Short Story

“Bunker seven-five-nine-Alpha, come in… Bunker 759-Alpha…,” a voice rings out from my walkie-talkie.

“Bunker 759-Alpha… This is Bunker 88-Charlie-Foxtrot-Oscar,” a young, boyish voice says again. “Come in. Are you there?”

I rush to it on the nightstand next to my bunk bed and turn on the small lamp above it.

“Yes, yes! I’m here!” I say, turning the dial for better reception. “This is Bunker 759-Alpha. That’s a copy!” Then I crank the dynamo a few times and see the red light on its power supply light up brighter.

“Ah, good! Reporting that we haven’t seen any suspicious movements from the enemy in a while. Just checking to see if you and your men are ok.” His voice has a staccato rhythm.

I turn to the captain lying on the wooden plank floor. He must have passed out again sometime last night. The colorful medals above his shirt pocket are hidden in the folds of his shirt. He’s leaned up against the wall next to our Wurlitzer Jukebox. He’ll wake up later, I know. But I think our vault is strong enough to withstand an enemy attack. It was freezing cold last night and I can tell that it must be morning outside the bunker because there is condensation on all the steel walls.

Then I turn and look at the lieutenant. She is still on the top bunk of one of our bunker’s 6 bunk beds. The beds each have thin mattresses and are held up by a series of small, interlinking fence-like chains. She doesn’t move. She’s still asleep, I think.

“Yes, we are ok, Bunker 88!” I say. “Both the captain and the lieutenant are resting. I am in charge. Are there any signs that the enemy has changed position?”

“That’s a negative, Bunker 759. But we are maintaining surveillance.”

“Good! Keep us updated on any suspicious activity.”

“Will do! Signing off now.”

“Roger!” I say, turning off the dial and hearing it click. I’ll talk to him again tonight. Or tomorrow… maybe. Or in a few days… or a few weeks. I never know. He’s a Five-star general and has hundreds of troops in three battalions to oversee. None of us know how long this war is going to last. It’s been about a year so far. I am just glad that I keep getting updates from him from time to time.

The captain and lieutenant told me how they spent 18 months loading up this place with provisions. They washed every can… every spoon… every chair… everything inside this bunker with soap and Epsom salt, so that there was no chance of bacteria or polio getting inside. Millions of people have died and memories of wars in Japan and Europe were still fresh in their minds, the lieutenant has said many times. And more, people like us are getting rounded up, identified, and sent to detention camps. No one ever comes back.

My two superiors brought in everything they could think of so that we could stay here. They told me how dangerous it was outside. How it was filled with seen and unseen threats. How the war was on many fronts – and how only here is safe.

I stand and pull my khaki beige sweater tighter over my beige long-johns. Then I walk over to the captain. There is a half-empty bottle of bourbon next to his hand. His back is hunched up against the steel wall and his head is slouched to the side. He snores and slobbers a thick drool. Vomit is on the floor again and I know that he will not clean it up. So, I take the bottle to the table and then the circular 10-step metal staircase down to the kitchen area to look for a towel. There are large water and gas pipes shaped like huge pythons against the walls. A long neon light hangs from the rounded ceiling above. I turn the squeaky handle of the polished faucet and water drizzles out. I’m sure that it has snowed and that this water is, in fact, melted ice. I take a wet towel and walk over to the captain to clean off his shirt. As I wipe up the vomit on his uniform, he moves, but only to shoo me away.

Before heading back to the kitchen area, I look over at the lieutenant. Her body is lying in the same position as last night—facing the wall with her right leg bent over her left. She has been silent a lot.  She and the captain used to argue a lot. But now, there are fewer fights… if any at all, between them. Not since the accident she had with the power generator.

All my life, these officers have been my only companions—excluding the general. But he’s just a faceless voice on a walkie-talkie, echoing throughout these thick, cold steel walls.  

My other companions have been piles of magazines; LIFE, Popular Science, and The Saturday Evening Post – and the dozens of books that the captain and lieutenant have encouraged me to read. They’re all stacked in a row of numbered army lockers. “Patton”, “A Farewell to Arms”, “The Red Badge of Courage”… and so many other military novels have filled my activities during the day and my dreams at night. War. Resistance. Fighting Enemies. Courage.

I know every room of this bunker; a three-leveled fallout shelter with two ventilation shafts. Below this sleeping and living area, there is a kitchen with a large storage place next to it. And below that, there is a room for washing clothes and the bathroom.

I walk down the metallic staircase to the lowest level, hearing my polished black leather boots clang on every step. I fill a copper pot with water and add Tide, Epsom salt, and the towel to it. Then I open one of the green metal drawers and find a box of matches. The drawer itself is nearly full of matchboxes. I then turn on the gas. The small gas tank next to the stove is almost full and is the third we’ve used since I started counting. There are at least ten more stored in the back. I take out a match and strike its sulfur red head. I turn on the gas and watch the blue flame glow to heat up the water.

The captain often says that these walls are solid enough to not only keep the enemy out… but many other threats: Radiation. Viruses. Disease. The End of Days. An Apocalypse or an invasion from Mars. This bunker shelters us. It protects us like an army helmet.

