For as long as anyone except Mr Grady could remember, the sirens on the old bunker only went off once a year, when Mr Grady ran the annual test. He wanted to still do the drill, like in the old days, all the townsfolk dropping what they were doing and hurrying to the old bunker to sit around for half an hour before going back to their lives.

Silly old man. The sky hadn’t fallen in decades. Many people were loudly sceptical it had ever fallen at all.

To keep him happy everyone let him come in and lecture the schoolchildren, brief them on what to do if they heard the sirens at any time OTHER than the one time they went off. And the children nodded and recited the instructions back to him and didn’t think about it again for a year.

Today was the eighteen of November. This year’s test was four months past. The sirens shouldn’t be going off.

But they were.

Mr Grady froze, his hands clenching tight the rocking-chair arms, as that sound stabbed into his ears and down his spine. Panic rose but was shoved aside by decades of preparation, hundreds of hours of planning and thousands of mental drills kicking in and propelling him upright and to the front door.

His emergency bag was ready. It was always ready. He checked it on the first of every month, just like the guidelines recommended.

Boots. Coat. Cap. Bag. The motions were thoughtless and precise, a well-rehearsed ballet.

As he swung the satchel onto his shoulders another weight settled with it; the knowledge that despite his best efforts, it was unlikely any other house had one.

The shelter was functional. That was the most important thing, what he’d fought for every time people dismissed it as ‘archaic’ and ‘wasteful to maintain’. If people got there…

Children’s faces flashed through his mind, most of them now grown and with children of their own, whom he’d also lectured. He’d told them all what to do.

How many would remember? If they did, would they follow his instructions?

His stomach twisted, haunted by that distant vivid memory of what remained the last time the sky lifted. What it had left behind. Those who couldn’t flee in time.

He’d sworn it would never happen again. And he’d tried, he’d TRIED! But it had been so long, and he was the only one left who remembered.

His boots crunched down the gravel walk then clopped along the road towards the shelter. He didn’t lock his door behind him; while the house was insufficient shelter it was better than being in the open. He wouldn’t deny that slim chance, that meagre comfort, to any poor sod caught under the falling sky.

“Come on!” He boomed, casting his voice as far as he could and praying it would carry people with him. “To the shelter! Move sharp! If you don’t have a pack ready DON’T STOP TO MAKE ONE! Get to safety NOW!”

Overhead the sun was swelling, the blue sky washing out to pale sickly streaks. Once the colour was gone they’d have perhaps six minutes, probably closer to four.

“THIS IS NOT A DRILL! THE SKY IS FALLING! GET TO THE SHELTER!”

He could hear hubbub in the houses. Doors opening and slamming. Please, please, let them take this seriously. Believe him. Remember what they’d been taught. Move quickly enough.

“DROP EVERYTHING AND *GET MOVING*!”

He kept shouting as he marched into the shelter. Ordering, exhorting, pleading. If he could, he’d gather up every one of them into a school walking train. But there was no time. And his legs weren’t what they used to be.

The best he could do, to give everyone the best chance to survive, was making sure the shelter was operated properly.

The doors swung open easily, outer than inner, just as they should. The generator purred to life at the first try. Ventilation reported all green, air quality and temperature within standard parameters.

Even the floor - except for his fresh boot-marks - was spotless. There hadn’t been time for dust to settle since his last visit. He maintained the shelter on the fifteenth of every month, just like the guidelines recommended. Made sure the space was clean, the generator fuelled, the systems working.

Would it be enough?

He stood in the middle of the room, pulse throbbing in his ears and throat. Wondering if he was going to be the only one. The only one who remembered. The only one who followed procedure. The only one who SURVIVED.

Please, please…

Footsteps! Edna hurried into the shelter, her arms heaped with blankets, her husband and children right behind carrying what looked like a half-eaten luncheon between them.

Edna stammered “We didn’t have a pack and I didn’t want to - you always said speed was the main thing, and-”

“Good work, lass!” Grady hurried to help her put the blankets down in the corner. “Thank goodness - well done - please tell me you aren’t the only…?”

“No, everyone’s coming, and Jake was running up and down shouting at people to hurry up because the sky’s almost white.” Edna’s eyes were wide, her hands shaking. Clearly struggling to believe that this fairytale nightmare was actually happening.

Jake. Joan’s and Marcus’s lad. He’d been a real gnat as a child. Clearly he’d grown right in the… decade since? Two decades?

Didn’t matter.

Just as she said, people started filing in. Grady checked every face, every name, ticking them off the list he’d prepared. Updated every time someone died or was born. The stack of old copies sat taller than the desk.

They would’ve failed a drill, the second sirens started just before the last group was in, but the doors were shut and sealed before the sky started roaring.

Grady exhaled and smiled reassuringly at the crowd packed into the space. All staring at HIM. Eyes wordlessly begging for comfort. “We’ll be alright. I promise. Well done.”