Schoolchildren were instructed to “duck and cover” under their desks in case of a blinding nuclear blast. Younger readers might find it hard to imagine the nearly constant anxiety that agitated Americans, especially in urban areas, during the late 1950s and early 1960s. There must have been real concern with people’s safety.” “He was privy to information the public wasn’t,” Denham says of Col. (Oddly, the lines fan out to the southeast, defying the prevailing Texas winds.) military forces were concentrated - along with what appear to be trajectories for fallout drift. The shelter owner had carefully drawn cross hairs over San Antonio - where U.S. That was the length of time civil defense officials estimated - at least for public consumption - necessary for radioactive fallout from a nuclear bomb to clear away.Īmong the most chilling artifacts: a Texas highway map posted on the wall. Lined on shelves of the shelter - built by a retired Air Force colonel who was also something of an inventor - are supplies and equipment for surviving a week or two underground. “Perfect for the zombie apocalypse if it comes.” “Probably leads right into the aquifer,” Denham, 44, jokes before pointing out a disabled periscope near the stairwell. In one corner is a low, odd-looking toilet sheltered behind a plastic shower curtain. Nearby is a crank for the air shaft across the way are spigots for water stored in tanks. Two retractable cots hang from one wall in a cramped room that is illuminated by a single light bulb. In the backyard of the creative director’s mid-century modern home in West Lake Hills is a 1961 fallout shelter in near-mint condition. He takes a sharp left into the darkness, then another, before revealing an astounding time capsule preserved from the height of the Atomic Age.

He heads down the steep, thick concrete steps that are set in solid limestone. With effort, Craig Denham heaves open the heavy metal door.

Simple fallout shelter