FROM THE FIRE

AN EPISODIC NOVEL OF THE NUCLEAR HOLOCAUST

EPISODE II: THE CAGE

by

Kent David Kelly

INTERLUDE

“…Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong.

Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat.

Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass,

Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron,

Can be retentive to the strength of spirit;

But life, being weary of these worldly bars,

Never lacks power to dismiss itself.”

— Cassius in Julius Caesar

(I, iii, 92-98), W. S.

II-1

THE SPIDER AND THE HUSK OF SKIN

Gray sheets of tepid water pulsed out of the motorized wall sockets, spraying down onto radiation traps, waterproofed glo-lites, lead-filtered drains, and the head of the shivering woman who lived, Sophia Ingrid St.-Germain.

She could not remember regaining consciousness, or crawling back into the shower nook just beyond the great room of the fallout shelter, or stripping off her soiled clothes. When she awoke to herself in revelation, she found herself huddled down in a corner of the shower, hugging her knees, with the fragile and intermittent gouts of water cascading down on top of her.

She was sobbing. Her vocal cords were raw and she believed she had been crying out someone’s name, but she could not remember.

She knew only that she was alive, that she was real. The shelter had held, despite the earthshaking violence which had cracked the heart of the mountain all around her. Most of the lights she could see out beyond the translucent shower wall were still functional, casting their false sheets of radiance through the falling dust, turning the ashes into gold. One bank of the caged ceiling lights had fallen, its fluorescent tubes shattered out of their sockets and spread like glittering flowers of razor shrapnel upon the concrete. Another light rack swayed gently back and forth in the air just inches above the floor, strung and held by the threads of a frayed and silvery cable. These last lights flickered madly and spun a strobe of shadows around the room, clockwise and pause and back again.

The woman stared. The water kept falling against her fingers, misting back against her throat.

She blinked. It happened, Sophie thought to herself. She did not dare to speak the words, did not yet want to know if she could dare to hear and understand whatever her own voice might mean, a gift made meaningless in a world without other souls for her to confide in.

They really did it. Damn them. It was all too enormous, too unthinkable. One world, and now the world is burning.

Beyond the surging of her blood, outside her mind, she could hear the drops of falling water. But the sound was distant, as if she were adrift beneath the ocean and just about to crest the surface. The delicate bones within her ears ached and sang with a chime-like cadence of phantom sound.

One world ever only, she mused. One world and there is nothing now.

She could also hear and feel the generators humming out there, beyond the seal which led to the unexplored inner chambers. The shower was damaged but it was working, and somehow she had turned it on without remembering what she had done. She lifted her head — a white flash of pain greeted this unwanted dividing of tangled muscles in neck and shoulder — and slowly opened her mouth. Cringing, digging her fingernails into knees, she tilted her head back to the fractured wall-tiles and let herself swallow the falling water.

It was slightly saline, with a taint of grit and perhaps chlorine. Warm, not hot. But the taste of the water began to tell her many things. The water from the tanks was drinkable, the filtration systems and pumps and ultraviolet purifiers must all be operational. Down by the floor, framed in ghost-light against the other side of the glass, a digital display glowed upon a small iPad-like LCD screen to show the water temperature, tank supply, filtration quality and other trivia, things which now were crucial and imperative measures of her survival.

She could read the last nine lines displayed there as she lowered her eyes, lines which were blinking in digital crimson:

SODIUM IODIDE CRYSTAL DETECTOR

RADIOACTIVITY ::

MAXIMUM CONTAINMENT LEVELS ::

GAMMA PENETRATION

SUBSTRATA SAMPLE ANALYSIS ::

M-SIEVERT / HR. :: 482.66 [+++]

(FLUX :: 36.3% [-], DATA INSUFFICIENCY)

DATA CASCADE RELIABILITY :: 87.3% [+]

ERROR CODE :: 3003.1v

And what does that mean? How soon am I going to die?

She lowered her head between her knees, held her breath. The reclaimers churned and thrummed beneath the shower drains, humming and re-cleaning the draining water.

She still could not remember how she had gotten there. After she had descended the ladder and pressurized the vault door, many of the details were still alien to her memory. How had she managed to lift the aluminum shelving off of herself when she had been in danger of being crushed and asphyxiated? How had she survived the blasts at all?

She had no idea.

Hon, you’re wasting warm water, her father’s voice called out to her.

Strange. Was he at the door? She could not see his misted shadow there. Leave some for Patrice. Despite herself, Sophie felt a tiny smile touch her lips.

“Sorry, daddy,” she whispered.

Despite everything, she welcomed the loving sternness in his words. She had only the phantom voices for company now, a chorus of the burning and the dead, the long-lost and the recently departed all singing within her in their own isolate cathedrals of pain and silence. Echoing. She wondered if she would go mad with the sunlit and rising arcs of all those pleading intonations, so many souls all caught and tangled up in her skein of memory, with no one else to ever remember who the voices’ souls had been. Soon, perhaps, she would need to silence them all, to reinstate herself as a lone woman in sole domain over her own prisoned mind.

You, you are all dead. And I? I live on. I am.

And if she could not bear to silence the purest of those voices? Tom, Daddy, Lacie. If she let them reign and sweep her own voice into the darkness and away, which of those souls would she become before the end?

Oh, no. I am myself. She shivered, bracing her feet against the tiles beneath the shower door. Her toes splayed over her view of the display crystal. You need to get up now, or you’re just going to curl up here and die.

“Too scared. I don’t want to,” she whispered.

So sorry, little star. Father again. Up and all heart, and there’s my girl. You need to. Come on, now.

She got up on one knee. Her muscles burned, her arms ached as she tried to lift herself. Her legs refused to give her anything more than the merest hope of rising.

Come on. Authoritarian, then. The patriarch. Soon he would be angry, and then… You’re wasting all the water.

She stared at the floor, as if the firmament and actuality of its porcelain grid could lend her the strength to try what she had failed to do only a moment before.

Get up. She moaned in pain. A whimper. Weak. Whether that was her own thought or her father’s, she never knew.

She tried again. A cry. She was on both knees, then, and her hands were against the door and spreading the mist away. Faint tracers of grit and blood smeared out of her palms against the glass. The display at her knees blinked brighter, droplets trickling down the misted reflections of its face.

However long she had been there, Cowering, weak, she had been filthy when she had crawled inside. Behind her, a single bloody fingerprint showed on the wall between two furtive jets of water. To her left, trails of urine and dirt and feces showed where her feet had been shoved against the farther wall. One of the shower jets was broken and a cone of filth betrayed the geometric shadow where its water should have been running down. Turning, gasping, Sophie found a green bar of soap behind her back, and began to cleanse herself, grimacing every time her shoulders were forced into motion.

I may be weak, daddy. I may have always disappointed you after you lost Patrice. But I am Sophie. I’m alive.

She tried to rise up off her knees, and failed again.

Alive.

She grieved for Tom, but the horrible guilt welling in her heart felt like its own hollow of all-consuming nothingness, a dead star of gravity where her sorrow and love should be. The enormity of what she should be feeling, the honor she should be giving that great and undying love, engulfed what little she could give and made a mockery of its frailty. She was hollowed, defiled. Shamed.

So ashamed, she thought. So unworthy. I lived, and all the others? All the good people, all the deserving ones, Tom and Jake and all the rest, they all died. In flame, in horror. Souls for the White Fire, ashes for the Archangel.

She moved her head back under the water, ran her fingers through her hair. And what, she wondered, was she truly guilty of for being there? Survival? Life itself? She did not know. She knew only that she should feel more, that the numbness spreading through her mind was threatening to destroy her.

Another minute below the water, another. Time was nothing there and neither day nor night could reign where only the false lights glowed against the shelves and concrete slabs, where the dust powdered down and the servo-motors whirred.

So many. Ashes, all.

A strange sound crept out from behind her, where her back had shifted and smeared the waters upon the wall. She slipped and the pain went straight up into her shoulder.

Get up, hon. Now. I’m counting to ten. Don’t make me shut off that water.

A wild thought flicked into her mind, that if she failed to rise again this time, her father would be standing there with the belt. From death, from the finality of the real. He would rise and she would see that clenched and solid hand against the glass, the hand that —

No.

She had the strength, then. She had to. The pain no longer mattered. It was simply something that was a part of her now, something to be sacred and ignored, like her beating heart, like seeing, like breathing. She rose, teeth clenched, refusing to cry out again. The falling waters clicked off as she pressed the aluminum plate beneath the spigot. The glass door tilted open, seemingly of its own accord.

There’s someone out there.

“Don’t be a fool,” she whispered. She had not yet decided if talking to herself was the key to her salvation, or merely another path toward her annihilation.

There’s no one. No one.

She left the shower, walked around the hanging light and its strobe of lazy shadows still twirling back and forth. Slowly. And what did ‘slowly’ mean? What could be the nature, then, of unrelenting time in a world of one?

* * *

In the great room she found a clean blanket beneath the work table. She lifted it, shook it out like a great white flower upon the air, and wrapped it around her shoulders. She stood there oblivious to all but the most primal sensations of her surroundings, shallow breathing, dripping water, sparks dancing somewhere in a blown-out socket. The smell of ozone, the coppery taste of her own blood where she had bitten into her tongue.

All of this, all of this under my control. What am I supposed to do? How can I do this all alone?

Perhaps, she thought with a disconcerting idleness, she would press her way through the vinyl seal into the back rooms, devolving, moist and shriveled and disintegrating, pushing through the leaves of plastic and so crawling back into the womb, Failure, you’re nothing if you are alone, nothing, find the gun locker there and select the easiest gun barrel to push into her mouth.

And why not?

She would die for Tom, if she could keep herself from thinking long enough to pull the trigger. Yet even as she thought this, a greater clarity washed through her, purifying her grief with the frost of its fading purity and leaving only a solemn resonance in her mind:

He is dead.

There is nothing left of me.

Nothing left of the person

I was this morning.

Mother, bride, anthropologist.

No more.

