Callie stopped licking herself, glanced at me for a brief second then went back to grooming.
“Well, I think it’s pretty darn good.” I ripped off a piece of duct tape and hung my masterpiece on the only flat surface in the bunker—the bombproof door. If only I’d taken my time like this on my school art projects, maybe I would’ve produced something worthy of a grade higher than a C. Oh, well. But one thing was clear: I had talent, even if Mrs. Dillagre didn’t think so. No one looking at my shading and texturing of Cinderella could think otherwise.
I stared at the door with my crooked coloring page dangling from it. I hadn’t opened the door since the day the men tried to break in. I hadn’t dared. That also meant I hadn’t taken a full-fledged shower since then either. The only shower was in the decontamination area, and with the door shut I had no access to it. Sponge baths helped, but barely hid my stink, not like it mattered.
Who did I have to impress? Callie? I actually think she preferred my malodor.
The earth no longer rumbled, and no one had banged on the square door in an effort to get in—not since that day anyway—but having one extra door between me and the world gave me comfort.
“Should I open it? Huh?”
Callie arched her back and stretched. She jumped down from the couch, came to me, and rubbed herself against my ankles. That seemed like a yes.
“You want more space to explore? Is that it?” The decontamination area was only four feet long, if that, but cramped in our tiny space it may as well have been a football field. More room. More possibilities. And I could really use a shower.
I refused to open it without being prepared. No way. So I grabbed my gun off the top bunk—close, if I needed it, but not in the way—and reached out my hand to open one of the latches. If someone had managed to blast a hole through the square door, then I’d shut the bomb door once more. Simple. Who needed a shower anyway?
One latch clicked open, then another. I really could have used both hands free, but I had no plans to set the gun down at all. One handed, I removed each latch and opened the door, a crack at first, then a little more.
Callie shot past my feet and ran into the new area. Damn it. I should have realized that would happen. Now I didn’t have a choice but to open the door the entire way if I wanted my cat back.
Cautious, I continued to hold the gun and pushed the door all the way open. My heart pounded, but seeing the square door above me secured and undamaged from this side brought me a lot of relief. I lowered my gun and stepped into the dark area.
There wasn’t much to it. The door, which led to the world above, the ladder to climb up or down, and the shower area. Not much at all. It was kind of a disappointment, like waiting all of December to open the biggest present under the tree to only find out it was a stupid desk for studying and not the stereo system Santa was supposed to have brought.
It wasn’t as though I hadn’t seen the area when I’d first come into the shelter, but after nearly two weeks of not seeing it, I guess I’d hoped for more. Even Callie seemed a bit put-off by it. She wandered around, rubbing herself against the walls before returning to her favorite napping spot on the couch.
In that moment, I kind of wanted to do the same. Sleeping at least made the time go by quicker.
I made sure the safety was on my gun and tucked it into the waistband of my pants, then scaled the ladder, a bit afraid, but not nearly as much as before, to listen for any sound—anyone talking, screams, gunfire, anything. Nothing but silence greeted me.
It would be so easy to unlatch the door and step out, breathe in fresh air and take in my surroundings. I could finally figure out what was happening. Only three latches separated me from leaving the shelter. Dad had said to wait, and I had for two long weeks. He wasn’t coming back; I knew that now.
But I climbed down the ladder and stared at the door. My mind wondered endlessly about what might be happening above, but opening the door would bring reality crashing down around me. What if I didn’t like what reality had to offer? What if it was terrifying and awful?
Nope. I would leave another day, when I felt more ready.
I turned the knob on and a fine stream flowed out of the detachable shower head. Not cold, but not hot either. Lukewarm at best.
Letting it run didn’t help, but I gathered a towel and some soap. Even though it wasn’t a steamy hot shower as I would have liked, it did the job and I stood under the stream for a long, long time.
Twenty-six days.
