by Won, Mark
He was looking at me like he was expecting some kind of question. Why couldn’t this have waited six hours you damned disciplinarian junkie? I thought it prudent to keep it short, “Er, Why?” Then it occurred to me he’d never wanted a question before.
“As of 07:46 reports of mob activity have been coming in from Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, and Florida. It is spreading as I speak. This suggests a high level of organization. Until I know more we have to assume the worst. I want you with me, in security, until further notice.”
It finally registered, this might be for real. For the first time that morning I gave Major my full attention. I wasn’t exactly dressed my best, and Major never liked the cut of my jib at the best of times. Still, no sigh, no sneer, no contempt of any kind. Not good. Not good at all.
On level 2 we each took a chair and monitored the grounds above with one eye while watching the TV with the other. Up top it all looked good. Electric fence running smoothly, all security cameras giving feed, all dome doors locked. The initial check took about five minutes.
On the tube we saw reports of the ‘massive mob phenomenon’ spreading all over the country and beyond. Every one in the affected areas changed, even the reporters. That was the most chilling thing. One minute a talking head was telling us all about it, and the next the reporter was a rampaging monster. Or, sometimes, getting torn apart by a rampaging monster that used to be the camera guy. Most of our information came from satellite images. If this kept up the whole world would be different.
No more politicians, no more federal government, no more state government. No more getting state aid and selling it to the bars in town, no more thousands of dollars in tax returns for being ‘jobless’.
All I could say was, “This blows.”
I was supposed to start calling the tenants. That was part of the protocol. The idea was to figure out who was actually in the silo. Since there were no cameras in the condos, calling was the fastest way. But first I needed Major to hit the emergency button. About that time his phone rang.
He picked up and listened for a second before hanging up. I figured that meant it was a tenant who had watched the news and was wondering what to do. Major hit the ‘alert’ button and the prerecorded emergency message was announced over the intercom. We must have done this a dozen times, but this was the first time the message said ‘this is not a drill’.
The first tenant I called was Pete Fuller. Condo number 4. That meant it was on level 4. I asked him my question “Who is in your unit?”
The tenants all knew the drill. Their job was to answer the question so I could move on to the next. We’d done this in all the drills. Fail to answer and get skipped.
Pete was cooperative. I wondered if he had any idea what was going on. He was into computer tech and did all his work out of his home. He said “Me, Sophia, Tony, Liz, and Tonya.” I thanked him and hung up. That was his whole family. One down, ten to go.
Next was Tess and Robert Parker. They had two kids, Joey and Lucy. He also answered clearly and everyone was accounted for.
Level 6 was split into two condos. First I called Tammy and Donna Anthony in 6A. They were a couple of big time earners for certain political movements and politicians. Getting all those contributions had made them very rich. So I asked my question. I had hoped Sue would pick up, but Tammy answered, “What’s going on?” in a panicky voice. I hung up and called the next number. I’d circle back to them.
Condo 6B answered, “Dr. Donald Wright, Miss Carla Potter,” before I even asked. He was actually a retired dentist. His girlfriend was really hot. Total gold digger.
Level 7 was another split. Mr. Smith and his very lovely wife, Lorry, were both at home. She’d still done some work in the fashion industry but both were present when I called, with no guests.
The answer from 7B came from Judy Hunt. A nice old lady, about fifty. She came from a rich family as did her husband, Gus. They were there with their granddaughter, Doreen, who was visiting for a week. After the news reports I thought it likely her stay would be prolonged.
Condominium 8A had Arthur Page, his wife Natalia and son Boris (poor kid). Natalia was a mail order bride from Russia. Friendly, but very high maintenance. Arthur had to sell a lot of stocks to keep her happy, I’m sure.
