by Bryn Roar
The darkness fell on him at once. His heartbeat quickened and a clammy sweat broke out on his forehead. Once again, claustrophobia had grabbed Rusty by his tiny balls. Confined spaces scared him spitless. He preferred the clubhouse on top of the wax museum—though he’d never confided as much to his friends. They were already too aware of some of his other phobias. Dogs, bullies, and the dark, just to name a few. Rusty was a coward at heart, and that was of course no secret at all. Besides, he knew that Bud preferred this stupid hole in the ground to the museum rooftop. Josie once told him that Bud would often camp out here by himself in the Bunker—something Rusty wouldn’t have done on a million dollar bet.
He could hear his friend ahead of him, sliding down into the alcove. Rusty lifted his legs over the lip and tucked his head down so he wouldn’t hit it on the overhead rungs. The dark slide down, as always, seemed to take forever.
Once in the alcove he stayed put until Bud fired up a few candles. With the stuttering light came relief.
Rusty felt the weight of the underground room ease up on his chest. They were below ground level now and could stand all the way up, the ceiling being a few inches above Bud’s head at this point.
Josie almost slid into the back of Rusty’s legs.
“Outta the way, Gnat! Didn’t Betty Anne teach you not to play in traffic? What a maroon.”
“There ain’t no traffic on Moon, you ditzy redhead,” he said, stepping into the light.
The portal to the Bunker itself looked very much like an old bank vault. Not at all what you’d expect of a small air raid shelter. But then again, this wasn’t a backyard bunker, built by some Nervous Ned from the 1950’s. Back when nuclear war seemed so imminent. This was the real deal, built by an Army to save the highest-ranking officers on this lonely island outpost. The one-foot-thick steel door was cylindrical in shape and looked nigh impregnable. Several steel bolts (about the width of Popeye’s forearms) lined the length of this monstrosity. A large hand crank, which looked sort of like a Captain’s wheel, occupied the middle section. Spin it clockwise, you extended the locking bolts; spin it counter-clockwise, and the heavy bolts retracted, allowing you (hopefully) to leave the Bunker.
Rusty had his doubts.
Looped loosely around the spokes of this iron wheel was a short heavy chain, from which also a hefty combination padlock dangled unlatched. Josie and Rusty never questioned its purpose. One day, like so many items in the Bunker, it was just there. Several cinder blocks propped open this impressive monolith. Rusty had put them there many moons ago, fearing the door would otherwise close of its own accord and seal them underground. Bud liked to dog him about that, but Rusty didn’t let it bother him. Except for the three of them, nobody knew about this place. If that damn door closed, this concrete crypt could very well be their final resting place.
Bud stepped into the Bunker.
Long and narrow, the Bunker’s walls, floor, and ceiling had been constructed of concrete and countless strands of reinforcing rebar. Poking out from the middle of this depressing gray ceiling was an exhaust vent. It was twice as long and wide as a normal cooling vent, and brought air in and out (the Bunker was never stuffy), though Bud had yet to find its outside source. He thought it was probably somewhere in that pile of rubble over their heads. Thankfully the demolition hadn’t crushed or blocked its crucial access. A small living space occupied the front half. It contained an old couch, two flanking stuffed chairs—all of which were leaking their padding—and a scarred but sturdy ‘50’s era coffee table.
The furniture had been there when Bud discovered the Bunker, covered in dingy white sheets. The years had taken their toil, but that ugly shit wasn’t going anywhere. Not without taking it apart piecemeal. Besides, the clunky furnishings seemed right at home in this forgotten fortress.
In an attempt to make some sort of peace with the dreary room, theCreeps had papered the gray walls with old movie posters. In Rusty’s opinion it was like putting lipstick on a lizard. Just focused your attention on how damned ugly it was. They’d once made frozen margaritas down here with a battery-operated blender, hoping a little alcohol would accomplish what the posters had not.
In retrospect, tequila might not have been the wisest choice for their first foray into underage drinking. Ever since that hazy, hungover day Rusty and Josie had referred to the downstairs dump as Margaritaville. It made light of what was to them a despairing dungeon.
Bud saw it differently, of course.
To him it was The Bunker.
Capital T. Capital B.
It was, he insisted, their salvation.
As Bud lit more wicks, Rusty took another deep breath. He always felt as if the air was running out down here. He dropped into the chair that looked back into the room. The many candles illuminated a kitchenette— complete with stove, fridge, sink, and kitchen table just past the living area. It was a fairly useless room, however, as the generator once used to power the Bunker was long gone. A heavy black curtain separated the sleeping quarters from the living space. Behind the curtain were two rows of bunk beds, four beds in total, with another air vent overhead. Bud had replaced the musty mattresses with new bedding, and for some strange reason changed the linen every other month or so, even though Rusty and Josie never slept down here. A small bathroom followed the bunks—the plumbing, unlike the electricity, still functional after all these years; connected, Bud assumed, to the Army Base’s water works. Past the john was a long storage room. Metal shelves lined both walls all the way back to the concrete wall in the rear. When Bud first discovered the Bunker, the storage room had been completely empty. Over time, he’d filled nearly three quarters of the available space with dry goods and survival gear. Using money he’d earned working at the wax museum, Bud had bought three cases of Eveready batteries. They serviced the six Maglite flashlights, lined up like tin soldiers beside them, as well as the Weather Band radio they listened to during their meetings. Surprisingly enough, it got decent reception in the Bunker. It was tuned to an AM station out of Savannah that played a lot of old-time radio shows, like The Green Hornet and The Shadow.
