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2
Two years ago
On another Friday,I wake up at five thirty without an alarm, the same way I’ve done nearly every day for the three years I’ve lived in the bunker.
I’ve woken up early most of my life for morning swim practices, and it’s the best time to use the pool without interruption or distraction. I feel heavy this morning, like my body doesn’t want to move, so I sit on the side of the bed, rubbing my face and staring at the artificial window on the wall. Earlier this month, I changed the projected scene to a beach, so it shows a morning sunrise with waves lapping gently on the sand.
It’s fake, so the scene only provides a small degree of comfort. I haven’t seen the real sun and sky in thirty-six months, but the projection is better than nothing. Better than a blank wall.
I try not to spend too much time feeling sorry for myself. After all, if I wasn’t in this bunker, I’d either be dead or eking out a treacherous existence. We had communications down here for several months after lockdown, so we know what happened to the world before and after the asteroid hit.
Unimaginable death and destruction. From the initial impact. From the way the mass exodus out of Europe threw global politics and economy into chaos. From the devastating effects on the climate. From food shortages. From one natural disaster after another.
Whoever has survived up there is in much worse shape than we are, so I’m not going to begrudge my relative safety down here even if it leaves me aching for the warmth of the sun. The wind on my skin. The smell of salt in the beach air.
I only let myself sit, hunched and brooding, for a few minutes. Then I push myself to my feet, go to the bathroom, pull my hair into one tight braid, and put on my suit. I grab a towel, my swim bag, and a bottle from my refrigerator—sanitized and refilled with filtered water—before heading out into the hallway and toward the closest elevator.
I don’t live in the huge apartment my father originally bought for us anymore.
It’s always quiet at this time in the morning. Most shifts don’t start until seven. I make it down to the pool level without encountering anyone else, and the first person I see at all today is Grant, who’s finishing up his morning laps as I drop my towel and bag and bend over to get out my goggles. I wore out all my swim caps months ago, and there was nothing to replace them.
As I drop into the cool water, Grant pauses on the other side of the pool, giving me a polite nod and saying, “Morning.”
“Good morning,” I reply.
That’s the extent of our conversation almost every day. He must get here around five because he always finishes up before I’ve completed my five hundred warm-up. Afterward, he goes to the gym next door to lift weights, but I don’t bother doing that. Swimming is enough exercise for me.
Sometimes I think about asking Grant a question. Sharing a friendly anecdote. Giving him a compliment on his freestyle. Anything to start a conversation. I haven’t gotten close to anyone in the bunker, but most people seem to like me. At least, they’re willing to smile and chat when I run into them. Even the people who creep me out and that I try to avoid say more to me than Grant does.
Since the day he introduced me to this place, the longest conversation we’ve ever had was when he asked if I’d be willing to move out of my dad’s apartment.
My dad died in his sleep a little over a year ago. I said good night to him one evening, and the next morning he was dead. The doctor wasn’t sure what happened. Probably a heart attack. They weren’t willing to use their finite medical resources on investigating a natural death, no matter how sudden.
The reason didn’t matter to me then, and it doesn’t now. All that matters is that I’ve lost my dad.
A few weeks after he died, Grant stopped by to ask what I thought of the idea of moving into a smaller place. After all, I was only one person now with the largest unit in the whole complex. Grant was surprisingly gentle as he asked. He explained there were always rumblings of discontent, and moving would be a generous gesture that would stave off resentment against me from people who had less. He explained that if I didn’t want to leave my dad’s apartment, they would do everything they could to hold it for me, but he thought it would be smart to swap with a large family who was crammed into a small unit.
Of course I switched. I had no desire to live in such a vast, empty space—all of it haunted by memories of my dad. My new place is a small one-bedroom. It’s perfectly nice, and I’m always pleased to see how happy the Johnsons—parents, five children, two sets of grandparents—are in the big apartment.
Grant nodded after I agreed to move. Muttered, “Thank you. Your father was a good man. I miss him.”
That was the longest conversation I’ve had with the man in three years.
As always, I decide not to force conversation on a man who clearly isn’t interested in it, and I let him leave without a word. I swim until quarter after seven, and then I return to my apartment to shower and dress.
From there, I head to the community level to get my breakfast pack from the main kitchen. Today it’s a small round tomato-and-zucchini omelet made with dehydrated eggs and served with a piece of toast.
It’s fine. We’ve had some problems with our tilapia tanks, but our gardens are still going well. We’re fortunate to have so many fresh vegetables.
I eat my breakfast as I wander down to the main administrative offices. Most people aren’t allowed to just stop by without an appointment, but my father always did, and no one objects if I do too.
Dave Kenney is the developer and manager of the bunker project. He’s a friendly, laid-back man in his fifties. The kind of guy I always mentally label a “good ole boy.”
When I walk into the administrative suite, he’s hanging around in the sitting area, talking to a few others. Martha, his assistant. Grant, who finished his morning workout and changed into gray trousers and a black T-shirt. And Dr. Willoughby, who was a climate scientist in his former life and is responsible for monitoring conditions on the surface to see when it’s safe to come out of lockdown.
I hear a snippet of conversation as I open the door and step in. They’re talking about the air quality outside. The asteroid threw up huge amounts of dust and debris, blocking the sun for a while and filling the air with pollution. Just breathing that air would be dangerous. Not enough to kill someone instantly, but certainly bad enough to destroy lungs and eventually lead to death in all but the strongest and luckiest. The knowledge of that has stifled most of the rumblings from the residents here about coming out of lockdown.
“It’s getting that much better?” I ask, having overheard enough of the conversation. “The air out there?”