The call I placed to 8B took ten rings before it was answered. That was the last ring I was supposed to wait for. I was getting worried that Mr. Magog might have turned into a psychotic cannibal like the news crews. But he picked up the phone, and the first thing he said was, “What the fuck? Do you know the goddamned time?! It’s like 8 o’clock in the fucking morning! Can’t we ever do this shit in the afternoon? You fucked, fucking, fucker! Put that fucking, piece of shit, Rambo wannabe on right now! Who fucking died and made him fucking Hitler anyway!? Motherfucker.” Mr. Magog was maybe my favorite tenant. I really felt I could learn a lot from him. He used to be a big name in the entertainment industry. A very famous post rap rapper before cashing in some of his millions and retiring here. I’m pretty sure ‘Magog’ wasn’t his given name.
All I said was, “Who is in your unit?”
He hung up. I had to laugh. That Mr. Magog was hilarious. I’d circle back to him too.
Major said, “Something funny?” in a disapproving sort of way. What a buzz kill.
“Just Mr. Magog, Major.” Those two were like oil and water. Or maybe salt and wounds would be a better analogy.
“Carry on.” As if I had anything else on my plate. What a putz.
9A was home to single mom Betty Cook and her young daughter Stardimple. With a name like that it’s just as well she was schooled in the vault. The real world would eat her alive. Stardimple answered the phone, “Hi Luke, can I watch cartoons on the movie screen later on?” She was a cutie. Smart too. She knew who’d be calling after the alert.
“Sorry kiddo, not today. Who’s there with you?
“Nobody, just me and Mom.” I made sure to get Betty on the phone to confirm before hanging up.
I admit to some trepidation concerning my next call. Condo 9, the Glover residence. If anyone could be a dumb fucker it would be Phil. “Who is in your unit?” Thank God for protocol.
“Is that you, Luke? The toilet’s clogged again. When all this is all over could-” I banged that phone down on its cradle as hard as I could. That motherfucker has got to be kidding me!
“Problem?” That from Major.
“Mr. Glover clogged his toilet again, is all.” I got the impression Major’s glower was directed at someone besides me for a change.
“So, Major, who is in your unit?” Protocol could be funny. Major lived alone, of course. Which was totally understandable. Who could put up with him? Why would anyone want to?
“Mrs. Annabelle Archer.”
My jaw dropped. “Who?”
“Mrs. Annabelle Archer.”
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“A friend.”
“A girlfriend?” I had to know.
He looked irritably at me. I was unmoved. Finally, he answered, “Yes.” Holy shit! Major with a girlfriend. How was that even possible? I wondered if she were an antique, like him, or maybe blind. I was going to have to go over some of the stairwell security footage to catch a glimpse of her.
After staring at Major until his responsive glare became dangerous, I got back to work. I called unit 6A again and Donna picked up that time. She said “Tammy, Donna and Susan Brownell are all here.” Good. A straight answer.
Susan was Tammy and Donna’s daughter but Tammy was the actual mom. Susan’s middle name was Brownell. I knew that because the moms wouldn’t let anyone forget it, least of all her. They never just called her ‘Susan’, it was always ‘Susan Brownell’. “Susan Brownell, it’s your responsibility to graduate early.” “Susan Brownell, you must maintain your 4.0 GPA if you intend to enter the finest of colleges.” “Susan Brownell, if you wish it, someday you could be the first lesbian president of the United States of America!”
Susan was eighteen when we started going out. Also, not to be a jerk or anything, definitely not homosexual, if you know what I mean. Thank Christ for teenage rebellion. She was the only chick I ever met who never needed me to have more money. Which, conversely, made me want to make more money. Once I got enough cash we’d planned on leaving together. Her plan was for us to live in a houseboat and sail the Caribbean.
Now, seven years later, she was done with collage, had her degrees in political science and law and absolutely no desire to be a politician or lawyer. Her parents zeal had pretty much driven poor Susan directly and irrevocably into my arms. Thanks, Moms!
Then I got back to Mr. Magog. I asked him who was there and he said “Just me and Shine and Joy and, I dunno, I call her Bliss.” Then to someone there with him, “Hey! what’s your fucking name?! Yeah, I can’t fucking pronounce that. So, Bliss.” Back to me “You fucking happy now? You dumb fuck motherfucking, fag motherfucker.” He was in fine form that morning. What a guy.
