Wrecked Remnants

The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse of it through the window in his room. She had never seen much of anything out there—it was like staring at a slightly mobile painting, one that changed only slightly each day—but she continued to peer into the curved glass of the scope anyway.

“You need to stop wasting your time doing that,” said Mr. Greenwell, rocking on his wobbly stool, “Anything happens up there, you’ll know about it. I promise you that. You won’t be able to avoid it. This little bunker of ours, it’s only holding on by a thread. I’m surprised we’re still here, to tell you the truth—a decade is a hell of a long time to survive in this sort of situation.”

“What else am I supposed to do?” said Alice, turning from the exterior-telescope and glaring backward at Mr. Greenwell, who sat comfortably on his stool, which was cushioned with an old, cut-out Styrofoam mattress-pad duct taped onto its brittle wooden surface.

She grinned at him. He smiled back. He was her only real friend in the world, and she was likely his. Though he was so apathetic—that was a new word she had learned when reading in the library last week; apathetic—he just sat on his stool pointlessly all day, every day.

Mr. Greenwell took a healthy smack from his vape, exhaling the fragrant vapors as smoke engulfed the small room.

“This place is a cell,” growled Mr. Greenwell, scratching at the remnant, prickly gray hairs on his shiny bald head.

“You say that every day. And you really need to quit smoking. I don’t know how the guards haven’t snagged that thing from you yet.”

“It doesn’t even have any nicotine. I make the juice myself—what can they say about it? I’m doing nobody no harm. Plus, they should simply be happy I don’t lose my damn mind at not having a single cigar for ten years.”

“I’m sure your lungs don’t appreciate it,” said Alice, “And plus, since you make it yourself, why don’t you make it a little less…pungent?”

Pungent was another word Alice had recently discovered.

“I like the smell,” said Mr. Greenwell. “Anyway, what are you reading this week?”

“Notes From Underground. Saw it in the library; it seemed fitting.”

“Fitting, indeed,” said Mr. Greenwell, scratching at the creases on his wrinkly brow.

“Why are you so dried up and flaky?” said Alice

“I have psoriasis. No ointment in the hospital wing. They say the patrollers look for it when they go out—I put in a damned request, for that and cigars—but they haven’t found anything. I don’t think they even look. Bastards.”

“Oh,” said Alice. She didn’t know what psoriasis was; she hadn’t learned that word yet. She made a mental note to uncover its meaning. She would ask Mr. Greenwell, but she didn’t like seeming uneducated; that was the paradox of self-education for the proud: questions were a double-edged sword.

Alice felt proud that she so easily recalled the word paradox, though.

Unable to intelligently respond, Alice instead looked back into the exterior-telescope. Exterior-telescopes—one of the only novel ideas of subterranean, post-End life, were tubes, stretching upward through the earth, which used a series of underground mirrors to see into the outside world—like a window. A window from underground into the “real” world. Alice stared at them incessantly, and she mostly used Mr. Greenwell’s, being that he was the only person she really trusted. Every morning, Alice would hop off her top-bunk in the adolescent dormitory and, after stopping by the library to gather her new books, run over to Mr. Greenwell’s room to see what was going on in the real world. Nothing much was happening today. She had seen a tumbleweed roll across the chalky dirt of the outside post-apocalyptic desert, bouncing into an unaware desert cottontail, which leapt around in instinctive, prey-like horror before realizing it was just a dry plant. The rabbit then began eating the tumbleweed, satisfied with the crunchy snack.

“Damn!” said Alice, removing herself from the lens, “As much as I love rabbits, I need some more excitement on the tube!” Encircling her left eye was a red ring, proof of the time and effort she expended staring into the scope.

“You should watch your language,” said Mr. Greenwell.

“You cuss all the time,” said Alice.

“Yeah, but I’m old, so I’m allowed to say whatever the hell I want. You’re a young girl, so it’s not polite.”

“No one gives a shit about that kind of stuff anymore; we’re at the end of the world, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Mr. Greenwell chuckled. Alice smiled at him.

“So, what’s for lunch today?” said Alice.

“Let’s see,” said Mr. Greenwell, removing the weekly news bulletin from the organizer on his wall and scanning it for the menu. “Looks like Salisbury steak with brown gravy, buttered peas, and mashed potatoes.”

“We have that every week,” said Alice.

“Peas are easy to preserve; Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes are easy to fake. It’s a pragmatic meal when you live underground.”

“Well I’m tired of it!” yelled Alice, throwing her hands skyward. She was also wondering about the meaning of the word pragmatic.

