The bombing was anticipated close to three years in advance. National delegates bantered back and forth, but the inevitability of the bombing had become apparent. Hundreds of cities nationwide began to fabricate complex bunker systems in anticipation of the impending gruesome war. Not to mention, the oppressively deleterious thermonuclear winter that would follow the catastrophic explosion.
The city’s bunker system was completely intertwined through a labyrinth of tunnels. They acted as roots beneath the infrastructure of the city, branching out and connecting the bunkers to various key points under the surface. The richer of the citizens owned private bunkers beneath their residences. The reciprocal class of citizens were funneled into community bunkers, where families were clustered into tightly knit huddles. The youth were screaming hysterically. Mothers and fathers swaddled their young attentively, although on the brink of mania themselves. The minutes began to feel like hours, the days turned into weeks, and weeks morphed into months, until any conception of time had become nothing but a blurred approximation.
My family was one of the poorer ones in the city. That being said, my family and I were incredibly lucky, seeing how we were all alive inside the same bunker. Bunker B-06, or as my family, in addition to dozens of others, now called it: home. I was seventeen at the time, my brother Joey was fifteen, and my sister Lily was ten. About thirty to forty minutes prior to the explosion, we were encircled around the dining table doing our homework. Our mother was in the kitchen preparing supper, and our father was tinkering with his inventions in his workshop (which was our garage.) As was routine for my father, he was listening to the radio as he did his tinkering. That’s when it all began.
My father exploded into the kitchen and announced in a firm, instructive tone that complimented his leadership qualities, “Quick, grab as much clothes as you can carry, only bring what you can’t live without. An emergency broadcast was just emitted, North Korean planes have been spotted and they are carrying a lethal payload. We’re to gather our belongings and head to bunker B-06 immediately.”
As expected by any ten year old receiving such dreadful news, Lily let out an excruciating howl. My mother quickly grabbed her and ran off into her room to collect her belongings. Joey and I jumped from our seats and ran to our room like olympic sprinters on the heels of a world record. I quickly unzipped my suitcase and began filling it with my belongings. Within minutes my family and I were in a mad dash to the town hall, which sat above our bunker. Standing outside were two guards, their faces expressionless and their bodies armed to the teeth with automatic weapons and explosives. My father flashed his I.D and we were motioned to the bunker hatch without ever coming to a complete stop. We were herded in a single file formation through several thin corridors until coming to a solid steel door, several inches thick, reading: “Community Bunker B-06”
Within minutes of reaching safety and settling our belongings into a corner of the bunker, the time to run had ceased. The walls began shaking feverishly, the children screamed in panic, and the elderly prayed devoutly. I gripped the hand of my brother and clinched my eyes closed, for if this was my end, I did not want to see it coming.
BOOM! The noise from the explosion barreled throughout the land and echoed into the distant mountains rattling their icy summits. The air became electric. It sounded as if thunder itself descended from the heavens, commanded by the hands of Zeus; pummeling the ground beneath it, and sending powerful vibrations that riveted through the Earth. The sound alone was powerful enough to shake the metal skeletons of the skyscrapers that once towered over the skyline; the same metal giants that now pollute the devastated roads with broken evidence of their existence. Windows shattered sequentially to the thunderous explosion as the shockwave rapidly engrossed the city. Those unable to retreat into a bomb shelter were vaporized instantaneously. On this day entire bloodlines were eradicated from history, legacies were lost, and ancestral traditions were interpolated into the decimation. The screams of those able to find shelter were silenced by the gargantuan explosion. Those who did not delve deep enough into the earth, were annihilated as if they had not sought safety at all. Life as we knew it would be forever altered. The Third World War had commenced, and a thermonuclear winter would expurgate the majority of living organisms from existence.
After an uninhibited fifteen minutes of chaos, the shaking ceased, the screaming transitioned into sobs, and praying hands unfolded. All of us were dumbfounded, thirsty for answers. The silence was broken by the crackling of static over the PA. Immediately the room was blanketed in silence, its inhabitants flush with apprehension over what news might be bestowed upon us. For all we knew, we were at the beginning of the end, a lengthy, enervating, end.
Proceeding the static, a stern, confident voice flooded the room via the speaker, “Please stay calm. We are receiving reports that the North Korean planes have passed, and are now retreating to refuel. Our top government scientists are already developing a safe way for us to return to the surface and assess the damage dealt by the callous communists. Please remain calm and await further instruction. That is all.”
Following the announcement, the room began to burst at the seams with questions. What other cities were bombed? How long are we going to be down here? However, there was one question uniformly asked by all of us: What do we do now? One thing was certain amid the uncertainty, we were alive. This was our silver lining on the acid rain cloud that was shedding soot snowflakes.
Inside of bunker B-06 were four radios placed strategically. One in each corner, all connected to massive speakers in the center of the gigantic room. Maps draped the windowless walls. An intricate system of colored string and thumbtacks indicated the various blast zones throughout the nation. The whole north-western hemisphere appeared to be leveled, and we had nothing but the parameters of our imagination to paint a picture of the surface.
The first week of life in the bunkers consisted of trying to locate lost family members, praying piously for this whole scenario to be an elaborate practical joke, intensive reading sessions, and hopeful daydreaming. By the second week, hopeful daydreams transitioned into nihilistic nightmares. By now we were certain we’d live out the rest of our days burrowed into a hole like rodents. Pessimism became malignant.
After a month, those with a knack for engineering came together to formulate a method to cultivate crops with the absence rain and sunlight. My father was among the ranks, and his ingenuity led to the innovation of an extremely MacGyver-esque hydroponic system. For as crude of a structure as it was, it produced phenomenal results. Within nine days, green peaks began to sprout. Within forty-five days small fruits and vegetables were beginning to emerge from the plants. Due to my father’s success, he was drafted into dealing with several more calamities. He developed battery recharge stations, alternative toiletries, and several more necessary substitutions to sustain life underground.
Every Sunday a progress report was announced over the PA. We were constantly informed about the scientist’s efforts to establish a way for us to safely return to the surface, but these attempts were in vain. After what I estimate to be a year, each community bunker began to section off an area to be dedicated to teaching the youth. By this time we had become adjusted to life in the bunkers, some of the younger children failed to remember life on the surface at all. As an act of self preservation, the elderly began passing their trades onto the proceeding generation, and eventually that generation unto the next.
Several decades passed, the bunkers expanded, and the quality of life continuously grew better. Eventually I grew old, and I could feel my body being subdued by fatigue. I knew this Sunday would be my last, and I awaited the weekly announcements as attentively as I had those first months. Right on schedule, static crackled over the PA. A quiet, tired voice addressed our civilization, “I take great pleasure in being able to tell you this news. Our scientists have estimated that we will be able to return to the surface and begin rebuilding, within six to twenty-four months. Your unwavering perseverance is directly responsible for the prevailing of our civilization. We not only survived, but thrived. Thank-you, that is all.”
I would not make it to see the surface, but this news enlightened me nevertheless. For the first time in a long time, I daydreamed of what laid await on the surface. My imagination was my easel, and I painted a magnificent sunset. It was a fiery blend of vibrant yellows and reds, sometimes meshing into an omniscient orange glow. I imagined the soft, cool breeze dancing on my skin. I could see the blankets of luscious green grass swaying in the wind. I shakily exhaled my last breath, as the sun finally set on my story. My younger brother, Joey, would honor my dying wish: to let my ashes loose in the wind on the surface, so I could rest in the prosperity of our perseverance for eternity.