Finally, I called Phil again. “Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no! What’s going on!? Oh my god, what are we going to do?! Help us! Someone, God, please help us!” I couldn’t tell which one was on the phone.
I gave the phone to Major and said “It’s for you.” Let him coax an answer out of those two blathering idiots.
By that time Bob had joined us. Major had called him just after me but Bob had his own chores to do in lock down. Checking water, mechanical, stores, whatever. Major checked his watch and liked what he saw. “You made good time.” I knew Bob well enough to realize that the only reason he made ‘good time’ was because he’d skipped something.
Bob was a former marine, so in Major’s eyes Bob could do no wrong. When Bob and I were working on the same job, he got all the credit and I got all the blame. Once, I surreptitiously switched work schedules with Bob. I arranged things so that I got to do the maintenance work in the well lit and aromatically scented store, and he got to handle all the maintenance work in the level 14 sub basement, dank, dark, morlock fucking breeding ground, pump room. Guess what? I caught the blame for doing crap work in the pump room and Bob got the praise for all the work I’d done in the store. Not that I’m bitter or anything.
While I’d been calling inside the silo, Major had been calling outside. He got almost no answers. The couple of times he did get answered, the calls lasted for a while, then suddenly stopped. The line didn’t go dead, the people on the other end just stopped talking. Creepy. Mr. Ready didn’t answer, either. I kinda felt bad about that. He was a good guy.
There seemed only one probable conclusion: Whatever had happened had either killed or altered everyone in the whole world in about half a day. Logically, the only reason we’d escaped the effect was because of the silo. I immediately double checked the air intake status. We were still sealed and safe.
Chapter 2: Powwow, the Joys of Protocol, and Water Sports
“What are we going to do? Who’s going to save us?! We need help! Right now!! Oh my god! What are we going to do?” That from Cindy. Her husband was no better.
All the adults were assembled in the lounge, with the kids across the way in the theater. I’d put on a couple dozen cartoons for them. I wished I could be in there with them. Who knew and end of the world powwow could be this repetitious or boring.
Major really showed some restraint, “We are all safe here. We need to remain calm. There is no use in panicking. We have established protocols for this scenario. We have enough supplies to last four years. Eight if we use the quarantine rations. Even longer if we reduce our intake. Our objectives now are to keep the doors sealed and await contact.”
That wasn’t the first time in the last ten minutes that he’d said those exact same words. Somehow Bob got to monitor the cameras while I got stuck listening to this crap. I needed a nap.
The doctor began, “Contact from-”
Dr. Wright was suddenly cut off by Phil, “Contact from who?! Is FEMA taking calls?” He grabbed his phone and started dialing. “Why aren’t they answering?” What a fucking moron.
To her husband, Natalia whispered, “Vhat a fucking moron.” It was like she read my mind with a super cute Russian accent.
Major said, “I still haven’t given up hope that some semblance of authority may still exist. Also, we are not the only vault program. Finally, it is possible that Mr. Ready is still alive and en route.” Yeah right.
Gustav asked, “If this is really it, just us and maybe another few vaults, what will we do after our eight years are up?” I knew he was thinking of his granddaughter in the next room.
“Then we open up the vault and face the music. We won’t have a choice at that time. We will either begin to rebuild or we will die.” Several gasps from the crowd. “I must point out, however, that eight years is a long time for our situation to change. The prudent course of action is to wait and see.”
“Fuck that noise! What we need to do is get out there and start looking around!” That from Mr. Magog. “We need to see what the fuck is going on! Not just sit on our asses making phone calls!”
That got Mrs. Fuller a bit panicky. Made me a little panicky, too. She said, “We can’t open the doors! We can’t let whatever did this get in here! That would be suicide!” She looked imploringly at Major for support.
