“Boy?!”
“Mom?”
The answer came back, a little muffled, from deep in the dark. As Veronica’s eyes came into focus, she saw the faint light of a candle playing in shadows at the end of the small, cramped passageway, and that light suddenly turned the corner, throwing a dull orange glow on the walls of either side of the hallway as her son stepped out into the corridor. She saw the glow of the candle illuminate her son’s face, his hands leaning the candle forward slightly so the wax would drip on the floor. The flame wicked up in sharp little whiskers, and she could see his wide smile in its effulgence. She watched as he proceeded toward her down the hall and into the chamber. She let her breath out in one long sigh, then remembered where they were and how they’d arrived there.
“Mom? Did you know that there are boxes of stored food back there, and water? There’s even a box of contamination gear. And some bikes! There are probably ten or so. I thought you told me this place was abandoned.”
“It is. This was a nuclear bunker once upon a time, boy. It was discovered years ago, but that stuff should have been taken out. It’s got to be fifty years old by now.”
“No. That’s what I’m telling you… It’s dated 2011. Those boxes are new.”
Veronica looked at him, to see if he was pulling her leg. He was a sweet boy, but he had his father’s penchant for practical jokes. She looked into his eyes to see if this was one of them. They were the eyes of her John—strong and sparkling—always with a little mirth, but now they just looked hurt, disappointed that she would doubt him. In this moment of all moments, he wanted her to know that he understood the gravity of their situation and why they had dropped everything when the lights went out; why they had fled through the city to this bunker and slipped in under the cover of darkness. He did not, of course, fully understand. But he wanted her to know that he was trying.
“Mom, I’m telling you, this place has been prepared for something now. There are supplies back there that someone just brought in. It looks like someone means to use this place.”
Veronica reached in her bag and felt for her flashlight. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her son, but she was interested to see for herself. If someone had prepared the place, that meant that they might be on the way, and that fact could change her plan, even as she’d made that plan up on the fly. As she searched her bag, she gently checked her pistol, running her finger over the safety to make sure that she had firmly locked it in place.
“Well, let’s have a look then, Stephen,” she said, getting up creakily from the floor, her joints aching slightly from sleeping on the cold, hard concrete through the night. She switched on the flashlight and Stephen led her down the hall, the mix of candlelight and flashbulb throwing varying shadows on the walls as they bent over and crept down the hallway to the end of the corridor.
They entered a small stone storeroom and Veronica was amazed to find it exactly as Stephen had described it. There were boxes of recently stored food and water, ammunition, nuclear fallout gear, bicycles, and some medical kits, along with a couple of lead-lined containers with batteries and walkie-talkies. The find both thrilled and alarmed Veronica, as it presented a tempting cache of items they could use for their survival, but also suggested that they might not be alone for very long. She would have to make a decision. Should they hunker down and hope for the best, or should they grab what they could and make a run for it? Where would they go? What would happen if they left too soon, or too late? These were the questions that swirled through her mind and mixed with the need to tell Stephen, who was smiling and eager beside her, something—anything—to let him know what she suspected might be coming.
“Okay, boy, now we have to think about what we will do.” She looked at the beautiful face that, for the last several years, had slowly been approaching the height of her own, perched upon an awkward teenaged body filling out with sinewy muscularity. She took his face in her hands and kissed his forehead. “We have to decide in the face of uncertainty what we are going to do so we can face this world down… wash our feet before we get in de dance.” Stephen’s face looked back, not comprehending, but ready to follow where she led. Then he smiled.
“Cool, mom. But first, can we have a little breakfast?”
Veronica laughed at her son’s bright humor. There’s that playfulness, even in the face of this calamity, she thought. She pulled a small box marked “Energy Bars” off the top of the pile, and pulled out a small penknife from her pocket and opened the tape. They’d just begun to sift through the box and catalogue its contents when they heard a scuffling down the hall.
At first, it sounded like the sound of their hands in the box, crinkling and sifting, echoing across the concrete. Veronica even thought that it was their hands for a moment, so she grabbed Stephen’s in hers and forced them to be still for a moment so she could listen closely. There. It was distinct now. There was a shuffling of boots across concrete, the noise muffled by the thick steel doors. There was the sound of an argument, bodies pushing and pulling against each other, and then, as certainly the sound began, it ended.
They stood in silence. Veronica wished she’d taken her gun from her bag and placed it in her waistband. She turned to go back to the front of the bunker and retrieve it when she heard a barbaric yawp, a bloodcurdling cry from outside the entryway, and what sounded like several bodies came crashing against the outside of the door.
Someone was trying to get in.
Saturday
Despite what Peter told him, Lang fell asleep easily, passing out from sheer mental and physical exhaustion. He slept through the night, even though the ground made his sleep restless and unsatisfying. The building was warmer than he had supposed it would be, and, for most of the night, the warmth from the earlier fire radiated from the stone floor and walls, and he appreciated that warmth. He even dreamed… in a fit of restless half-waking as the morning neared.
When he was fully awake, he realized that Peter had not come to bed, but had stood watch all through the night. Lang noted that the older man was doing everything he could possibly do to keep him and Natasha safe. He wondered whether, in Peter’s mind, because he’d been denied the presence and care of a real family of his own for most of his adult life, he’d adopted the two Warwickian youth as his children. He had now called Natasha “daughter” once and Lang “son” twice. He’d called them his “children.” This had happened naturally, but with a hint of reserve, as though Peter hadn’t thought about it when he’d done it, but didn’t want it to be commented upon now that it was done. This didn’t bother Lang at all.
It was evident that Peter had embraced their situation, and Lang noticed how the older man now seemed comfortable in his skin, as though his natural skills and human feelings at last had an outlet. After the initial blunt and angry outburst while they were looking out at the wreckage of Warwick from that hill in the distance, Peter had settled into this newfound father figure role admirably. He’d treated both Lang and Natasha tenderly, and he seemed to relish the responsibility he felt for both of them. This gave Lang a twinge of emotion he had not expected to feel toward the man, as he came to feel something that echoed his own long lost sorrow at never having had a father.
When Peter came by to check on the two that morning, he didn’t seem to be tired at all. He claimed to have fallen asleep for several hours leaning against a tree in the darkness, but both Natasha and Lang knew that this was not true. Peter had taken the gun and watched over them all night like a parent watches over his children when he feels they are in harm’s way. Somehow, Lang thought, looking at Natasha and seeing that she shared the sentiment without having to speak it, they had to find a way to get Peter some sleep.