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Dr. Willoughby doesn’t hesitate in sharing the information with me. “It’s a lot better. Still polluted but making progress. If it keeps improving at this rate, the air will probably be safe to breathe without health problems in less than a year.”
“Wow.” I turn my eyes to Dave. “Will we come out then?”
“I don’t know. It’s still not safe on the surface. The natural disasters have started to calm down as far as we can tell, and the air won’t be an issue. But we’re pretty sure there’s no recognizable civilization left. Governments toppled. It’s like the Wild West out there. Maybe even worse. Even if the planet won’t kill us, other people might, especially if they find out the kind of resources we have down here. Coming out of lockdown will be a long, complicated discussion.”
I nod, understanding all of this. I’d love to breathe fresh air again. See the sun and sky. But if it’s safe down here and it’s not up there, it would be foolish to leave before we have to.
I’ve been in an emotional slump since my father died, and I’ve had a hard time shaking it. My days seem to lay out in front of me like a bleak, gray, endless road—with no detours or rest stops—but it still feels like that’s better than being dead.
Glancing over toward Grant, I wonder what he thinks about all this. He’s been looking at me. I can tell even though his eyes move away as soon as I turn in his direction. Sometimes I wonder what he’s thinking. He’s such a hard man to read.
And it bugs me that he doesn’t even seem to like me.
I chat for a few more minutes with Dave and Dr. Willoughby, and then it’s time for me to head down the hall toward the coffee bar for my morning shift.
We do have coffee in the bunker. It’s one of the absolute essentials that was stockpiled in advance. But we have a limited supply, so it can’t be a free-for-all where people drink three or four cups (or more) a day. We’re each rationed out one cup a day, and the only place to get it is the coffee bar.
I do a shift working there from nine to noon every day.
For the first year after lockdown, things were pretty much status quo down here. The residents enjoyed the privileges that came with their investment, and the staff handled all the work. But during the second year, a virus hit the bunker. No one knew exactly what it was or where it came from. The air-filtration systems and ventilation were supposed to prevent airborne disease. Whatever it was, it killed thirty-nine of the two hundred in the facility in less than two weeks. It was a huge hit to our sense of safety and security. We lost a lot of staff, and the ones left couldn’t cover all the jobs. So my dad and a couple of others worked with Dave to develop a proposal for dividing up the tasks required to keep all our systems running. It took a lot of pressure off the staff, and there are enough of us to share the duties that people only need to work half days.
Some of the more selfish and entitled among the residents complained, but Dave keeps a pretty firm hand on the community. People who refused to work didn’t get to use the recreation facilities, so eventually even the whiniest among us caved.
I cover late mornings at the coffee bar, and I take care of keeping the pool clean and its water levels healthy. They’re both easy jobs. I could do a lot more. But any time I mention that, I’m told there’s nothing else that needs doing.
I fix a new pot of coffee to prepare for the midmorning rush. A lot of people stop by for a cup of coffee with their small morning snack. Then I sit on a stool and serve those who come by, chatting for a few minutes with everyone except the few men who give me the creeps.
Everyone is happy to talk to me.
No one stays very long.
The coffee bar is in a corner of the main community floor next to the lounge and down the hall from the movie theater, library, and the game room. There are always people hanging out, enjoying their downtime or looking for companionship. I watch groups. Families. Couples.
And wonder why it is I don’t have anyone.
My dad died. There’s nothing to do about that. And, unlike almost everyone else, I didn’t have any other family down here. But over the past three years, I’ve watched people hook up over and over again—sometimes casually and sometimes in long-term partnerships. I’ve seen married couples break up and then pair with new people. When we locked down, there were only six other teenagers around my age. Two died from the virus, three are girls, and the one guy my age is named Ben. I kind of liked him. I wasn’t crazy about him or anything, but he was nice and cute enough. For a while, I thought he might be interested in me. I definitely wouldn’t have turned him down. But last year he got together with one of the other girls.
I’m twenty now. I could go for an older man if I wanted. There are very few unattached men, however, and even fewer in an appropriate age range for me.
The only man down here I find really attractive is Grant, and he’s made it clear he doesn’t even like me.
Which is fine. I don’t much like him either. But it’s hard not to notice how hot he is when I’ve been alone for so long and no longer have even the slightest hope for a boyfriend.
I used to like to read romance novels, but I don’t anymore. They were making me want things I can’t have, and that made me too unhappy. Now I mostly read cozy mysteries.
We’ve had a few suicides over the years. Not enough for it to be an epidemic, but definitely more than was normal in our old lives.
People are doing their best to make a life down here. I’m doing my best. But it always feels like we’re in a holding pattern, waiting for the world to get better. We don’t belong down here with nothing but manufactured surroundings. We were made to feel the grass and the wind and the sun beating down on our skin. We were made to hear birds sing and to plant gardens and to scratch a dog behind its ears. We were made to not be trapped in an underground prison even if it’s the only thing keeping us safe.
Some people can’t take it. I understand the impulse, although I never considered taking that step even right after my father died. I’m not sure why. It’s just that I want to live.
I want to survive long enough to live a life better than this.
As we get toward noon, the coffee bar empties out because most people are focused on lunch. Ben, the one guy my age, stops by shortly before my shift ends.
He works in the hydroponic garden in the afternoons, and he’s been hanging out in the game room this morning. He grins and waves when he sees me, and he makes a detour to say hi.
He asks about my morning swim and about what I think will be for lunch today. I ask him about his girlfriend, Tara, and he tells me things are going well.
