by Sam Clark
“Sorry, drill sergeant. It’s just—”
“Coming in here and interrupting our prayers. What do you think our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ would have to say about such disrespect, huh?”
This time her resolve failed her, and she found herself answering before she could stop herself. “I imagine he would tell you to forgive me. It’s my understanding he was big on forgiveness… sir.”
In an instant, Fegan’s face changed from the pasty white of a man who’d never seen the sun to dark red. His jaw began to tremble, and the fingers of his large meaty hands began to curl into fists. Fists which to her looked remarkably like sledgehammers.
She managed not to outwardly react, aside from a few furtive glances down at Fegan’s hammers. However, internally it was a different story. As she became increasingly certain she was about to be pummeled, part of her wanted to back up a step, to turn and run away. Everybody in here would be afraid of Fegan. So, running wouldn’t be that embarrassing. Better than literally getting the piss beat out of you in front of all your peers, right?
It seemed like such an easy answer, but she knew there was another part of herself—a part that wanted Fegan to hit her. She wanted to feel the shock of pain spread through her body, to feel her heart thud against her ribs in response, to feel the surge of adrenaline as her body went into survival mode. To just feel something. How fucking sick is that?
Then she heard it—soft at first, barely audible over the sound of blood whooshing through her ears, but it grew louder. Laughter. Full-bellied laughter.
Fegan heard it about the same time as she did. He began to turn around, already shouting. “Who the fu—” Fegan made a choking sound as he swallowed the rest of the word.
She peered around Fegan to see what could possibly have stopped him short. Maybe he was having a stroke. Unlikely, but a girl could hope.
But the sergeant wasn’t stroking out. What had stopped Fegan was an even less likely occurrence than someone in their mid-thirties having a stroke, at least in her mind. The laughter was coming from the colonel.
Colonel Mueller was a rather severe man in his mid-to-late forties, who had taken over the militia leadership around the time Czarina’s dad had died. Physically, he was unimposing, of average height and slight of build. He had closely cropped reddish-blond hair and a meticulously groomed mustache. His most distinguishing physical characteristic was his ‘death stare.’ There wasn’t a person in the bunker who wouldn’t wilt under the intensity of the colonel’s gaze.
His personality, if you could call it that, was puritanical in the extreme, even by bunker standards. The colonel didn’t even indulge in instant coffee. He considered it a weakness to be dependent on a stimulant for energy. He also, as far as she knew, didn’t indulge in laughter. She certainly couldn’t remember ever having seen Colonel Mueller laugh before. Even during movie nights, she couldn’t recall Mueller laughing, whether it was Abbott and Costello, Blazing Saddles, or Anchorman. In fact, she distinctly remembered the colonel leaving in the middle of Anchorman, but here he was, laughing in a manner that bordered on hysterical.
As she saw Mueller wipe a tear from the corner of his eye, her eyes widened and her jaw dropped slightly. She couldn’t believe it, and neither could anyone else. The rest of the class was still on their knees, completely silent.
Suddenly, the colonel seemed to remember himself. He cleared his throat and spoke with a voice that showed no hint of mirth. “Well put, recruit. I suspect he would forgive you.”
If the colonel’s laughing nonplussed her, his compliment put her even more off-kilter. With difficulty, she got out a “Thank you, sir.”
Fegan, having recovered from the initial shock, said, “Sir, with all due respect, we should not tolerate such disrespect toward our Lord and Savior!”
There were a few audible gasps in the classroom. No one had ever seen another militiaman challenge the colonel, with all due respect or otherwise.
Mueller calmly replied, “Your objections are noted, sergeant.”
“Sir, what will her punishment be?” Fegan took a step away from Czarina and toward Mueller.
“I don’t see the need for any punishment, sergeant.”
“Is this because her grandfather’s losing his marbles? Or because of her mother?”
“That’s enough, Sergeant Fegan. I have made my decision.” A hardness had entered the colonel’s voice, and he fixed Fegan with one of his stares. It wasn’t even directed at her, but Czarina had the sudden urge to duck behind Fegan.
“She’s chronically insubordinate. This cannot be tolerated!”
The colonel rose to his feet. “The only one being insubordinate here is you, sergeant. I suggest you regain your composure and comport yourself in a manner befitting an NCO of this militia. Otherwise, I will have to issue you a formal reprimand. Do I make myself clear?”
The mention of a formal reprimand seemed to remind Fegan whom he was talking to. His shoulders slumped slightly, and his head bent toward the floor. For once, the large man looked rather small.
“Yes, sir. I apologize, sir.”
“Good. You are dismissed, sergeant.”
Fegan’s posture straightened, and he spun on his heels and marched quickly from the room. Czarina had to jump hastily out of the way, and only narrowly avoided having Fegan march through her on his way out.
After Fegan was gone, Colonel Mueller spoke again. “I think we’ve had enough excitement for one day. Class dismissed.”
