Underground

Imagine lines of bunks no more than 3 feet apart, separated by nothing more than a curtain. For miles and miles of narrow tunnels, bunks are lined as far as the eye can see. At the foot of each bunk rests a haunting green trunk, no wider than 3 feet no taller than 2. Could you fit your entire life into a single trunk? Imagine a cafeteria every quarter mile, responsible for feeding all the people inhabiting all the bunks in its designated stretch of tunnel. Imagine a showering facility every half mile with no curtains and no doors. Privacy doesn’t exist anymore. Just nozzels, dozens and dozens of nozzles. Imagine 9 of these tunnels running a mile each, all originating at a central hub, and all of them ending nowhere. The don’t end, they just cease to go on. Each tunnel radiates from the central hub like a spoke in some sort of horrifying wheel. In the central hub a super computer responsible for maintaining every aspect of every spoke. The oxygen levels, the temperature, the humidity. A crew of 12 responsible for maintaining the living space of thousands. Don’t think you could live like this? Be thankful you don’t live in the future. This facility was God’s last gift to mankind.

This facility is all that remains of mankind.


****

“What day is it?” Warner sat at the end of his bunk sketching on the back of a soup can label. His father Marcus was sitting on a foldable lawn chair out in the aisle of the tunnel reading a book. The cover was ripped off so he had no idea what he was reading, but it seemed to be some sort of murder mystery. He kept mulling over the fact that a bruised and tattered book was the only line of defense between him and insanity. What, he wondered, would happen when he found out whodunit?

“What?” Marcus looked up from his book to Walt who was still concentrating on his sketch.

“Today. What day is it?”

“I don’t know. Sunday? Sunday, bloody Sunday? Maybe Monday? I don’t know, but what does it even matter? None of us have a schedule to live by anymore. Days don’t matter.” The theme song from Happy Days played in his head. How ironic.

“What day was it when we were taken here?”

“Wednesday,” he responded quickly. “It was Wednesday the 23rd.” Walter looked up from his sketch.

“Mom’s-”

“Yes, your mother’s birthday.”

Warner flipped over the soup label and started scribbling. Marcus studied him for a few seconds before returning his attention to his book. Mrs. Scarlet had just confessed to murdering Mr. Buggaby so she could inherit his fortune, but Marcus didn’t buy it. Using his own deductive reasoning , Marcus determined that she couldn’t have been the one; he wasn’t even halfway through the book yet. Detective Logan agreed with him, as it turns out she wasn’t even in the will. She must’ve been taking the fall for somebody. The lights overhead gave of a strange yellow tint that made the pages of the book seem even older than they really were.

“It’s Sunday.” Walt looked up from his soup label where he had scribble a math equation.

“How do you know?” Marcus asked, once again raising his head from his book.

“We’ve been here 25 days. Today’s Sunday. “

“25 days. Sunday, bloody Sunday.”

Warner flipped the soup label back to its blank side and continued sketching. He delicately added fingers to a drawing of a small boy who was holding hands with a larger man. The small boy had a head of curls that looked similar to Warner’s hair. Marcus took a torn piece of paper out of his front pocket and placed it in his book before closing it shut. He put it in the trunk in front of him and then leaned back in his chair and let out a heavy sigh. 25 days. 25 long days and he still had no idea what he was doing underground. He looked around and, with his deductive reasoning that he seemed to be utilizing quite a bit a recently, determined that nobody else had any idea either.

The man on the bunk across the aisle, who had introduced himself to Marcus as Clint, had recovered a chess board from the Pile. Every Tuesday and Thursday all kinds of wonderful treasures were dumped into tubs in a small room known only as the Pile. Marcus had taken a trip to the pile the Thursday after he arrived in the underground station but found the greed to fierce for him. Underground, boredom was the only thing that rivaled the unknown in terms of frustration. To the point of chess boards being considered treasures. Clint was playing with a red headed woman whom Marcus had never met before. The pieces were fashioned from torn pieces of paper.

Marcus spotted a man in a white lab coat making his way down the tunnel. He was holding a tray in his hands and stopped to bend over at every bunk. He sported a smile that looked like it was plastered on.

The man had reached the bunk next to Marcus’s. He bent over and offered a little paper container of pills to the man.

“Excuse me sir, would you like-”

The man who had been lying on his bed sat up and leaned toward the man in the lab coat. He continued leaning forward until his face was only inches away from the man in white. “No, I will not take your pills. You will have to cut my tongue out and push them down my throat if you want them to dissolve in my stomach. You’ve taken everything you’re gonna’ get already. My belongings, my house, my clothes, my big screen TV, my wife, you’ve got it all. You’re not taking my mind with those pills of yours.”

“Sir,” the man began with his smile wider than ever. “I assure you these are only extremely mild sedatives to help sleep come a little easier. We know it can be a bit hard making yourself comfortable in such a foreign environment. Taking these is by no means mandatory, although we do encourage you do so if you feel they will make you feel more comfortable.”

The man on the bunk eyed the man in the white over carefully before finally reaching for the pills.

“Thank you sir. I’m sure you’ll find that sleep comes easi-” The man on the bed spit his pills out at the man in white.

“How dumb do you think I am! Mild sedatives?! It’s mind control! Mind control!” The man stood up on his bunk and started jumping up and down, by now he had the attention of many bunks.

“I’m going to need a security team on bunk ID number 7663-8732. Resident should be transported to TERC immediately” the man in white whispered into a radio that was clipped to his collar. Men in white often came down the halls offering earphones or prepackaged meals. Marcus had heard TERC mentioned once before when a man 7 bunks down attempted to steal 5 or 6 sandwiches. The man had been missing from his bunk since that incident nearly two weeks ago.
The man in white continued on his path, ignoring the irate man who was still pouncing on the bed behind him. He bent down in front of Marcus and the smile returned to his face. ‘Would you like some sleeping aid, sir?”

“No thank you.”

“And what about the boy?” The man looked past Marcus to Warner who was still sketching on the bed. Marcus glanced over at the man who was still screaming about mind control.

“No, he’ll be fine.”

“Very well.” The man nodded and then continued on his path until he eventually reached a partition. Each tunnel had hundreds of walls cutting them into smaller sections. These partitions made managing the bunks easier. The man in white pulled out a keycard and slid it through a slot before proceeding through a reinforced door with a sign that read AUTHORIZED PERSONAL ONLY
A few minutes later an announcement began over the intercom.


Good evening residents. It is currently 11 PM. In fifteen minutes, the overhead lights will shut off. Feel free to make use of your individual lights but please respect the wishes of those residents around you who may be disturbed by them. The lights will come back at the usual time, 9 AM. As always, please have a pleasant sleep. Thank you.


Marcus shuddered. It was the 25th time he had heard that recording. He got up, folded his chair, and placed it in the trunk. He climbed into the bunk next to Warner. Warner placed the sketch on top of the trunk and then nestled into place. On the soup label a man and a boy stood holding hands, separated from a woman by crudely drawn figures that appeared to be soldiers. At the top of the paper “Wednesday, May 23” was written. The two curled up and their breath fell into a slow pattern until they were both asleep. Before long, the lights went out one by one with a heavy clanking noise. Day 25 had come to an end.


That night, Marcus was awoken by the sound of a man being dragged away from the bunk beside him violently.