The End of the World

"But then why are the radios dead?"

He frowns, momentarily nonplussed. Then, "Wait, they'd have to be connected to antennas, of course."

"Yeah, there are antennas up on top of the bluff."

"Well the pulse must have come down the antenna wires, through the walls and torched the radios."

I feel the blood draining from my face. "Then it's my fault."

"How so?"

"My dad always said we should only hook up the antennas when we needed to use the radios, but he didn't explain why. It's kind of a pain, though, when I run my monthly tests, so I've been leaving them connected. If I hadn't been so lazy, the radios might have been working now."

If Greg's upset at me, he doesn't let it show. "Don't blame yourself, Lana. You didn't know. We'll make do."

"Still..."

But Greg's already moved on. "If most of the military's critical equipment is hardened against EMP, I don't see how whoever attacked us would think they could avoid a counterstrike. They'd be asking for a whole world of hurt to rain down on them."

I actually have a possible answer to that. "My dad said the Pentagon wasn't sure if their stuff would actually hold up to EMP. It did in the lab, but there's no way to truly test it short of lighting off a nuke in the atmosphere, and that's not allowed under some treaty we signed way back in the sixties."

"That makes sense," Greg says, "and it appears that someone else doubted the effectiveness of our hardened systems too, enough to risk that we wouldn't be able to fight back."

I've never seen him looking so intense. He's obviously trying to think through all the implications.

"It seems to me," he says at last, "that you'd want to launch missiles just as soon as your EMP's went off and your opponent was blinded." He pulls his iPhone out of his pocket and looks at it. "My phone's still working, so if it's EMP, it must have hit after we arrived in the bunker, but before we got to the radios. That's a narrow window."

"Yeah," I say, "but if we got the call because somebody noticed GPS satellites deorbiting, that's probably about right. If my dad was aware of the possibility of bombs aboard GPS satellites, you can bet that the guys watching the screens were too."

"I suppose," he says with a nod. He glances at his phone again. "Given all that, we can expect Chinese or Russian ICBM's to arrive about thirty minutes after the EMP, which would be about fifteen minutes from now." Then he pauses, and I can see that he's thinking about it some more. "I'd bet submarine-launched missiles would get here a lot sooner than that, though, since they could fire those from just off the coast."

Greg looks up toward the sky before catching himself. Meanwhile, I'm fighting an impulse to hide under the table. The worst thing about it is the not knowing.

Now would be a really good time to be able to talk to people on the outside. I can't believe I was so lazy about disconnecting the antennas, but then I remember that we have one last option. I walk over to an ancient-looking device sitting on the small desk on the other side of the couch.

"What on earth is that?" Greg says, evidently noticing it for the first time.

"Let's see, it started life as a..." I look at the faded sticker on the top. "A Lear-Siegler ADM-3." It's a one-piece computer terminal made of beige plastic with a clattery keyboard and a tiny monochrome CRT screen built in.

"And what exactly is it now?"

"Well, there was a military program in the early seventies that modified a bunch of these to operate as stand-alone terminals with an internal short-range radio. The guys at the base gave it to my dad so they could tap his expertise even if he was stuck in here during an emergency. They probably didn't get the memo that he wouldn't be here to answer it anymore."

"So it's probably got a military-grade, EMP hardened chipset."

"I suppose so. There's a matching unit in the nearest silo that this one can supposedly talk to. Hopefully, they've got theirs turned on."

I sit down in front of it while Greg rolls up in the other chair. I hit the power switch and we hold our breath. It takes a good twenty seconds, but then a tiny dot appears in the center of the screen. Within a few more seconds, the dot expands, and the screen comes to life with a blinking cursor in the upper left corner.

"That's a good sign," Greg says.

"Sure is." I begin to type. "HELLO. IS ANYONE OUT THERE?" Yeah, I'm up on all the latest military jargon.

"You don't have to yell," Greg chuckles. The attempt at levity is nice, but I can still hear the tension in his voice.

"Hey, don't blame me," I say, trying to keep my tone light as well. "It was caps-only on these old units."

We're both barely breathing, waiting for a response. I've never used this thing of course, and I'm almost certain it's not going to work. A minute goes by.