Czarina moved to the back corner of the classroom and waited for her peers to filter out. She had to know what the colonel intended to do about the light. From her position in the back of the classroom, she watched Colonel Mueller look over his Bible in a manner she could only call leisurely. After a minute or two, the colonel finished whatever he was doing. He closed the Bible and placed it carefully in his battered black leather attaché case. He then began to sort the papers on his desk, putting them in neat piles before placing them in the case. By this point, she was the only other person in the classroom.
If the light hadn’t gone out, there was no way in hell she would have been voluntarily hanging around in a room with the colonel. It wasn’t like he was mean to her or anything—at least not compared to some. Rather, it was something about the way he looked at her when he wasn’t giving her the death glare. Somehow this other look managed to be even worse, and it made her want to squirm every time. When his eyes met hers it always seemed like he was looking for something in there. Real hard. And it made her skin crawl for some reason, even though there was nothing lascivious about it.
It popped into her head that she hadn’t even noticed when Marisa had left the room. The light going off had completely overshadowed her interest in Marisa. It really put her goals into perspective. Seeing Marisa naked was her Everest. She wanted to do it simply because it was there. It was just a distraction, a reason to endure another torturous year in her underground prison. There was no ‘happily ever after’ there. Her real dream was to leave the bunker. In the great wide world—that was where she’d find the meaning she so desperately sought. That’s where she would find her purpose. And she was willing to endure the colonel’s look for it.
She couldn’t believe how slowly Mueller was moving. She thought that after he’d dismissed the class, he would move at double-time to start preparing an exploratory party. Maybe she could get herself put on it somehow, although that seemed unlikely. Still, anyone leaving was a step in the right direction.
She was debating whether she should say something to Mueller, to make sure he had heard her about the light being out, when the colonel spoke. He did so without looking up from his papers.
“Is there something you need from me, recruit?”
“Sir, I wanted to volunteer for the exploratory party.”
Colonel Mueller looked up at her, his eyebrows drawn down to a sharp V. “Exploratory party?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What explor
atory party?”
“Sir, the light went out, so I assumed that—”
“You know what happens when you assume something, recruit.”
Yeah, yeah, I make an ass out of myself. “Yes, sir, it’s just that the light went out.” How many fucking times am I going to have to say it before it sinks in? “The militia handbook states that standard procedure is to send out a twenty-five-person exploratory party.” I knew I read that piece of shit for a reason.
Mueller’s eyes narrowed slightly as his gaze started to bore into her even more. She had no clue what he might be looking for, but if hadn’t found it after all these years, she doubted he ever would. She struggled to maintain her composure, but she suddenly felt cold all over. She tried to tell herself it was because she was wearing a sweat-soaked shirt in a cool room. But the thought wouldn’t take hold. She knew it was because of the colonel. She had to look away, anywhere but at the colonel’s eyes. To her dismay, she looked down at her shoes—just for a split second, though. Unfortunately, the look was still there when she pulled her eyes back up, his posture all rigid as if he was straining, and she had to struggle not to fidget or look away again.
Finally, when she could no longer take the silence and was on the verge of fleeing the room, Mueller said, “You don’t have to tell me what the militia handbook says, recruit. I’ve given you some latitude because of your grandfather, but do not mistake my small kindness for weakness, and do not even think about trying to take advantage of me.”
What’s all this about James? Fegan said something during hand-to-hand, and again just now; now Mueller, too. That might explain why he didn’t say anything to Isabella about Steve. She was torn between continuing her line of questioning regarding the light or asking about her grandfather.
Colonel Mueller resolved the dilemma for her. “Furthermore, the all-clear signal is not the light going out. The all-clear signal is a flashing light. When the light flashes, the proper response, according to the handbook, is sending out an exploratory party. When the light goes out, the proper response is changing the bulb, although that is not in the handbook.”
She couldn’t be certain, but she thought she saw the colonel’s lips turn up slightly, as if he were making a joke.
“You don’t really think the bulb hasn’t burned out a few times since we’ve been down here, do you, recruit? I’ll put in the order to have it changed ASAP. Dismissed.”
She left the classroom, relieved to be out of Colonel Mueller’s presence but disappointed in herself for not even considering the possibility that bulb had simply burned out. Just another example of what James was talking about earlier—lacking patience, not thinking through her moves. Yet some small part of her couldn’t help but think, or rather hope, it was something more.
Hope is for idealists, her inner critic whispered.
ELEVEN
Location: Underground
Date: 8-15-61
The light and the mystery surrounding her grandfather’s health dominated Czarina’s thoughts for the rest of the day and into the evening. But nobody noticed. She was too good at faking her way through life. Not surprising, given the amount of practice she’d had lately. Besides, it wasn’t exactly a Herculean task, as that night unfolded exactly like so many others before it. In fact, she had a hard time remembering a night that had ever been any different.
After dinner, she sat with James and Isabella in the room’s three chairs and watched a few episodes of The Simpsons on James’s ancient laptop. Czarina had seen all six-hundred-something episodes more than once. She could only imagine how many times James must have seen each one. She wondered if she would still laugh out loud like James did when she had seen them all a hundred times. Depending on what happened with the light tomorrow, she might not have to find out. Easy. Don’t get ahead of yourself. It’s probably nothing. Who knows when they’ll even get around to changing it.
