The Bunker

“You say that all the time,” Abigail sighed. Her ivy-green eyes rolled up and to the right. “Sometimes, I just wish you cared about saving this family instead of saving the World.” She resettled Reggie on her hip. He made a glunking noise and snatched at a wisp of her hair, tearing it from her hastily-made bun. She winced and grabbed his hand away with a reflexive motion. “Jesus Abby, those things aren’t mutually exclusive,” Steve said, rubbing his forehead with his hand. The gleam of the computer monitors reflected off his blue-light glasses. “It’s not like I’m some deadbeat Dad off doing drugs or something. The money is coming in. The bills are always paid. I mean, what more do you want from me?” “You changed Steve,” she said, pointing her finger at him, “first it was the obsession with politics, then it was the show, then you quit your job. And I put up with it. Always the doting wife. Now you’ve wasted all this time and money on that—that fucking bunker in the backyard. Who do you think has to explain that to the neighbors?” “Oh, the neighbors! Boo hoo! What will the neighbors think!?” Steve said, throwing his arms up in mock dramatics. “You know what—fuck the neighbors! They can go die somewhere else.” “That’s real nice Steve—real nice. Do you know how absolutely insane you sound?” Her voice was shrill and wavering. Reggie stared at the office wall. A concussive silence passed. “You’re not off doing drugs somewhere but you’re still gone Steve. You’re just not here with us.” “I’m telling you. Things have been getting worse and worse for years and this is the culmination. We have to take this seriously. This is a real crisis.” “That’s what you said last summer!” Abby yelled. Reggie started to wail. “The real crisis is right here Steve. Right in front of you,” she said, pointing to Reggie’s reddening face. “I gotta get out of here,” Steve said, rising from his office chair. An empty can of energy drink rattled to the ground. He paused for a moment, decided not to pick it up, and instead tiptoed through the empty product boxes, plastic wrappers, and cans on the office floor. He brushed past Abigail and Reggie through the doorway to the back entry. “Yes, of course, I’ll just stay here cleaning up your messes and taking care of your son,” Abigail said, bouncing Reggie up and down, trying to calm him. “Someone’s got to!” “We’re just talking in circles,” Steve said, digging a nicotine packet out of the plastic tin he kept in his pocket. “Let’s just cool down. We can talk later.” “Whatever, just run away again,” Abby said, but he didn’t hear her. The pneumatic screen door closer issued its familiar whirr as it swept shut behind him. He tucked the nicotine packet into his lip and savored the feeling of his saliva slowly permeating through it. Steve blinked, willing his eyes to adjust from the near-sightedness of his computer screen. Rays of summer sun shone balmy and gorgeous through the backyard, but they didn’t reach him. For years, brain fog held him in a perpetual unreality. Steve fished his wireless earbuds out of his cargo shorts. The symphony of birdsong and cicadas cut off abruptly as he screwed them into his ear canals. He pulled out his phone and put on a podcast about troop movements and children being incinerated by white phosphorus. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and walked across the lawn to a metal hatch in the ground. The handle clunked free. With some effort, he lifted the hatch and it swung up and open, revealing a concrete shaft that plunged down into the inky black. Cool air wafted up from the depths. A metal ladder provided access. Steve clambered down the ladder. About halfway, the motion sensor tripped and the shaft illuminated a further twelve feet below to the bottom—a small mudroom where a decontamination shower head poked out of the ceiling. Beyond it, another vault door opened to a two-bedroom apartment. The main room featured a small kitchenette, a living area and a full corner bathroom. Two doors opened on the sides of the living room to a combination storage and life support room plus a bedroom with a queen on the right and twin-sized bunks on the left. Steve walked through the bunker to the storage room where, the previous day, he methodically stacked tubs of emergency food and water. He took his phone out of his pocket and grabbed the tripod he had placed on the stack of totes. He set the camera app up, checked the shot and pressed record. The podcast in his ears stopped. “Good afternoon everyone! Welcome back to The Bunker. This is the Steven Watson Show, a show where we discuss geopolitics, doomsday prepping, and survivalism. Today I have an emergency broadcast for you. Guys, I think this might be it. The big one. That’s right, this is a Code Red emergency announcement—tomorrow, the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists is expected to advance the Doomsday Clock to ten seconds to midnight! If you're new to the show, my name is Steven Watson. I am an open source journalist, a peace activist, and a Prepper. We’ve been talking about this for years, watching things just get worse and worse. If you’ve been along for the ride, you know this is exactly why, with your help, I spent the last nine months building this fallout shelter in my backyard. Now before we unpack this unprecedented development, I want to tell you about our friends over at Minuteman