The terminal beeps and I nearly jump out of my seat. It's loud, probably by design. I'm sure we'd hear it easily anywhere in the bunker. More text has appeared on the screen. "WHO IS THIS?"

"Yes!" Greg exclaims, softly but intensely. I'm with him there.

I start to formulate a reply in my head. Indeed, I have to remind myself that just because it's all caps doesn't mean that the person on the other end of this connection is angry with me. I lean forward and begin to type.

"THIS IS ALANA ERICKSON. I AM A CIVILIAN. MY FATHER JONATHON WAS A COLONEL AND THEN CONTRACTOR WITH THE AIR FORCE. I WAS ADVISED THROUGH INDEPENDENT SOURCES TO TAKE SHELTER BUT WAS GIVEN NO DETAILS. I'M IN A PRIVATE BOMB SHELTER AT THE END OF HENSON ROAD. CAN YOU TELL ME WHAT IS GOING ON?"

I hit send, then look at Greg. I can see the question he's about to ask. "There's a reason I'm not mentioning you," I say. "If this is a false alarm, they'll have a ton of questions about what I know and how I know it. You don't want to be involved in all of that." What I don't say is that if we find out that this is a false alarm, I still want him gone.

"I hadn't even thought about that aspect," he says. "Thanks, Lana."

"It was the least I could do."

A minute later, the terminal beeps again.

"STAND BY WHILE I MAKE A CALL. THIS MAY TAKE A WHILE."

"Yeah, stay on the line while we triangulate on your antenna and send a squad of MP's to arrest you for unauthorized use of military equipment," Greg mutters dryly.

"I'll gladly accept handcuffs if it means the world isn't going to blow up after all."

"Likewise, I suppose."

The unnamed person at the other end of the line didn't tell us that World War III was starting, but they didn't say it was safe to come out either. We're still stuck in limbo, and the waiting is going to be tough. We could use a distraction right about now.

"Since we evidently have some time," I say, "we ought to get the bunker fully up and running. I should also show you around."

"Yeah, I've got all kinds of questions about this place, like where does the power come from?" Being an engineer, Greg probably won't be happy until he knows exactly how everything works.

"That would be the utility room," I say. "Last door on the right. Here, I'll show you."

Upon arriving at the other end of the hall, near the entrance, I open another heavy door. This one is designed to stop noise, though, not nuclear events. We step inside, and I hit the lights.

The utility room contains most of the mechanical and electrical equipment necessary to keep people alive for long stretches underground. The back wall has heavy steel shelves holding rows of brand-new T-105 golf cart batteries and a high-efficiency inverter to turn their stored power into house current. Greg looks impressed.

"The batteries my dad installed back when he finished this place would barely hold a charge anymore," I say. "I needed a big bank of batteries for my solar power system anyway, so I went all in and bought a bunch of these. Batteries prefer a cool, consistent climate, so I put them in here where they could do double duty. The plan was that they'd provide day-to-day storage for the solar power I was going to use in the house, but they could also power the bunker if the shit hit the fan."

Greg nods. "That would mean that you've got a line that runs from here to the house?"

"Yeah, my dad buried one. It was intended to carry power from the house to keep these batteries charged, but I was going to use it to send solar power from here to the house."

Another wall is stacked with wooden crates full of an amazing assortment of spares, devices, tools and equipment that might come in handy during and after an apocalypse. The room's not terribly big, so it's crowded, but I know my way around. I still maintain all this stuff.

"Propane?" he asks, seeing the industrial thousand-gallon tank.

"Yeah, it's the biggest one that would fit through the door. The generator is set up to run on it. Gasoline starts to go bad after about six months, but propane can be stored for decades. It also powers other stuff, like the hot water heater."

"Very nice."

"The pipe from the well comes here first," I say, turning a valve to cut off the water to the house. It won't be needed there for as long as we're in here. "The well pump is also powered from here, so we have water that's limited only by the electricity used to pump it. The bunker's waste water runs to the house's underground septic system."

Next, I check the voltmeters. "There's still no power in the house," I report. "We're running strictly on the batteries now. When they go below 50% charge, an alarm will start beeping. At that point, I'll fire up the generator to charge them."

