got to be over by 12:15. And everyone has to help cleanup,” Clark said as he looked back at Jed and Kurt. “Jed, go get the gas can.”
When Jed returned with the gas can, Clark said, pointing at Jed and Kurt, “The price of watching this, you idiots are riding to the gas station and refilling the can.” Their dad never accepted “no gas” as an excuse for the lawn not being cut.
“You’re giving us some money,” Jed protested. The price for a gallon of gas was thirty-five cents, which was several packs of baseball cards.
Mike positioned the Tiger in front of an old farmhouse. Clark carefully drizzled gasoline on top of the house’s roof, then along a path to the tank, and finally onto the tank itself. He stepped back a few paces and put the gas can down.
While the older boys were setting up the fire, Kurt picked up one of the BB guns the older boys had forgotten about. He struggled to cock the weapon, them aimed and fired at a bird in a nearby trees. The report of the air gun sounded like one of Rod’s hand-to-ear farts.
“Put it down!” Clark scolded and positioned himself next to Mike by the house.
The incense sticks were useless for igniting gasoline, so Rod fumbled with matches until he finally got one lit. “These Krauts are sparked!” he declared, dropping the match onto the tank.
With a noise like a gas burner flaring to life, there was a “whizz” sound. The fire quickly made its way from the tank to the farmhouse. The boys stood and watched as the models burned. After a moment, the event fizzled. There was no climatic explosion. Not even a pop. Aside from the toxic stench of melting plastic, the fire was underwhelming.
Clark thought of getting a shovel out of the garage to start cleaning up when he saw Rod swing the gas can in the direction of the farmhouse.
“Napalm spills!” Rod declared.
A shower of flames covered the ground around Mike and Clark’s feet. In an instant, Mike was hopping and swearing, one pant leg ablaze just above his shoe.
“Damn it, Rod! Damn it, Rod!” he shouted, smacking at the flames with his bare hands. When that didn’t work, he scooped up a handful of dirt and swatted out the fire, leaving his pant leg singed.
“Rod, you moron! These are my favorite jeans!” It was a surprise that Mike was more upset about his pants than about being burned.
When he realized that Mike was not hurt, Clark declared, “Okay, Bomb Day’s over.”
Rod, who was still holding the gas can, said, “But then the ordnance in the tank ignited.”
This time, instead of flicking the gas, Rod poured the gasoline directly on the tank. Flames spilled over the ground and then raced to the can in a split second. Instead of an outward shock wave like an M-80, there was an inward “swoosh” that sucked the air out of everyone’s lungs.
Each boy gasped, believing it to be their final moment. Even Jed and Kurt, who were a few feet behind, froze in place.
But there was no explosion.
After an eternity that was only an instant, Rod tilted the gas can upright as flames clung to the spout. For one terrifying moment, fire flickered mere inches from his face.
He tossed the can in the direction of the woods. It hit the ground with a clang, followed by a trail of flame that raced across the dried brush.
Following a moment of panic, the boys sprang into action. Jed and Kurt ran to get shovels out of the garage. Mike set the gas can upright and snuffed the spout out with a handful of dirt. Clark stomped at the brush.
By the time Mrs. Barnes pulled into the driveway, the last of the flames were out and the wreckage hidden. The scent of melted plastic still tainted the air.
“Bomb Day is over,” Clark said flatly.
Rod, hair singed and sneakers filthy, turned to Clark. After a moment, his mouth opened as if to reply, but for once, Rod had nothing to add.