Express. Guys, I’m afraid it might be too late for you to build your own fallout shelter, but if you haven’t yet, you’re gonna want to take advantage of this special offer from Minuteman Express on their ‘Liberty Tree’ Emergency Food Supply package. You’ll get their seven hundred and twenty-serving emergency food supply for just eight hundred dollars—that’s fifty percent off the list price! Just head over to Minuteman Express dot com and enter promo code WATSON50 to tell them I sent you…” Steve worked through the opening ad role and transitioned into his program. He spent the next hour meticulously analyzing the intricacies of the current geopolitical situation and the various military threats bandied about by world leaders. After he finished recording, he spit the nicotine packet into the kitchenette’s garbage and sat down on the couch. He turned the podcast back on, layed down, and traced the mortar between the concrete bricks with his eyes. He called it “Ghost” and it drove Mumma and Da-ee crazy because it only appeared at bed time. They said it wasn’t real, they said it was a “stalling tactic” but it was real. He didn’t understand why they couldn’t see it. It was awfully bright. The light appeared on the window that was always foggy from the steam that shot out the side of the house. Ghost was there tonight. He put his head under the covers, but Ghost was bright. Too bright. He could see it when he closed his eyes. The photons tinted flesh-red even when he squeezed them all the way shut. He tried telling it to go away like Daddy said, but that didn’t work. It was still there. In fact, it was getting brighter. Too bright. And it was hot. He abandoned the covers, feeling the razor edged hysteria slicing up his belly. He ran to the door, eyes stinging. The door was locked. It was getting hot. So hot. He turned around and the light was moving. It came closer and closer. It was bigger and brighter and hot, oh so hot. A text message buzzed on his phone, startling him awake. He groped around the couch for it. The earbuds had fallen out of his head and were laying on the couch somewhere. He squinted at the screen. It was Abigail. She’d texted seven times. The latest one read: “HELLO. STEVEN? WHERE R U? DINNER.” “Bunker” he replied, shaking the sleep out of his head. “Are u ever coming up?” came the answer. “Nope,” he replied. “Very funny.” He scrolled for a few minutes, seeking updates on the standoff. No one was talking to each other. No envoys, nothing. He sighed, stood up and dug through the couch cushions, looking for his earbuds. He found them, turned the lights off, and ascended the ladder out of The Bunker. The hatch creaked as he pushed it open again. By this time, the sun had descended across the sky like an outbound missile. He turned to shut the hatch and that’s when he noticed the old man had bellied up to the fence. “Whatchya clambering out of sonny?” The old man asked. “What?” Steve asked, jumping a little. “It’s not every day you see someone just pop right out of the ground,” the man chuckled. “Oh—just a weather shelter,” Steve said, shielding his eyes from the light. “Looked more like a fallout shelter to me,” the old man said, “I saw you building it.” “Well, you got me,” Steve said, holding his hands up. “Can never be too prepared, I suppose,” the man said. “Have you been following the news?” Steve asked. “Me? No, I don’t trouble myself with that claptrap,” the old man had his hands resting over the top of the fence. He had leaned his walking stick up on the other side. “Course not,” Steve said under his breath. He turned around to shut the hatch. “You know, I lived through the 60s,” the old man said. “I reckon you did,” Steve said, taking a few steps toward the house. “I’m not some ignoramus,” he said, “I was a Kennedy Staffer during the Cuban crisis. Steve stopped, turning towards the old man. “You’re shitting me,” Steve said, “and you aren’t following the standoff?” “No point, sonny,” the old man chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s all fate,” he said. “Anyways, if you’re serious about surviving something like that, why are you living so close to D.C.?” “Wife,” Steve said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder towards the house. He took a few steps towards the fence, “wants to be close to her family.” “What about your side?” the old man said. “Not around,” Steve said. “Ahh, sorry to hear, the old man said. There was an awkward pause. “Well, speaking of the wife, I gotta get back in,” Steve said. “Yeah, you’d better do that,” the old man said, taking his hands off the fence. “You walk around the neighborhood every night?” Steve asked. “Keeps me busy,” the old man said. “I’ll look for you tomorrow,” Steve said, “I got a few questions.” “Indeed,” the old man said. He picked up his walking stick and continued down the road. “Did you fall asleep again?” Abigail asked when he came back to the house. “No,” he lied, “I was recording an episode.” “For four hours?” She asked “I was working on organizing some of the food stuff too,” he said. “Okay,” she said, clearly not convinced, “well will you please answer my texts next time? I’m up here taking care of Reggie and worrying about us fighting.” She motioned to Reggie, who was sitting in the highchair, bathing in applesauce. “Okay, okay, I will,” he said, sitting down at the kitchen table, “I got a lot of work to do tonight getting that