Other items on the shelves included: a propane stove, as well as a propane lantern, complete with four cases of refill canisters, a kerosene heater, plus a few liters to supply her, two hurricane lamps and two gallons of oil to keep them fueled. Untold numbers of candles and matches, five cases of Dinty Moore beef stew, the same of Chicken and Dumplings, multiple jars of peanut butter, canned vegetables, soup, spaghetti, tuna fish, chili, bottled water, powdered milk, crackers, cereal, and various other items; such as: utensils, pots and pans, blankets, salt and pepper, toilet paper and the like. A fully stocked, professional grade, Emergency Field First Aid Kit took up one whole shelf, along with generic antibiotics, multi-vitamins and over the counter medicines.
Aside from the fact that Bud’s preparations seemed to border on survivalist hysteria, the staples and supplies in the back room were all fairly innocuous.
That is until Bud showed you his arsenal. Locked in a large, metal footlocker at the end of the storeroom, was Bud’s impressive weapons cache. Bud had shown them the locker’s contents shortly after his return from a “Solo Fishing Trip,” back in mid-August. A Yale lock secured the five-foot-long locker. Bud had opened it with a key he kept hidden in a dummy can of Dinty Moore.
Inside the locker, held fast in cutout foam packing, were four shotguns, the kind with a pump action—Rusty hadn’t known what gauge, at the time he’d been blissfully ignorant of such things. Even so, he could tell they were all brand new. There were also five handguns in their original boxes. Three Colt .45 semi-automatics, and two Smith & Wesson .38 revolvers. Included in the locker were several sheathed knives, the kind of pig-sticker Rambo used with such weary ferocity in First Blood.
Ropes, a flare gun, and finally a bed of assorted ammunition (enough to supply Sgt. Fury and his Howling Commandos on a suicide mission) rounded out Bud’s armory. Bud had expected them to be excited about his newfou
nd toys, but their reaction had been one of dread.
“What’s all this for?” Josie had asked him, a combination of pity and terror in her eyes.
“For when the shit hits the fan,” was all Bud would say about it. He’d snapped the lid shut with a bang—sorry that he’d shown it to them at all.
Rusty had refused to let it go at that. “Bud, you think it’s wise for someone with your…problems…to own this much weaponry? Or any weaponry, for that matter?”
Josie had glared at Rusty for that. For once in his life, though, he didn’t back down. He knew Bud wouldn’t intentionally harm another human being, but he’d seen him lose his temper before, and that guy…well, that guy would probably shoot first and ask questions later.
At first Bud looked hurt, and then with a grunt he shook his head. “I suppose that’s a fair question, Gnat, what with the way I damn near killed Charlie Noonan. You still ought to know me better than that, though. I’d never shoot someone unless he was out to kill me or someone I loved. No matter how fucked up my head is! Like I told you guys before… it’s for when the shit hits the fan.”
“Your dreams?” Josie had asked him. Bud shrugged and nodded. She lifted up one of the .45’s, surprised at how heavy it was. Like a brick. Josie imagined it probably kicked like an angry mule. “Is there a particular reason for this make and model?”
Bud had reddened at that. “Cause they’re just like the ones in my dreams. Same type of handguns, same shotgun. Same make, same model. I was just following the blueprint. Until recently, I didn’t know jack about guns.”
Truth was, he still wondered why he chose the older model 45’s, when the newer 9mm’s were so much easier to handle. The difference in the shells had made up Bud’s mind. The 9mm slug looked less lethal compared to the .45.
More stopping power, Bud had concluded, choosing the sturdier Colt’s.
“Where’d you get the money for all this, Buddy boy?” Rusty had prodded him gently. “Your old man doesn’t pay you near this kind of scratch!”
“Yeah, love! This stuff must have cost a mint!”
“I didn’t buy them,” Bud had growled at them in return. He turned his back on his friends and walked away.
As far as Bud Brown was concerned, the subject of “How and Why” was henceforth closed.
Josie and Rusty had felt otherwise.
That night Rusty perused his parents’ old newspapers, going as far back as Bud’s fishing trip.
It didn’t take too long for Rusty to find what he was looking for: The article wasn’t much bigger than an obituary. It stated that on the evening of August 15, the Semper Fi Gunshop, on West Bay Street, had been burglarized by person(s) unknown. Four Mossberg shotguns were stolen, along with three Colt .45’s and two Smith & Wesson revolvers. The perpetrator(s) also absconded with several hundred dollar’s worth of assorted ammunition. There were no suspects at that time.
