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.
Thirty-six
“Hey, Michaela, come and take a look at what I’ve found.”
Stifling a yawn, she walked into the kitchen, her eyes still sleepy. “Some fine vintage wines, I hope… pardon me.” She yawned again. “Thanks for breakfast, by the way. Breakfast in bed has to be a first since God knows how long.” She pushed back her hair. “What have you got there, Greg?”
“Popcorn.”