episode out.” “I know, I am sorry,” she said, taking the chair across from him. “I know that you are here working hard for us and I’m lucky that you can make enough to support our family. I’m just worried about you.” “I wish you’d take this seriously, honey.” he said, “then I wouldn’t sound so crazy.” “I can’t Steve, I’m sorry, I just can’t worry about that all the time. I’ve seen what it does to you.” “Someone’s gotta worry. Someone's gotta do something,” he said, “We’re this close to a nuclear exchange,” he said, holding up his thumb and forefinger. “Let’s please just not argue again,” she said, getting up from the table. “Fine.” He said, pulling out his phone. He started to scroll. “I made meatloaf for dinner,” she said, “how much do you want?...Steve? STEVE.” “Yeah,” Steve said, looking up from his phone. “I said how much do you want?” She asked. “The White House just issued a statement—” he began, “I'm gonna issue a statement pretty soon,” she muttered under her breath, carrying the plate of meatloaf over to him. “--threatening a preemptive strike.” “I'm sure they'll work it out,” Abigail said. She set the meatloaf down in front of him and turned to Reggie, “won’t they, Reggie? Just like the last time. And the time before that.” she bent forward playfully, “and the time before that!” She jumped forward, coming dangerously close to Reggie’s applesauce-hand reach. Reggie squealed with delight. Steve wolfed down the meatloaf. “I gotta add a segment to the episode.” He said between bites. “Alright, bye I guess,” Abigail said, sighing. She made a feeble attempt to wipe at Reggie's face as he continued to laugh. “Bye buddy,” Steve said, dodging a swipe of his own as he tried to plant a kiss on Reggie’s forehead. Reggie squealed again, then watched Steve retreat to the office and shut the door. On the other side, the office’s soundproofing cut out the ambient noise entirely. It was almost as if Abigail and Reggie ceased to exist. Steve again shuffled through the detritus littering the floor. He sat down in his stylized bucket-seat gaming chair. A virulent sunbeam bounded off the bunker hatch and in through the office window, setting his bookshelf aglow behind him. He grumbled and closed the blackout curtain he'd installed for just this purpose. He popped a nicotine packet in, adjusted the ring light on his desk, and turned the camera on. The last step of his pre-recording ritual was to monitor the microphone levels and check for ambient noise. Production time usually doubles recording time and he rarely departed from the mean, but the ten-minute addendum to the episode took half an hour to record. He quickly edited it, along with the footage from earlier that day, and set it to export from his video editor. While that was processing, he thought of a title and description for the video, uploaded it when it was done, and meticulously cross-posted it across the internet. It was meticulous work, but something about it gave him the illusion of control. After he finished posting the episode, Steve opened the blinds. Dusk had settled in a veil across the backyard. He cranked the window. The neighborhood was quiet enough to hear the din of traffic in the distance. Fireflies danced through the corner lot. The neighbor’s dog howled mournfully. Steve looked out over the backyard toward the White House, imagining what in the world was going on over there. The light blazed through his eyelids, shining bright enough to wake him from a deep sleep. Its radiance was utterly disorienting. It was coming from the window. He lifted his hand up to shield his eyes. The flesh glowed translucently, revealing the bones. He felt the heat beginning to sear his skin. Ghost was there. “Mom! Dad!” he yelled, lifting the covers over his head. He cowered back to the wall, pinning his shoulders into the corner where his bed rested. The dinosaur models clunked against the wall and fell onto his pillows. The heat was licking his flesh and he knew he had to escape. He wrapped himself in the blanket and barreled toward the open door. In the hallway, he crashed into Dad. “What the hell is going on Steven?” Dad shouted. “Ghost! Ghost!” Steven yelled. “Not this again—Steve, there’s nothing there,” Dad said walking into the bedroom. He flipped the light on. Steve blinked and blinked but he could not see. Everything was black. “Reggie’s crying,” Abigail said, rolling over. Steve groped the bedside table for his phone. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and checked the news. A tomahawk missile strike against “strategic assets” in the so-called “Indo-Pacific.” Still no dialogue. No diplomacy. Nothing. “Steve. Can you get Reggie,” Abigail elbowed him in the ribs. Steve signed heavily and swung his legs out of bed. The sun was already up. He stumbled through the house, eyes screwed shut. From the doorway of his room, he saw Reggie in the crib where he was standing. He spread an adorable idiot grin, his arms outstretched. Steve grabbed him up and took him to the bed where he began to nurse on Abigail. “What’s your plan for today?” Abigail asked as Reggie nursed. She was looking at her phone. “I didn’t hear you come in last night.” “I was up pretty late putting the newsletter together,” he said. “There was a tomahawk missile strike last night. Some more troop movements announced this morning.” “Oh jeez,” she said, disinterestedly, still looking at her phone. “I’ll