The Stranger (23 page)

Michaela said, “I thought these places were built entirely underground.”

“Not all. If we’re disguised as we are and as long as we’re not at ground zero—that’s why these places are situated in wilderness areas—then these can take nuclear blasts without excessive damage.”

“Phoenix, let me get this straight,” I said. “When those guys went crazy last year and started ripping people and whole cities apart your bunker team came out here and locked yourself in?”

“That’s about it. We’re supposed to have a complement of thirty-four. When all hell let loose, twenty made it through. Some of us were brought in by police helicopter. Man, those roads were clogged with cars. I can still smell the smoke of towns burning as we flew over them. Right then, I remember thinking, ‘My God. This is hell. Pure hell.’ ”

Michaela shook her head. “So your people are going to sit here until hell freezes back over?”

“No.” I imagined Phoenix shaking his/her head. “

No, we’re in touch with the government at all levels. Plans are being devised to bring this under control. It won’t happen overnight, but when it does this facility will coordinate the restoration of law and order in this district. Then comes the long job of rebuilding our towns.”

“They are that confident?” I heard skepticism in Michaela’s voice. “You know, it’s a mess out there. Apart from the hornets that pretty much control the state, maybe even the whole country or even the world for all I know, all I’ve come across are small groups of people who are scavenging an existence from the wreckage.”

“Michaela, I didn’t intend to paint a rosy picture, but things will be back under governmental control soon.”

“So you’re in regular contact with these other bunkers?”

“Yes, there are several hundred of them. We all—”

“And the hornets have overrun the entire United States?”

“A temporary state of affairs.”

Michaela stood up to talk to that phantom voice. Suddenly she looked cold, as if she’d begun to see the whole picture—devastation, death, dissolution. “Phoenix, what about the rest of the world? Is it like this in Europe, Asia and Africa?”

“Greg, Michaela, I won’t lie to you. At present, yes, it’s bad. This infection has been like an influenza epidemic that’s gone global.”

“Jesus.”

“After all, we lived in a world of international travel. You could step on a plane and be anywhere on the planet in twenty-four hours. Imagine a typical day at JFK. All those tens of thousands of people flooding through Customs into the country. They’re coming from China, Japan, India, Argentina, Mexico, Kenya, Germany, Russia, you name it. Customs can screen them for cocaine and guns but can’t screen them for what they carry in their blood. . . .”

There was a pause. I could hear the sound of Phoenix breathing. It whispered from the speakers. It could have been the sound ghosts make, soft but sort of shimmering and unreal in the air. I shivered.

“We will beat this.” Phoenix’s voice was hushed. “We will do it. Believe in us.” When the voice came again it was louder, more direct. “Now, I don’t want to keep you up all night. You’ve been through hell today. But first I want to show you something. Although you’ll understand that this is a top-secret establishment, my boss has given me clearance to show you our recreation area. She and I thought you might find it reassuring that although this might appear an unusual place to you, life goes on normally enough. See for yourselves. This is some of our crew at play.”

The TV screen flashed. A banner appeared at the bottom of the screen stating
CAM 6:RECREATION
. We saw a brightly lit room with potted ferns and a big wall TV screen something like the one we now watched. Some middle-aged guys were watching an old Buster Keaton movie while sipping beers. At the far end of the room a couple of young women played pool. Like this room, there were comfortable armchairs and sofas. Men and women lounged about talking, reading books; an older guy sat at a table writing. As we watched a man in a military uniform walked in with a clipboard under his arm. He shared a joke with the pool girls. They laughed.

Phoenix spoke. “That’s about half the team. The others are at their workstations or sleeping. The white-haired gentleman at the table is Dr. Roestller. Before you go he’ll want to inoculate you.”

“Oh, what against?” Michaela spoke casually, almost as if making conversation, but when I looked at her she made eye contact with me. She seemed suspicious of something.

Equally casual Phoenix said, “We have a multiple vaccine shot. It was developed as a cover-all after a nuclear strike, when sanitation and normal healthcare would be disrupted. Some joker called it the Morning After Armageddon Pill. A single injection protects you against cholera, hepatitis, meningitis, influenza, septicemia, typhoid, malaria, intestinal parasites . . . all the visitors who’ve passed through here have had the shot. You might be drowsy and run a low fever for a couple of days, but that’s the extent of the side effects.” Phoenix didn’t wait for any answer or further questions. Instead: “Well, I’ve reached the end of my shift. I’m allocated six hours’ sleep now, so I best make the most of it.”