Like a spider, I need

to walk out of my own skin

and be reborn.

I need to be skinless,

fragile,

to be new again.

But without Tom, without anyone, what did any of this matter, after all? The entirety of Sophie, the past-self who had been fractured yet threaded together and nearly made whole purely through the joy of Lacie’s love for her—

(You can’t survive this all alone, you were and now you are not, don’t remember)

—The strong and bitter woman who could grieve, who could mourn and feel in secret, had been torn into tatters, winged remnants fused into the lost cinders of a world that was returning now to ashes, a once-world that lived no longer and was burning, burning.

For the unsettling arc of several seconds, seconds which seemed to stretch into unbreakable filaments of eternity, Sophie believed she understood where her old self had died: the shower. She had left herself there to rot, behind. She had walked out of her skin and the door had closed itself. Or had she done that?

There is someone else in here, someone else in here

Someone

Else

Daddy, no —

Yes. There was someone else inside the shelter, and it was Sophie. Lost Sophie, dead Sophie. She had walked outside of herself, leaving her body far behind. Of course.

The light. The tunnel.

Honey, Lacie, wait for me!

I’m coming

I’m coming

ingggg

She only needed to open the shower door and see.

She could cross the great room once again, open the shower, and see her own wasted corpse there staring back at her, gaping with a shock-wide mouth of horror and wild black eyes staring with sightless revelation into forever, into the mind of God. If she could just cross this room, Yes, I understand now, I died and this is Hell, let me see myself so I can understand —

(Fluorescent lights flickering in their cages, like souls, like the negative-imaged eyes of the blackened and burning Archangel himself, O Death, O clarion)

— The room seemed to elongate like a series of endless nightmares made of door and table and shower stall and spinning light, And in the shower I am dead, I am dead in there, daddy I’m coming out now don’t look at me I’m sorry I used all the hot water, and the room stretched further until it was an endless hall of broken aluminum shelves and wrecked work tables and morgue freezers, she needed to open the shower, she needed to see her own corpse dead and screaming there in the corner with the water dripping down its breasts and filling up its mouth, she needed to drink that water and touch her own body’s tongue, Yes, she needed to drink and touch that tongue with her own, so that she could be reborn…

* * *

What is happening to me?

She froze in place on her way to the shower.

Stop this, she thought. Stop it. There’s no one else in here. No one. Then: You’re going insane.

Another step, tilting her head to try to discern if there was a huddled body there behind the still-dripping waters, the dead droplets that were misting down inside the shower. Then, the girl-voice, the Sophie of old was singing within:

Tom, Tommy. Oh, Tom. Lovely Tom. He died for us. He died to save us, Sophie, ready to be killed. Knowing. Knowing with all his heart, that we would go and find her, oh our Lacie, we would find her or die in the trying.

And then, out loud, the voice deciding her fate with the trembling cadence of its own insurmountable conviction:

“No, Sophie. You are not that little girl. This is now.” The child-Sophie sang its fear, and yet did not deny this. “You are going to do this. Think of Lacie.” A deep breath, the clutch of the pallid blanket around her shoulders. “Live for Lacie.”

She hugged the damp blanket tighter around her naked body, and marched across the room to the shower stall before the horror could build its walls inside her any higher.

Her right palm slicked away the fog of the shower door, and there (down inside, where dead Sophie should be) there were only glo-lites and streaks of filth and a bloody fingerprint, and nothing more.

There is no one in there.

And so it became true.

She turned her back on the shower, on everything that threatened to drive her out from the in-spiral prison of her own psyche. She sat cross-legged upon the floor, staring at the great room’s own drain, the pipes down the reclamator wall, over to the four metal tubs whose purpose she still did not understand. Were they to wash irradiated tools and clothing? Or something to do with food? Purification? She fought to chase and comprehend these fleeting bits of rational thought, desperate to force away the horrors that were rising again all around her. She needed to breathe, to see, and to clutch onto the meaningless, the mundane, the real.

It’s April. April fourth. It is two thousand fourteen. I lived in the valley behind Black Hawk. Now I am under Fairburn, Fairburn Mountain.

She crawled forward a little, careful to avoid the elusive glass shrapnel from the shattered light tubes. To the center, Go to the center of the floor. The center of your world, the new world where you shall be reborn.

There.

Become. See.

The drain of the great room, a real thing. She could see bits of feces clogging its grill, a shred of teal silk with a little button attached. One of her shoes that had been blown off in the explosion was sitting next to the drain, with little streaks of mud and vomit on its heel. A garden hose was attached to a wall socket by the work table, and it was dripping. Someone — It was me, there is only me — had sprayed the floor down. Sophie’s drenched and stinking clothes were piled on top of a paint can near the shower door.

Focus.

She needed to find her daughter, to know whether Mitch and Lacie had survived. Who in Black Hawk would be able to help her? Or perhaps there would be Jolynn, in Centennial? Surely there would be someone.

No. Jolynn is dead. Mother is dead. Tom, Tom is…

A new revelation came to her, as she wrapped the blanket closer around her and felt the tickling water droplets falling from her hair onto the floor. It did not matter yet if Lacie was alive, that was a thing for tomorrow. For the moment, the now, even if Lacie was dead — And she is, she must be, how can she not be, no don’t think it or you’ll make it real, don’t — Sophie needed to pretend, to insist that Lacie was still alive. Or else, alone forever, there truly would be nothing. No reason to live at all.

I love her with all my heart. Therefore, she is alive. Because she must be.

With that resolved, she needed to take care of herself. The shelter would become the entirety of cosmos and so her home, the only home. Womb. A child, she needed to learn everything all over again. She needed to relearn how to survive in a world of immolation, a world that had followed its own principles to destruction.

And how?

The doubts welled up as quickly as she dismissed them. A cold, utterly practical side of her asked a simple question: Sophie, slow down. Think about this again. Can you kill yourself?

No. The girl-Sophie sang again, a cadence of wistful sadness.

And why not?

For Lacie. We said so.

And if she is dead? What is there in this burning world that is left for us, if Lacie is not alive?

But she is.

Is she?

You said so.

“I did. I did.”

The cold slice, the ice-white reflection of her own promise for survival, the dead self left in the shower stall just out of sight, had no reply.

Not yet. The dead Sophie skin would walk, it would hunt her into nightmare. It would wait for her, for sleep and dreams.

She stared at the goose-bumps upon her forearms, the strangely indented veins where her adrenaline-shocked muscles had given her the strength to lift four hundred pounds of metal and boxes off her body. Her torn muscles pulsed with weary, faltering surges in time with her every heartbeat.

Need water.

Sophie crossed to the hose socket, thought of drinking the water there. Surely it was connected to the same water tanks as the shower was. But the head of the hose was resting on a piece of blouse-silk by the drain, and the filth she had washed from herself was still swirling there.

She turned the hose off and looked around.

She was shivering, the air conditioning and venting were fighting with the incredible heat that had coiled inside the shelter, and the cold was beginning to win. She believed that this was good.

She smeared the back of her hand across her face. At some point, she had stopped crying. Another breath, this one steady and at peace.

And that was all. Life would no longer be a series of inconveniences and annoyances interspersed with brief intervals of joy; life had constricted into a dual-dimensional existence, only the moment, rigid lines of sense and the senses’ disintegration. Each moment, every breath would die and the next born from its ashes, each cascading after and filling the previous dying, a pointless and tiny miracle of persistent vitality. The one moment and its death, convergent unity. The next, the next. Without the sun, without hope, tomorrow became so infinitely far away that it did not exist.

The future was nothing, an infinite chain of fractured revelations, each mote of time larger than the one before, knowing the implications of itself but nothing more.

II-2

SELECTIONS OF SUICIDE

As Sophie’s body slowly began to heal, she busied herself with simplistic things, crafting ornate weaves of complexity from the most clear-cut of actions. She found the standard-metric wrench that had fallen to the floor, calibrated its hook jaw to precisely half an inch and then two centimeters and back again. She not only pulled out many of the binders from the wreckage of the shelves, she stood them on end upon the floor and then she alphabetized them. She took up the rediscovered flashlight, scuffed off the piece of plastic that had splintered off from its broken tail cap, and strung it upon a hook that was bolted into the wall. The wrist strap had broken during the blasts, and the flashlight must have flown from her wrist and rolled off across the floor. Blessedly, it was still on, and therefore operational. She clicked it off to save the precious batteries.

The dark. The dark is coming.

“Sophie. Don’t think about that.” She shook her head, as if to clear it from the unsettling shadows which were layering her thoughts with other people’s voices once again.

There was a challenge as she struggled to remember which order she had done things in, which things still required a ritual of initiation and which were fated to be redone a second time. She knew that if she did not keep moving nonstop until she collapsed, in perfect order of destined motion, she would stop everything — stop thinking, stop hoping, stop breathing and that would be the end of her.

The work table, there’s panels behind it, she thought. You know this. You need to get on the radio. The phone. The computer. Something. Mitch, the others, you need to reach out and to learn what is left of the world, you —

“No. Not yet.”

This is vital!

“I can’t face that yet. Not all of it at once. Not now.”

No reason to talk, you know. You don’t even need your own name any longer. Be nothing, be no one.

As she warred with herself she kept cleaning, straightening, measuring.

As her actions threatened to flow from exacting precision into obsession, she cleaned up the shattered light fixture with a broom and utility scoop she had discovered beneath the table. She did not yet trust herself to attempt a righting of the collapsed utility shelves, but she did pull a pair of bolt cutters out from the wreckage. With sudden resolve, she paced toward the center of the room.

Dropping her soaking blanket for balance, standing nude, she pushed the wet linen under the dangling light fixture and cinched the lights’ frayed cable between the chrome-vanadium pincers of the cutters. Closing her eyes, she powered the quick-snap on the battery-powered cutters and almost cried out in surprise when the cable cut loose on the first try. The light cage thumped down onto the floor and rolled off the blanket with a clang. The bulbs remained unfractured, glass-embraced spider threads of enmeshed argon and phosphor. Sophie pushed the light cage away with her foot, toward the hose socket, where it would be out of the way.