“I kind of like it, honestly,” said Mr. Greenwell.

Alice smiled in concession, “I do too—I can’t deny it. There’s something about that mushy steak that just gets me.”

Talking about food had worked up their appetites, so they decided to head out a little early for lunch. Alice grabbed Mr. Greenwell’s cane—an old, twisty thing with a rubber base—and helped him from his stool. They left the quiet of Mr. Greenwell’s room and entered a surprisingly bustling hallway.

* * *

“The hell is going on today?” said Alice glancing back and forth at groups of people scurrying by frantically.

“Who knows,” said Mr. Greenwell, “Maybe they’re having a surprise Keno drawing; they’ve done that before. If so, we’re going to have to wait on lunch so I can get in on the action.

The administration had recently begun using Keno as a sort of lottery to help create a bit of excitement and tradition for colony residents. It was a normal Keno game, but instead of money, the winners received additional access to goods like food, pillows, blankets, books, and board games. It had thus far been very successful.

“Maybe you’ll win!” said Alice, who wasn’t yet old enough to participate, “Then you can snag that Connect Four game the patrollers found! Wouldn’t that be awesome?”

“If I happen to win,” said Mr. Greenwell, “I’ll gladly purchase you the copy of Connect Four.” The two of them continued toward the cafeteria.

As they pushed forward down the narrow hallway, they noticed in the expressions of passersby more terror and confusion than excitement.

“I don’t think this is related to Keno,” said Mr. Greenwell.

“Yeah. These people are acting crazy,” said Alice, “What do you reckon is going on?”

Mr. Greenwell didn’t respond, but Alice could tell by his worried expression—which crinkled the lines on his wrinkly forehead—that he was nervous about something.

“Let’s go to the cafeteria,” he said, “Somebody will be able to tell us what’s going on there.”

The cafeteria was nearly vacant. Steaming trays of food sat unattended at the buffet. Mr. Greenwell noticed someone—a plastic-apron, hairnet wearing member of the kitchen staff—ducking from the main room of the cafeteria into the back room of the kitchen.

“Hey!” said Mr. Greenwell, pacing over to catch up with her. His cane wobbled with each step as he leaned into it and pushed forward. “Hello, ma’am! I need some help!” Alice, grabbing a hardtack biscuit from a nearby basket, followed him into the kitchen.

“I can’t help you, sir,” said the kitchen staff employee, worry induced sweats painting her leathery face.

“You don’t know anything?” said Mr. Greenwell, “Nothing at all?”

“Only thing I know is what my boss told me, which was not to plan on coming back to work anytime soon. Something serious is about to happen; I don’t know what the hell it is, though.”

Straining to bite into the crunchy biscuit, Alice bit off a chunk of the bread, chewing it aggressively. “A mystery!” she said, nudging Mr. Greenwell in his side, “We’ll get to the bottom of this, won’t we! Finally, some real excitement for a change. This will be way better than staring at radiated rabbits in the exterior-telescope all day.

“Let’s get out of here.” said Mr. Greenwell.

“That’s a good idea,” said the kitchen staff, “I’m about to do the same, myself. Feel free to help yourself to some food.” She handed him a couple of reusable plastic to-go containers.

Mr. Greenwell turned and walked out of the kitchen, making to leave the cafeteria entirely. Alice, noticing he hadn’t grabbed any food, snatched one of the to-go containers from him.

“So, you’re just going to allow us to have this conversation about how we secretly love Salisbury steak the whole way here, and then not even get any of it? What kind of bull shit is that Mr. G?”

“Oh, sorry,” said Mr. Greenwell, glancing toward the hallway, which by this point had calmed substantially, “I had something else on my mind. Let’s scoop up some steak for the road. And watch the language; we’re in public!”

“Way ahead of you!” said Alice, darting back over to the buffet and filling the to-go container with steak and biscuits.

Their lunch collected, they returned to Mr. Greenwell’s room.

* * *

Mr. Greenwell sat atop his stool at his small desk, his hand at his face—his thumb on his chin and his pointer finger curled around his nose—as was his habit when he was thinking hard about something. Alice, having already devoured her lunch, was now back to staring into the exterior-telescope.

“Man!” she said, her eye still pressed to the scope, “I really wanted that Connect-Four game, you know? I was really looked forward to whipping your old ass!”

Alice heard nothing in response. Normally, she knew, a vulgar comment like that would have elicited from Mr. G at least a snicker. But there was nothing. She tore herself away from the telescope, looking over to Mr. Greenwell, who still sat soberly on his stool.

“We might need to get out of here,” he said.