I could have used this generator until my solar panels were hooked up, but my dad had impressed upon me that the bunker and its equipment were for emergency use only.

I hit the wall switch that controls the ventilation fan. We can hear its low, but pervasive hum. "Incoming air is drawn into a large chamber next to the bunker," I say. "The vast majority of the radioactive particles will "fall out" in that room and gather on the floor. The air for the shelter is drawn from the top of the chamber and travels through a series of HEPA filters. We should have plenty of radiation free air in the shelter -- as long as the fan keeps running."

"Yay, fan," Greg says.

We walk back into the hall. I notice that I'm folding my arms across my chest to ward off a chill. Greg notices too. "It's none too warm in here, is it?"

I shake my head. "The temperature this far underground is fifty-three degrees, summer and winter. A furnace big enough to keep this whole place warm would burn way too much propane, so we'll wear warm clothes and deal with it."

I pull a thick fleece jacket from the assortment of warm clothing on hooks just inside the door. "Some were my dad's," I say. "They'd probably fit you okay."

"I'm good for now," he says. His dad's jacket looks reasonably warm.

"The kitchen," I say, leading the way through the next doorway on the left. It's tiny -- really more of a kitchenette. "My dad figured that with the occupants having so much idle time on their hands, speed, convenience and large capacity were of no real utility. Male logic, I suppose."

"Hey!" Greg protests. "It is logical." I can't help giggling.

Next is the pantry, which is probably twice the size of the kitchen. It's packed with enough food to feed six adults for a year. Some of it I've canned myself, but most of the rest is stuff my dad picked up as cheap government surplus. It's not gourmet and it's not fresh, but it's sustenance. Greg picks up a can and examines the label. "Potted Meat?"

I shrug. "It's protein." I tried a can once. Let's not discuss it.

There's also a battered bar fridge that my dad got at a garage sale. Normally there would be no use for such a thing in a facility like this (what are you going to do with it, store fresh arugula for a year?), but there is some stuff in there that would be better served cold. I reach in and turn it on, then lead the way back into the hallway.

The next door opens to the bunkroom. It barely holds two steel triple-stack bunkbed units with cot-sized mattresses. Each mattress sits on a six-inch thick box that contains compartments that can be used to store clothes and personal items. They're what you might see on a Navy destroyer, which is, coincidently, where my dad got them. The only other thing in the room is a full-length mirror on the wall between the two stacks of beds.

"Luxury accommodations," I quip.

Greg just nods, looking thoughtful.

Next is the bathroom. It's stretched to the limit with its standard low-flush toilet, small sink, and simple fiberglass shower stall.

"No whirlpool tub?" Greg asks with a straight face.

"Nope," I say, almost managing not to smile, "and not knowing how long the propane is going to have to last, any showers will be short, cool and infrequent."

Next is the Rec room. There's a table for meals, a half a dozen mismatched but comfortable padded chairs, an entertainment center with a small flat screen, and racks of garage sale CD's and DVD's. Against the far wall is an exercise bike and a salvaged Universal weight machine. Next to the entertainment center is a large cardboard box stuffed with books from the thrift store.

Greg glances at the book titles and raises an eyebrow at me.

"My dad bought used paperbacks by the pound from the thrift store," I explain. "You can't read textbooks all the time, and the TV is for special occasions, since it burns power."

I know we'll be able to hear it when a message comes in, but I still want to be right there when it does. I lead the way back to the Comm room, passing by a closed door. Greg makes no mention of that. I plunk down on the end of the couch next to the terminal. Greg cautiously sits down at the other end.

We're both silent for a long minute or two, but then he looks up and catches my eye. From the expression on his face, I get the feeling that he's about to address the issue that until today was the most influential in my life. It's also the reason we're in here alone. "Lana," he says softly, "I was truly sorry to hear about your folks and grandmother."

It's a good twenty seconds before I can swallow the sudden lump in my throat and compose myself enough to speak. It's been more than a year-and-a-half, but it still hurts. Bad. "At least it was quick," I finally manage.

The State Patrol had reported that the three of them almost certainly died instantly when a semi blew its left front tire and veered across the centerline, hitting my dad's classic '58 Chevy pickup head-on. My life can now be divided into two very distinct eras -- before and after the accident.