“Jim!” I hear from up in the living area. The captain is up! I think, putting soap and the towel into the big pot.

“Jimmy! Where are you!!” the captain shouts.

“Coming, Sir!” I shout back and run upstairs.

The captain has his eyes open and is hunched over on the floor. He’s looking around and tries to lift himself up – but he’s too fat.

“… oh shit!” He says before I get to him. “Where the hell is my –" he complains as I rush up to him and salute.

“Sergeant Kimsey reporting for duty, Sir!” I say, out of breath.

The captain doesn’t say anything. He just glares at me with a blank expression.

After a moment, he says, “Where the fuck did you put my bottle? It was right here!”

“Here it is, Sir!” I say pivoting to the table and taking his bottle of bourbon.

He snatches it out of my hand.

“Help me up!” He commands, raising his arms. I bend down and help him stand and then to one of the white formica chairs in the “canteen”.  His nearly empty bottle of sleeping pills are on the blue formica table I sit him down next to.

Although I helped him walk a mere five steps, the captain is sweating when he finally plops down on the chair. His skin looks greenish as he opens the bourbon and takes a swig.

“Should I wake the lieutenant, Sir?” I ask.

“No! You leave her up there! She’s fine,” the captain says.

Then for a moment, he gets lost in his thoughts… and then he starts to cry. Every day, throughout the day, sudden uncontrollable sobbing has overcome him for a few moments. I don’t know what to do. After he calms down, he then starts drinking again.

“Captain, is there something I can you want me to do for her—” I begin.

“Captain?!” he shouts. “You leave her alone, okay? Just leave her the fuck alone!”

“Ok,” I answer. “Are you hungry, Sir? Do you want me to make you something?”

“Yeah. Make me some breakfast.”

“What would you—"

“I don’t care!” He shouts.

So, I pivot towards the stairs.

“Wait!... Give me my bucket first,” he says.

I go to the corner and grab the large, white plastic bucket sitting there. I come back and hand it to him. I turn my back to him and hear him unzip his pants and relieve himself into it. I am glad that it is just urine this time. It’s been quite a few months that going up and down the metal staircase has been too hard for him—and he no longer pick vegetables in our small garden.

When he’s finished, I take the bucket and carry the foul-smelling liquid to the basement toilet.

“Bring me another bottle while you’re at it!” He yells, before sobbing again. I go to the kitchen area level and see the last bottle of bourbon from the storage—something that for weeks I have been putting off telling him.

I hand it to him. He turns the bottle cap, cracking it open.

“Sir?” I say.

“What?” I watch his glossy eyes turn to me and feel my knees shake.

“This is the last bottle.”

“What?!” he screams. “…and you’re just sayin’ that now? Fuck!”

“I was afraid to tell you.”

He lets out a long, heavy sigh and shakes his head. Then he looks up at me.

“How old are you?”.

“Fifteen.”

“Shit!”

We both know it’s been a while since we’ve gotten supplies. Every six months, the captain would go for food, water, and gas. He’d leave before I got up and be back after I fell asleep. But not anymore.

“Can I make breakfast now, Sir?”

“Yeah. Go ahead. Make it. Toast. Coffee black,” He says, shooing me away.

I come back with two plates of toast, scrambled reconstituted eggs, coffee, and fried processed ham. The plates are for me and him. I know that the lieutenant never eats breakfast. The captain looks upset. Worried and anxious.

“I have a headache,” he says as I put his plate down.

“Do you need your pills?”

“Get ‘em.”

I go to the metal cabinets and find a near empty box of aspirin.

When I hand it to him, he looks inside and swallows the last four pills, throwing his head back and washing them down with the bourbon. His sweat drips into his eyes, making him blink. Then he cries again.

As we eat, I think how I don’t like when the captain is like this. I worry what could happen when he is what the lieutenant calls “woozy”. He has lashed out at both me and the lieutenant when he has drank too much. I secretly hope he drinks enough to fall asleep for the rest of the day. It seems I fight two enemies—one out there and one in here.

Thinking about the future paralyzes my body at times and his anger sometimes gives me panic attacks to where I can’t breathe. More and more, I’m glad he cannot navigate the stairs anymore because the lower levels are my only sanctuary—my sanctuary within a sanctuary.

Now that he’s eaten, I know he’ll usually go back to sleep. Sometimes he’ll read, write, or listen to music. But today, he’s agitated and his bottle is already a third gone.

Suddenly, I get an idea. This will cheer him up and me too.

So, after breakfast, I go to the stack of vinyl records next to our jukebox. Many records would work, but I know one that always does. So, I place it on the Victrola…

“One, two, three o’clock, four o’clock rock…

Five, six, seven o’clock, eight o’clock rock…

Nine, ten, eleven o’clock, twelve o’clock rock…

We’re gonna rock around the clock tonight…”

I smile as Bill Haley and The Comet’s song starts to boom through the bunker.

“Stop!” the captain screams over the ripping guitars and drum snares. The bunker is bursting with fun and energy, so I don’t understand why the captain is upset. I lift the needle from the black vinyl record and look at him. Confused… and a bit angry.