As usual, Isabella excused herself to go see some friends after the second episode. Czarina was nearly certain she was going to see Steve. She started to say something, then stopped. She had enough on her mind without worrying about Izzy.
After Isabella left, James turned to her and said, “Well, girl, shall we watch another?”
Czarina was desperate to be alone with her thoughts. It was strange—as much as she feared the voice in her head, as much as it cut at her soul with the precision of a surgeon in the way only one’s own mind could, there were times when she was obsessed with that voice. Perversely, she wanted to give it the totality of her attention, to let it… well, she didn’t know exactly why she did it. She didn’t necessarily want to do it, but she couldn’t help herself. She needed to do it. To think through the day’s events again, and again. From every angle, from every perspective. To pore over every word, every facial tic. To see all the things she should have done differently. Done better. To see if she had done anything right at all.
However, at that moment, the only thing she wanted more than solitude was for no one to suspect how she felt inside—especially not James. The hopelessness. The agony. The emptiness underneath it all. She couldn’t say why she was so desperate to keep her feelings hidden, but the mere thought of another person seeing under her mask—for someone to know her so closely, to be so vulnerable—was unbearable. It felt like a cold hand pressing down on her sternum. Yeah, Mrs. Peters probably knew, but she didn’t count, since Czarina knew about her. They were equally vulnerable. Mutually assured destruction. But the idea of anyone else knowing… God, I swear, sometimes I’m a bigger drama queen than Izzy.
Fortunately for Czarina, it was nearly 1900. Every day at that time James would watch part of a game from the 2008 World Series. She got how you could watch The Simpsons over and over, but she never could understand how he could watch those damn games so many times. Entertainment options weren’t that lacking. Hell, even watching the games once wasn’t that exciting, and that didn’t change with additional viewings.
“Anybody home, girl?” James asked.
Czarina managed not to cringe at the worried look she saw on James’s face. How long had he been waiting for a response? “Sorry, just tired is all. Tough run this afternoon.”
“I see.” James looked at her for a long moment, then said, “Simpsons?”
“Meh,” she said, “it’s almost time for baseball. Why don’t you get an early start tonight? You might be able to get to the rain delay in game five before lights out.” Not likely with how long those stupid games are.
“Are you sure? I know you’re not a fan of the game.”
“Go ahead. I want to get a good night sleep tonight, and I can’t think of a better way than watching a little baseball.”
“I certainly do not want to talk you out of it, so I will let that last comment pass. You get it started while I get my beer ready.”
James jumped to his feet and moved to one of the nearby book piles with an agility that would’ve made many younger members of the bunker community jealous. Seeing her grandfather move that way gave her a sense of relief. Nothing was wrong with James. Fegan and Mueller didn’t know what they were talking about. As usual.
Czarina had just finished switching the flash drives and pulling up the recording when James asked, “What do you recommend tonight, girl?”
“How ’bout pale ale? It’s your favorite.”
“True, but I had pale ale last night. I’m watching the Fall Classic. I could go with a classic Oktoberfest, but I never did care for the style. No, I think today calls for a nice stout.” James deftly plucked a book from the pile without disturbing any of the others, and then came to sit down next to her.
In his hand was a book simply called Stout. She’d skimmed through it once. The book contained a detailed discussion of the flavor profile of stouts and how to formulate recipes for home-brewing, a hobby James had been forced to abandon when he’d moved into the bunker. James always said a nice beer was the thing he missed most about life before the bunker
, and that reading about beer to remember the taste was about the twenty-fifth next best thing to actually having one. He never did elaborate on what the twenty-four things ahead of reading and remembering were.
“If you weren’t going to take my suggestion, you shouldn’t’ve asked,” she said. Damn. The tone was off. She’d meant to be playful, but her affect was too flat, and she sounded upset. Looks like I still need more practice.
She pressed play, and James said, “Your suggestion was helpful. It allowed me to better gauge my own ordinal preference matrix.”
She yawned loudly, then said, “Your lectures are even better for sleep than baseball.” She pasted a tight-lipped, lopsided smile on her face. This time she’d managed to convey just the right amount of snark.
James laughed. “You are far from the first person to tout my lectures as a cure for insomnia, girl.” He then opened his ‘beer’ and began reading as the game played in the background.
After the first inning, she stood, ready to head to her cot. For an instant, she thought about asking James if he was okay, or mentioning the light, but all she said was, “Well, I think I’m going to read in my bunk.” A coward dies a thousand times.
“Of course,” James replied without taking his eyes from his book.
As she made her way to her private alcove, she stopped at one of the book piles. This one contained works of fiction. Titles like War and Peace, The Red and the Black, A Tale of Two Cities, and Catcher in the Rye stared out at her. She’d read many of them, yet there were so many she hadn’t. You have the rest of your life to get through them. If something doesn’t change soon. If that bulb’s back on. Seventy-one days. Well, you aren’t achieving one of your goals today, so… seventy.