My wife and I select two seats at random. The underground bunker’s gray walls surround us, with spots of sloppy plaster on the ceiling. After processing, we’ve been led to a colossal room through an endless hallway with a throng of people.
I can’t help but daydream. My pondering is not so deep at first. I think of beer after a long day of work, and zoning out in front of the TV.
I joke about cleaning shit for a living as a plumber. “Never let them see you cry,” a drunken fellow plumber once said… Whatever that means.
I avoid the news, especially lately with all the talk of nuclear war. I’ll change the channel to something mindless — just not the fucking news. I already deal with enough at work. I come home exhausted, emotionally, psychologically, and of course, physically. But I’m trying to provide and save up some money — my wife is pregnant.
We listen to people’s murmurs around us. Secrets being whispered. People getting bored of waiting. My eyes wander around the room, inspecting it. A massive screen stretches across the wall. Images of landscapes continue to appear. Ceiling-mounted speakers in each corner play some type of soothing music. A thick, fortified door opens every few minutes, letting in more people. A few AC vents are attached to the walls. Gaps around the door have been tightly sealed, perhaps to preserve the chill draft from the vents.
“Hey!” A voice startles me. “What do you think we’re here for?” He’s in his mid-thirties and leans over in his seat. An excited smile is etched into his face.
“I’m not sure,” I say.
“Third World War is about to start,” another man with piercing blue eyes interjects. “We’ve been selected.” A thin, old lady — presumably his mother — sits next to him. Wrinkles make her face look shriveled with years and years of living.
“And they just chose us for no good reason?” a woman in a red shirt nearby says. She looks around at us, then continues, “It doesn’t make sense.”
My wife holds my hand and squeezes it.
“Maybe they just didn’t have time. Or maybe they did it at random?” the smiling man says.
“Come on,” the woman says, “does this look to you like it was done last minute? This gigantic room? Everything seems so organized. I just wish they brought us some water and food. At least they give you a chance to use the restroom before entering this room.”
The smiling man directs his attention back to me and asks if I believe in God and if I think we’ve all been chosen for a reason. I don’t engage. I think of our living room, my couch, and a frosty bottle of beer.
He asks me who I think will be the first to activate nuclear weapons. I shake my head, unsure of what to say. He launches into a series of bizarre theories and observations, expounding on his conspiracies. I tune him out, turning to my wife and pretending to discuss something important.
“I hate to break it to you,” a woman’s voice says to the smiling man. Sweat glistens off her dark skin. She looks up and waves her hand to inspect if cold air is still blowing from the vents, then looks back at the smiling man. “I don’t think us being here is good news.”
“Why not?” he says.
“The Lord is giving us a sign. We’re refusing to do something about it. We need to stop this war from happening,” she says, gesticulating with her hand.
“How do we do that?”
The big screen flickers and changes to an image of vibrant greenery. Mellow music continues to play at a low volume.
“Before you answer, I have to say,” the man with blue eyes says. “I truly believe they wouldn’t spend time and effort to bring us here for nothing. This is temporary before they move us to some bigger bunker somewhere.”
“Bigger bunker?” the smiling man says.
“You think they don’t know a war’s about to break out? They’re ready for all of this. They need people to stay underground until the radiation clears up.”
The music abruptly comes to a halt. The lock on the door clicks into place, echoing through the silence. The vents sputter and spit, then emit a hissing sound.
Hearts race, faces go pale, and breaths are held.
The screen flickers, then the number 60 appears. It immediately shifts to 59. It takes a few seconds before everyone realizes it’s a timer. The old lady suddenly collapses.
People recoil in horror. We’re left with disbelief and the ominous hiss of gas from the vents. People scream and run wildly, bumping into each other, pushing and shoving. My wife clutches my arm. I look around for a possible escape. Someone manages to rip a chair from its base. He slams it into the screen but it seems to be made of a reinforced material. There’s nothing in the room but walls, a ceiling, speakers, a screen, and a door… And vents. People pound on the concrete, begging to be released. “Do something!” my wife yells. She turns around attempting to run, but slips and splits her head against a chair. I can feel urine crawling down my pants. It must’ve been the beer.
“Lord, help us!” the lady with dark skin wails.
A sudden sense of despair washes over me.
I then sit next to my wife, who lies motionless on the floor with a bleeding head. People’s shrieking continues.
Ten seconds.
I suddenly feel no fear. The digits on the screen keep changing. The pool of blood around my wife’s head keeps creeping along the floor. Doesn’t matter. I’ll be with her soon. A couch, a beer, and a TV — that can’t be all there is to life. I feel sorry for the people still alive. Why would anyone possibly want to live in a world like this?
Yazen Masoud resides in Houston, Texas. He’s a big fan of traveling, and has roadtripped across several states. He loves exploring new towns and cities. He is a fan of Haruki Murakami and Charles Bukowski, to name just a few.
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