put the finishing touches on the newsletter this morning. Maybe record something. Then I think I need to finish stocking The Bunker.” After a few seconds he added, “You know, I really think you should come down there and look around, just in case.” “No,” she said, “I don’t think I will.” “Abby, you need to come down there at least once,” Steve said, rubbing his temples. “I will not, Steven,” she said. Putting her phone down. She locked eyes with him. Reggie popped off the breast and looked at them both. “Alright, I’ll just do it. You’ll have to make due if the time comes.” Steve said, getting up. “We’ll have bigger things to worry about at that point,” she said. Steve showered, got dressed, and took a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee into the office. He sealed the soundproof door behind him, put his blue-light glasses on, popped a nicotine packet, and got to work. After he’d sent the newsletter and posted it to his website, Abigail announced lunch via text. He joined her and Reggie at the kitchen table. She’d made lunch meat sandwiches. “Do you think I could go get my hair done tomorrow?” Abigail asked while they ate. “What time?” Steve asked, “I don’t think we should be going out anywhere.” “What do you mean?” she said, knitting her eyebrows. All at once, the cupboard and dishes began to rattle. A deafening roar filled the kitchen. Abigail screamed. Steve nearly jumped out of his skin. Reggie cried. Steve raced up and to the back porch. He looked overhead. A squadron of fighter jets roared straight northeast towards Joint Base Andrews. “What the actual fuck!” Abigail yelled from the kitchen. “They’re lower than I’ve ever seen them,” Steve yelled over his shoulder, his heart knocking against his ribs. The jets’ exhaust plumes swirled overhead in a toxic milieu. “What are they doing!? They must have been lower than a thousand feet!” Abigail said, rubbing Reggie’s back as he continued to cry. Steve’s ears were ringing. “See what I mean?” Steve said, coming inside, “something is going on.” “Poor Reggie,” she said, beginning the clean-up procedure, “those meanie pilots interrupting your lunch.” “After you put Reggie down for his nap, could you please just come down there and help me take stock of everything?” “What about my hair appointment?” She asked. She wasn’t looking at him. “What about it?” he asked. “Well can you watch Reggie so I can go?” “Can’t you call your parents? Isn’t that why we live here?” “Steven, you can spend two hours with your son. Look at him,” she said, dabbing the tears from his cheeks with a damp piece of paper towel. “It’s just that there’s work to do. Just in case.” He said, “Just in case the world ends?” she said, shaking her head. “Steven, I’m pretty sure the world isn’t going to end during my hair appointment tomorrow. We’ve made it this long.” “I love that you’re so flippant about it,” he said, pushing the half-eaten sandwich away. “The appointment is at nine o’clock,” she said. “So you’ve already made it?” he asked. “Sure did,” she said with a cheeky smile. “Little man afternoon,” she teased Reggie, pulling him from the high chair. Reggie smiled at him with a brilliance that made his heart ache. “Fine, but can you please meet me down there after you put him down?” “You’re going to do this for me—no strings attached, Steven. Now wish your son a good nap.” Steven got up from the kitchen table, his nerves still jangling from the foray of the fighter jets. He walked over to his son, who beamed up at him with gleaming sapphire eyes. He grabbed Reggie from Abigail and squeezed him close. He felt Reggie’s arms wrap around his neck and pat him softly on the shoulders. The boy cooed softly in his ear. “Have a good nap Reggie-boy. I love you.” Down in The Bunker, Steve listened to the spokesperson from the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists deliver her remarks. The speech echoed throughout the living quarters from the cell phone propped up on the counter. Steve paced back and forth behind the couch, letting the words envelop him. He ran through a labyrinth of checklists in his mind. The speech lasted long enough for Steve to run through his lists several times. He’d finish, then immediately begin again. The solar panels were hooked up to the battery and functioning. There was spare fuel in the basement of the house for the emergency generator. The water filtration system was operational. The storage area was packed full of emergency provisions, bottled water, and canned food. There were more provisions packed into the crawl space beneath the floor. There were garden seeds, fertilizer, and gardening tools. There was silverware, plates, cups, napkins, garbage bags. There were first aid kits, clothes, outdoor gear, and toiletries. He’d even stocked board games, a television, and a hard drive full of movies, books, and TV shows. Before he knew it, the speech was over and the spokeswoman ticked the second hand from thirty to fifty. Steve was breathing heavily. He felt like he was staring through a paper towel roll. As the second hand hit fifty, another squadron of fighter jets blitzed overhead. The ground shook. Dust fell from the bunker ceiling in a miasmic haze. Heart pounding, Steve fell into darkness. He knew it was back before he’d even opened his eyes. He knew better than that. The last time he did, he couldn’t see for a week. The shrink said it was “hysterical