Time stands still in the bunkers that actually withstood the onslaught of the initial nuclear war - which according to DKM 7 lasted 22 minutes and 45.6 seconds. The decade of fallout which ended with a terminable ice age as the world descended into a nuclear winter which held everything in a stranglehold until the third wave of hydrogen-fueled fire swept the world clean leaving only dust and ruin. All told, the lucky few who made it to the bunkers and other havens found that they would have to survive 25 plus years of holocaust before there was any release or escape from what proved to be the tombs for so many of them.
I have not been in many of them, the sealed ones are harder to find than the ones which were opened and all too often resealed. In the years of wondering those the southeastern wastes and up the Missing River Gorge, I have only found five that were opened, six that were still sealed and eight that failed to keep out one or all the nuclear attacks and fallout. The bunker and fallout shelter dwellers often succumbed to radiation or starvation before even knowing that there would be anything to come back to on the surface.
I stand in the haunted silence of what must be the airlock foyer of one such bunker. I remember reading some thin book called Fallout something that talked of vaults - like bank vaults where instead of money people were kept, it took me years before I knew that this book was a work of fiction and not of actuality but standing on the narrow catwalk in front a large metal door, I cannot escape the striking similarities between this bunker's entrance and the faded picture of the one in that book.
The massive door is sealed. The air outside is stale but breathable. Still, remembering the training videos from DKM's bunker, I pause to reload my holdout's clips, verify the backup clips, check the compact riot shotgun with a folding stock. I think it's a variation of the famous Widowmaker 12 gauge. This one has variable loads, I am mostly carrying beanbag rounds and something called rubber splatter slugs- an alternative non-lethal round. I load the Widowmaker with bean bag rounds, switch on the mounted flashlight, adjust the beam. The don gloves and the gas mask with rebreather and mount the radiation meter- better safe than dead.
Once I am ready to proceed, I locate the keypad and input the code DKM has given me. Fortunately, the codes are part of a failsafe setup for all government bunkers that override any change that the bunker's inhabitants install or alter. The code is accepted and the doors release clamps grind to life.
I am not expecting survivors to still be alive down here. It has been almost 2 centuries since the world ended. There are stories of bunkers not only surviving but also flourishing but so far, for me, they have remained only stories. I have yet to find one that held any living descendants or even squatters who moved in afterward. One of the reasons for this is that the sealed bunkers that survived the wars are either buried or so deep that they have been missed by the raiders, looters and other scavengers that have pillaged so many of the surviving structures.
As the large metal door rises from its locks and grooves to slide to the side and swing outwards past me. I look into the maw that welcomes me like some great leviathan waiting to consume me.
“...to the last I grapple with thee; from hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee.”
27. Moby Dick or the Whale by Herman Melville. Found in a tornado cellar somewhere in the Southeastern Wasteland, possibly in the vicinity of what once was Montgomery, Alabama. Frank called the place the MaSSHall in Gomery. Apparently, the novel was too large to carry off and Frank squatted in the cellar to read the book in its entirety before leaving that place. I scanned my database for it but found only references and a log of some college student who went on at length to describe the book as tedious and boring to the point that he wanted to kill himself.
The emptiness is thick with the intangible fear of death as I cross the threshold into the Bunker. I push away my fear of the unknown finding only the empty chamber within; nothing moves as my flashlight sweeps across the metal floor, the impromptu barricade facing the door. There is nothing here, not even the memory of death. I get the distinct impression that no one made it to this place to claw at the door, pleading for admittance to its relative safety. I continue to sweep the room, no bodies, no skeletons, no weapons, no remains remain here in the dark.
After an hour of searching, I locate the generator interface and determine that there is still some power in the system. I have the distinct feeling that this place was abandoned a long time ago and whoever left it wanted to clean up after themselves. I restore enough power to run the emergency lighting. The room becomes ambient and visible.
I consider the evidence....the missing power supply at the outer hatch coupled with the emptiness of what would be the most defensible area of the bunker. The denizens here left, I will not find bodies stuffed into corners, hiding in fortified rooms, starving to death when the food supplies ran out or odd packages in the commissary coolers hastily wrapped and stored as the bunker turned to more uncivilized means of survival.
I walk through the bunker, Twelve living spaces, primarily bunkrooms, communal bathrooms, the commissary, "empty chairs and empty tables." These lines from a tattered booklet found among large vinyl discs found in a box in the collapsed building outside Gomery whereas an eleven-year-old boy, I was introduced to the musical and record players that I had to spin myself.
I find the armory, it is empty save for a few remaining boxes of ammo- .50 BMG. Not sure what weapon would take it. I collect the boxes, There is also a reloading press but all the materials have been removed...and the first evidence of a fast retreat from this place as I realize I am standing in gunpowder and some other materials scattered around on the floor. I freeze in place.