I was getting lazy and fat, which didn’t make a ton of sense, especially since much of the food down here sucked—processed and canned, yum—but with so little to do, I kept finding myself camped out on the couch, watching movies over and over while snacking on anything I could get my hands on. Sometimes salty. Sometimes sweet. Whatever it took to match my mood. I actually tried sardines once out of salty desperation. Yeah, sardines. I could only stomach one, but Callie sure seemed to enjoy them, so I gave her the rest. She could have them all.
Some days I ate mashed potatoes—well, a form of mashed potatoes—add hot water and mix together. The mac and cheese I’d polished off the week before—the only thing tasting half decent. Dried fruit. Canned veggies. Beef jerky. I ate a whole bottle of peanut butter in one sitting once by dipping my fingers inside the jar like an animal. I didn’t care and at the time it tasted wonderful, but now, the very idea of anything peanut-related made my stomach curl in on itself.
The food was gross, but I ate it anyway, and had become a big underground couch potato blob.
Twelve days ago, I’d told myself I would leave this place after thirty days. I would pack up, get brave, and head out of here. But four days didn’t seem like nearly enough time. I shouldn’t have screwed around, doing nothing, watching movies all day.
I pinched my belly fat, holding my skin between my thumb and forefinger. I hadn’t gotten obese yet, but I needed to make some serious changes. Who knew how far I might have to walk once I headed outside or if I might have to be physical with someone, heaven forbid.
I’d lived twenty-six days down here, on my own, and to poke my head outside only to have someone knock it off would really blow.
I couldn’t exactly go for a walk anytime I wanted. The shelter wasn’t equipped for exercise, just surviving, so I had to make do with whatever came to hand—not much.
I grabbed a mattress off one of the beds and tossed it on the floor in front of the couch to give me a little cushioning, then put on a little music—oldies my dad listened to—and slipped my feet under the couch for leverage. Ten sit-ups sounded like a good place to begin.
But in reality, ten sit-ups felt like hell.
I couldn’t believe how out of shape I’d become. I wasn’t a super athletic person, but I did P.E. every other day at school, which should count for something—all those laps and dodging balls. Twenty-six days shouldn’t have erased all that. Though apparently, it had.
I lay on the mattress and took a little rest before attempting another set of sit-ups. By the time I reached twenty my gut burned. No good.
No way I’d be ready in four days.
Forty-two days.
The only type of candle available was one of those thick emergency ones, white and ugly, but I decided to make it work for my purposes. It would have been nice to have seventeen smaller candles, but no such luck. One big fat candle would have to do.
I shoved it in the middle of the ready-to-eat vanilla pound cake—something I’d been saving, but never thought I would actually need. The fat candle destroyed half the cake, turning it into crumbs, but it didn’t matter. Every birthday cake needed a candle.
I lit it and watched the flame fan to its full potential, then turned off the lights to enjoy the shadows that danced across the curved walls, so beautiful. Wax dripped and melted, making a mess, but the tiny light intrigued me. It provided something different in my stagnant little world of repeat DVDs and playing Call of Duty on the X-Box. Who knew a candle could be so entertaini
ng?
It burned to the halfway mark, dripping and smoking, before I leaned over the table and began to sing Happy Birthday to myself. I started softly, but by the last chorus I sang at the top of my lungs, my own words bouncing back at me as they echoed off the walls. In my lunacy, it almost sounded as though a group of people were singing to me and I wasn’t celebrating my birthday on my own.
Callie scrammed to the opposite side of the bunker, her nails scraping on the floor as she crawled between crates and boxes to hide from the racket.
I sang to myself once more from the top, determined to get the most out of a crappy situation, and ignored Callie’s irritated meows in the process.
Finished, I drew in a large breath and held it as I made my wish. Please let Dad and Toby be alive. Then I blew out the candle.