blindness,” but that didn’t explain the flash burns. The eye doctor said those usually only happened to welders—usually. He could already feel the scorching heat. Hotter than ever. Enough to rend skin and broil muscle from bone. It was coming from the window again. He wrapped the blanket around himself and ran out of the bedroom. He was in the hallway when the blast hit the window. It shattered, sowing the bedroom with shards of broken glass. “What was that?!” His roommate Eric busted out of his room down the hall. His girlfriend hid behind him. Hair askew, her breast peeked out from behind the blanket she’d bunched up over herself. “Someone must have thrown a rock at the window,” Steve said. “Are they still here?” Eric stammered, “Should we call the police?” “I don’t know,” Steve said, rubbing his eyes. “Did you hear anyone outside?” Eric ran to his own window and scanned the street. His girlfriend retreated back to the bed. “It’s dead out there,” he reported after a few seconds, returning to the doorway to his room. “You alright man?” he asked Steve, “you look like shit.” “I don’t know dude,” Steve said. He turned the light on in his room, surveying the damage. The cool night breeze wafted through the shattered window. The glass shards glimmered atop the clutter strewn about his room: dirty clothes and dishes, empty beer cans and candy wrappers. A marijuana pipe and grinder sat on the plastic folding table he used as a computer desk. “A rock wouldn’t shatter the whole window like that.” Eric said, standing at his doorway. “I know,” Steve said. “You didn’t do this did you?” “Why would I break my own window?” “I don’t know man,” Eric shook his head, “you’ve been acting weird lately.” “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” Eric asked. “Man, I knew Sadie had nice tits but holy shit, dude,” Steve forced a laugh, making like he was looking over Eric’s shoulder at the door to his room. “Don’t do that,” Eric said. “Do what?” Steve asked. “That thing you do where you just avoid stuff,” “Fine. I’ll tell you.” Steve, exhaled. “It’s this thing I see sometimes,” he said quietly. “What?” Eric asked. “See, I told you.” “What kind of thing?” Eric asked. “I don’t know, this light. I’ve seen it every now and then since I was a kid.” “And you’re saying that’s what broke your window? This light?” “Nevermind,” Steve said, looking down. “Look man, whatever freaky shit you got going on, I don’t care. I just don’t want Sadie to stop coming over here.” “Sure,” Steve said, “just tell her a drunk kid threw a rock at the window. Tell her we found the rock.” “Fine.” “Fine,” Steve said. He went back in his room, grabbed a trash bag, and began gingerly picking the glass shards off of his clothes. Steve’s whiskers caught the tight weave of the couch fabric. He pulled his arms up from his sides and slowly raised himself up. He sat there for a few minutes, clawing through his mind for the thread of these dreams—this “Ghost” he hadn’t thought about in years. His phone started buzzing on the counter. When he walked over, the screen was dark. No call. The battery was dead. When he ascended the ladder and opened the hatch, his skin blazed aglow in the twilight. And that’s when he heard the old man again. “Man those jets are loud,” he said, belly up to the fence again. Steve almost fell back down the ladder. He turned his head to face the voice and shielded his eyes from the sun, which sat behind the old man’s head like a halo. “Jesus, you scared me,” Steve said. “You said you’d be out here tonight,” the old man said, “I didn’t see you so I thought I’d poke my head over the fence and just wait a little bit.” “Right,” Steve said, thinking. “Well, here. Come on over.” He motioned to the gate where the fence adjoined the house. The old man shuffled over to the fence with his walking stick as Steve hastily grabbed the two lawn chairs from across the porch and set them next to each other. “Can I get you something to drink?” Steve asked as he escorted the old man from the fence to the chairs on the patio. “No, thank you, that’s alright.” The old man lowered himself on the chair with a grunt. He set the walking stick on the ground. “I’m Steve,” Steve said, holding out his hand. “Earl,” the old man said, taking Steve’s hand in his wiry grip. His deep grey eyes sparkled with a deep-set cleverness. “How long have you lived in the neighborhood?” Steve asked. “Oh, my wife Ellie and I moved here twelve years or so ago. Ever since I retired. No sense in living so close to the city anymore.” “Huh, we’ve been living down the street from each other for five years and this is our first real conversation.” Steve said. “This area’s gotten a lot more impersonal since we moved in. When Ellie and I lived in D.C. the neighborhood used to have block parties and everything. ‘Course, most people on the block worked in the defense industry, so a number of us were coworkers.” “And what did you do?” Steve asked. “Oh, after Kennedy was shot, I took a job with an aerospace company. Stayed there for forty years.” “And you said that you were in the room during the Cuban Missile Crisis?” “Sure was. That was a nice feather in my cap, that was. ‘Course, nothing I did had any effect on anything.” “I find it hard to believe that you aren’t following what’s going on.” “Why bother yourself with that?” The old man said, shaking his head as he chuckled. “Someone’s got to stop all this,” Steve