The noon sky was orange as Jake and Carlos stood in front of us. After a quick game of rock paper scissors (Jake chose paper, Carlos chose rock), Carlos stripped off his shirt.

“Now imma get cancer, bro,” he smirked at Jake. “That cotton was the last bit between me and that sweet sweet radiation.”

“Nah, we won’t live that long. Who’s your first pick?”

“Hmm, I need a quarterback.” He pointed at me. “Mike. You’re the skins QB.”

I trotted over to him as Jake scowled. Last time, Jake, Carlos, and I had all been on the same team and absolutely smoked the other guys. Until the game got cut short because the local missiles started intercepting Rods from God right after halftime. Jake and Carlos made their other picks. The skin on my bicep was peeling again, and a bright red. I ignored it and stretched out my arms, gently cracking my neck.

“Hey,” said Todd. He was on Jake’s team, still had his shirt on. “Who’s got the ball?”

Carlos tossed it back and forth between his hands. It was oblong, a grayish memory of brown, more duct tape than fake leather. “Skins usually start off with it, right?”

Jake nodded. “Yeah. Lose the shirts, start the game. Oh, and lose the game.”

Carlos shot him a gesture that would make both my parents very disappointed. “Huddle up!”

Those of us without shirts gathered around him.

“What’s the game plan, Mike?”

“Aren’t you the captain?”

“Yeah, but you’re the ball handler. You know things. You still do homework and read the news.”

I rolled my eyes and traced out some routes for the dudes. Then we lined up across from Jake and his crew. Jake, as usual, was playing noseguard and crouched by the center. I clapped my hands, called the cadence, caught the ball as it was snapped.

All around me was a near-monastic chant, like some juvenile mantra of the Great Sage Lombardi. “One Mississippi, Two Mississippi, Three Mississippi. Rush!” Jake exploded past my center, who tripped and fell down as I backpedaled and frantically scanned the field. There.

“Carlos!” I hollered, then let the ball fly. Its arc was perfect, its spiral tight and controlled. Like a rocket flying to intercept a warhead.

Carlos caught it with a grunt and sprinted. Our goal line was the crater by city hall; he got within ten yards before Todd slapped both hands against Carlos’s shiny back. Carlos stopped and placed the ball on the ground. “Nice throw, Mike!”

“Thanks dude!”

It took only one more play for our touchdown. Jake seemed to take it personally; he always did that. His team, in their flimsy t-shirts, decided to mainly run short passes, a toss or two, a sneak or a handoff. A first down every three plays, almost unstoppable in their drive. Then Todd lobbed a short pass to Jake, standing in the endzone and—

I grabbed it and ran. The sky above us was streaked with drones, missiles. Bright white flashes of light punctured the orange haze as I ran back into their endzone, my arms in a Victory-V.

One of the shirts collapsed and started vomiting. His skin was bright red, redder than the rest of ours. The puke was a reddish dark brown, with chunks of black. His name was Will. I dropped the football in the end zone and ran over to the clump of boys. Carlos had already produced some rapid onset oncocidals and Jake was gently alternating between tipping water and a sports drink into Will’s mouth. Will swished the water around in his mouth and spat out, but swallowed some. He greedily lapped up the sports drink; electrolytes can help you pull through almost anything. A skin named Amari threw his shirt back on.

“I’ll take him to the clinic. Probably go home after, Will and I have a group project due and—well, Will, do you feel up to any of it?”

Will smiled weakly. “Nah, man, I’d get us both a D even if I wasn’t puking my guts out.”

“Yeah, I’ll finish it. Do you think you can make it to the clinic?”

“Let’s just start walking and see what happens.” He grabbed Amari’s hand, pulled himself up. Will started to stumble, but Amari shrugged his arm over his shoulder and started to half carry him home. Will looked back. “Jake, you better pull this one out for me!”

Jake smiled. “Yeah man. Rest well.” He took a deep breath, then looked at the rest of us. “Y’all good to keep playing?”

“We’re up 12 to 0, so whatever you want, man.” said Carlos.

Jake cracked his knuckles. “Oh, so it’s on on.”

I didn’t get another pick-six, but we had a good game. Jake and his boys grinded. We lost another couple players—one got a call that his brother had just been droned, one twisted his ankle in the endzone crater trying to get a safety. Carlos, though, Carlos went hard.

We had three more Hail Marys. Carlos scored on two and another guy ran it in after the third. Todd was a decent quarterback for the shirts, but he threw two more interceptions. I, of course, threw none. But it started getting late. By the time the mushroom clouds on the horizon blossomed and the sirens started to blare, we were tied up. Most of the group went home. Carlos went to his shift at the clinic to help out. Jake and I ended up sitting in the old city hall bunker throwing the ball back and forth by ourselves.

“Mike,” said Jake as he tossed it to me. “What do you want to do when you’re older?”

“I don’t know, man. Maybe run for office. Try to get people to settle down. Maybe go out with Britney before one of us dies of cancer.”

“You’d be less likely to die of cancer if you’d put your shirt on during a bombing raid. Besides, who says you’re going out with my sister?”

“Well, I did leave my shirt out there when we ran here. Probably ash now.”

“Yeah. Mike, you know things. Is there a future?”

“What do you mean?”

Jake caught my pass with one hand, then balanced the ball on his knee and rested his chin on it. “When’s the last time anyone went to college from here, man? And the only country I can think of to go to get away from all this is…I don’t know.”

“North Sentinel Island?”

“That’s the one with the—”

“The murder island, yeah.”

Jake chuckled. “When I was a kid, I wanted to play quarterback for the Pittsburgh Steelers. Now…”

“Coach for the school, then. Or get Carlos to help you get a job in the clinic. They always need more.”

“Maybe.” Jake peeked out the lead-lined window. “Looks like the coast is clear. Wanna go play catch? I just can’t write an essay today, dude.”

I stood up and opened the door. “Last one to the field’s a rotten egg.”

***

Ben Beckstrom was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest. He cut his teeth as a backup lineman and has since transitioned to starting left couch. Beckstrom enjoys talking, playing with dogs, and writing. Find more about him on Instagram @ben_b_writes.