Rusty had shown the paper to Josie at first light. The two of them had discussed the matter at length and made a pledge to keep quiet about it. They weren’t mad that Bud had lied to them. They knew he was going through some inner turmoil that they couldn’t begin to understand. That he had only been trying to protect them from his criminal misdeeds. Well, three could play that game! If Bud wouldn’t look after himself, then they’d do it for him! Even if it meant never letting him out of their sights again.
Hoping to convince Bud to get rid of the guns, they confronted him about the burglary. Bud never denied it, but neither would he fess up to the larceny.
They understood why. Admitting his crime would make them accomplices in the eyes of the law.
Bud’s continued silence on the matter eventually wore them down, and they stopped bringing it up altogether. Choosing instead to join him in his madness.
It was clearly important to Bud, so it became important to them. After all, they were family.
Since then they’d put themselves to the test every chance they got. Rusty had insisted that they fire the weapons only while out at sea. Whenever he could borrow his daddy’s Chris Craft, that is. When it came to target practice, the Pines were Off Limits! At least that way the local sheriff couldn’t catch Bud with the stolen firearms.
Although Bud wasn’t at first happy with this concession, it soon became apparent that hitting a floating object on a constantly moving surface took a great deal of skill and practice. It was a far superior test than shooting tin cans off a stump, and he soon became a deadeye with all three firearms. Rusty and Josie, while now thoroughly familiar with the weaponry Bud had provided, still needed a lot of target practice to get to his level of expertise. As long as Bud’s obsession didn’t escalate, though, they didn’t mind humoring him. And to their relief, the weapons cache didn’t grow any larger (even though the ammo seemed to stay at a constant, despite the hundreds of rounds they’d gone through since), and after awhile they relaxed their guard, assuming the worst of Bud’s obsession was over.
Josie took off her coat, tossed it on top of Bud’s, and picked up a deck of cards lying on the table. She settled into the chair, across from Rusty, and began shuffling the well-thumbed deck. Anything to keep her nervous hands busy. Like Gnat, she wasn’t especially fond of Margaritaville. No matter how many candles you lit, it was too damn dark down here. Bud refused to use either the hurricane lamps or the propane lamp, insisting on saving them for “An Emergency.”
As always, his friends just humored him.
Josie looked over at Bud and suppressed a sigh. He was lounging on the sofa reading a comic book; they had a big box of them by the couch. As she shuffled the cards, she studied the boy she adored, using her peripheral vision.
“C’mon, let’s get on with it,” Rusty said, tossing his coat on top of the others. It was their habit to leave their club coats in the Bunker over the weekends. At least when it was so hot out. They’d drop by again on Sunday to pick them up and hang out a little.
“All right,” Bud yawned. He flipped a tattered Werewolf by Night back into the cardboard box. “I’ve read this one at least twice. We need to bring some new comic books down here. So what do you think, Short Round?”
“Shiiitt, man. Why you asking me first?”
“Cause it’s obvious how Big Red and I feel. I think he’d make a goodCreep. Just think of it, man: free movies!” Bud said it with a casual air that belied his true feelings. One way or another, Tubby’s joining our group.
Rusty’s top lip curled up. “Is that why you want to make Opie aCreep?” Despite his cynical tone, Rusty was intrigued. He hadn’t thought of that angle himself, the movies. Nobody loved movies as much as he did! Hmmm. Maybe I could talk Tubby into showing me that projector…
“Hell no! I honestly like the guy. But we all contribute, Gnat. That’s just part of the deal. When’s the last time you paid to come into the museum?”
“Yeah, you’re right. It’s just…
“What is it, love?” Josie gently prodded him.
She set the cards down and stared at Rusty with that intense green gaze of hers. Though differently colored, both of his friends had those Amy Irving kind of eyes. Iridescent irises that seemed to shimmer and shine. When they turned those psychedelic peepers on you, it could be very unsettling. Rusty averted his own eyes, knowing Josie could always tell what he was thinking.
He stared down at his shoes. “It’s always been just the three of us,” he said softly, trying to keep the whiney tone out of his voice. Truth was, Rusty was scared of losing his friends. And he wasn’t too keen on sharing them, either. “Why do we need to bring in anyone else at all?”
“Is that your vote then?” Bud sighed. “No?”
Rusty’s cheeks burned with shame. His friends looked at him a little sadly, as if he’d disappointed them.
Shiiitt! Manipulating me is what they’re doing!
Attempting indifference, he shrugged and spat on the floor. The way Bud did, when he was pissed. Only Rusty could never pull it off. Spittle always ended up on his chin
or coat. “No,” he said, wiping his mouth. “I was just thinking out loud, is all! A brother can still do that, can’t he? Hell, I like him too! Let’s make dopey Opie aCreep.”