said. “And if we can’t, someone’s gotta survive it, don’t they? Isn’t it my job to protect my family?” The old man shook his head. “I sat in the room during the briefings. Let me tell you, the odds are slim to none that a nuclear exchange stays limited. As for full-scale nuclear war, there’s no life worth livin’ after that. Pretty much anywhere.” “For sure though, if enough people spoke up, said something, did something, there’d be some kind of deescalation or disarmament.” “Reagan got close during the 80s. His heart was in the right place. The defense industry buried him though—too much money and special interests at stake. Besides, when it came down to the wire, I never got the impression that politics had anything to do with it.” “So what, then? What is it?” Steve demanded. The old man thought for a second, scraping his worn New Balance shoes on the patio. “During it all, I got the sense that something bigger was at play. It was fate—God, whatever you’d call it.” “Fate? So we’re powerless? Should we just do nothing?” “You can do what you like. But, there’s nothing you really can do. That look you got, that anxiety, that fear—I recognize it. I saw it back in ‘62. Everyone had that mug. Like a ghost. Everyone ‘cept Kennedy. But I get it, oh I do. I felt those same things you’re feeling now. It’s really just about bein’ helpless, isn’t it? It’s about tryin’ to understand something that just doesn’t make any sense—tryin’ to control that which can’t be controlled. Tryin’ to do something when there’s just nothing to be done, ‘cept sit and wait.” “Sit and wait to die, huh.” Steve said. “You know that’s not very reassuring.” “Sure it is, it’s freedom. That’s what it is. Freedom to enjoy the time that you have.” The old man paused, craning his neck over. “And to cherish the people in it.” “That’s all well and good, but you have to know something about what’s going on. Don’t you have colleagues or old friends?” “Ahh, the folly of youth,” the old man said, “I kept telling my son, ‘all we have to decide is what to do with the time that we have,’ and now it’s all done.” “I’m sorry,” Steve said. “I’m just really at a loss here.” “Well, it’s not good. I can tell that much.” “Yeah,” Steve said, looking back at the house. The screen door opened to the porch and Abigail walked out, Reggie ratcheted to her hip. “Steve,” she said, “there you are.” She turned to the old man. “Oh, I didn’t know we were entertaining, I would have come out sooner or offered you something to drink.” “No ma’am, I wouldn’t have troubled you anyhow.” “I see you walking every evening,” she said, “I’m just always too preoccupied to say hi. I should really make more of an effort.” “Oh, I know the old routine. My son is all grown up now and settled with his own family.” he said. “Those days were difficult,” he motioned to Reggie with his arm, “but you sure miss them when they’re done.” “Yes, that’s what I keep reminding my husband,” Abigail teased without malice. Her smile was handsome and disarming. “I can see that I am outnumbered,” Steve said, holding his hands up. “Never mind this silly old man,” Earl said, his smile betrayed a pang of heartache. Reggie garbled happily, casting his gaze around the backyard. The vast azure sky hung cloudlessly above like the veil of the almighty. “Would you like to stay for dinner?” Abigail asked. “I was just coming outside to call Steven in.” “Oh, no thank you, I wouldn’t trouble you.” “Well, you’ll have to let us have you and your wife over for dinner one of these nights.” “Yes, you’ll have to stop over. You’ll have to let me pick your brain a bit more.” Steve rejoined. The old man paused for a second. “That’d be quite nice,” the old man said, forcing a smile. He leaned over, picked up his walking stick and raised himself off the chair. He came close to Reggie and offered him a finger. “Goodbye dear boy,” he said as Reggie took it, entranced. Steven could see a stinging tear emit from the corner of the old man’s eye. The old man looked at Steve and nodded. Steve felt in that moment like his soul was being weighed against a feather. “Take care,” the old man said. He walked through the gate and ambled down the block to his house. A few minutes later they sat down to eat. “I enjoyed meeting your new friend,” Abigail said, as if dipping her toe in the water. “I don’t know about ‘friend,’ but he’s really something, isn’t he?” Steve replied. “He told me he was a White House staffer under Kennedy.” “What? Really?” Abigail said, Their plates clinked familiarly as they worked through the dinner. “I guess you never know who you’re going to run into around here.” “He seems lonely,” Steve said, his mouth full of enchilada. “Yeah, poor guy,” Abigail said, “what were you talking about?” “Stuff.” “Very funny,” Abigail said. Reggie smacked his food on the plate of the high chair. “Fine, geez,” Steve said, cracking a grin, “we were just talking about the standoff.” “I should have known as much,” Abigail said, “what did he say? What does he think about The Bunker?” “He told me not to worry so much.” “Hmmm… sounds familiar!” Abigail smiled, staring at him with her eyebrows raised, “sounds like something your dear lady wife would say.” “Yeah, yeah,” Steve said, making a talking head sign with his hand. “You dog!” she said, kicking at his leg beneath the table. “Now, about my hair appointment tomorrow,” she said, switching gears. She began stroking