There was still much to learn about the great room, a tiny labyrinth made of choice. A bank of freezers stood between the shower stall and the one still-upright bank of shelves, and a medicine cabinet was bolted near to the transparent seal which led into the deeper rooms behind her.

She steeled herself, turning and taking a step toward the seal. She fully intended to press her way through into the pressurized chamber just beyond —

(Someone else is in here, spider, don’t turn your back on the shower ever, no don’t go, crawling, crawling on the ceiling, don’t you dare go in there)

— But she could not yet will herself to go into the back and see the utmost edge of her tiny world. What would she do? If she were to go back there and stare at another newfound wall; if the claustrophobic panic that was already gnawing at her fraying self-control was unleashed back there, blossoming out of her like a bloody flower from the flesh, forcing her to confront the horrid truth of just how limited her existence had become?

While the pressure seal was still untouched, the back of the shelter was a place of hope, a horizon of possibility. But once she went in and saw just how small it was, that would be the edge of the world, perhaps the edge of the entire world forever.

The world in spiral,

ever circling in.

In on itself, forever,

ever tighter, spider-web,

crawling,

who is huntress who the hunted,

I and I,

feeding from myself I’m in,

I’m in

the Cage.

“Stop it.”

She laid the bolt cutters down and smoothed the blonde hairs rising upon her forearms. Returning to the wall farthest from the entryway — the north wall, perhaps, if the concept of “north” meant anything at all any longer — she moved away a plastic tarp that was pinned up against the concrete there. Behind it, baling hooks of some kind were hung in a rack, like pool cues. She pulled one out. It was surprisingly light, flexible and plastic. She pressed a button and a little levered hook popped out of the farther end with a click. She turned the baling hook to hold it by its molded foam grip, and in doing so discovered a label on the chromium tube: Macy’s.

It was a retail garment hook, a tool of the ended world.

And then she remembered what it was for. Tom had showed her this, several years ago. She looked up, saw the stuffed duffel bags racked up against the ceiling in their swathes of heavy nylon mesh. Lifting the hook, gasping in pain, she maneuvered one of the bags by hooking one of its rugged handles. She pulled it down and it fell in front of her with an unceremonious whumph. The dust in the air whirled, adrift in the unpleasant and intermingled odors of laundry detergent and mothballs. Slotting the hook back into its rack, Sophie hefted the bag by its end-handle and spilled its contents onto the floor.

She recognized some of the clothes. Tom had brought hundreds of sweats and shirts back from a trip to NSA headquarters in Fort Meade. At the time, she had chided him: “Recruiting an army, love? They’re not going to be very fashionable now, are they?” And his answer with that sly and boyish grin, “Ha. An army, instead of me? Hopefully you won’t need one.”

Jeans, flannels, T-shirts, hoodies, underwear. And some of Tom’s old favorites as well, things she had told him to get out of the house. Out!

She smiled, a slight quirk of the lips, and the tears were near again. He had followed the letter of her law, if not the spirit. Out of the house, and here all they were. She could not bear to go through Tom’s old clothes yet, looking at the bundled flannels and leather jackets and black jeans with the holes in the cuff or knee. They would only remind her of him.

Ignoring the burning of exhausted muscles deep in her back and shoulders, she sifted through the unisex clothes and pulled out boxers, bundled tube socks, over-large sweats and a baggy green hooded shirt that read “GO ARLINGTON! ~ Barcroft Fitness ~ Amateur Indoor Soccer League.”

“Oh, Tom.” Another half-formed smile.

Closing her eyes, going by feel alone and forcing herself into the tedium of slow motions and measured breaths, Sophie dressed herself. A precarious scab on her index finger fell off as she pushed her right hand up through the sleeve, and a bead of deep crimson blood streaked down the cusp-line of her fingernail. Bringing the finger up to her lips to lick off the blood, she stopped short as she happened to gaze down into the palm of her hand. Her entire hand was pink and finely pulped with the texture of raw meat, and blisters were rising where the heel of her hand had surged against the concrete floor, back when she had awakened from the nuclear blast and shoved the shelves off of her body.

The pain there was new and terrible, born only as she beheld it.

Wincing, she opened her other palm. The same. Her hands were crisscrossed with trembling gashes, pruned pink where the shower-water had been running in. Bubbles of flesh were turning white where the moisture of her body was rising up in fragile beads beneath the skin. Surprisingly, there was very little blood.

Crossing back over to the wire wall-rack mounted to the left of the shower stall, she found a roll of gauze bandage. Safety scissors, tape. Antiseptic. A gray towel. Her hands knew just where to go.

(He arranged this, Sophie, her mind was whirring, purling, he arranged this all exactly the way you keep your bathroom cabinet at home, all but the mirror that you hate, all perfectly set out, he knew you so well he loved you so much, he took you in here and you laughed at him, you, you…)

She wrapped and taped her skinned hands, one after the other. As she finished dressing, the panic threatened to overwhelm her. She hummed it away off-tune, as she always did.

Live for Lacie. So much more needed to be done. Keep control. She looked around.

The wall to her right, past the shower stall, had four huge freezers lined up against it side by side. She brushed up against one, it was warm, the metal still radiating the incredible heat of the nuclear blasts outside. Stone dust sifted down onto Sophie’s left forearm as she leaned over the first freezer. She looked up past a bank of wall sockets, and saw that one of the largest wall cracks was there, in the seam between two concrete slabs. Each slab was stenciled, “/// WATER TANK /// ACCESS PANEL ///.” The crack ran up through the entire length of concrete and up into the ceiling, and so on higher, ever higher, into the mountain.

Don’t think about how deep you are.

Little anthill-sized piles of black granite had already fallen onto the top of the freezer’s surface. She looked behind the second freezer, and found that neither was plugged in. There were two more wall sockets back behind there and a utility jack, and coils of heavy cording. Freezers three and four, both unplugged. Perhaps the freezers drew too much power to be plugged in all the time? Would plugging them all in short something out? She would need to read the binders before she dared decide on this. Tiny actions could have devastating consequences.

A darker thought crossed her mind.  The freezers were each deep and broad enough to hold a wrapped body, perhaps even two.

Perhaps she was a ghost after all, and her dead body wasn’t coiled upon the floor back there in the shower, nor crawling up to the ceiling. No. It was in here, daddy had stuffed her dead skin down in here to spin its web, and it was waiting for her here. Down, deep down in the cold. For using all the hot water, yes. The last punishment at last, and now to see herself. To feed, to be fed upon. Of course.

She began to open the first freezer. She wondered if she could hear dead legs skittering up inside.

“Don’t,” she said aloud.

Don’t scare yourself like that. Don’t listen.

Too late. She opened the freezer.

There was no dead body. No refrigeration, no ice, no mist. The dead air in there was warm. The freezer was filled to the brim with dry and packaged foods. There were huge stacks of canned spinach. She thought she remembered hearing that spinach absorbed radiation, and would pass it out through the body, but that might have been merely some foolishness she had witnessed on TV. There were military surplus MREs, bags of rice, sacks of corn starch and row upon row of canned dehydrated food.

She could see then that the freezers were actually designed to be set inside the wall, to help with cooling. The door-mounting section was only half of the freezer’s length. Back there in the dark were wicker-and-canvas bins, piled high with food heaters, Bunsen burners, matches, some odd variety of translucent tubing and many other things. But there was no microwave in the shelter that she had found. She knew, however, there was at least one lodged between the girders up above, the spare microwave from their old cabin in Estes Park. When she was stronger, healed, perhaps she would find it and pull it down.

She left the other freezers as they were. Moving on down the wall back toward the vault’s entryway, she noticed another tarp set on shower curtain rings against the wall. She lifted it and draped its length over the fourth freezer. The tarp revealed a narrow corridor, filled from floor to ceiling with five-gallon water cooler bottles. There was no water cooler that she could remember. She tried to recall whether she had argued with Tom about this “extravagance.”

For so long, I’ve been a fool.

Flexing her bandaged hands, she lifted a water bottle out of the utility rack. She faltered under the weight. It was easily forty pounds, if not more. The massive plastic bottle bounced off the nearest freezer and rolled onto the floor, sloshing all the while. Maneuvering herself to sit on the floor with her legs to either side of it, she gingerly pulled off its plastic seal. Where were the cups? The glasses? No matter. Tilting the bottle carefully toward her chest, she managed to slosh some warm water into her cupped hand. The gauze bandage turned pink as the congealing blood of her skinned palm welled up. She drank, tasted pure water and her own blood.

She sat there for awhile, picking bits of glass out of her left knee. She could not remember how that had happened. She would have to be more careful. The consequences of a deeper cut, of an infection or something even worse, were things she could not bring herself to brood over.

Not yet.

After long minutes and much wasted water she rose, slowly. She would need to stop all of this frenetic activity very soon, and just sit. Perhaps she would read, learn, begin to understand. After all, she had all the time in the world.

For some reason, the tension, the sheer ridiculous importance of everything she was doing, she shook her head and her fingers tapped against her cheeks. A broken laugh escaped her.

Spider, she’s coming, she’s in the last freezer, spinning, spinning…

“Stop this,” she said aloud.

I’m going to lose my mind.

She walked back to the pressurized plastic door leading into the deeper rooms. The blue light back there was nebulous, articulate. It was taunting her. Almost, almost she was ready to go back there, to see the bed where Tom had slept when they were fighting; to see the end of her tiny universe.

Something turned her away.

Between the hose and the door seal was a reinforced and refrigerated medicine case. A padlock, of all things, secured the two panels of its Plexiglas covering. The Plexiglas sheets had survived the nuclear blasts and all the seismic shocks, but some of the bottles in on the shelves had shattered and fallen down to the bottom of the case where a rainbow pool of gunk was beginning to solidify into a sickly-looking paste. One bottle was still dripping its contents down into the pool, something amethyst in color, perhaps cough syrup. Worse, the thermometer inside the case had fragmented at the bottom. Liquid mercury stood in quivery beads on a lower shelf.