Michaela yawned. “OK, Phoenix, good night.”

“And thank you for taking the time to talk to us.”

“Don’t mention it, Greg. My pleasure. Good night, you two.”

“Good night.”

Silence settled on the room again. Michaela shrugged. “Well, I guess I’m going to turn in.” She gave a tired smile. “It’s going to be novel sleeping in a bed again. I hope I remember how.”

Thirty-five

It was one in the morning when I closed the door of my room. For the next five minutes I got the bed ready. There wasn’t much to do. A sleeping bag in that shrink wrap sat on a bare plastic mattress. I tore open the packing and something like a concrete block in hardness and size expanded and softened as the air rushed in. I unrolled the sleeping bag onto the mattress, then kicked off my sandals. Bolted on the wall next to the bed was a radio that couldn’t have been much larger than a pack of cigarettes. The controls consisted of a single push button. I pushed it. All I got was more of that ambient elevator music. I switched off.

“Greg?”

“Come in, Michaela. It’s not locked.”

She opened the door and looked in. Her hair fell loosely ’round her shoulders. It was damp from a recent shower. She wore a T-shirt for a nightdress. Shyly, she smoothed it ’round her hips to keep the hem down over her thighs.

“This might sound silly to you . . .” She smiled, looking awkward. “But do you mind if you leave your door open a little? I’m leaving mine open.” She blushed. “I’ve got so used to sleeping ’round a campfire with a crowd of people that it’s going to be strange sleeping alone in my own room.”

I smiled back, trying to be reassuring. “Of course. And relax—we’re safe in here. This place is built like a fortress.”

“That’s going to take getting used to as well. I’m used to sleeping with someone standing watch.”

“I could sit with you until you go to sleep if you like.”

“I’m sure I’ll manage.” She yawned. “I can’t wait to lay down on a soft mattress. It’s going to seem like heaven. Thanks anyway.”

“Make the most of it. Sleep late tomorrow. I’ll fix breakfast.”

She grinned. “Now you’re spoiling me.”

“You deserve it.”

“Good night.”

“Good night, Michaela. Just shout if you need anything.”

When she’d gone I sat on the bed. Through the thin partition wall I could here her moving ’round for a moment or so, then came the click of the light switch. After that there was only silence. I guessed she’d fallen asleep straightaway.

Switching off the light, I slipped into the sleeping bag and lay there on my back with my fingers knitted behind my head. Despite the time being well south of midnight I didn’t feel ready to sleep yet. A lot of what Phoenix had told us was rattling through my head like a neverending train. I suddenly thought of dozens of questions I wanted to ask. But that’s always the way, isn’t it? You only think of the smart questions long after the opportunity has passed you by. What was life really like in these bunkers for the twenty or so men and women who crewed the place? Did they suffer from cabin fever? Did it get so you wanted to rip off the guy’s head who snores in his sleep? These partition walls between the bedrooms were little more than boards skinned with plaster. Were romantic entanglements banned? Or were there red-hot orgies every night? Did these people ever leave the bunker to take the air and see real daylight? But I guessed not. These people were so afraid of contamination they wouldn’t risk poking their head outdoors in case they inhaled an airborne Jumpy bug. Like nuclear subs that remained submerged under the Arctic ice cap for six months at a time, these people stayed sealed away in their concrete lair.

I lay in the sleeping bag with those questions going ’round my head. Johnny Christ. How come your thoughts seem loud enough to keep you awake at night? It’s nighttime when all those anxieties and fears that you keep locked down all through the day come stomping out. They keep you lying there wide awake looking at the ceiling. You’ve as much chance of sleeping as levitating yourself off the bed and flying ’round the room. Even as I managed to stop thinking about what Phoenix had told us I immediately found myself wondering if Ben had made it. He was good on that dirt bike. He’d be able to leave the hornets chewing on nothing but moss thrown up by the back tire as he powered away. In my heart I knew he was safe. All I had to concern myself with now was sleeping. But that wasn’t easy.