The next few seconds feel like hours as I search for the booby trap.
There is none.
It's an honest spill left because there was no more time.
Later, after I remember to breathe, I locate a broom and dustpan and bag, I clean up the powder, bagging it to take with me.
I return to the commissary to go over the blueprints that DKM gave me to locate the power core.
It takes a few hours to break into this area at the bottom of the bunker, only accessible through a crawlspace- and I mean literally crawling space only. I probably stopped, at least once, to curse the designers of the tomb for their lack of understanding that a six foot three man is not a two-foot tall rat.
I retrieve the core components, primarily circuit boards with matching numbers stenciled onto the sides of each of them. It's grueling working, I am glad, that I have the bunker on emergency power, since I would have had to shut down most of the place to get into this rat trap to pull them.
On my way out, I notice a door I had not checked during my initial sweep. It's locked with an old-fashioned key lock. The rest of the bunker either has no locks or electric locks but not this door. It is unmarked and dull gray. I reload the shotgun with a solid round and blow the lock out of the door. Lockpicking is for idiots.
Inside I find a small office, a computer terminal (the only one in the bunker) and a skeleton lying spread eagle behind the desk. Considering the size of the hole in the back of the man's skull, I guess that he was unwilling to leave. I sweep the room, but like the rest of the bunker save for the sanitation chambers, recycling rooms, this place is as bare as the rest. The computer is intact though.
I have to go back to the generator room, Then strip out as much electric wire as I can find in the conduits and run an impromptu extension cord (cords) to string the power back to the office. The computer like so many of the others is built into the desk. Again, I am struck with extreme annoyance at this places designers who seemed to excel at being inconvenient to us poor scavengers. Another hour later and I have rigged a power bypass and booted the computer. I pray that there is no password or login. I pray to no one- knowing no appropriate god for computers.
Welcome to X Windows FX30.
Fucking login screen.
Well, so much for that.
I try some random words and passwords, names and passwords. I stop before it lockout though.
As I sit there in frustration, I idly click on the password hint button.
"THERE IS NO TRUSTING THE GDI. GOD.
IT HAS BETRAYED US."
Well, I have no clue. But I don't like the creepy feeling I have. Time to leave.
Learn how to hack X Windows FX30 and only return here when I can get into this holy grail of mystery,
I return to the surface.
Like the bunker, the streets are empty, even my former victim's bodies are missing.
I should be scared. I should run.
I will not, mostly because I look ridiculous running away...I mean I imagine that I would look ridiculous...
I feel her eyes on me as I walk away from that place.
I ask myself if I remembered to lock up behind me.
I cannot remember.
I have not been in many of them, the sealed ones are harder to find than the ones which were opened and all too often resealed. In the years of wondering those the southeastern wastes and up the Missing River Gorge, I have only found five that were opened, six that were still sealed and eight that failed to keep out one or all the nuclear attacks and fallout. The bunker and fallout shelter dwellers often succumbed to radiation or starvation before even knowing that there would be anything to come back to on the surface.
I stand in the haunted silence of what must be the airlock foyer of one such bunker. I remember reading some thin book called Fallout something that talked of vaults - like bank vaults where instead of money people were kept, it took me years before I knew that this book was a work of fiction and not of actuality but standing on the narrow catwalk in front a large metal door, I cannot escape the striking similarities between this bunker's entrance and the faded picture of the one in that book.
The massive door is sealed. The air outside is stale but breathable. Still, remembering the training videos from DKM's bunker, I pause to reload my holdout's clips, verify the backup clips, check the compact riot shotgun with a folding stock. I think it's a variation of the famous Widowmaker 12 gauge. This one has variable loads, I am mostly carrying beanbag rounds and something called rubber splatter slugs- an alternative non-lethal round. I load the Widowmaker with bean bag rounds, switch on the mounted flashlight, adjust the beam. The don gloves and the gas mask with rebreather and mount the radiation meter- better safe than dead.
Once I am ready to proceed, I locate the keypad and input the code DKM has given me. Fortunately, the codes are part of a failsafe setup for all government bunkers that override any change that the bunker's inhabitants install or alter. The code is accepted and the doors release clamps grind to life.
I am not expecting survivors to still be alive down here. It has been almost 2 centuries since the world ended. There are stories of bunkers not only surviving but also flourishing but so far, for me, they have remained only stories. I have yet to find one that held any living descendants or even squatters who moved in afterward. One of the reasons for this is that the sealed bunkers that survived the wars are either buried or so deep that they have been missed by the raiders, looters and other scavengers that have pillaged so many of the surviving structures.
As the large metal door rises from its locks and grooves to slide to the side and swing outwards past me. I look into the maw that welcomes me like some great leviathan waiting to consume me.
“...to the last I grapple with thee; from hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee.”
