Death is a Salesman
A dark flash fiction
Walt’s never around when I need him. Radio says the Third War’s coming. Walt and I’ve already discussed a bunker. He’d got plans drawn up for the backyard. After twenty-five years, you’d think he’d give me a say.
Our woods down the valley, that’s where I want it dug. Near the river, and filled with cottontail burrows and deer roamin’ wild.
‘Those creatures will become diseased from the fission debris, Nancy. Their bodies will be irradiated and we’ll end up cancerous if we consume them.’ He always talks like that, does Walt. I reckon it’s on account of carrying around encyclopedias all day. ‘Besides, my one and only sunshine, why not stay next to the home where we’ve built our years of memories.’
Sentimental sonafabitch.
I steer the digger to our woods. S’trouble when your husband’s a traveling salesman. Weeks on the road and too tired to get shit done when he’s home. I’ve outlined the bunker with stakes and rope, done the math, even though that’s his strength, not mine. Walt’ll complain when he sees the location but secretly be pleased he don’t have to do it.
The bucket arm claws a scoop of loamy dirt. He’s been ever more tired of late and I worry when he’s gone. You get loonies out there. Maybe I’m just getting old but things seem to be worse on…