What medicines had already been lost? Sophie touched the case’s steel frame down by the hose. The case was indeed refrigerated, and cool to the touch. Kneeling there, she wondered if she should clean up the mess at once or rather wait to read the binders, in case there were some types of chemical reactions to worry about, or a cleanup hazard. As she pondered this, she could read the labels on the many intact bottles: penicillin, potassium iodide, Betadine, multivitamins, rubbing alcohol, vomitives, chilled needles, antacid, hypos of some kind, Lidocaine, Loperamide, Glutose paste, Diphenhydramine, Valium, morphine, anesthetics, anti-depressants…

Her stomach churned. A thrill crept up inside her.

“Ohhh. Oh, yes.”

No. Her hands were shaking in anticipation. You can’t. No more.

She thought about throwing away some of the medicines immediately. There was an incinerator in the back, Tom had always been bragging about it. And the waste chute into the deep. But for the immediate future, everything in the shelter was far too precious to destroy.

Even the things that might destroy me.

Stroking the case, touching bloodstained fingers upon the Plexiglas and feeling the coolness there, she realized that she might be looking in at some of the only surviving examples of certain medicines still in existence for hundreds of miles around. Thousands of miles, perhaps. Or perhaps even the only.

She did not know. She could not yet bear to contemplate the world outside.

Everything was precious now. The shelter was the world, the universe had contracted into the galaxy of the great room and the few tunnels and niches radiating from it, a spider-web made of concrete and tinctured steel. She would be this universe’s only explorer. Her reality, not just hers but all reality, had become the shelter, there was only ever after the glory of the Cage.

She looked to the Valium again, the vials of anesthetic.

You’re stronger than that. Think of your daughter.

It would be so, so easy. To sleep and to more than sleep, to descend into the netherworld of the self and then deeper into the Black, deep ocean, out and away and nevermore…

No.

She stood up, too quickly. Her vision turned into black pinpoints as the blood rushed into her head. And as she reeled there, she said, “No. I won’t.” And cried out then, “I won’t!”

She would die, yes. And likely soon. But if it was fated to happen, it would not be a matter of sweets and poisons. She would not die by the needle, nor by her own hand.

All in time. Whether her dead self was stalking her, that was something to be answered when she opened the final door.

II-3

OVERLOAD

She awoke curled up in the pile of clothing that she had dumped from the duffel bag. Her cheek had been resting on her aching hand over a leather motorcycle jacket, and she woke smiling because it smelled of Tom, of sunlight, of memory.

Then reality surged in.

She crawled up, then decided not to risk rising and making her presence known, not just yet. Someone, something might be hunting her. Dreams were still trickling away from her and her hands were very cold.

“There is no one else,” she said. Somehow, saying it out loud made it seem less true.

She looked around. She had no sense of night or day, only the conviction that some hours had passed, and of course there was no clock to go by. Her iPhone — if it even still worked, which it almost certainly did not — was up on the passenger floor in her Hummer up in the cave, far above in a corner of the sky world, the burning world of eld.

Sophie, your dead skin. Do you hear? Spider. She’s right behind you.

She covered her mouth. Someone had been giggling, the sound was still echoing in the silence.

Already it was happening.

Being trapped in the shelter, entirely disconnected from the rhythms of the world and all its annihilated solemnities, it was changing her. She woke without hunger, without thirst. She was not rested, but she did not require sleep. She would need to go to the bathroom soon, and that would mean trapping herself in a tiny corner. But still she resisted this.

It was no longer merely “the Cage” within her mind, or even the universe. It was a primal limitation, a tripling of strictures upon all three dimensions of the very notion of reality. Here was life-in-death, outside was the endless oblivion. And yet it was so tempting, the longing to go out and to breathe her last, to see what remained of the sky, to die at least standing in the endlessness where there might be red roiling clouds, a rain of ashes and flecks of pulverized bone, perhaps a gentle wind to needle the radioactive poisons beneath her skin…

She rose. This line of reasoning needed to end, now.

She walked to the “southwest” wall, where the work table loomed. She rested her hands against its sheet-metal surface. It creaked ominously in one leg, and several of its bolts complained through grating sounds of the near-shattering impact they had suffered. Two of the brackets on the weak right leg were loose, but it seemed as if the table would hold for awhile longer. She pulled the toppled stool upright, sat down with a groan, and looked to the plated concrete wall set flush with the table’s farther edge.

There were four aluminum panel doors, each about eighteen inches wide, set into the wall and aligned by rolling racks with the table’s surface. Adrift yet in the last lingering of a dream, flush with urgency, Sophie reached across and slid open the leftmost door.

Greenish fluorescent lights flickered on in the alcove behind the door. There was a violet Plexiglas bell jar in there, lined with copper mesh, and a boxy, olive-green military field phone was locked there inside it. She almost laughed. A protected phone, how wonderful. And who would she call?

Looking closer, she could see that there were a series of double-hooked rings on straps along the phone’s back. It was a pack-phone, she realized. Something to carry out when reemerging. Tom had never meant for his family to stay in the shelter for very long.

But the impossible had happened after all.

She thought again of her cell phone, trying to remember what Tom had taught her about nuclear airbursts. It was very little. The subject of war, and thermonuclear war precisely, touched in too near upon his taboo subjects of NORAD, the National Security Agency, the supposed underground city beneath Denver International Airport, terror intelligence, and all the rest. She tried to think if the iPhone had been destroyed when she had thrown it. The faceplate had cracked. She thought she had seen the crystalline display wink out. But wouldn’t the electromagnetic pulse have flashed out its circuits? Would the cave, the Hummer itself, have protected it at all?

It hardly mattered. There would be no more satellites, not ever again. No cell phone towers, either. She instantly regretted these thoughts, coming face to face with her own technical ignorance. She was brilliant, yes; it was not a matter for modesty, she simply was. But she had always been meticulously old-fashioned in her French Canadian and gentile way, daddy’s way. There were things she did not want to know because they were “men’s things.” And she was a scientist, yes, but she was a social scientist. Anthropology, sociology, political science. What need had she ever had to understand how an electromagnetic pulse might warp a cell phone’s circuits? The infrastructure of phones, not just phones but the entire modern world, was for lesser individuals than herself to understand. She had higher thoughts.

All of her electronics? They were slaves, they were things. They simply worked, however poorly.

And here we have, still, a very nice military-grade field phone. All right.

She pulled out the bell jar on its sliding tray regardless. Lifting the dome on its oiled hinges, she could see that the phone was and reinforced and camouflaged. It was bulky, at least eight pounds, and spray painted with the codes “TA-838A/TT :: iv.1-2013,” whatever that meant. Clicking the thing on and holding the antiquated receiver to mouth and ear, she listened. Of course there was nothing. No dial tone, not even the pulse of a lost line. But the unit was humming as its batteries were spinning themselves to life.

What the Hell can I do with a phone of all things?

But still, this phone was familiar. For some reason. Resting her head with her fingers steepled at the back of her neck, she closed her eyes and tried to remember. Another world, another day long ago.

“Nice phone, Tom. So very stylish. Surplus City?”

“Something like that.”

“Ah. So if this world ends, we call the next planet. Hopefully collect. Better rates at night. Right?”

“Hey, you’re really funny! No. See, it’s for… a lesser disaster.”

“A lesser disaster? Is this one your ‘military intelligence’ jokes?”

“No, see? Like… like a fire, or earthquake, or pandemic or something.”

“A pandemic is ‘lesser’?”

“Ha. Okay, you’re tired. Slide it back, it’s okay. See, it wouldn’t be any good in a nuclear war, God forbid. You know. I just thought… for Lacie…”

“Oh. Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t —”

“Huh? No, it’s fine. Look, let’s just go, okay?”

Let’s just go.

And here she was. She clicked the field phone off, lowered the dome and pushed it back onto its tray.

She decided, in that moment as the green fluorescents flickered down and died, not to feel anything. Not unless she truly couldn’t help it.

The second aluminum panel door revealed a compact Intel computer, which she harbored even fewer hopes for than she had the useless phone. The third panel stuck on its hinge, but she levered it open with both hands. She cursed as the gauze of a trailing bandage snagged in the door-joint and bit into her tender fingers. Levering the panel open further, she saw a Grundig radio, an ominous-looking technical beast socketed into a conical faraday cage, replete with a headset and a wooden box full of gadgets.

Wooden? Interesting. Then she remembered. The box had belonged to Tom’s father, he had been a shortwave radio man in Vietnam long ago.

Perhaps the radio would be her answer. But first, she needed to see all of her potential options, her array of four tissue-thin hopes hidden behind the doors, sacred keys with which to reach out to an outer world which was probably already in its death throes.

The thing behind the fourth door, it took her awhile to identify.

What in the world?

It was a telegraph. Mouth open in disbelief, shaking her head at how little she really knew about survival or shelters or any of those things which were never supposed to happen in a world filled with sane human beings, her gaze wandered to the black binders she had stacked upon the floor. Each binder had a separate title card inserted beneath the vinyl spine, with Tom’s characteristic inverse capital-letter formatting in evidence on every single one.

Turning, she slid off the stool, and sat on the floor with all of the vertical-standing binders arrayed in a semicircle before her. There was so much to read, so much to know if she was going to live on and find her daughter. It was overwhelming:

(a)NIMAL HUSBANDRY / (l)IVESTOCK SUMMARY / (r)EGIONAL SPECIES.

(a)RCHITECTURE / (r)EINFORCEMENT / (u)NFINISHED EXCAVATION.

(b)UCKLEY / (p)ETERSEN / (a)CADEMY.

(c)ABLING / (p)IPING / (w)IRING / (p)LUMBING.

(c)ARSON / (f)ITZSIMMONS / (p)UEBLO.

(c)LOTHING / (s)EWING / (w)EAVING.

(c)OMMUNICATION / (e)NCRYPTION / (s)TEGANOGRAPHY.

(c)OMPUTER / (d)ATA RESTORATION / (d)EEP INTERNET.