27. Moby Dick or the Whale by Herman Melville. Found in a tornado cellar somewhere in the Southeastern Wasteland, possibly in the vicinity of what once was Montgomery, Alabama. Frank called the place the MaSSHall in Gomery. Apparently, the novel was too large to carry off and Frank squatted in the cellar to read the book in its entirety before leaving that place. I scanned my database for it but found only references and a log of some college student who went on at length to describe the book as tedious and boring to the point that he wanted to kill himself.
The emptiness is thick with the intangible fear of death as I cross the threshold into the Bunker. I push away my fear of the unknown finding only the empty chamber within; nothing moves as my flashlight sweeps across the metal floor, the impromptu barricade facing the door. There is nothing here, not even the memory of death. I get the distinct impression that no one made it to this place to claw at the door, pleading for admittance to its relative safety. I continue to sweep the room, no bodies, no skeletons, no weapons, no remains remain here in the dark.
After an hour of searching, I locate the generator interface and determine that there is still some power in the system. I have the distinct feeling that this place was abandoned a long time ago and whoever left it wanted to clean up after themselves. I restore enough power to run the emergency lighting. The room becomes ambient and visible.
I consider the evidence....the missing power supply at the outer hatch coupled with the emptiness of what would be the most defensible area of the bunker. The denizens here left, I will not find bodies stuffed into corners, hiding in fortified rooms, starving to death when the food supplies ran out or odd packages in the commissary coolers hastily wrapped and stored as the bunker turned to more uncivilized means of survival.
I walk through the bunker, Twelve living spaces, primarily bunkrooms, communal bathrooms, the commissary, "empty chairs and empty tables." These lines from a tattered booklet found among large vinyl discs found in a box in the collapsed building outside Gomery whereas an eleven-year-old boy, I was introduced to the musical and record players that I had to spin myself.
I find the armory, it is empty save for a few remaining boxes of ammo- .50 BMG. Not sure what weapon would take it. I collect the boxes, There is also a reloading press but all the materials have been removed...and the first evidence of a fast retreat from this place as I realize I am standing in gunpowder and some other materials scattered around on the floor. I freeze in place.
The next few seconds feel like hours as I search for the booby trap.
There is none.
It's an honest spill left because there was no more time.
Later, after I remember to breathe, I locate a broom and dustpan and bag, I clean up the powder, bagging it to take with me.
I return to the commissary to go over the blueprints that DKM gave me to locate the power core.
It takes a few hours to break into this area at the bottom of the bunker, only accessible through a crawlspace- and I mean literally crawling space only. I probably stopped, at least once, to curse the designers of the tomb for their lack of understanding that a six foot three man is not a two-foot tall rat.
I retrieve the core components, primarily circuit boards with matching numbers stenciled onto the sides of each of them. It's grueling working, I am glad, that I have the bunker on emergency power, since I would have had to shut down most of the place to get into this rat trap to pull them.
On my way out, I notice a door I had not checked during my initial sweep. It's locked with an old-fashioned key lock. The rest of the bunker either has no locks or electric locks but not this door. It is unmarked and dull gray. I reload the shotgun with a solid round and blow the lock out of the door. Lockpicking is for idiots.
Inside I find a small office, a computer terminal (the only one in the bunker) and a skeleton lying spread eagle behind the desk. Considering the size of the hole in the back of the man's skull, I guess that he was unwilling to leave. I sweep the room, but like the rest of the bunker save for the sanitation chambers, recycling rooms, this place is as bare as the rest. The computer is intact though.
I have to go back to the generator room, Then strip out as much electric wire as I can find in the conduits and run an impromptu extension cord (cords) to string the power back to the office. The computer like so many of the others is built into the desk. Again, I am struck with extreme annoyance at this places designers who seemed to excel at being inconvenient to us poor scavengers. Another hour later and I have rigged a power bypass and booted the computer. I pray that there is no password or login. I pray to no one- knowing no appropriate god for computers.
Welcome to X Windows FX30.
Fucking login screen.
Well, so much for that.
I try some random words and passwords, names and passwords. I stop before it lockout though.
As I sit there in frustration, I idly click on the password hint button.
"THERE IS NO TRUSTING THE GDI. GOD.
IT HAS BETRAYED US."
Well, I have no clue. But I don't like the creepy feeling I have. Time to leave.
Learn how to hack X Windows FX30 and only return here when I can get into this holy grail of mystery,
I return to the surface.
Like the bunker, the streets are empty, even my former victim's bodies are missing.
I should be scared. I should run.
I will not, mostly because I look ridiculous running away...I mean I imagine that I would look ridiculous...
I feel her eyes on me as I walk away from that place.
I ask myself if I remembered to lock up behind me.
I cannot remember.
No comments:
Post a Comment