My eyes open, vision clearing bit
by
bit.
The sound of wailing sirens fills my head. Eyes still bleary, I check the time.
2:27 am. Aw hell.
I climb out of bed, my movements still sluggish and uncoordinated. My back is killing me. It started causing some trouble for me a couple of years back. I blindly reach out in the dark for the cord to open my shutters.
No need to panic. Yet.
The slats flick open with a sharp thwack, barely audible amidst the havoc outside, as it releases soft rays of moonlight into the room. I see the blurry outline of my glasses resting on the nightstand. My vision isn’t what it used to be. I put them on and the details of my room come into focus. My rack of medals from the army. My wife’s beautiful painting of a mountain surrounded by clouds. Some old news clippings are pinned to the wall. Even though I see it practically every single day, one headline never fails to catch my attention. It reads, “STALIN DECLARES NEW SOVIET STATES – DEC. 21ST, 1946.”
I walk towards the living room and grab the remote, sirens still blaring. Turning on the TV to a local station, a bright collage of images flash before me as a female reporter frantically speaks about the situation in Europe. She looks to be around her early 20s, with a small mole under the edge of her right eye. A river of smooth, neatly-kept hair surrounds her head. As she moves, I notice a small birthmark on her neck, almost entirely hidden behind her hair. I think I’ve seen her a few times around town. Now my attention shifts down to the red headline beneath. “2:29 AM, 12/1/2024 – NSS NUKE LAUNCHED, HEADING FOR CENTRAL USA,” the scrolling text reads.
Son of a-
The haunting shrieks of the EAS alarm ring out from the TV among the cacophony of the sirens outside. An eerie robotic voice, monotonous and seemingly unaware of the havoc unfolding, says, “Ballistic missile threat inbound to the Mid-America region. States affected: West Virginia, Virginia, Maryland, Delaware, District of Colombia. Seek immediate shelter. This is not a drill.” The message plays on loop as I stand there, frozen in shock.
West Virginia?
Time to panic.
My wife had urged me to build a shelter in the case of an emergency. I didn’t feel the need to. Hell, I’d served in the Cold War for 11 years from ’84 and I was less paranoid than her. But I folded. And thank God I did, because I’d be a damned soul if I hadn’t. I rush to grab the most essential things. I already have cans of food and bottled water stocked up below, along with a Geiger counter, a few gas masks, clothing, and a truckload full of survival supplies. But what I need now is the more sentimental stuff. Using the flashlight from my old iPhone 8, I search around for my wife’s final gift. I reach the dining table, chaotic jumbles of letters, eviction notices, and taxes piled high. Sifting through the junk, I find it, a small manilla envelope with a note scribbled on in my wife’s handwriting. “open me :),” it says. I pocket it, making sure not to crease it in the slightest. I start to head towards the trapdoor to the bunker, but a small glint on the ground catches my peripheral. I stoop down and pick up a shotgun shell.
Oh sh**. My shotgun.
I rush to the garage. Bursting through the door, I practically tear the damned thing off the wall and take out the entire drawer shelf of ammunition. I hesitate for a moment, contemplating whether to take the gun maintenance supplies or not.
No time to waste.
I’d have to come back later. I can almost visualize the bomb hitting the ground as I idle in the garage like I’ve already accepted death. But that won’t do. I dash from the garage to the backyard, dropping a few shells along the way. With one hand occupied with the shells, I have to lift the heavy trapdoor and climb onto the ladder with just one arm. Heh. I guess it was worth it to keep a consistent gym schedule. Never in my 58 years of life would I have ever thought I’d have to use a damn bomb shelter. How naïve of me. Struggling to get a good grip on the rungs, I close the door above me and descend down
down
down
into the darkness of the shelter.
by
bit.
The sound of wailing sirens fills my head. Eyes still bleary, I check the time.
2:27 am. Aw hell.
I climb out of bed, my movements still sluggish and uncoordinated. My back is killing me. It started causing some trouble for me a couple of years back. I blindly reach out in the dark for the cord to open my shutters.
No need to panic. Yet.
The slats flick open with a sharp thwack, barely audible amidst the havoc outside, as it releases soft rays of moonlight into the room. I see the blurry outline of my glasses resting on the nightstand. My vision isn’t what it used to be. I put them on and the details of my room come into focus. My rack of medals from the army. My wife’s beautiful painting of a mountain surrounded by clouds. Some old news clippings are pinned to the wall. Even though I see it practically every single day, one headline never fails to catch my attention. It reads, “STALIN DECLARES NEW SOVIET STATES – DEC. 21ST, 1946.”
I walk towards the living room and grab the remote, sirens still blaring. Turning on the TV to a local station, a bright collage of images flash before me as a female reporter frantically speaks about the situation in Europe. She looks to be around her early 20s, with a small mole under the edge of her right eye. A river of smooth, neatly-kept hair surrounds her head. As she moves, I notice a small birthmark on her neck, almost entirely hidden behind her hair. I think I’ve seen her a few times around town. Now my attention shifts down to the red headline beneath. “2:29 AM, 12/1/2024 – NSS NUKE LAUNCHED, HEADING FOR CENTRAL USA,” the scrolling text reads.
Son of a-
The haunting shrieks of the EAS alarm ring out from the TV among the cacophony of the sirens outside. An eerie robotic voice, monotonous and seemingly unaware of the havoc unfolding, says, “Ballistic missile threat inbound to the Mid-America region. States affected: West Virginia, Virginia, Maryland, Delaware, District of Colombia. Seek immediate shelter. This is not a drill.” The message plays on loop as I stand there, frozen in shock.
West Virginia?
Time to panic.
My wife had urged me to build a shelter in the case of an emergency. I didn’t feel the need to. Hell, I’d served in the Cold War for 11 years from ’84 and I was less paranoid than her. But I folded. And thank God I did, because I’d be a damned soul if I hadn’t. I rush to grab the most essential things. I already have cans of food and bottled water stocked up below, along with a Geiger counter, a few gas masks, clothing, and a truckload full of survival supplies. But what I need now is the more sentimental stuff. Using the flashlight from my old iPhone 8, I search around for my wife’s final gift. I reach the dining table, chaotic jumbles of letters, eviction notices, and taxes piled high. Sifting through the junk, I find it, a small manilla envelope with a note scribbled on in my wife’s handwriting. “open me :),” it says. I pocket it, making sure not to crease it in the slightest. I start to head towards the trapdoor to the bunker, but a small glint on the ground catches my peripheral. I stoop down and pick up a shotgun shell.
Oh sh**. My shotgun.
I rush to the garage. Bursting through the door, I practically tear the damned thing off the wall and take out the entire drawer shelf of ammunition. I hesitate for a moment, contemplating whether to take the gun maintenance supplies or not.
No time to waste.
I’d have to come back later. I can almost visualize the bomb hitting the ground as I idle in the garage like I’ve already accepted death. But that won’t do. I dash from the garage to the backyard, dropping a few shells along the way. With one hand occupied with the shells, I have to lift the heavy trapdoor and climb onto the ladder with just one arm. Heh. I guess it was worth it to keep a consistent gym schedule. Never in my 58 years of life would I have ever thought I’d have to use a damn bomb shelter. How naïve of me. Struggling to get a good grip on the rungs, I close the door above me and descend down
down
down
into the darkness of the shelter.