(c)RAFT / (w)OODWORKING / (l)EATHERWORKING / (p)OTTERY / (t)EXTILES.

(d)EFENSE / (o)BFUSCATION / (r)ECON.

(d)ESIGN CHRONOLOGY / (f)UTURE UPGRADES.

(f)ALLBACK / (c)ONTINGENCY.

(f)OOD / (r)EGENERATIVES / (s)EEDS.

(f)UEL / (e)THANOL / (p)UMPJACK.

(f)UNGI / (l)ICHEN / (e)XPERIMENTAL SUSTENANCE.

(f)URNACE / (h)EATERS.

(g)AS MASKS / (l)EAD SHEATHS / (e)NVIRONMENTAL SUITING.

(g)ENERATORS / (f)LYWHEEL / (t)READMILL.

(g)OVERNMENT / (e)NFORCEMENT / (p)OTENTIAL INTERFERENCE.

(g)RAND TETON / (s)HOSHONE / (y)ELLOWSTONE.

(h)OLOCAUST SCENARIO / (i)MPACT EVENT /(n)EMESIS THEORY.

(h)UNTING / (f)ISHING / (g)ATHERING / (h)ERBALSM.

(i)NFRASTRUCTURE / (s)YSTEMS TRIAGE.

(l)IGHTS / (e)LECTRICITY / (g)RID PRIORITIES.

(m)APS / (t)ERRAIN / (h)YDROLOGY.

(m)EDICAL / (d)ETOXIFICATION / (f)AMILY HISTORY.

(n)EWS / (f)ORUMS / (i)NTEL.

(r)ADIATION / (b)IO / (c)HEM.

(r)ADIO / (c)ODE LISTS / (i)DAHO.

(r)ECLAIMERS / (s)UB-TANKS / (g)RATING SCHEMATIC.

(r)EDUNDANCIES / (o)VERLOAD PROTOCOLS.

(s)ALVAGE / (f)ACILITY PROXIMITY.

(s)CENARIOS / (p)AN / (f)IRE / (f)LOOD / (l)OADOUTS.

(s)CHEMATICS.

(s)HELTER (OVERVIEW).

(s)HELTER (PORTABLE).

(s)UPPLIES.

(t)ELEGRAPH / (m)ORSE / (e)LECTROMAGNETIC COILS.

(t)ELEPHONE / (c)ONTACTS / (o)UTREACH (POTENTIAL).

(t)OOLS / (r)ETOOLING.

(v)ENTILATION / (a)IR COMPRESSION / (o)XYTRANS.

(w)ASTE DISPOSAL / (g)LASS / (p)LASTICS / (r)ECYCLING PARAMETERS.

(w)ATER / (f)ILTRATION / (w)ELLSPRING.

And, at the rightmost end of the line of volumes standing upon the floor, the sole red binder:

(w)EAPONRY / (m)ERCY…

Tom’s voice arose within her mind, so pure in its reluctance to speak the words, it was as if he was just behind her and whispering into her ear: “God forbid if ever, the mercy.”

So that’s what he always meant. Sophie sighed. Killing me, killing our daughter if it was hopeless. I have a lot of reading to do. And nothing I want to, nothing I can bear, nothing I can, I.

Nothing…

And what else, Sophie, if not reading? What else are you going to do?

Again, the horror began to trickle in around the walls that she was still frantically reinforcing in her mind. She felt too much like a beast reduced to slinking on all fours from corner to corner, a fantastical monster reduced to an actuality beyond its own control, a mind-death coiled inside the stone and steel of the ever-constricting Cage.

She stood up and turned away from the semicircle of binders, pacing. She left the work table. She was limping, she realized. Her right hip socket clicked every time she took a step.

The spinning,

the spinning is almost done.

Girder to girder,

she’s crawling upon the ceiling.

If you look up, the feasting.

And only then.

It’s a game, Sophie.

How long

can you keep from looking

at the ceiling, seeing

the spider-skin of yourself

shivering up there and gazing down at you?

How long can you keep from seeing

the smile of the feast?

“I am alone.” She pounded the wall. “Alone!”

Pacing would accomplish nothing. She went back to the binders.

She read the spine titles again, and finally selected (h)OLOCAUST SCENARIO / (i)MPACT EVENT /(n)EMESIS THEORY. Hefting the binder and catching the few three-holed pages that had torn away and were trickling out of its bulky sheaf, she made her way back to the laundry pile and sat down. She surrounded herself with Tom’s jackets and jeans, tightened the bandages around her hands, and she began to read.

* * *

Hours, a newfound Thermos of water and a cup of spinach, a can opener and a food heater. It was strange how the world would fall away when she was reading, no matter how grim or daunting the tale set out before her. The only difference in Tom’s writings — as opposed to the horror tales she favored on her own — was that the hypothetical, the unthinkable, had become the real.

She made her way through printed survivalist forum threads, Wikipedia articles, NSA briefs (many still printed “SECRET” and one even “EYES ONLY,” surely it had been criminal in some way to be gathering these outside the agency), and she began to fathom just how the world had ended.

The reports on estimated fallout drift in event of a thermonuclear war were by far the most disturbing. Prevailing winds would come from the west and in high spring, with many winds and temperature changes, air currents would cause wide swathes of radioactive dust to wash over the entire eastern United States. The withering deluge would move in sky-corrupting tides like a sandstorm, like the black choking fog that had roiled out of the Dust Bowl in the Thirties. And what was the dust composed of? Pulverized buildings, molten cars, disintegrated corn, splintered trees, shattered earth, and tiny motes of radioactive flesh and bone and hair, the cinder-remnants of incinerated people.

For two weeks at least, or perhaps for years, cyclones would form and spin their way from west to east, scattering remains out over the Atlantic Ocean and leaving only the Gray Death in their wake, a wasteland where nothing would ever grow again. The more optimistic reports (including a rather idealistic survival book written in the Eighties by an Oak Ridge research engineer) theorized that the fallout cyclones would remain fatal for weeks, and present for several years; while the more menacing reports suggested that the storms would become the atmosphere, would coil and lay waste to the entire world for centuries.

Whatever the truth, if there were to be any survivors at all, the message to them was very clear: Keep away from once-populated areas. Avoid cities. Stay on rural roads whenever and wherever you can. Never go east. And, if you happen to be along the eastern face of the north-west spinal Rocky Mountains, go to the plains. Go north to the Dakotas, Montana, Wyoming.

Go north.

And a note on the last page in Tom’s hand read in scarlet ink, “See (g)RAND TETON / (s)HOSHONE / (y)ELLOWSTONE.” The title of another binder.

She had stopped reading for awhile once she made her way into the binder’s second major section, (i)MPACT EVENT. There was a very “Tom” touch on that section’s inner divider, a taped-in photograph of Bruce Willis thumbs-upping in Armageddon, accompanied by Tom’s helpful words, “Yeah right / As if.”

The last section was about Nemesis, a highly radioactive brown dwarf star that was supposed to roll its way through the solar system every twenty-six million years, causing mass extinctions and spilling cataclysm across the fractures in reality. There was even an especially erudite and passionate thread-essay which Tom had printed out for the binder and carefully preserved inside vinyl sheet holders, which had been written by an astrophysicist who apparently harbored a half-joking reverence for Howard Phillips Lovecraft and the Mythos of Cthulhu.

She began reading with bitterness and bemusement, then grew intrigued as the pieces began to fit together. The theory sounded real, almost too real, but all of that was useless now. No fallen star, spitting Apocalyptic cascades of poison down in blood tears upon the waters, would ever spell the end of Man; no. God had been overthrown, Man had grown weary of waiting for the judgment of dark angels. Man had destroyed himself.

And after the Nemesis section, a strange cluster of handwritten pages was stuffed into the binder’s back pocket. Sophie realized that this was Tom’s improbable catastrophe binder. The top yellow sheet in the back had been titled “Evil Endings,” and under it in his own curlicue script — a style which Tom reserved for writing silly notes when he was going out early to golf — Tom had written, “That spells evil. Oh, laws, yes.”

Which meant nothing at all. Surely it was some joke, but for who?

There was only a little more. After that first page in the back there were only tables of hastily-written columns, “Revision,” “Update,” “Sync,” “Refute” and a series of hundreds of page numbers. One last Post-It note reading “Shift to New” was stuck on the last page. And there, oddly, Tom had also written a date: September 11, 2013. With a question mark.

Move to new binder. Update. Revise. Tom had had some reason to believe that the nuclear holocaust scenario had become much more likely.

The last seven months of Sophie’s life began to make sense. Last September. That was when Tom’s mood had shifted and he had almost never been at home, always on NSA assignment. Whenever he was home he was always packing and preparing to drive up to the shelter, or planning on the drafting table. That was when he had started yelling at Lacie, when the fights had begun, when Lacie had started crying and not been able to sleep through the night without hugs and water, when she had started wanting to stay with grandma, when Sophie had turned back to the pills…

Sophie closed the binder.

She looked down at her left hand spread open upon the cover, and saw that at some point she had tucked a corner of bloody gauze beneath her wedding ring as an anchor.

And that was when she started crying.

She slid her way off the clothes, and pressed her face against the floor. Her crying turned to sobbing, uncontrollable, her chest heaving, she was crawling then and her hands were moist with spilled water and pierced by invisible bits of glass. She cried out, “Not alone. No. I can’t, I can’t…”

And only the echoes were there to answer.

II-4

DYING CRIES

She woke once more, lying on her back against the concrete floor. Her left-hand fingers were curled around an empty Thermos, and a leather jacket was tucked underneath her head.

She had been dreaming of Tom, not a fantasy-dream but a real one, a memory of experiences recently in ending, experiences made all the worse by the understanding that she was asleep and living the past all over again; that the past was now, and her suffering would be redoubled in its judgment, and she would never be able to change a single detail of what had been.

~

She was sitting in the H4 by the Athanasiou Valley Airport, with her hands clutching the wheel and the spring rain sleeting down a mist of gray and rainbow. Tom was on the phone. He was yelling at her.