his leg with her foot. “Yes, what time?” Steve asked. “It’s at nine, so I will probably have to leave here around eight thirty.” “So early?” he groaned. “I know. It’s all they had,” she said. “And I need it, look at my roots!” Abigail pointed to her scalp, where her natural brunette rebelled beneath the dirty blonde. “I still think you’re gorgeous,” he said, looking down at his plate. “Awww, do you really?” she put her hand on her chest. “After all these years together,” she said in mock Victorian theatrics. “Okay, don’t get too carried away,” Steve said as Reggie began to giggle violently. “You know…I was kind of hoping to do some shopping afterwards? There’s this new Malfi book that just came out that I’ve been waiting for.” “Geez honey,” Steve said. “Oh,” Abigail said, crestfallen. “I’m just kidding, it’s fine.” “Heeee, good.” She said, clasping her hands together with an impish grin. “You know I appreciate you,” Steve said after a moment. He offered his hand across the table. She took it. “I’d do anything for you Steven—anything for our family.” She stroked Steve’s hand with her thumb. “I know babe. Sometimes I’m just too inside my own head.” After dinner was over, Steve wiped Reggie’s face and hands while Abigail cleared dinner. When he was done, he took Reggie out of the high chair, brought him to the living room carpet, and started to tickle him. He squealed with delight, his front teeth bared like ivory chisels. “Careful Steven, he literally just ate!” Abigail shook her head as she watched them from behind the sink. The steam wafted up to her face while she scrubbed the pan. She stopped for a second to brush an unruly lock of hair from her eyes. She sighed contentedly, watching the boys roughhouse on the floor. When she finished clearing the table, she sank into the couch and flipped on a sitcom starring vampires who were roommates. “What’s your plan for the night?” She asked Steve after a few minutes of watching. “I don’t know yet,” Steve said, holding Reggie aloft overhead. A glob of drool dripped off his lips and plopped on Steve’s face. As if an answer to the question, the television screen flipped to the White House seal. “What the hell,” Steven said, putting Reggie down on the carpet. He wiped the drool off absentmindedly. The seal broke to reveal the President sitting at his desk in the Oval Office. “Steven?” Abigail looked, wild-eyed, “what’s going on?” “Shhhh,” Steve shushed her and pointed at the TV. On screen, the President delivered a prepared address which summarized a phone call between himself and an errant world leader. He alleged stark warnings and harsh words, followed by an eventual rapprochement. He urged Americans not to worry and to carry on life as normal. “Man, I was really scared for a second,” Abigail said after the address ended. “Huh,” Steve said, the ghostly outline of the President’s form was still a shadow in his vision. “A little diplomacy goes a long way, I guess. I just wish they didn’t let it get this far.” “Earl told you not to worry, didn’t he?” “Yeah, I suppose so,” Steve said, running his hand over the back of his hair. Reggie, who seemed to have sensed the importance of the address, resumed climbing on Steve’s legs. “I have a hard time believing that that’s it. Things are still really hairy. He didn’t go into any detail about what this ‘rapprochement’ supposedly is.” “Well, that’s why you get the big bucks, isn’t it?” “I’m gonna have to get an episode out tonight,” Steve said, rubbing his temples. “I figured,” she said. “Sorry, I’ll go in when you put Reggie down.” “Just don’t stay up too late, you gotta watch him in the morning for my hair appointment, remember?” “Okay, yeah,” he said, still thinking about the address. Reggie grabbed at his nose with talon-like fingernails. He chastised the boy, scooped him up, swung him across the living room and onto the couch beside his wife. They managed him between them as he wiggled, flexing his torso with astounding strength. Slowly, their hands found each other's. After a few episodes of the sitcom, Reggie announced his weariness with eye rubs and a few overly emotional outbursts. The couple worked through his bedtime routine together. Steven kissed the boy tenderly at the end of it. Abigail retired to his room to nurse him down. Steve slipped into his office, stopping to pick up a few of the most offensive pieces of trash on the floor and desk and eventually settled into his office chair. He rewatched the Presidential address several times and cross referenced it with news reports about the phone call and the actual minutes themselves. He felt they painted a much less sanguine picture than the President portrayed. It wasn’t until late in the night that he had a strong enough command of the situation to record anything about it. He warned his audience that the situation was not as settled as it seemed. When he awoke, the absence of light was so absolute that he forgot he had eyes, forgot what it was like to have ever seen anything ever. It was as if he had plunged headfirst into a cosmos utterly devoid of being—a chasm of infinite nothingness. But then, the fizzle of an ignition. A infinitesimal photon popped into existence. It grew and grew explosively into a pulsating orb of light until he realized it would devour him. The light became shiny, bright and hotter, oh so hot, and he knew it was Ghost and he began to whimper. Then he felt a form beside him, tender and soft between the sheets. It stirred, groping towards him, it placed a hand on his chest. It whispered in his ear, only it was not “it,” but “she.” This time, he stirred to waking life, but it was still dark. Not the void of his dream, but the subterranean retreat of The Bunker. He fumbled for his phone, which was laying next to him on the coffee table. He squinted at it and snapped up. It was nine-thirty in the morning, and a line of text messages awaited him. He’d slept through the hair appointment and let his wife down yet again. 