The Bunker Ch. 08 - The Cullings Pt. 02

All characters engaged in sexual activity are over the age of 18.

Thanks to Masakari / BirchesLoveBooks for beta reading this. I'd also like to thank the QT Writer's Room for their assistance where it was needed.

Lastly, I'd like to thank each of you for continuing to read The Bunker. Now where were we? Oh Yess...

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Characters

Kevin Ansen -- a community college physics professor selected by lottery to enter one of four government bunkers to ride out the impact of The Rock.

Jennifer Rodriguez -- a former student of Kevin's; intended to major in Family Therapy, applies those interests to helping her new family, the first of Kevin's ladies to get pregnant

Sarah Moran -- a fellow faculty member and friend of Kevin's for several years. Sarah and Kevin were both interested and failed to recognize the signs in each other.

Constance Worthington -- a student at Simpson college, but never in Kevin's classes, learning canning and pickling techniques from a Mennonite friend and her mother.

Jessica Peters -- widowed mother of three that agreed to serve as Kevin's slave to save her children. Also pregnant with Kevin's child.

Belinda Ansen -- 16 year old daughter of Kevin Ansen

Leslie Roark -- just barely eighteen, a friend of Belinda and her mentor in band.

Melissa Ballas -- a former student of Kevin's from a prior semester, Kevin was surprised to learn she'd been flirting with him most of the semester.

Gabriela Fernandez -- the realty agent that helped the Ansens select a new home for the growing family, denied her commission by the seller and her boss.

Melanie Nakamura -- formerly partnered to Devon, a man Kevin killed in the melee. She had been a professor of reading techniques at a large university's teaching program.

Nicole Pharris -- formerly partnered to Devon. She had been a local news anchor when Devon selected her.

Shaunice Yancy -- 14yo old daughter of Devon, adopted by Nicole.

Levon Yancy -- 7yo son of Devon, adopted by Nicole.

******

Ch 8 -- The Cullings, pt 2

We were climbing into the curve at 120mph and slowing for the sharp turn. The semi was descending towards us at 50mph. I pulled as far to the outside of the turn as I could. That wasn't much, given the shoulder had gone from one car width in the flats to maybe an inch up here. I eased lightly off the gas pedal, dropping more speed than originally planned. Braking would have just rammed the guy behind me right up my ass. My maneuvering to the outside and slowing should have allowed truck boy to slip in front, if he acted quickly.

He didn't.

I watched the front of the pickup crumble like a sheet of paper in the fist of a frustrated jock taking a drawing class. Then I was past it. I rounded the curve, skidding to the outside. My right side tires ate dirt and the differential traction from asphalt on my left and grass on my right threatened to rip the steering wheel from my hands and send me rolling. I had a death grip on it, bracing my back and putting my whole body into maintaining control. I crashed through three of the little metal posts marking the side of the road before I safely got all four wheels on the asphalt at an angle that wouldn't shoot me across the road on the other side.

About a hundred yards behind me, at the curve, a loud boom rolled out. My eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, spying the edge of an orange red fireball and a white Camaro skidding just under it, mostly in the grass.

A cold certainty settled in the pit of my stomach. There wasn't a damn thing I could do. Just keep driving.

Funny thing, I elected not to use Connie's Camaro because I didn't like the cornering and did better in M's Audi. The guy behind me was having less trouble cornering. He was gaining on me. Frankly, I didn't give a shit. I wasn't giving up, by any means, I'd make him earn it. I entered the race intent on finishing in the top ten, minimum. Given what just happened, I had a lock on second. So what if this guy overtook me? I wasn't gonna gift wrap it for him, but I was way past giving a shit.

He steadily ate the distance, passing me about a mile out from the finish line. I kept pushing and had him in full view as he reached the final turn. It was just inside the edge of town, where the speed limit had already dropped to 50, and the curve was marked 45, but it was a race. Still, that meant it had been rated for the max speed one could keep the road. Engineers are notoriously conservative, at least on paper, so if the posted limit was 45, then it should be possible, under dry conditions, to make the turn at 55 with only minimum tire squeal.