“Promise me!” He sounded desperate, tottering near some precipice of mind.

“I — I promise.”

“Good. Mitch, Mitch picked up Lacie from grandma’s, he knows what’s going to happen. She’s safe.”

What?

“Tom, slow down. Mitch picked up our daughter? What place are they in?”

“Listen to me!”

“What’s happening?”

“She’s safe. Get to the shelter as fast as you can. Call Mitch on the way as soon as you lock and seal, do you understand me? He’s waiting for you to call. He’s going to help you, Sophie. He’s going to make… to make sure you get through this. For Lacie. For me.”

Get to the shelter.

Sophie had had nightmares about those very words. Like a dream.

~

A dream.

Sophie began to stand. She almost fell when her right hip socket popped, but she went to all fours, clenched her teeth and stood there over the drain clamped into the great room floor. She walked over the hose, around the shattered light fixture, and sat down on the stool before the work table.

Call Mitch, Tom had said. Call Mitch when you get to the shelter.

She looked again at the four little doors set into the wall. Telephone, computer, radio, telegraph. How did a telegraph work, didn’t it need to be cabled into something? What was she supposed to do? She looked back at the binders she had arrayed, but did not want to revisit any of them. The last reading, the revelation of all that had been and all that yet must be, had nearly been more for her than she could bear.

She turned back to the four doors. The phone was dead with nothing to connect to. She resisted powering up the computer. If it worked, and it likely did, she would have access to Word and Excel, any unprinted files Tom had written, and digital family photographs. Far too many photographs, and she could not yet steel herself to have them there so near to her fingers’ touch, one click away from seeing all the loved ones who now were lost to her.

Of course there would be no Internet, no Skype. Not ever again. The computer was a tomb, and she refused to violate it.

But there was still the radio, and there was the telegraph. Which would be easier?

She stretched, then bent to look at the binders once again. Her limbs were stiff and a latent fire burned in toes and fingertips where her nerve endings had been. But now that she was moving once again, the pain was turning from liquid fire into a stiff mobility as the lactic acid crystals in her stretching muscles began to break apart.

One of the binders was entitled (t)ELEGRAPH / (m)ORSE / (e)LECTROMAGNETIC COILS. She lifted it, sifted through its schematics and was instantly overwhelmed. No. Instead, she decided on (r)ADIO / (c)ODE LISTS / (i)DAHO. Still waking from the dream, hoping that Tom had personalized something that she could connect with before she would be forced to learn the radio’s labyrinthine controls, Sophie began to read the second binder from the back.

Tom had written few notes for this particular sheaf of printouts. Apparently there were survivalist militia groups based in Idaho, Lightfoots and Border Corps and Constitutionalists, hard and competent men who were intractable in their own beliefs. Men who Tom did not seem to trust. But apparently, from his few notations on some of the printouts summarizing these groups and their facility locations, Tom must have believed that some of them might be the only viable barter and trade partners in a world where sex and food and shelter would become currencies, where women would be fought over, where warlords and migratory clans of…

This isn’t helping.

She flipped to the front and began to read how to operate the Grundig radio instead. If anyone was out there, she was going to find them.

* * *

All right. Sophie put down her Thermos and blew warm air between her fingers. I can do this.

She opened the shortwave radio’s aluminum faraday cage and pulled it out. The shield panel read “RADIO /// TRANSCEIV” in the same spray-painted stencils that Tom had used on the steel barrels which were situated outside the snow-closure gate of the waterfall canyon.

She pulled the Grundig out of its spring-sockets, and readied a new pair of lithium-ion batteries in case the current batteries were dead. If the contacts were corroded or if the batteries had ruptured, she would clean and replace them. She believed she had learned how.

Okay.

She flipped a switch, and a glaring white LED light came on. Wrong one. But it was good to know, the radio had an emergency flashlight embedded in its side. She flipped it off and hit a switch on the other edge. The radio came on. The redline in the power indicator whirred right up to three-quarters strength, batteries still operational.

Yes!

There was no sound coming out yet. She flipped the next page in the open binder and checked the radio’s speakers and connectors, all were solid. Turning the unit, she saw what the problem was and she felt a little ashamed at its obviousness: the volume was fine, the headphones were plugged in. She unplugged them, and a shrill, piercing cascade of white noise and static assailed her already-bloodied ears.

Cursing, she turned the volume down from 7.7 to 2.0. Static screams, pulses of electronic thunder and sibilant hisses, never-ending. Such was become the voice of the burning world.

She flipped the band selector, then looked again at Tom’s tape with the many arrow marks pasted carefully adjacent to the radio’s primary dial array — he had the default set to the citizens’ band at twenty-seven megahertz. But there would not be anything out there.

Taking in a deep breath and holding it, Sophie pulled out the notebook and the single pen she had found, then plugged the headphones back in and placed the foam ear-pad cushions over her still-ringing ears.

It was too quiet. She pushed the volume up to 2.5 then 3.0, and the low static murmur of nothing out there seemed to growl its approval.

So, then. It was time to start hunting for survivors.

She was still holding her breath. She couldn’t help it. She referred to the binder again, flipping to Tom’s list of resident National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration Weather Radio stations. If anyone from the government was still alive and somehow had the power and infrastructure remaining to broadcast, they would be out there on NOAA. Those stations were the country’s network of FCC Emergency Alert System broadcasters in case of any catastrophe. Hopefully, the radio dish and antenna above the waterfall were still intact. The alternatives, if the nuclear blasts’ shockwaves had rebounded down into the canyon and destroyed the array, did not bear thinking about.

Okay. You can’t help them, they can’t help you. You can figure out the microphone later if you find someone you need or want to talk to. Focus, Sophie. She breathed again into her trembling hands, then put her fingers back to the controls. She upped the volume to 3.5 and was good to go. Just listen. Take notes. Listen.

There were twenty-seven Colorado transmitting stations listed in Tom’s printout, starting at frequency 162.400. With power set to 300, it was time to go searching.

Dillon transmitter, 162.400-300, WFO Boulder. Nothing.

She used the fine tuning knob to crawl across the sub-decimal frequencies as slowly as she could, making certain that no opportunity for contact would be missed.

Durango, 162.425-300, WFO Grand Junction. Too far across the mountains, perhaps? She still did not quite understand the limitations of the shortwave radio’s range. And nothing.

Franktown, 162.450-300, WFO Boulder once again. Nothing.

Was she doing this right? She sighed and flipped through the binder, keeping her bandaged index finger marking the NOAA call sign page. There was too much information about linked repeaters, radio scanners, transceiver settings, short-wave propagation, QSL cards, VHF transmissions, Skywave propagation…

“Just tell me how the fuck to operate this thing,” she muttered. She gave up on the binder and crawled the frequencies a little further.

Mead-Longmont, 162.475-300. She gasped.

Was that a voice? A voice made of screams and static?

Her finger, still moving, sifted the fine tuner up and onward, over to 162.500. The human-like cries of static from Mead-Longmont went away.

“Damn it.”

She turned the volume up to 3.5, tuned back down to 162.475 to listen again. Nothing.

She waited. Turn the volume up. Louder. She held her breath.

Still nothing, only that inhuman cascade of static and silence. No cries for help, or anything else resembling a human voice.

Furious with herself, she wrote down the figures in the notebook. The pen’s ink was red, and the pen itself so old that the fill tube had yet to scratch more than a trace of red out across the page. She licked an unbandaged finger and touched it to the tip of the ballpoint, as if that would do any good. She was scratching at the paper more than she was writing, but the impression left on the page was still readable in the light.

Still nothing on 162.475. She would try there again later, when she had a better understanding of what the hell she was doing.

Next station on the list. She checked Tom’s table, saw that it would be 162.525-300 Fort Morgan, halfway to Colorado’s borders with Kansas and Nebraska. Fort Morgan was well out in truckers’ paradise, out there in what Sophie always thought of as the middle of nowhere. Too far, perhaps, to even try. What did it matter? She turned the dial —

“—eet Jesus, can anyone hear us? Help us, if you, if you are anywhere near us! God help us, please, we have at least six hundred wounded here and rad sickness triage, so many dying, children, babies, a woman just gave birth and now she’s gone, we don’t, we…”

A burst of static. And seconds later:

“—egging you, anyone, we’ve got, we’ve got one doctor and three nurses and seven emerg—”

Sophie pulled off the headphones, her mouth gaping open in a silent scream of disbelief.

“Oh God.” That was her own voice, in tears. Her breath was frantic. “Oh, oh God. No. Oh, no.”

She couldn’t do this. She was trying. But…

Okay, I can. But not all at once. Please.

“They’re all dying,” she was saying to herself, arguing with her fear. “Give them the honor of being there, even if they don’t know you’re there. Listen to them. If not now, when? When, Sophie?”

They were out there, dying horribly. Innocent people, mothers, children. And what could she do about it?

Okay. I’m trying. Trying.

She needed to calm down. She would write down 162.525 for later, when she had the microphone operational and when she had decided if she should make contact with someone. But what could she say to such a person? There was no help that she could give. Six hundred people, all dying in one place? She looked around the shelter, its air vents, its water tanks and electricity, and felt once again ashamed.

All for me alone.

When she put the headphones back on, she had deliberately switched from the fine tuner to the broad tuner and flipped the frequency, Coward, weak, well beyond the screams on 162.525.

God help them.

She wrote down the Fort Morgan information for later, when she could steel herself to listen to more. Halfway through the first word, the ballpoint pen gave out.

Gritting her teeth, yanking the headphones off and twisting her way up from the stool, Sophie looked around the shelter and its many shelves. She knew there would be more pens in the back, if she could only find the courage to go back there. But she still believed, in the unreasoning and primal underflow of her mind, that she was a ghost and her dead body was in the shower, or in the unopened freezer. Dead Sophie was waiting somewhere for ghost-Sophie to find her, to drag her down in horror and make her one with the rotting flesh, forever and ever. And daddy, daddy might be back there…

“Stop it.”

