The Murdered World 21

“Now, this floor you’re on now, besides allowing for decontamination and atmospheric testing, holds the overburden waterproof EMP protection. Which is why you’re able to listen to me even after a nuclear attack. On the next level, we have a greenhouse, library, secondary bathroom, and secondary bunkroom. These nonessentials are located closer to the surface so, in the event of a breach, the more important levels will remain unaffected. Even level has its own layer of hardened protection and airlock—though not as elaborate at this one! I think we can agree that’d be a bit more!

“On the second level is the theater, gym, laundry room, and a kennel.

“On the third level is the main bunkroom, tool room, utility room, and radio room.

“On the fourth level we have the main bathroom, storage room, kitchen, gun vault, recovery room, freezer, den, and underneath it all is the fresh water tank. Oh, and the supplementary air supply, of course. Can’t forget that!

“Throughout the complex we have air pumps, water filers, hydroponics, Gieger counters, laptops… I could talk all day about all the thought that goes into even the most budget-conscious model we sell, and I have, but by now, you’re just about done with that shower and ready to settle into your new home. If you want, we’ve included all sorts of literature on our bunker’s many systems in the library. Documentation is also available on the home network that all computers in the shelter are linked to.

“If you’re feeling anxious, go to the radio room and turn on your complimentary shortwave radio. It’s natively tuned to our special network. We’d love to hear from you and find out how we’re doing. Our sister company, Titan Solutions, is contracted to send a retrieval team to your shelter as soon as it’s safe for you and only a moderate risk for our employees. And remember, ninety percent of everything is a positive attitude.

“Don’t think of this as seeking shelter. Think of it as the ultimate staycation!”

The sales pitch kept warbling on and on, but Frank couldn’t even make himself try to listen to all of it. Numbness was settling into the room—filling the void left as the panic and trauma. Though it was cool, the air seemed thick and still as swamp water.

He recognized the feeling. There was a private rush in killing pigs like the Mob, the grim fulfillment of a job well done… a dispelling of the anger that sometimes felt overwhelming… but there was little joy in it, little peace. Only the awareness that there was more to be done and that the ledgers, while a little more balanced, were still nowhere near even.

It was a feeling he was used to, this emptiness. But the women couldn’t possibly have known what it was like before today.

“Who do you think attacked us?” Emma asked, and she sounded more like a broken record player, spitting out a random snippet of noise, than a woman asking a question.

“What does it matter?” Christina retorted. She was maybe a little more numb, a little more used to it… as close to being ready as anyone could be for the unimaginable. “Frank?”

Frank was surprised to be addressed, but not jarred. He had no thoughts to be pulled away from. At this point, he could only react. There was no point in trying to plan with as many unknowns as there were.

“There’s no way of knowing,” he answered, and went to towel off.

When he turned around, he saw Emma and Christina were still in their private stalls. With a grunt, Frank picked up two towels and flung them to the women. They dried off, safe from his prying eyes.

“But who could it be?” Emma persisted, almost whining.

“She’s right,” Christina said, her voice a little higher. “That wasn’t just some bomb. It was a missile. We all saw it. Who even has the, the means to do that?”

“China,” Frank said. “But we’re their biggest customer. They’d be setting their own economy on fire, taking us out. Russia, maybe, but we’ve been planning to blow them up since the eighties. They’d be shooting themselves in the head.”

“Who then?” Christina asked.

“You had it right the first time,” Frank told her. “It doesn’t matter.”

Only it did, at least so far as it was drawing them out of their trauma, their despair. He was used to not knowing and not understanding. He’d been trying to get the world to make sense for so long that he knew it was a losing battle. But if the girls could make sense of this… well, trust a woman to know her own mind. This was what they’d said they wanted to know. And the only way he could see of contacting the outside world, getting any answers, was the radio that salesman had mentioned. They would need to get it working as soon as possible.

Frank wondered if they would push back if he tried to assert his authority that much. He didn’t particularly want to be in charge of the two of them; it seemed like volunteering to herd cats. But he didn’t want to wake up one morning to find they’d slit their wrists either. He would have to try to be subtle. More of a tour guide than a leader. All sensitivity and tact.

It would’ve been easier sharing a bunker with five Mafia pigs. At least them he could just pile in a corner somewhere.

***

Wearing towels—and Christina had to hold hers shut, as it wasn’t made to curve around as many curves as she had—they went down to the first level. They entered a sort of locker room. The space was surprisingly normal, if dull and industrial. Cinder block walls. Laminate flooring. A high ceiling, but one run through with pipes and ductwork. And no windows, of course.

