They rang out all night, the bombs and the missiles. They do most
nights. The world shook and trembled and the ground swelled with
falling rubble. Older folks say the sound reminds them of fireworks.
They had fireworks in the former times — they would shoot up and
light up the skies with bursts of color and everyone would look up, and
their eyes would glimmer. No one looks at the skies anymore — the
sound of fireworks is the sound of death.
Older folks still talk about the former times, but those are just sto-
ries… fairy tales. The bombs are real, the sewers are real, the death and
the putrid smell are real, and the rest are fairy tales. This world — their
world — is their tomb.
Mornings are a time for weeping, weary faces, and empty silence.
A time for cleanup.
Blasts from the night before tore the roof into pieces and the main
bunker was in a shambles. A metal pipe snapped off the wall and killed
an older woman in her bed. Everyone worked on cleanup that day. Two
boys carried the corpse into the sewer tunnels. The sewers are where
all of them end up, eventually.
A tomb within a tomb.
The boys wiggled their way into a narrow corridor and forced the
stretcher in behind them. “Which smells better, Wynn? The sewers, or
last night’s dinner?” One of the boys grinned, his parted lips revealing
chipped, rotting teeth. The dead woman was hoisted up on a stretcher,
her cold face covered with a sheet.
“This ain’t the time for jokes, Donny,” Wynn Caden said without
turning around. He was a tall, lanky boy of nineteen and he towered
over his shorter companion. “But if I really had to guess, I’d say your
breath tops it all.” He pressed on, holding up the stretcher from the
front and marching forward, knee-deep in muck and waste. Donny
tried to keep up, pushing the stretcher from the back and staggering
through the filth — thick in smell and texture. The air of the sewers
made his throat convulse.
“How’s your li’l sis, Wynn? She okay?” Donny asked as they
squirmed their way through a bend in the pipes.
“She’s holding up,” Wynn said and hawked a big slab of spit into the
waste below. The yellowish-green slime floated up in the dark water,
and Wynn could see a hint of blood in the mixture. “I don’t know how
she does it, but she’s holding up.”
“How old is she now?” Donny pressed forward as the flicker of fluor-
escent tubes grew dimmer, and the darkness thickened.
“Turning ten next month,” Wynn said. A strong desire to barf cla-
wed at him from deep inside the gut, but he clenched his teeth and
swallowed down on the sickness.
Donny smiled as muck splashed against his beaten clothes. “Ten
already? She’s growin’ up quick. How old was she when your parents
died?”
“Not yet two.”
“Whoa… it’s been a long time.”
“It’s been forever. How’s your pop doin’?” Wynn took a big step for-
ward, careful not to slip and tumble into the liquid dung below. The
stench was now worse — at first it scarred the nostrils, and then, after
a while, it numbed them completely.
“Not too good, pal. I know he’ll end up down here too, like old
Mrs. Dorin.” Donny glanced sympathetically at the woman’s corpse,
frowned, and turned away. “Sometime soon.”
“Don’t think that way, Donny. You can’t.”
Donny shrugged. “I ain’t got much of a choice, pal. It is what it is,
and I guess that’s how it’s gotta be.”
Wynn stopped and turned around. He searched for Donny’s face
in the darkness. “Hey, you already know what I’m gonna say, don’t ya?
Either we stand and fight our way out of this goddamned pit or we
give up, lie down and wait for the rats to eat us. I’d rather fight. You
should, too.”
“Sure, Wynn. If you say so.” Donny looked away, eyes swelling.
“Don’t lose faith, Donny. It’s the only thing they couldn’t take from
us — it’s all we’ve got left.” Wynn whispered, and then they walked
in silence, listening to the splatter of the water and the scurrying of
rodents.
Just ahead, deep in the darkness, there was a hole in the pipes. The
boys walked carefully to the edge and lowered the corpse. On the count
of three, they swung the stretcher and dropped the dead woman into
the blackness below. The body tumbled down the pit, and then there
was a single deep splash. “Goodbye, Mrs. Dorin,” Wynn said, and
Donny mouthed a prayer. They turned and headed back.

***
They made their way back through the sewers, slowly climbing to the
bunker’s main floor. Suddenly, Donny jerked his head upward. He
heard something beyond the buzzing and twitching of florescent lights
— it was a steady, rattling sound.
“Something’s up,” Donny said.
Wynn nodded.
They moved closer. They could hear a commotion coming from
up ahead. Not the usual kind of commotion: the terror, the screaming,
the panic. This was different… this was something else.
Donny dropped his end of the stretcher and rushed forward. Wynn
pushed the contraption aside and followed. As they emerged from the
sewer pipes, they saw that a large crowd had gathered on the main
floor. They were talking loudly, and some were even laughing.
“Someone’s here, Wynn! Someone’s here from up top. Let’s go see.”
Donny took off, and Wynn leapt after him. They squirmed through
the mass of people and hurried to the front of the crowd.
“They’re coming, Wynn! My dear boy, they’re coming to save us!” A
tiny, pale woman with burn marks on her face grabbed Wynn by the
shirtsleeve, her voice cracking.
Wynn’s eyes widened. “Who’s coming, Betty? Who’s coming to
save us?”
“Battleflag! Our boys from Battleflag are coming! They’re gonna
free the city. They sent word. Thank the good Lord, Wynn! Thank the
good Lord!”
“But who… Who’s here from up top?” Wynn pushed himself up by
his toes, fighting to see. There was some movement ahead of him, and
then he felt the push of a dozen bodies.
The residents of the bunker swarmed forward until they had
formed a tight circle around one thin, ailing man who used a walking
stick to keep from falling over. His skin was dirty and scarred; his hair
wild and greasy. From his darkened face hung a patchy, rugged beard
covered in dirt. He wore the gray uniform of the surface rebels.
“My friends, listen up! Listen up, friends! Everyone, please, listen
here!” A thick man with a harsh voice screamed, his arms flailing
through the air. He made his way to the front, then stood beside the
stranger and gestured for calm. The crowd settled around him and
slowly the noise subsided. The man was Commander Marcus, the
bunker chief.
Wynn was shoved and he shoved back, determined to keep his
place at the front of the crowd. Donny was there too, his eyes gleaming.
Lieutenant Marcus took a deep breath, his chest growing, and then
continued:
“My friends and fellow residents of Bunker 13-A, the man standing
before us is Captain Rom Ashe of Battleflag. He comes to us with an
important message from his headquarters in the north. He has asked
me to deliver this message to you, the good people of Bunker 13-A.”
The stranger nodded and tilted his body to the side, briefly reveal-
ing the black and gold insignia of the Battleflag rebel group sewn to the
side of his jacket. There was a collective gasp from the crowd. Moments
later, all were silent.
Lieutenant Marcus wiped the sweat from his wrinkled brow, then
unfolded a large piece of paper and began to read:
“The High Command of the Battleflag Resistance Corps wishes to
inform the people of the Red Zone, and particularly the residents of
Bunker 13-A — the largest civilian shelter for the Red Zone — that
major operations intended to liberate them and the entire region from
the brutal tyranny of the Forefathers are now underway. Battleflag has
committed all of its resources to the Red Zone Offensive, which will
put an end to the death and destruction brought on by the Forefathers
and their inhuman regime. The brunt of the offensive is set to begin
within the next twenty-four hours. We advise you, the residents of the
Red Zone, to stay put and await further instructions.”