The Valium. She really could not do this.

Where could she find another pen? How long would it take to find one? She got up, remembering the bulletin board that had fallen off the wall during the initial blast. She looked for it and realized that she had propped it up by the hose, sometime between regaining consciousness and crawling into the shower.

Finding it, she angrily chastised herself again. The board had slid down while she had been asleep, and was lying face-down half under the work table in a pool of water.

She lifted it up, flipped it over, and little leaves of soggy paper went everywhere. She scrambled to keep them out of the puddle. There went a contractor’s business card, a to-do list written in Tom’s hand, a picture of Lacie aged three with chocolate pudding smeared all around her smile.

Oh, my baby.

She slid the picture of Lacie up to the table with one hand and gathered damp leaves of paper with the other. And there, on a blue sheet of crinkled and smoothed-out paper with a piece of electrical tape on its side, was the name “MITCH,” a frequency number, and a call sign.

* * *

More reading, quickly. The microphone would have to wait, too much time was going by.

Everyone, dying out there. Now. Now. No time.

But she knew how to transmit garbled Morse code now through the Grundig without even resorting to the telegraph. She couldn’t yet send a clear and understandable message out to Mitch, but she could let him know — If he’s still alive — that she was out there.

“Okay. Okay.”

She sat back at the table with the newfound pen that had been taped on a string to the side of the bulletin board, and opened to a new page in her notebook. She still didn’t know how much time had passed since the nuclear blast and the sealing of the shelter, but those were trivial matters now. She might just know how to call Mitch. Immediately.

She spun the radio’s broad seek dial, then fine-tuned to Mitch’s frequency. He was shown as preferring to lurk on the amateur low band. She flipped the Morse transmitter key plate open and poised her finger over the key, ready to send a random blur of dots and dashes if Mitch really was out there. Tom’s brother had taken the codename “Itchy,” which had made Sophie smile. That was what Lacie used to call him before she could form her m’s with any constancy. Itchy-one-one.

She flicked to his call sign frequency. Static and nothing. She turned the volume up even higher.

Come on. She began to cry. Please. Drawing in a ragged breath, she propped her elbows on the table, rested her hands on the metal surface and rested her forehead between her arms.

No.

A minute of static. Still, the signal was lifeless. Then suddenly, a very loud click-click in her headphones, and:

“Soph oh my God you made it, is Tom, he, oh thank, thank the… is he…”

Sophie almost fell off the stool. Her head jerked up and she cried out, “Mitch!”

Of course Mitch could not hear her.

She slipped off the stool, standing on one leg and her hip went pop and she tumbled over. The headphones came with her, the Grundig was dragged to the edge of the table and the headphone jack popped out. Mitch’s voice blurted out of the speakers, but the static caused by the ripped-out jack overtook whatever he was saying.

“No!”

Sophie rose and her right leg buckled. She clutched at the stool’s chrome-plated leg and pulled herself up standing, slamming the headphone jack back into the receiver. The speakers went dead as the earphones took over. Another burst of static, wasp-like and coruscating.

Mitch’s voice was very far away now, each word definable only by its frantic length in syllables. Static roars were taking over Mitch’s voice and he was fading away with every second.

Sobbing, Sophie started pounding away at the Morse key. She could hear her own transmission as narrow beeps between pulses of silence. She turned down her volume, the keening beeps were hurting her ears and Mitch’s words were not decipherable any longer. She stopped the frantic pounding and started keying “S. O. S.,” “… — — —…,” which she had learned from a History Channel special played during the Titanic centenary. Such little pieces of trivia, lifelines into nothingness.

Save me. Please save me.

Mitch went silent. Sophie stopped keying.

She buried her face within her hands.

“No…”

But Mitch was alive. What of Lacie, her daughter? Was she there, sitting in Mitch’s lap? What was the place?

Mitch, where? Where?

Then a series of beeps short and long was chirping in her ears, a slow and measured pulse of dots and dashes.

A code. Morse code.

She did not have time to turn the binder page over to the Morse code alphabet, and no experience with deciphering it in the moment. She grasped the string-pen and started writing out the dots and dashes, short beeps and long, as best she could.

She had about two hundred periods and hyphens written in the notebook then, but she had only begun to discern the different lengths of time between letters and words halfway through Mitch’s transmission. And she had only received half of the message.

Three seconds of silence passed. She turned the page. Would Mitch send the same message again?

Yes.

This time, she could tell that he was sending the exact same code word sequence as before. He must have written down a message to send her, one he could keep repeating while she struggled to learn the code.

The ongoing message ended. Three seconds of dead air. Then it began all over again.

By the third time, Sophie felt confident that she had the correct spacing on some of the words. But it was still only a page full of symbolic notation, and she had no idea which letters to write down beside any of the transmissions except “S” for “. . .” and “— — —” which must be “O.” That left most of the message unknown.

But he would send it again. As Mitch was sending the message a fourth time, Sophie moved on to a new sheet of paper.

The radio signal cut off.

Sophie hit what she thought was the volume as she looked up, but it was the broad search dial instead. She flipped past Mitch’s frequency. Keeping herself calm, she glided the needle back to his number again. There was static there, but no voice and no more code.

“Don’t be afraid.” These words were foolish, stupid even. But she needed to hear someone say them. “Don’t be.”

She took off the headphones and left the radio speakers on, in case the signal with Mitch could be reestablished. Until then, she would decode her third pass at the message as best she could. She found the binder page on Morse code letter definitions again and began writing. Some of the questionable gaps between letters, whether they were pauses between words or not, were slowing her down. To work more quickly, she decided to write the letters out in all capitals in clustered groups of three. Then, once she had the code solidified to an alphabet, she would try to make actual words out from the mess.

Fifteen minutes or more had gone by, and still Mitch’s frequency gave only static. She turned down the volume so that she could concentrate.

She looked over what she had written at last, Mitch’s final completed message:

CAU TIO NCH ANN OTS

ECU RWE ARN SHE LTU

NDA UNT JEM MSH OUS

EUK NOW WHE REH AVE

CAR CAN TGO UTS OPH

COM EIN THR EEW EEK

IFU CAN LVE USHE SAL

IVE

Eventually, she puzzled out the entire message:

CAUTION CHAN NOT SECUR

WE AR N SHELT

UND AUNT JEMMS HOUSE

U KNOW WHERE

HAVE CAR

CANT G OUT

SOPH COME

IN THREE WEEK

IF U CAN

LVE U SHE

S A L

IVE

She spoke the words like a pleading chant, her voice growing higher and more desperate with the slowness of every questioned syllable.

“Caution. Chan. Channel? Channel not secure. We are in shelt… shelter? Under Aunt Jemm’s house. You know where? Have car. Can’t g… get out? Go out? Can’t get out. Soph, come in three week. Three weeks, if you can. Live? No. Love. Love you. She’s alive.”

Oh my. Oh.

“She’s alive.”

Sophie was crying and laughing, her hands pressed against her face in exhaustion and disbelief. Lacie Anna Saint-Germain, her own beloved daughter, was surely sitting there in Mitch’s arms. Lacie was alive.

II-5

THE DAY AFTER

(4-5/6-14)

She had fallen back asleep on the pile of clothing, with the radio still humming its static canting. If Mitch had been able to re-contact her, she would have heard it. But there had only been the humming sound of the ventilation ducts, the dripping of water, and the slow reliable surge of the latent generator in the back. She had hoped to dream of Tom, but nothing had come to her.

One of her hands was clutching a piece of paper. No, a photograph. She opened her fingers, smiling down at what she knew she was going to see.

Lacie. Smiling, an old Polaroid. One of Mitch’s antiques. He had snapped that on her third birthday.

Alive.

How had they survived? It must have been Tom’s warning call, when he had sent Mitch to grab Lacie from grandma’s. Sophie wondered what Mitch had said in his desperation, what he had done… why wouldn’t he take Sophie’s mother…

Don’t think of that.

Was anyone else with them? Sophie’s struggle for sanity was washing away, she had a purpose once again. A meaning. She needed to figure out how to mark time. Would the computer clock keep working without access to the Internet, if she powered it up? Could she make herself a water-clock of some kind with one of the water bottles and some thread, like she and Jolynn had done once for a junior high science project so long ago?

There had to be a way to measure time. She had three weeks to master the shelter and to read everything in the binders, to learn about the weapons, the generator fuel, salvaging cars, the protective suits that would be in the back, the gas masks, travel, all of it and everything.

And she would. She would. She would learn it all and then in three weeks she would open the vault door and go out of the shelter, because Lacie was out there and she was still alive.

Aunt Jemm’s house, that still meant nothing to her. She knew very little about Mitch’s extended family, only that he was close to everyone out as far as second cousins. He even had a genealogy website and a Civil War page, tracing back the Saint-Germains to the early Nineteenth Century. Remembering that, she wondered at what had happened between Tom and Mitch after their father’s funeral. Surely, being estranged from his own brother was a deep pain for Mitch. That, she suspected, was why “Uncle Itchy” had distanced himself from Lacie.

Mitch and Tom would never now know peace, would never reconcile. But Sophie swore then that she would make the time to get to know Mitch all over again, to make whatever amends she could. The past would be honored in its way, not as an apology for the way things had been and how that had gone wrong, but as a sacred remembrance for the world that ended, and the man she always loved.

There was more to think about, to question. Mitch had worked at Rocky Flats in his time with the government, assisting with coordination of the hazmat plutonium cleanup. He was always bragging about how he had managed to “permanently borrow” two of the suits after he left the Environmental Protection Agency and the Kaiser-Hill Company.

Was that why he and Lacie were still alive? The suits. What other precautions did he possess? Had he built a shelter of his own?

She would not wonder at these things, she would not let them gnaw at her. No. Her determination was building with every moment. She would learn all that needed to be done, she would learn where Aunt Jemm’s house was, she would drive there and Hell to anyone who would stand in her way. She would find her daughter who needed her most of all.

She kept herself busy, pacing, working. Thinking.