"I didn't really know them," Greg offers, "but everyone said they were wonderful people."

"They were," I say simply. I know he means well, but it's painful having to even think about the accident. Not that what I've lost doesn't hit me daily anyway.

"My mom says you dropped out of school after it happened."

Mentally, I balk for a moment at the idea of sharing anything personal with him ever again, but honestly, what could it hurt? "Yeah, I was in my first week at Montana State. I knew from the moment the cops showed up at my dorm room and broke the news to me that I would never return."

"But you were always such an amazing student, and you had a full-ride academic scholarship. Why wouldn't you eventually go back?"

"My folks had always been so proud of my straight A's," I say. "They talked about how I was going to light the world on fire after college, but that was their dream, not mine. With them gone, there was no need to keep impressing them. I was already well educated from my incessant reading, and I was a lot more interested in living the kind of life that my grandmother had, raising kids on a ranch. I figured college would be a waste of time for me. And who would keep this place going? Crystal? There was no way she could have handled this place, even if she'd wanted to."

"You didn't have any other family?"

"Dad only had one sibling -- my uncle, the one who died in that horse-riding accident. And he never married."

"What about on your mom's side?"

I shake my head. "Her Catholic family back in Italy disowned her for running off with a Protestant and converting. They didn't even come to the funeral. No, it was down to my sister and me. The ranch had been in the family for four generations, and there was no way I could let it go."

Greg nods. "I understand that feeling. My great grandfather founded our ranch, and I was brought up knowing that it was my heritage."

Yeah, but then Greg ran off to the city. Without him, Walter had finally been forced to lease his grazing land to Old Man Wilson, a move that I'm sure humiliated him.

Then I catch myself. Being born on a ranch shouldn't be a life sentence. Like it or not, Greg had been within his rights to seek his future wherever he wanted. Nothing lasts forever, even family dynasties like ours.

"Then you know what I'm talking about," I say. "Fortunately, this is where I would have wanted to be anyway."

"There are certainly worse ways to live than on a ranch," Greg allows, "but with you not raising cattle or working an outside job, how do you make ends meet?"

"Well, the lease payments from the Wilson ranch are the largest part of my income, but I've also got some side hustles going. I sell organic eggs to a local health food store year-round, and vegetables at the farmers market during the growing season. I take in alterations and do other custom sewing jobs. I've also got a small clientele for babysitting services. Word's gotten out that I love kids and know how to handle them -- even the rambunctious ones. Put it all together, and I've got a net-positive cash flow.

"Sounds like you've got a good handle on things," he says with an approving nod.

A good handle? On my finances, maybe, but I'm not about to tell him about the angst in my personal life. It's time to turn the conversation back to him. "Your folks told me you got hurt pretty bad playing football."

"Yeah," he says slowly, and I can see that reliving it is going to be at least a little bit painful for him. "It was in the third game of my sophomore season, and my first time as a starting college quarterback. It was late in the second quarter and I was in the pocket, waiting for my wide receivers to get open."

I can tell that he's simplifying things a bit, reasonably guessing that I'm not as into football as most of the people he's probably told the story too. He'd be right about that. The only football games I've ever watched were the ones he played in.

"Unfortunately," he continues, "I didn't see the linebacker coming in from my blindside. My left tackle managed to trip him, but all that meant was the guy fell onto my right leg just as I planted to throw."

Inwardly, I shudder at the thought.

"He was big and fast as linebackers go, and the angle was horrible. The impact tore my ACL and MCL, both in the worst way. But that was the least of it. It snapped my femur, which was by far the most painful thing I've ever felt.

"I knew it was bad right from the moment it happened, but the look on the face of the team doctor when he ran up to me told me it was probably even worse than that. The end of the bone was sticking through the skin, and it tore my femoral artery on the way out. I nearly bled to death, right there on the field.

"I was in surgery for five hours and took fourteen units of blood, but they saved my life, and even my leg. Unfortunately, while they told me that I'd be able to live a normal life, and not even walk with a limp, I wouldn't ever have the strength and mobility to play near the top of my game again. I had to hang up my cleats for good."