It came on a Sunday afternoon and that was good, because if it had happened on a weekday the father would have been at work and the children at school, leaving the mother at home alone and the whole family disorganized with hardly any hope at all. They had prayed that it would never come, ever, but suddenly here it was.

The father, a slender, young-old man, slightly stooped from years of labor, was resting on the sofa and half-listening to a program of waltz music on the radio. Mother was in the kitchen preparing a chicken for dinner and the younger boy and girl were in the bedroom drawing crude pictures of familiar barnyard animals on a shared slate. The older boy was in the shed out back, cleaning some harnesses.

Suddenly the program was cut off. The announcer almost shouted:

“Bomb alert! Bomb alert! Attention! Attention! A number of missiles have just been launched across the sea, heading this way. Attention. They are expected to strike within the next sixteen minutes. This is a verified alert! Take cover! Keep your radios tuned for further instructions.”

“My God!” the father gasped. His face was ashen, puzzled, as though he knew beyond a shadow of doubt that this was real—but still could not quite believe it.

“Get the children,” his wife blurted, then dashed to the door to call the older boy. He stared at her a brief moment, seeing the fear in her face, but also a loathing for all men involved in the making and dispatch of nuclear weapons.

The father jumped to his feet, and ran to the bedroom. “Let’s go,” he snapped, “shelter drill!” Although they had had many rehearsals, his voice and manner sent the youngsters dashing for the door without a word.

He pushed them through the kitchen to the rear door and sent them to the shelter. As he returned to the bedroom for outer garments for himself and his wife, the older boy came running in.

“This is the hot one, son,” said his father tersely, “the real one.” He and the boy stared at each other a long moment, both knowing what must be done and each knowing the other would more than do his share, yet wondering still at the frightening fact that it must be done at all.

“How much time have we got, Dad?”

“Not long,” the father replied, glancing at his watch, “twelve, maybe fourteen minutes.”

The boy disappeared into the front room, going after the flashlight and battery radio. The father stepped to the closet, slid the door open and picked up the metal box containing their important papers, marriage license, birth certificates, etc. He tossed the box on the bed and then picked up the big family Bible from the headboard on the bed.

Everything else they would need had been stored in the shelter the past several months. He heard his wife approaching and turned as she entered the room.

“Ready, dear?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied, “are the kids gone in?”

“They’re all down,” she answered, “I still can’t believe it’s real.”

“We’ve got to believe it,” he said, looking her steadily in the eye, “we can’t afford not to.”

Outside, the day was crisp and clear, typical of early fall. Just right for boating on the river, fishing or bird shooting. An excellent day, he thought, for fleeing underground to escape the hell of a nuclear strike. He looked at his watch again. Four minutes had elapsed since the first alarm. Twelve minutes, more or less, remained.

Inside the shelter, he latched the door, and looked around to see that his family was squared away. His wife was checking the food supplies, assisted by her older son. The small children had already put their fright behind them, as is the nature of youngsters, and were drawing on the slate again in quiet, busy glee.

Now it began. The waiting.

The man and his wife knew that others would come soon, begging and crying to be taken in now that the time was here. They had argued about this when the shelter was being built. It was in her mind to share their refuge.

“We can’t call ourselves Christians and then deny safety to our friends when the showdown comes,” she contended, “that isn’t what God teaches.”

“That’s nothing but religious pap,” he retorted with a degree of anger. “God created the family as the basic unit of society,” he reasoned. “That should make it plain that a man’s primary Christian duty is to protect his family.”

“But don’t you see?” she protested, “we must prepare to purify ourselves… to rise above this ‘mine’ thinking and be as God’s own son, who said, ‘love thy neighbor.’”

“No,” he replied, “I can’t buy that. Then, after a moment’s thought while he groped for the words to make her understand the truth which burned in the core of his soul, “It is my family I must save, no one more. You. These kids. Our friends are like the people of Noah’s time: he warned them of the coming flood when he built the ark on God’s command. He was ridiculed and scoffed at, just as we have been ridiculed. No,” and here his voice took on a new sad sureness, “it is meant that if they don’t prepare, they die. I see no need for further argument.”

With seven minutes left, the first knock rang the shelter door. “Let us in! For God’s sake.”

He recognized the voice. It was his first neighbor toward town.

“No!” shouted the father, “there is only room for us. Go! Take shelter in your homes. You may yet be spared.”

Again came the pounding. Louder. More urgent.

“You let us in or we’ll break down this door!” He wondered if they were actually getting a ram of some sort to batter at the door. He was reasonably certain it would hold.

The seconds ticked relentlessly away. Four minutes left.

His wife stared at the door and moaned slightly. “Steady, girl,” he said, evenly. The children looked at him, frightened, puzzled. He glared at his watch, ran his hands through his hair, and said nothing.

Three minutes left.

At that moment, a woman cried from the outside, “If you won’t let me in, please take my baby, my little girl.”

He was stunned by her plea. What must I do? He asked himself in sheer agony. What man on earth could deny a child the chance to live?

At that point, his wife rose, and stepped to the door. Before he could move to stop her, she let down the latch and dashed outside. Instantly a three-year old girl was thrust into the shelter. He hastily fought the door latch on again, then stared at the frightened little newcomer in anger, hating her for simply being there in his wife’s place and knowing he could not turn her out.

He sat down heavily, trying desperately to think.

The voices outside grew louder. He glanced at his watch, looked at the faces of his own children a long moment, then rose to his feet. There were two minutes left, and he made his decision. He marveled now that he had even considered any other choice.

“Son,” he said to the older boy, “you take care of them.” It was as simple as that.

Unlatching the door, he thrust it open and stepped out. The crowd surged toward him. Blocking the door with his body, he snatched up the two children nearest him, and shoved them into the shelter. “Bar that door,” he shouted to his son, and don’t open it for at least a week!”

Hearing the latch drop into place, he turned and glanced around at the faces in the crowd. Some of them were still babbling incoherently, utterly panic-stricken. Others were quiet now, no longer afraid.

Stepping to his wife’s side, he took her hand and spoke in a warm, low tone. “They will be all right, the boy will lead them.” He grinned reassuringly and added, “We should be together, you and I.”

She smiled wordlessly through her tears and squeezed his hand, exchanging with him in the one brief gesture a lifetime and more of devotion.

Then struck the first bomb, blinding them, burning them, blasting them into eternity.