Pretty sure the Camaro was doing 70 or more when he cut left from the outside of the turn. That's when I saw a big white puff from his front right. And then he rolled. Four times the Camaro rolled about its long axis, intermittently flashing its underside at me, before slamming into a copse of elm trees. One bumper and a couple of body panels flew off in the process. I slowed, both for the turn and to make sure I didn't encumber anyone responding.

I continued slowing the remaining two hundred yards to the finish line, dropping down to 35 by the time I crossed. I picked a spot at the pre-designated area for finishers to park. With the transmission in park and the parking brake on, I let the engine idle down with my head on the wheel and my forearms on the back of my neck. I didn't cry or sob or scream. I was just numb.

A hard banging on my window brought my head off the wheel. Jessica stood there, eyes red, tears and grime and smeared makeup down her cheeks. Realization dawned in my brain. With all the switchbacks, the crash site was no more than eight linear miles from the finish. Maybe less. People waiting at the end would have heard the explosion. At least a few would have seen the fireball, and of course, told others. And Jessica's husband died in a car crash.

I stepped out, reaching for her. She slapped me full across the face. Hard enough to ring my bell. Then she laid into me, punching my chest and bawling. I got my arms around her shoulders and pulled her to me. Jessica collapsed against me, weeping. Full body sobs.

Fuck whatever emotions I hadn't even felt yet about what happened. I hadn't even thought of what my family might have gone through. I had a lot of reassuring to dole out. Starting right here, in my arms. I held her as she sobbed. My shirt was already soaked through in the center.

Belinda came up, carrying a very worried Nell. Bel herself looked ashen, and relieved. I brought one arm out, to include them and Bel slid into the offered space, placing Nell in the midst of us. I gave quick kisses to each daughter on the cheek while continuing to soothe Jessica. Nell's fears would not really be eased until Jessica was better. That might require conversations that Nell shouldn't hear.

"Nell, honey, mommy will be fine in a bit. She's had a really bad scare, but everything's fine now. Why don't you and Bel go for a walk?" I nodded towards the town square. Bel was already watching me.

When we'd planned out the day, Jessica, Bel, and Nell would be at the finish line waiting, while the rest of the family stayed in our hotel room. I'd made sure Bel and Jess each had money for stores and restaurants in the small town's central space. Bel headed off toward the shop advertising ice cream and hotdogs. Perfect choice.

Jessica's sobbing subsided, though fresh tears were still forming. I could tell by the progression of the wet spot on my shirt. Fuck it. She's worth a shit ton more than a wet shirt. Or a make-up smeared shirt. That's when I heard a phone ringing. From Jessica's purse, strapped cross-body. And it was my special ringtone for Sarah. Jess had my phone in her purse. We'd planned that since I couldn't have the damn thing in the car during the race, and needed to focus prior.

It was either go for the phone myself, or bother Jess. Not wanting to disturb her, I reached my hand in, braving the mythical dangers of mousetraps, venomous snakes, and other hazards awaiting any man that dared plunge his hands into the forbidden depths of a woman's purse. Since I'd left 'vibrate on ring' enabled, it was easy to pick out my phone blindly. It was already on the fifth ring by the time I answered.

"Hi, Sarah."

"KEVIN?! Oh thank god. The announcers said there was a fatality crash at the finish line and you and that white Camaro were the only ones it could be." A her a shuddering breath as she collected herself. Voices from the rest of the family filtered through, their relief evident, even if the words were indistinct. "The drone coverage showed you well away from the fireball, so we didn't get worried then. Jess called us worried though. We filled her in on what was playing from the overheads."

"Yeah, and given where the second crash happened, she had to have seen that clearly. I came through maybe five, ten seconds later. I have her here now, but not ready to talk. Bel and Nell went to the square for ice cream."

"Smart. You said Jessica saw the wreck? The second one?"

"Yeah."

"Kevin, her husband drove a Camaro. A white one."

"Oh shit." I held Jess tighter and pressed my face into her hair. "Okay, I've got some serious cuddling and reassuring to do here. I'm fine. Jess, Bel, and Nell are fine. I'll let you know when we're headed back."