She had, with considerable pain, managed to lean the fallen shelving unit onto its narrower side. In doing so she had found the remnants of another binder. This one was untitled, and the dates on the printouts were as recent as October 2013. That must have been Tom’s last visit to the shelter, before the coming of winter had forced him to close everything down.

Perhaps. But one particular point of that did not make sense. The snow-closure gate had still been chained in the up position. Tom had meant to come here, one last time. She remembered their worst fight, last Halloween, and started to piece together what might have happened.

We fought about him coming up here and he left on long-term assignment in Maryland and Virginia the very next day. A kiss and a goodbye to Lacie, but not for me.

“There’s no reason for that to haunt you,” said Sophie. “Forgive. Love.” Her voice was the calmest she had heard it in a very long time.

She sat at the work table by the radio, which she decided to turn off for awhile. Filling her Thermos with water, she started to read the untitled binder and its riddling miscellany.

The first printout was about submachine guns. Tom had a very clear and precise sequence of events listed out for handling the weapons. One, brace the extension stock and remove the ammunition clip. Two, check twice to make sure the clip was absolutely empty. Then cleaning, then safety, loading, bracing, aiming, sweep-firing, point firing…

She stopped reading. Nothing there was useful, not yet. But now that she knew her daughter was surely out there, she was ready to think extraordinary thoughts. Yes, she would learn how to use not only the submachine guns, but the hunting and assault rifles as well.

Yes, she could — if she was going to be raped or taken prisoner. Or to protect her daughter. She could kill if she had to.

The next printout was a crude Word dump of Tom’s own unfiltered notes. It was not procedural, but rather moral in its rambling. It was something about which weapon was best for outside defense, which for shelter defense, which for recon, and which for hunting. It was titled “For Soph.” After this were notes on how best to kill people in a merciful manner, how best to kill men who were leading other men into battle in the bloodiest way possible in order to break the others’ spirits, and how to kill a family member in their sleep.

“No.”

Those pages were ripped out and dropped onto the floor.

Next was a Westword story about Mehrdad Farhadi, the Iranian scientist who had set up a microphone in Denver International Airport last August and announced to everyone that he was a nuclear physicist, that he had been working on nuclear weapons for the Iranian government and that he was surrendering himself to the American people as a matter between himself and his God.

She remembered the incident well. The first stirrings of the Shelter Panic, in retrospect, had started when Iran had sent agents to free Farhadi from FBI confinement and nine people had been killed as the attack was repulsed. The mission failed, but barely. The United States, England and Canada declared war on Iran the day after. None of that was intended to come out in public, but an FBI agent had ended her career to post the security videos of the attack through Wikileaks. It was all there in the article.

After that, another printout concerning the Korean Air Lines Flight KE 007, which had wandered into restricted airspace in 1983 and had been shot down over the Sea of Japan by an Su-15 Soviet interceptor. Sophie frowned as she parsed the old article. It was ancient history. Why had Tom decided it was so important?

She closed the binder and pulled out her notebook, along with a road atlas she had found in the shelving wreckage. It was time to start planning for the future, for her daughter who was everything.

Where was Mitch now? She would figure out the mystery of Aunt Jemm’s house in its own time. Soon, she might even talk to him. But most likely, he was to the north. Mitch was unmarried and deeply devoted to his extended family. Most of the Saint-Germains lived in Quebec, North Dakota and Wyoming. She would need to stick to the mountain roads as long as possible, perhaps 119 up to Nederland, 72 past Boulder or what was left of it. The Rocky Mountains would shield her — she hoped — from the worst radiation to the east, and the fallout storms coming in from the west. Three weeks and come. The radiation would need to disperse itself, and there would be a fragile and narrow window of time before the second wave of storms could rise anew. She would not journey as far as Estes Park or Loveland, for those were surely towns filled with the dead or dying. Perhaps down onto Interstate 25 for awhile, between the annihilated cities. If the H4 was still able to run despite the electromagnetic pulse, she could ram her way through some of the dead traffic, or perhaps even four-wheel through the ditches if they were dry. What of 85 north toward Greeley, itself probably a crater now? What of…

Sophie froze and went perfectly still. Voices.

Not from inside of her head, not behind her, but elsewhere.

And then, a pounding sound. From far away, out beyond the edges of the shelter-world. From the outside.

And that was when Sophie’s second brief life in the High Shelter ended, cut short even as it had begun, and her third life cast her forever into the tortures of the World of the Great Dying, the world that the Archangel remade and was so reborn from out of the White, from the Fire.

II-7

COME THE HELLBOUND

(4-6?-14)

Gong. Gong. Gong.

Someone was pounding on the shelter’s vault door, with a sledge hammer or a crowbar. There had been no time to pull out the H4’s toolbox, when Sophie had run for the shelter and almost fallen down the ladder-shaft. But there was, she knew perfectly well, a tire iron up there in the iron box, a set of wrenches, a crowbar…

Gong.

“Lady!”

A huge man with a deep, hoarse and desperate voice was shouting through the door. Sophie could hear the vault’s pressure wheel being tested, on her side it was jerking half an inch back and forth, over and over again. But the door had auto-sealed itself, locked and pressurized once the floor plate inside the entryway had been activated by Sophie’s stepping through.

“We know you’re in here!” Another voice, a young woman. Sophie had never heard such hopelessness, such animalistic rage.

“Open this God-damned door!” The man again. Gong.

Sophie backed away from the work table, as stealthily as she could manage. There was something running down her legs, something fluid and warm. Her socks were growing moist and she was trailing footprints of wetness as she backed away from the lead-curtained tunnel leading out to the entryway.

The guns. The gun locker was in the back. Turning, she ran for the vinyl pressure seal.

She made it three steps, when a third voice cried out, “Sophie! Don’t open it! I’m sorry!”

Who was that? Who was the old man knew her name? Who had survived, and who knew where the shelter was?

Some kind of struggle erupted outside. Whatever the huge man had been holding to pound on the vault door, something had made him drop it. The man was grunting now, not as if he was fighting, but as if he was punching something — or someone — with all his strength. Again, again.

The young woman was shrieking, and as each shriek ended the metal thing hit the door again. She was not as strong as the man, but she sounded as if she could claw her way through the door if she had to.

Seven strikes, and the pounding stopped. There was an argument out there. A fourth voice arose, a young man’s. He was little more than a boy.

“For God’s sake lady, we have wounded, we have women! This girl here, her skin is falling off! My mother, my mother died on the way up here! You hear me? We’re dying out here! Open this fucking door!”

The huge man was shouting again. “Open it, or I swear, I swear I’ll kill him!”

The man, whoever had been pounded down, was yelling then as well. His voice was old, gurgling, gurgling blood. But he knew her, he knew her name.

“Don’t open it, Sophie! They tortured me to find out where this place is!”

And then she knew.

Pete.

Old Pete Henniger, Black Hawk’s retired sheriff. Years ago, he had given Tom unofficial and winking clearance to mark some of the road up to the shelter as private property. In return, he had simply wanted to know what Tom was up to, in his own good-natured and gentle way. In those early springs and on the weekends, he had even borrowed his grown son’s diesel-powered Cat and helped to bulldoze rubble off the canyon road.

He knew where the shelter was, and what it was. He knew quite well.

Sophie remembered him with perfect clarity. It had been a lifetime, it had been only days.

She remembered him from the intersection, outside the Ameristar Casino. She had driven through that chaos when he was in danger, when he had been keeping that policewoman from firing her shotgun. Just minutes before everything had happened to end the world, Sophie had smiled back at that bald man with the cigar, she had finished her latte and she had driven up through, leaving Pete there with that furious girl in the Che Guevara T-shirt, that hulking bouncer who was yelling in his face…

Sophie was whispering, “Oh, Pete. Don’t be. Don’t ever be sorry.” She took a tearful breath, and said: “Forgive me. Forgive me.”

Pete was still yelling, “I swear, I told them they could only come in if there was no one here! But you, you made it, you —”

A gunshot ended Pete’s entreaties.

But they didn’t kill him, no. Sophie could hear him cry out, he was stifling his agonized cries and the huge man was yelling through the door again.

“She friend of yours, yeah? Lady, if you don’t open this door in the next thirty seconds, I swear I’ll kill him!”

I cannot let Pete die. Not for me.

Sophie had stopped running long before this. She was not only listening, she was turning. And as the huge man picked up the thing of metal again, Gong, gong, she was walking toward the shelter entry and staring at the illuminated keypad sequencer which was situated at her end of the radiation trap’s tunnel, the tunnel leading out to the ladder-shaft.

No. She could never let them in.

Think of Lacie. Live for Lacie.

Not ever, not even if dear Peter Henniger had to die.

“You have fifteen seconds!”

Forgive me.

She turned away, heading back for the gun lockers beyond the pressure-seal, deeper into the shelter’s insides. Walking back through her warm wet footprints, Sophie went to the seal and pressed her way into the back rooms, toward the very end of the shelter, farther on unto the borderland of her own solitary world.

CODA

“Why give you me this shame?

Think you I can a resolution fetch

From flowery tenderness? If I must die

I will encounter darkness as a bride,

And hug it in mine arms.”

— Claudio in Measure for Measure

(III, i), W. S.

To Be Continued

(The survival story of Sophie St.-Germain continues, as she endures the trials of other survivors’ horrors and she experiences the Coming of the One in FROM THE FIRE, EPISODE III: THE HOLLOW MEN, also available from Wonderland Imprints and the Kindle Store on Amazon.com.)

Content

FROM THE FIRE
AN EPISODIC NOVEL OF THE NUCLEAR HOLOCAUST
EPISODE II: THE CAGE
by
Kent David Kelly

INTERLUDE

II-1 THE SPIDER AND THE HUSK OF SKIN

II-2 SELECTIONS OF SUICIDE

II-3 OVERLOAD

II-4 DYING CRIES

II-5 THE DAY AFTER (4-5/6-14)

II-7 COME THE HELLBOUND (4-6?-14)

CODA

To Be Continued