Support was forthcoming, “That is correct, Mrs. Fuller. The vault doors will remain sealed. No one is allowed in or out. It is simply too dangerous in this situation.”
Mr. Magog, “Well, Fuck you! I fucking go anywhere I fucking want you dumb motherfucker. I’d like to see you fucking stop me! You motherfucking jarhead, piece of shit, motherfucker.”
I tried to calm things down by interrupting “You ladies look like you have something to say. This is an open forum.”
Either Shine, Bliss, or Joy (I didn’t know the difference yet) spoke up, “We want to go home.” All three looked terrified.
I told them gently, “I don’t know where your homes are, but everyone there is either dead or been changed into a psycho killer. I’m sorry, but it’s the same for everyone, everywhere. Try calling. Keep calling. If no one ever picks up, then there’s no one left to answer. This is your home now.”
Mr. Magog spoke up, “Fuck that shit! These bitches were a fun ride but I ain’t sharing my shit for eight fucking years with no ho! I’m getting the fuck out of here!” There seemed to be a contradiction in there somewhere.
The girls started crying and I lost my temper a bit. I said, “Mr. Magog, If you want out I do know one way. If you’ll follow me I’ll explain when we get back to your rooms.” I thought Major read my intention. He nodded at me, anyway. Anything to get rid of that problem, and I was happy to help.
Once in the elevator I started to try reason one more time. Mr. Magog interrupted me, “Look, your a cute kid for a motherfucking drone, but I ain’t gonna fuck you for letting me out. You can’t suck my dick either. I know how you fags think. Just show me the door, I’ll take my shit and leave.”
I had to ask, “Why did you ever want to be in a vault like this in the first place, Mr. Magog?”
“To fucking get away from the press and avoid fucking subpoenas. It’s been a nice little fuck hole, too. Turned out to be a real fucking dick warmer magnet.
As soon we stepped into his rooms and out of camera range, I spun him around and said, “The only way you’re getting out of here today is if I end your life. So would you rather shut the fuck up or take the one beating your father forgot to give you?”
I gave him the first punch. I didn’t let it connect, of course, but he had his shot. I’m skinny, but at six foot five I had plenty of reach. Mr. Magog had a big mouth and lots of money. Neither of those were much use to him for the next few minutes.
I made sure to only break a few of his ribs. That and a couple of middle fingers. And maybe a few teeth. But nothing really important. I was pretty sure he’d be able to see again once the swelling in his eyes went down. Oh, and I broke his jaw, too. That way I wouldn’t ha
ve to listen to him anymore.
Then I put him in bed with a stern warning. I said, “I hope you take this as a stern warning. Stay in you rooms until Major, Bob, or I say otherwise. You’ll treat those guests of yours like royal fucking princesses or I’ll make you wish you had. Never contradict Major again. Behave yourself. Or else.” I think he and I had finally achieved a true mutual understanding.
I called Bob and informed him that Mr. Magog was a risk and that I’d placed him ‘under house arrest’, ‘for his own good’. Bob would keep a watch on the cameras to make sure Mr. Magog didn’t try anything offensive.
Well, that was more fun than I’d had in years, outside of Sue’s company. I was just about skipping by the time I got back to the lounge.
I overheard Major just as I got back, “Whoever is responsible for this seems to have let the attack get entirely out of control. No nation on earth was spared. If any group of people remains unharmed they are unknown at this time. We will keep listening to monitor the situation. But at this time I am fairly confident there are no foreign threats.”
He glanced at me so I smiled and said, “Mr. Magog has reconsidered his position. He’d like to stay, if you’ll allow it, Major. He wanted me to convey his apologies for his earlier outburst and assure you that you have his full support. Also, if you ladies wish, you are welcome to stay with him, as his guests, for as long as you like. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”
Some people were looking at me kind of funny so I wiped that smile off my face and tried to be a bit more somber, in keeping with the situation. Still felt good though. Why hadn’t I given that blowhard a smackdown ages ago? Oh yeah, the police. I was beginning to see an upside to this new reality. How intriguing.