I pretty much wasted my wish, but I didn’t want anything else in the world but that. If Dad or Toby were alive, they would’ve come for me by now. No other explanation made sense. I didn’t want to believe they might be dead, but with each ticking day, it became more and more clear they could be. Dad would have never left me here like this. Not for this long. But it was my birthday and I could wish for whatever I wanted.
Complete darkness encompassed me now that the little flame had died, but I wasn’t afraid. Nothing could get me, not even in the dark. Without my sight, the only sound was my breathing. Callie had gone quiet once I’d stopped singing. She obviously hadn’t been a fan of my vocal abilities, but captive audiences don’t get to have opinions.
I held my hands in front of me and couldn’t see my own fingers. I wiggled them. Still nothing. The darkness was powerful and amazing. Not even a hint of light showed anywhere.
Carefully, I made my way down the center of the bunker, my hands out as a guide. Ten steps to my destination and I recognized the open door to the decontamination area. I ran my fingers over the wall to the right, searching the metal for the switches to turn everything back on.
I flipped the two main switches upward, but the bunker remained in darkness. I tried again. Nothing. The blackness around me no longer felt powerful and amazing, but stifling and heavy. Panicked, I flipped the switches up and down several more times. Come on, come on!
They controlled the generator, which controlled the lights, the heater, and the intake of air. Please, please!
Nothing happened.
My chest tightened and my hands shook. What do I do? I had no idea. Is there a backup? A control panel somewhere? Another switch or button to push? What?
I turned in a circle, wracking my petrified brain for the full layout of the bunker in the pitch dark. Every nook and cranny had been explored, but nothing stood out as the answer.
Shelves of food. Beds. Toilet. Water storage. Disposal. If I had ever found a hidden box with wires to twist to bring everything back to life, I would have run right to it, because bored people explore and touch everything, and I had done both those things!
Yes, there was a crank for the air unit. I could manually bring in fresh air from the outside by continually turning the lever, but for how long? That wouldn’t bring back the lights, the electricity, everything else I needed to survive.
I managed to get myself turned around in my tiny hole in the earth, and as my hands brushed over the walls in a frenzy to grab onto something, my chest squeezed tighter and breathing became more difficult.
I tried to reorient myself and couldn’t. Was I facing the front or the back? The bunker was only so big, but it seemed to have increased and decrease in size at the same time. One second, it was huge. The next it felt like a coffin.
How much air did I have? Five minutes? Ten? An hour?
Questions swirled inside my head, blurring my thoughts, but one thing was for certain: I had to get out of there.
Frantic, I grabbed the wall to use as my guide, refusing to let go for even a second. When I came to the open door, I nearly tumbled through it, but caught myself in time, finally realizing where I was. With my arms stretched out in front of me, I managed to find my way along the bunk beds, past the couch, and to the kitchen area.
The candle remained in the cake with the lighter at its side, and when I relit it and the tiny light began to glow, I took in a great big lungful of air, just noticing I’d been holding it the entire time.
“Okay, okay, okay.” I scanned the layout of the bunker while holding the edge of the table to remain upright and steady my wobbling knees. “Think.”
I forced myself to move and grabbed a lantern off the shelf, which I fumbled with it until it switched on. A huge sigh of relief escaped my throat as the presence of light eased my panic somewhat.
Whether I was ready to go outside and face the world—or whatever remained of it—was no longer relevant. The air would eventually run out and living in the dark didn’t seem all that appealing.
I gave the crank to the air intake several twists, buying more time, and easing my worry that I just might pass out from lack of air before I could move.
Callie crept out from her hiding place, looking at me cautiously, as if I might break out singing again—even though any thoughts of birthday celebration had long passed.
Thoughts crashed around inside my brain, but I managed to haul out my duffle bag, organize my supplies, and add more things that would come in handy—matches, water bottles, air mask, first aid supplies, medicine, knives, lightweight food, and extra clothing.