“That was her favorite song,” he says. “She’d always dance to it!”

It’s true, I think. She would dance. I look over at the captain. She hasn’t budged.

“Bunker 759-Alpha… Come in. This is Bunker 88-Charlie-Foxtrot-Oscar”, the voice says again. “Bunker 759, are you there?”

I rush to the walkie-talkie.

“Yes, yes! I’m here! This is Bunker 759-Alpha. Roger!” I say, cranking the dynamo until its light brightens.

“Be advised that we have seen reinforcements arriving at the enemy camp.”

“You have?!” I say. “I copy that and will be sure my men take precautions. If we see the enemy, we will contact you!”

The captain shakes his head.

“Roger, Bunker 759. Over!” The voice says.

“Over!” I say.

Deep creases show in the captain’s brow as he stares at me.

What if they strike our bunker? We have no weapons. No arms to speak of. No grenades.

I jump up and start opening cabinets, looking for rope.

“What are you doing?!” The captain shouts.

“Making booby traps, sir!” I say. “Just like you taught me. If the enemy gets inside, they will trip—and then you, me, or the lieutenant can ambush them!”

He takes another swig of the half-empty bottle. Most of it drips down his chin.

I walk to a wall and put my hand on its cold steel. I listen for the enemy outside. I don’t. Maybe they’re hiding in the garden? The enemy is smart, I think. They could have high tech Russian military equipment that would disguise their movements.

“We can’t wait, Sir,” I tell the captain. “There could be Russian soldiers surrounding us.”

He watches me change into army fatigues. As I put on my helmet and camouflage my face, I remember the day of the accident. Somehow the enemy booby-trapped our power supply. The lieutenant was fixing it when the captain went for supplies.

When he got back, the captain asked me to help put her up on the top bunk bed so she could rest. The lieutenant used to be a nurse and thought her burns would heal—but for weeks, the bunker started having a foul, rotting smell.  One day she fell asleep and never came down. Eventually, the foul smell went away – but the captain has never been the same.

The bunker is empty without the happiness she brought. The games we played. She loved dancing. Elvis, Chuck Berry, and The Andrew Sisters are her favorites.

“Private Thompson…”, the captain whispers. He looks tired. Greenish.

“Yes, Sir?!” I ask.

“Jimmy… I’m… I’m sick,” he says. “I think I’m dying.”

“Dying?”

“Yes, Son. You have to leave. Leave the bunker. You have to go out and find help. Take water, food, and a knife. Follow North for a good 20 miles.”

I don’t know what he means by… leave?…find help?

“Your mother needs a proper burial, Jim! Don’t you understand?”

I don’t.

“We were playing a game with you… to pass the time,” he says with tears in his eyes. “… but no more games now. No more.”

I listen, trying to understand.

“You have to find help. The lieutenant has to be buried. I may have to be buried too,” he says.

“Bunker 759-Alpha… This is Bunker 88-Charlie-Foxtrot-Oscar,” the voice booms from the walkie-talkie, “Come in!”

“I’m here!” I get up and yell into the walkie-talkie. “This is Bunker 759-Alpha.”

“The enemy has attacked us! I am the only survivor!”

“Oh no! What happened?” I say. “Do you need help?!”

“We were under attack! Now, I think the enemy is moving closer to your location”, the voice says.

Terror makes my skin shiver. Maybe they heard Bill Haley?

“We are advised, Bunker 88. We’re making booby traps!” I insist. “Over!”

“Good luck!” He says. “Over!”

Behind me, I hear a thump. The captain is slumped over the table and the bourbon bottle is empty. I try to lift him. But he’s too heavy. He doesn’t respond.

He needs medicine. But it was all used for the lieutenant.

Private Thompson, you need to get help, he said. But, I can’t.

“Bunker 759… Bunker 759-Alpa,” the walkie-talkie shouts.

“I copy, Bunker 88!” I say.

“The enemy is on our radar. Be advised. They’re approaching you!”

“We are secured, Bunker 88! I made a blockade.”

Then I hear a distant strange sound on Bunker 88’s end of the walkie-talkie.

It’s music.

“Jeremiah was a bullfrog…

Was a good friend of mine…

Never understood a single word he said…

But, I helped him drink his wine…”

“Bunker 88? Bunker 88… are you there?” I say.

“I’m here!”

“Andrew, dinner!” A stern female voice shouts at the general.

“Yes, I’m here, Bunker 759,” the general affirms, whispering.

“I copy that there are enemy troops approaching!” I say. “I think the enemy has a honing device! Turn your music off!”

“Joy to the world…

All the boys and girls now…

Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea…

Joy to you and me…”

“Yes, I see them on my radar. They are near you! Copy?”

“Can you send help, General?!”

“I will, Bunker 759!! Good Luck!”

The music clicks off and the line goes dead.

It’s quiet again. The bunker feels hollow, as I look over at the captain. He hasn’t moved. His eyes are closed.

I think he has finally found the peace he wanted for himself…. for me and the lieutenant.