It was at least ten minutes before another car crossed the finish line. The other cars were strung out behind it.

******

Mid-afternoon, five hours after the last racer crossed the finish, the officials gathered all the surviving racers, their families, and the families of the men injured or killed. The children were escorted to another room in the building.

They didn't have court-of-law level proof, but a circumstantially strong idea of what happened.

When the trial runs yesterday had ended, the course was reopened for regular use. It was a US highway after all. People had to get home from work, and goods had to be shipped.

Which meant, in the morning, that a team was needed to sweep the road for vehicles and block off side roads, private drives, and the like. Same thing they'd done the day before for the test runs. There were two drill pads in the area, one drilling for natural gas, the other for shale oil.

The shale oil site had been a bust and was shutting down. About the only thing left had been the office shack. With the test runs going late yesterday, the driver was exhausted by the time he and the other men got it loaded on the trailer and ready to roll. A few calls by the BA to the men that'd been with him revealed he'd waved good bye to them as they headed to their motel room in one car. This left the second follow car for him. He said he wanted to check the straps one last time. They assumed he'd use the second car to get himself to the motel that night.

The next part is speculation, but reasonable. The driver decided to sleep in his cab instead of driving to the motel in the second follow car. The company had decided to only rent one room for the three of them. Chances are, he'd wind up sharing a queen bed with another guy. Not the first time, since this was common for his employer, but he had groused about it several times. The bench seat of a semi probably sounded like a better idea.

The sweep team saw the truck at the drill site, with the shack strapped in. They didn't check the cab beyond a quick look from the road.

The next thing anyone is sure of was an alarmed call from a guard posted at a private drive three hundred yards from the curve when the truck came into sight. It was too late by then.

The impact drove the pickup's engine into the cab. Hopefully, that killed the driver instantly. Anything else would be horrific. All the fluid lines in the engine compartment ruptured in one or more places. The gasoline tank ruptured in several places and fuel aerosolized from the force of the impact. The pickup was flung backwards, airborne, landing roof to roof on the car behind it. The broken rear bumper scrapped against the asphalt, igniting the cloud of gasoline.

Given the drone coverage after the fireball and at the finish line, they suspected the Camaro's right front tire had taken damage from the stub of one of the metal poles I'd clipped. The stress of the last turn likely ruptured the tire.

The chain reaction collision and the fireball killed three men outright. Two more were flown to the nearest burn unit, a hundred and fifty miles away. Word came in just before that meeting that those two didn't make it. The driver of the Camaro made six men dead in this race. Plus the semi driver. Six was determined to be enough men culled, so every man that crossed the finish line was going to the bunker, along with the women that had attached themselves to him.

Two clusters of women, already huddles of worry when they entered, began crying. One woman wailed like her heart had been ripped out. Probably the wife or girlfriend of one of the burn victims before the lottery.

There was just too much pain to deal with. And I had other problems as well. Someone had clearly decided I was a pain in the ass. My decisions after the melee, and the reactions to them, were a threat. Best way to deal with a perceived Spartacus is to give him a problem with no way to solve without pissing someone off.

The Bunker Authority and race officials left the stage, after introducing me. Thanks assholes. I stared at their receding forms until they slipped through the door. They never looked back.

"Hi. As they said, I'm Kevin Ansen. As the first place finisher, they have left me to address the remaining issues. What I'm about to tell you is one part their dictates, and one part the best solution I could come up with, within those dictates. Bear in mind, their first plan was one I rejected. This is what I could negotiate down to."

"First off, and this was mutually agreed immediately, the ladies of the houses that have lost their man will still receive government support to prepare their home and land to ride out the impact and aftermath. It will be up to you as a group to decide how to govern yourselves, but you will need to speak with one voice to your BA contact. You can either all agree on one new man to join you, or pick a man each, or something in between. You know, some chose one man for themselves, two or three choose to share a guy, and so on. Hell, you could choose to not have a guy at all, but that would hurt you in the long run."

"But what if we still want in the bunker?"