Frank noticed that some of the lockers held radiation suits. The one that was open, though, contained a tracksuit, underwear, and moccasins in several sizes. After some shuffling through the different options provided, he worked out a good fit, though he didn’t dare try to zip up the tracksuit too far.

Christina and Emma put on their own clothes. Christina had some of her own old clothes put aside for the occasion—she chose a black cardigan with an appliqué down the front and a velvet pencil skirt—while a woman’s version of Frank’s outfit was waiting for Emma.

“Great, we get to be the Royal Tenenbaums and my sister dresses like Joan Holloway,” Emma sighed.

“The man on the TV said we should get on the radio. Let’s do that,” Christina suggested. “Maybe… maybe it’s not so bad up there. The bomb could’ve been a dud or something, right?”

“Right!” Emma nodded thoughtfully. “Or maybe it was like a low-yield… like a suitcase nuke. You’ve heard of those, right? They can’t be as bad as a regular nuke…”

“TV said the radio was on level three,” Frank said.

As Frank walked out of the locker room, Christina noticed that she wasn’t the only one tracking his strides. Her cheeks flushed. Emma was ogling the man too. Her own sister; there was no mistaking the leer in Emma’s eyes as he followed the progress of Frank’s muscular ass in motion.

Christina found herself remembering the sight of his erection, the feel of it. The overwhelming size of his endowment had been very evident. She wondered if it was throbbing down the inside of his pantleg even now—swollen beyond all reason. She also remembered what Frank had said about getting a blowjob. God, she hoped it hadn’t been from a man. It would be just her luck to survive the Apocalypse with her sister and a homo.

The stairwell was odd. Each led up or down exactly one level, which exited through an airtight door. They had to go through a different door, into another mini-stairwell, to descend another level.

That took them to level three. The surroundings grew less clinical away from the decontamination chamber. The illumination came from island lighting instead of fluorescents, the plaster walls were painted a calming taupe, the ground was wooden floorboards and rugs, and there were even framed movie posters to liven up the endless hallways. Frank supposed everything pictured was on tap at the theater. He’d still prefer a window.

This was the kind of place, he thought, that the country’s elite built while telling everyone else that crime rates were down, that there was no immigration crisis, no riots, nothing wrong with the country except what they’d decided was wrong. It disgusted him. Its only positive, to Frank, was that Angel hadn’t been allowed to use it. He wondered if the criminal appreciated being stolen from in his final moments.

They came to the radio room. It wasn’t much. Just a desk, a chair, and an R-311 military radio. Frank snorted. The thing wasn’t obsolete, exactly, but it was far from state-of-the-art. Whatshisface, Mitch Campbell, had probably thrown it in because it looked cool. Well, fine by him. It would work and work well. He sat at the desk, tried the drawers. There were replacements for the vacuum tubes and pentodes, a user’s manual, stationary, pencils, spare headphones and microphone, and a whip antenna. At the bottom was a mess of coils, wire, ebonite, dials, various tools, various screws, random wheels and sleeves and bolts and scrap metal. The whole thing had probably come secondhand from some ham radio enthusiast. And whatshisface had gotten away with it, because Angel had never actually checked that his million-dollar shelter didn’t cut any corners.

What a comforting thought.

He turned the R-311 on.

Static seeped out of the radio like oil from a broken-down engine. Frank fiddled with the dial, adjusted the settings. The static blurred, it seemed to twist and curve, but it never resolved in any sort of pattern, any clear signal.

“Nothing,” Frank announced after ten minutes. “Either we’re not receiving or they’re not transmitting.”

“What does that mean?” Emma asked quickly. Too quickly.

Christina looked at her. She was shivering.

“It could mean anything,” Frank said. “Mechanical failure at our end. The blast screwing up communications. Or…”

He trailed off.

“Or?” Emma prompted him.

“Frank,” Christina breathed warningly.

Frank glanced at her before continuing. “Or there’ve been other attacks.”

“Other attacks?” Emma gasped.

“You don’t nuke Miami as some proportional response, some sort of surgical strike. You nuke it because you’re nuking everything else.”

Emma fell silent. She’d been quiet before, but this was deeper. Less like a blank slate and more like a gaping hole. Christina wrapped an arm around her.

“What do we do?” Christina asked.

“We find somewhere to sleep,” Frank told her. “And then we get some rest. It’s been a busy day.”

He left the room. Christina moved to follow him, ushering Emma along, but her little sister stopped dead. Christina couldn’t move her, not with the gentle exertion she’d been using.

“Who is that man?” Emma asked quietly.