Count sheep?

Yeah, I tried that.

But all the sheep turned into hornets. Then my imagination had them creeping through a back door of the bunker. I listened. With no TV or conversations with Michaela to distract me I could hear clicks and whirring sounds behind the walls. They were just the bunker plumbing and air-conditioning units. Of course my imagination turned those sounds into some bare-footed, murdering bastard shuffling down the corridor outside. Jesus, I wish I’d kept my rifle. I wish I’d . . . crap to this. I switched on the light.

Come on, Valdiva, settle down. It’s only your imagination winding you up. Relax. You’re safe. Michaela’s safe. No hor-nets can get through those walls
. Yeah, as if your imagination ever listens to you when it turns itself into a tormenting devil. It just quacks on and on, leaving you more wide awake than ever. I climbed out of bed, went to the bathroom, drank some water, then returned to my room. Of course the corridor was deserted. No murdering hornets. Nothing could enter here from the outside. Hell, not even a mosquito.

I paused outside Michaela’s room. Through the door I could hear the regular sound of her breathing.
Take her lead, Valdiva, old buddy, sleep
.

When I was back in my room I pushed the door three quarters shut. For the first time I noticed a plastic envelope pinned to the back of the door. It must have been there all along, but this was the first time I’d noticed it. Not that there was much to notice. Through the plastic I could see the words.
CIVIL DEFENSE AUXILIARY INSTALLATION. EMERGENCY PROCEDURES. PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE FROM ROOM
.

Great, a little bedtime reading.

Memorize these alarm sounds
.

1. Continuous siren: Incoming missile alert
.

2. Alarm in pulse mode: Nuclear detonation in Bunker vicinity
.

3. Alarm in horn mode: Internal fire
.

And so on. I’d have given the notice no further attention if it hadn’t been for a penciled addition to the list that ran:
In case of direct nuclear strike kiss your fanny good-bye
.

Someone with a sense of humor had stayed here. On the paper I could make out impressions that made me think that whoever had slept in that bed before me had written some witty comments on the other side of the doom-’n-gloom notice. The plastic envelope was open-ended, so it was simple enough to slip out the sheets. I took them across to the bed and sat down.

Valdiva
, I scolded:
sitting on your bed at 2
AM
reading someone else’s bored-out-of-their-skull doodles is the act of a desperate man
. A desperately bored one, that is. I turned over the sheets of paper to the blank side. Sure enough there were pencil doodles including a man entering a woman from behind with the caption:
Dr. Roestller’s preferred injection procedure
. A speech balloon came out of his mouth:
“This won’t hurt, my dear. You’ll just feel a little prick.”
The scribbler’s humor reserve seemed to run dry after that. Everything else jotted down there seemed to relate to meal times, work rotations and the warning to run the shower on hot until warm water made it through the pipes from the main bunker. Yeah, we’d had that warning from Phoenix, too. In my mind’s eye I saw one of the civil defense bunker team who was new to the job sitting here and jotting down these notes to remind himself or herself what time supper was and when they were expected to start a shift. In the bottom righthand corner of the sheet were also columns of numbers.

6731

4411

8730

9010

They were too short for telephone numbers. And some had a couple of letters tagged on:
7608—SB, 4799—Q
and so on. At the bottom of the page in shouting capitals was the word
MEMORIZE!
An arrow pointed to heavily underscored words that didn’t make a bunch of sense:
maple-eagle-green
.

I checked the other sheets. Apart from the printed emergency procedures and do’s and don’ts—
No smoking in bathroom. Dispose of sanitary products in chute provided NOT in the toilet
—there weren’t any more handwritten notes. With the notice’s entertainment value well and truly exhausted I turned out the light to try to sleep.

Five minutes later I sat up in bed. A minor revelation had just crackled across my brain. Suddenly some of those inexplicable handwritten notes made sense. Also gut instinct told me to be on my guard. Faking restlessness, I walked through every room in the bunker from the locker room, with its shrink-wrapped clothes, back to the kitchen to drink some orange juice, then into the lounge to flick through the TV channels, then back to the corridor with the sealed steel doors, then back to bed.

When, at last, I turned out the light I knew I had something to tell Michaela in the morning.