The bag would be heavy, but I didn’t want to leave anything behind in case I might need it later. As long as I kept busy, there wasn’t time to think about my situation, so I didn’t stop gathering items until Callie jumped onto the bed and walked along the edge.
“What am I going to do with you, huh?”
The kitten rubbed against the side of the bag then jumped on top of it as if saying, “Enough.”
At the rate I was going, the entire bunker would be shoved inside my duffle bag.
I stared at Callie, and she stared at me. Carrying her in my arms was out of the question—she might bolt once we stepped outside and end up scratching the crap out of me in the process.
Shove her in my bag? She’d hate that, and I wasn’t sure I wanted my cat curling up next to my food and clean underwear.
I flipped open my pocket knife and ran my thumb over the small blade. Ouch! Jeez! A small trickle of blood formed on my skin. Though small, the knife sliced my thumb clean. I grabbed the bag and slid it closer while keeping an eye on my unreliable cat, but Callie rode the thing like a queen perched on a float. She looked up at me with her green eyes, unafraid.
I took the knife and leaned closer. “You’re not going to like this, but it’s for your own good.”
Quickly, I jabbed several holes in the pocket of the duffle bag—air holes—then scooped her up and shoved her inside before she could protest.
She meowed and wiggled around, scratching the fabric in an effort to get out.
“It’s only temporary.” I patted the bulging pocket, trying to calm her. “I promise.”
I’d have to come up with something better soon, but for now it would have to do.
My breath caught in my throat as I looked around the tiny space that had been my home for nearly two months. This was it. Time to go. The number of jumping jacks, stomach crunches, and push-ups I’d done over the past weeks would have to do. I could build muscle and I could build stamina, but bravery was something entirely different—I couldn’t build that. Some things had to be seized.
I shoved the gun in my waistband and tucked the small knife in my pocket before slipping my arms through the straps of the duffle bag and situating the heavy sucker on my back—cat side up. Callie meowed near my ear, but I ignored her, grabbed the lantern, and made my way to the ladder.
Fifteen rungs high, the ladder may as well have been a thousand.
I climbed, reached the top, and placed my hand on one of the latches, but hesitated as Dad’s voice played over inside my head, “Don’t you come out, Tess. You stay put and we’ll be back
. Promise me you won’t open this door.”
For how long, Dad? Until I die in here, waiting for you? You should’ve come back for me.
I flipped open one latch and then another, but with the third, my fingers trembled and I struggled to hold onto the ladder as I removed the final barrier to the outside.
This wasn’t right. I shouldn’t have been celebrating my birthday like this. There would have been a big cake—Dad would have bought me one from Costco—and all my friends would have been at my house, dancing, playing games, and watching movies. Maybe Landon would have been there too, and Toby would have stood in the kitchen doorway making kissy faces at me while making a loser sign with his thumb and forefinger—the dork.
There would have been balloons, streamers, and music. The table would have been piled with presents too—probably a new iPod or concert tickets to One Direction—but instead I stared at the square door over my head, terrified of what waited for me outside.
All of those things—the balloons, the presents, the cake—seemed so dumb now.
I wanted my friends, my dad, and even my stupid brother and his idiotic ways. “Please let them be okay,” I prayed. “Let this be some horrible mistake.”
The last latch unlocked, I used all my strength to push the heavy metal door all the way open.
I lifted my hand to shield my eyes from the intense glare of the sun. The darkness of the bunker plus living without natural light for so long made my sight like a newborn’s emerging from the womb.
Feeling vulnerable, I grabbed my knife from my pocket and held it in front of me, waving it around in the air, though I doubt I would have sliced anyone, even if they were stupid enough to walk into my flailing knife. This was the perfect time for someone to shoot me, stab me, or even eat me because I couldn’t see a damn thing!
Callie screeched her high-pitched panicked meow, and since she sat near my head, I couldn’t hear anything either. Blind and deaf, I had a great urge to jump back inside the hole and forget the whole thing. Being brave would have to wait for another day....
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