8:30 AM: where ru? 8:33 AM: I swear, if you are in that fucking bunker 8:35 AM: I need to get going 8:45 AM: I’m taking Reggie with me Steve pounded out a message. “So sorry babe, working all night and just woke up in the bunker. I’ll come and get Reggie from the salon.” He flew up the ladder, threw open the bunker door and emerged into the clear morning. He slammed the hatch shut, forgetting to latch it, and wet his feet in the perspiring grass. He had just pulled open the back door when it happened. His phone began to buzz and emit a high pitched screech. He stopped. He pulled the phone out and looked at the screen. There, at the top, was a notification that read: EMERGENCY ALERT: BALLISTIC MISSILE THREAT INBOUND TO CONTINENTAL UNITED STATES. SEEK IMMEDIATE SHELTER. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. He stopped in the doorway, the pneumatic screen door resting on the back of his legs. Emergency sirens began to blare in the distance. Across the neighborhood, dogs began to bark wildly. Birds exploded from nesting places and perches, flying across the clear blue sky. A pulse ripped through the air, and the phone was silenced abruptly. The screen turned black. Steve turned to The Bunker—the safe haven he’d spent the last nine months dutifully constructing for his family, a family that was no longer there and now out of reach. He strode over to the hatch, stooped down, and grabbed the cold metal, slippery wet with the morning dew. Precious seconds ticked away. He released the handle and sprinted into the empty house. He grabbed his keys from the hook next to the garage, jumped in the car and peeled out of the driveway. Down the street, the old man pulled back the blinds of his living room window and watched Steven peel out of the driveway. The power had cut out and he was alone in the darkened house, which was lit only sporadically by the rays of the morning sun. He walked through the empty house, gazing at the pictures on the wall. He tried calling his son, but his cell phone was dead with everything else. He didn’t even know if the number was still current. He wondered about his grandson. He would be twenty-two now. The old man laced up his shoes, grabbed the picture of his son off the wall, and left the house. He walked up the street to the young man’s house. The tire marks stained the driveway like sloughing cobras. He tread over them to the fence gate, then to The Bunker door. He navigated the ladder, closing the hatch behind him, and settled on the couch in the main living area. He studied the picture of his son, reminiscing the times that were no more. Alone in the dark, he waited for another chance. As the old man hid himself away, Steve raced down the streets that were bereft of weekday traffic. The salon was precious minutes away. He pushed the vehicle to its limits. Tires squealing, he blew through lights, dodging the vehicles whose occupants had parked to seek shelter. The radio presets were all static and it hissed incessantly as he drove, but he was too panicked to turn it off. He thought only of his wife and son. When he reached the salon, he heaved a great sigh of relief. Abigail’s prius was still there. He threw his car in park and let it run, flinging the door open. The uncanny silence made his footfalls elephantine in the abysmal dawn. “Abigail!” he yelled, throwing the salon doors open. The patrons and staff were huddled in the back, delineated mostly by apron and gown. “Oh my God Steven,” she cried, her mascara running in distressed glamour. She held Reggie, who sat in her arms, wooden with anxiety. “We need to get back to The Bunker,” he said, running up to them. He grabbed her arm and pulled. She staggered, frozen in terrified inaction. Steve stopped too. In his heart, he knew it was already too late. He supposed he’d known the second he released his grip on The Bunker door. “I’m so sorry,” he said, turning to her. He held her face in his hands. Dredging his very soul for the right words. “I’ve been gone for years.” “I’m scared,” she wept, burrowing her face in his chest. He stroked her hair, damp from the cut. He grabbed Reggie’s head and pulled it in, the boy’s eyes wide with the abject horror he sensed all around. As they embraced in the lobby, a confluence of light blazed through the north-facing windows. For a moment, it revealed all in ghastly transparency. It was glorious and terrible in its brilliance. It was the descent of the almighty—the emptying of an eternity of wrath and hellfire. It was Ghost. A great rumble ensued. Everyone in the establishment screamed. Steve clutched his wife and son to his chest. Even as the windows shattered and they began to immolate, he feared not. He stood in his serenity, present at the crucial moment. He greeted Ghost as an old friend, knowing that wherever it led them, they would not go alone.