“Maybe we should go home, Grandpa.” I tilt my head back to feel the rain fall softly on my eyelids. “It’s really starting to come down.”
“Nonsense. It’s barely raining. And we’re not done yet. I need to go back to the southwest bunker.”
“You’ve been there a million times before. Why would it be different this time?”
“It might be. We have to be thorough. I want to look at the door one more time. I think the concrete is starting to crack. We might be able to create another hole if we’re lucky.” He starts back through a narrow path in the woods, pushing aside branches as he walks. I straighten and reluctantly follow him.
The southwest bunker is a cement door that leads into the side of a small hill. It is eight feet tall and ten feet wide, with faded black lettering across the front: DO NOT ENTER. CLOSED TO PUBLIC. On either side of the door cement wings flare outward, two triangles that frame the hill. If you look at it from the side or the top, it appears to be a normal grass-covered mound. Only from the front can you see the cement structure set deep into the earth. There are bunkers like this scattered all over Camp Hero, some large and on the main road, some, like this one, hidden in the woods.
For some reason my grandfather keeps returning to this one spot. It’s at the end of a long, rambling, tick-ridden path, a hike that only the most diehard conspiracy theorists would attempt to navigate. The bunker is almost concealed by the dense leaves and curving branches of nearby trees. The warning sign on the front is practically unreadable, and the cement is chipped, with a small chunk missing near the top.
These old bunkers were probably storage facilities used to house weapons or equipment during World War II, designed to look like hills to disguise them from enemy fire. Some of them were attached to long-range guns that jutted out over the ocean, ready to fire on German submarines. But according to my grandfather, they’re actually secret doors that lead to an extensive underground network of labs and holding cells. Never mind that the cement looks less like a door and more like a permanent seal. Never mind that it is so overgrown that it clearly hasn’t been opened in fifty years.
When we reach the bunker, I sit on the wet grass and lock my arms around my jeans. My grandfather starts bustling near the entrance, running his hands over the sealed edges of the door. What is he looking for? A break? A crack? A secret button that will slide it open and reveal all of its secrets? And if he finds it, then what? This seventy-five-year-old man will wander inside to fight a reptoid?
As I wait, I compulsively line up nearby sticks into neat, corresponding rows. One stick facing me, one away. Soon they are perfectly organized piles. Satisfied, I start to arrange the leaves that are scattered around my legs.
Time passes. The rain is a steady, falling mist that coats my button-down gingham shirt and the sweater I have draped over my shoulders. Tiny drops of water cling to my hair and face. The rain starts to get heavier. I stand up, my sweater falling onto the damp grass.
“Grandpa, I think it’s time to go.”
He still hasn’t moved. He’s soaked; his sweater looks heavy and uncomfortable, and his hair is plastered to the back of his head. “Not now, Lydia.” He sounds distracted, absent.
I walk closer to him. We’re so far in the woods that all I can hear are birds chirping in the trees. The air smells like wet earth and rotting leaves.
“Grandpa.” I touch his shoulder gently. “We’ve been here for hours. It’s time to go now.” My voice is soft and coaxing.
“Just one more second, kiddo.”
“No, Grandpa.” I carefully grasp his hand. “Please, it’s time to go now.”
“If I could just get into this concrete. If I could just look inside.”
“I know, but you can’t. It’s not going to open.”
“There has to be a way.”
I lightly tug at his hand. “You’re not going to find it today.”
“But I was so sure it would be different. I was so sure.” His voice cracks.
“I know. But you saw the door. It’s sealed shut. Nothing has changed from the last time we were here.”
“But—”
“It’s time to go now.” I slowly lead him away from the bunker, his larger frame falling against mine. His manic energy from earlier is gone. This is always how we end up leaving Camp Hero—him dejected, me trying to hold him up and struggling against the weight.
We start through the path in the woods. “Lydia,” he says softly, “I hope you never have to know what it feels like to lose someone you love. I know you must think I’m a crazy old man sometimes, but I think you’d be surprised at what you would do if it were you. At what you would feel you have to do.”
I blink drops of water from my eyes. “I don’t think you’re crazy, Grandpa.”
“I know there’s something here. I know there is.” The conviction in his voice sends a chill across my skin. As I shiver in the cold rain, I realize I’ve left my sweater at the bunker.
“Grandpa, we need to turn ar—” But I stop before I finish the sentence. If we both go back there, I’ll never get him to leave again. “I forgot something. Can you go to the car? I’ll meet you there soon.”
He nods. I squeeze his arm before I let go. I stand watching as he shuffles down the path, a hunched gray figure fading into the trees. As soon as he’s out of sight, I walk away, ducking under branches and wiping raindrops from my cheeks.
In just a minute, I’m stepping out and into the clearing, pushing my dripping bangs off my forehead. My sweater is on the