“How in the hell could we possibly do that? And where would we even go?”

“I don’t know, and… I don’t know…”

“Isn’t there a big door? A big metal, twisty thing that opens into the outside?”

“Yeah, there is. That’s past the administrative offices, though. I don’t see how we could get by there.”

“We’ll sneak it! There are some advantages to being seen as a helpless little girl by everyone, you know. Maybe I can trick them; allow us some time to get by.”

“And what would we do once we got outside?”

“Huh?” Alice was momentarily confused. She scraped her foot across the collected dust of the floor before understanding, “Oh!” she said, “Because of the radiation!”

“Yes,” said Mr. Greenwell.

Alice hadn’t ever been out of the colony. Not really, at least—not since she was two years old, when her parents had dropped her off here.

“Don’t they have suits?” she said.

“They don’t give those to just anyone.”

“Well, obviously we’re going to have to steal them. Sometimes thieving is necessary.”

Mr. Greenwell looked to the floor, considering this wisdom given to him by a child. “Okay,” he said, “We can try it. But first, we have to…”

The walls of Mr. Greenwell’s room abruptly split and cracked. The floor shook. Loud crashes and bangs were heard from neighboring rooms. Mr. Greenwell’s twin-sized bet rattled around on the floor before being flung sideways halfway across the room. Alice covered herself with her arms to shield herself from the oncoming blow of the metal bed, but it didn’t quite make it to her.

“It’s happening,” said Mr. Greenwell, “It’s actually happening. I always knew it would, but I guess I became too complacent down here, all this time—during this monotonous decade.”

Alice darted to the exterior-telescope, looking intently and then immediately pulling away in shock before diving back and peering again. After a time, she removed herself from the device:

“Holy shit!” she said, “We have to get the hell out of here—like now!”

“Why? What’s going on out there?”

“Lights, flashes… Dead stuff. Snakes and scorpions. I didn’t see any rabbits—I hope they’re safe—but I did see lots of smoke and fire. The ground is destroyed. There are some sort of drones digging into the sand. The ground is cracked, as if the colony is being uprooted.”

“That’s what’s happening,” said Mr. Greenwell.

“What?” said Alice.

“The colony is being uprooted.”

“What? I wasn’t serious about that; I don’t think so, at least… How could that happen?”

“That’s one of the alleged weapons our political leader’s enemy could use against us. We use it against them, too—supposedly—over in their colonies; over in Siberia; over in the caves of the Caucasus.”

“We’re just sitting under a bunch of shifting sand! We’ll be easy to dig up, right?”

“Probably. I guess it makes sense that the Mojave colonies were among the first hit—assuming we actually were among the first. We must have been… But we’ve been down here for so long...”

“They’re going to dig us up?”

“Yes.”

Dueling buckets of a flying excavator—its metal arms attached to a drone hovering overhead—crashed into Mr. Greenwell’s ceiling, subsequently scooping out and gutting the majority of his room. One of the buckets nearly scooped up Alice, though she managed to spin out of the way unharmed.

“Holy shit!” she said, crawling backward away from the drone. Her back against the door, she twisted it open and fell backward into the hallway. Following her, Mr. Greenwell lifted her up. In the hallway they saw panic. No one knew what to do. Everyone was darting around like feeder minnows trapped in a fish tank as the net delivering their doom moved around the aquarium.

“We have to get to the administrative offices!” said Alice, tugging at Mr. Greenwell’s red checkered button-up shirt to hurry him down the hallway, “We have to make it to the exit.”

“Right,” said Mr. Greenwell, beginning to move down the hallway as quickly as was possible with his cane.

Abruptly, the front end of a bulldozer drone pushed through what had previously been Mr. Greenwell’s doorway. The drone then hovered upward, among the furthering wreckage, and reached out its excavator arms as if to entrap Mr. Greenwell in a pincer. There was nothing he could do about it; he felt the pinch of the sharp metal as it broke the skin of his abdomen. Alice shrieked in startled terror. Mr. Greenwell looked at the drone, which as a result increased the pressure of the pinch. Mr. Greenwell wasn’t aware that drones had been made capable of sadism.

“Go,” grunted Mr. Greenwell, “There’s nothing I can do; I’m toast. Get the hell out of here, kid.”

Looking at Mr. Greenwell one last time, Alice then turned and scrambled down the busy, chaotic traffic of the hallway. Walls crumbled around her; stones from the wreckage fell from the ceiling like pieces in a Connect-Four game. Alice would be lucky to make it to the administrative offices alive, she was well aware of that. She pushed on, nonetheless.