"That's the next part. The six that perished," that's the least emotionally charged word I could think of, "had a total of thirty-nine women in their families. The Authorities have decided that eight of those will be allowed in the bunker." At this, some looking around started. "There are strict conditions, that if not adhered to, will result in disqualification. They've even threatened to expel an entire family for non-compliance. I had to tell them my plan to meet their criteria in advance, so that they could judge who was complying or violating the terms. They shot down my first plan." I paused for a second. "And ladies, keep in mind, just like with the melee, you can only be selected as a slave. That was non-negotiable from the BA."

Some looks were exchanged among the back tables. A few clearly took that as a bridge too far. More faces than I expected seemed ready to accept that condition.

"Who the fuck put you in charge?" One guy voiced the thought of at least half the room, given the accompanying grumbles. I had to move quick to head off a real problem. Fortunately, the truth was on my side.

"They did," I said levelly, pointing at the door. "The sniveling assholes that just ran out of here." You want me to be Spartacus? Reap the motherfucking whirlwind.

The mood didn't exactly ease, but each individual contained their ire, awaiting the rest of the information.

"The initial suggestion by the BA was that I choose eight women and be done with it." The commotion built up again, but did not erupt. Mainly, because I wasn't dumb enough to wait that long. "Now, I'm fifty, and I already have nine women in my family. I'm pretty fit, but keeping up with nine libidos is just about enough. I don't need eight more." I added a snarky grin with my last remark.

There was some chuckling. Good, I could use some approval.

"My counter was for ya'll to hang out for a bit and eventually find eight families that wanted eight women that were interested. That didn't fly. They insisted that as winner, I not only had to choose, but I had to choose more. 'To the victor go the spoils' so to speak."

Grumbling again, but it didn't seem directed at me. Just pissed off at power players. Hell, I agreed with them.

"So here's what's happening. I have to choose, then second place chooses, but less than me, third picks less than him, and so forth until eight women have been chosen." Again, some looking around the room. Thirty-three men had started our race. With six dead, there were twenty-seven survivors. "The broadest possibility is I choose one woman, in which case the second through eighth place finishers get to choose one woman each. If you finished ninth or later, you and your family should head back to your hotels and continue with whatever other instructions you've gotten from the BA or prep for your move. It's still a few months out, but it's for life."

I stayed on the stage as the other families filtered out. Eight men remained, with a cluster of women around each. The widows of the fallen moved from their starting place along the back wall to fill in some of the back tables. Sarah and Gabby came up to talk to me as people shifted or departed. Mostly they came up as reassurance and confidence boost, even if their words focused on mundane details about the hotel room or the trip back home.

A caterer I'd asked the BA to arrange came in just then, letting me know the only kids remaining in the room across the building were those of folks still here. The tables were being set up and kids would get fed soon. They would set up for us shortly thereafter.

"Okay, so here are some ground rules. Technically, they insist I assign eight women to myself or others. Effectively, that means come to me with your choices, and I'll submit it. I'll approve each match, unless I see some serious warning flags. You are consenting adults; I'll treat you that way. I have to submit the matches in three days or less. I again argued to give the ladies more time to grieve and adapt, but that was shot down hard."

"Between now and then, I've set up two opportunities to mingle so everyone can make their choices. Afterwards, I'll sit down with each potential pairing, with a few of my partners, for a short interview and then add the match to my list."

"I am considering choosing three women. The main factor is finding three with mutual compatibility. I at least have to pick one, that was a firm requirement. If I select three women, that would leave second place the option of choosing two, and third, fourth and fifth place would be able to choose one woman each. In that scenario, if second place were to only choose one woman, then sixth place would also get to choose one woman. If I only choose one woman, then each of you get to choose one woman."

"Yeah, but you could pick all eight yourself couldn't ya?"

"That's possible, but not likely, for reasons I gave earlier. That would be seventeen women in my family. I don't have some mad scientists' super sperm serum running through my body making me ready to pop off five times a day, every day, and pump out a gallon of cum each time."

The chuckles and tittering proved my joke hit home. The questioner just rolled his eyes -- with a smirk.

That's when the catering team came in with rolling carts laden with hot trays. My stomach started growling the moment the aroma hit me. By the looks in the crowd, I wasn't the only one.