Brian Keene: Entombed

I nodded. “Yeah, I think I do, too. I’ve been thinking about it. The only thing that makes sense is that you’re dead. You died of natural causes, and didn’t become a zombie. Instead, you became a ghost. Just like the ghost of the little girl who supposedly haunts the restroom by the blast door. You’re a spirit. Am I right?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see…”

“You’re a ghost,” I repeated. “You have to be. That’s the only way you could have gotten inside here. You and Dude. Dude died. I know that. He died long before any of this shit began, but I swear to God that I just saw him back there. And I’m hearing you. That can only mean one thing. You’re both ghosts. Right?”

There was silence.

“Okay,” I continued, “if you can’t tell me that, then lets talk about something else. Is this bunker really haunted? I mean, other than by you? Is there really a little girl in the bathroom upstairs? I’ve always wondered about that. People have reported seeing her ghost from time to time. Is she really there? Is the bunker really haunted?”

Alyssa didn’t respond. I paused, waiting for a reply, but I could no longer feel her presence. She’d gone again.

I fumbled through my pockets. My fingertips brushed over Jeff’s wooden token, and then the pocketknife. I searched the stairs until I found my trusty and bloodstained screwdriver lying where Drew had dropped it. Then I continued downward. I had nothing against the pocketknife. It was a fine and serviceable weapon, as far as blades were concerned, but I preferred the screwdriver. We’d been through a lot together, that screwdriver and me, and it had served me well. It was one of the few friends I had down here.

I stopped at the bottom of the stairwell, remembering what had happened the last time I’d pushed the door open. Just like before, they could be waiting on the other side for me. I paused, considering my options. I was tempted to go back upstairs and climb down the incinerator chute, but decided that was just as risky. I wouldn’t be able to mask my sound in the incinerator chute the way I could in the stairwell with the noise of the power plant’s generators droning on in the background. Plus, Chuck and the others could have gotten smart and blocked off the chute. If so, I could end up trapped inside, especially if somebody snuck upstairs while I was inside it and blockaded the other end of the chute, as well. I imagined what would happen next in that scenario—Chuck instructing them to fire up the incinerator, and me scrabbling at the walls like a frantic gerbil, praying to die of smoke inhalation before I cooked to death.

Nervous, I took a few steps backward, and then reached forward with the screwdriver. Using the tip, I prodded the door open and then dropped down into a crouch, preparing myself for someone to charge through. I was convinced they would. Instead, nothing happened. The door swung shut again. I held my breath and waited, but nobody came. After a few minutes had passed, my muscles began to knot and hurt, so I stood up again and cautiously approached the closed door. I put my ear to it, but heard nothing. Taking another deep breath, I inched it open and peered out into the hall. It seemed empty, at least from my limited point of view. I heard voices, but they were distant and muffled. After listening a little longer, I determined that they were coming from the dining room at the far end of the hall.

I eased the door open wider and stuck my head outside. Carefully looking both ways, I saw that the doors to the dining room were closed and confirmed that the hallway was indeed deserted. Since that could change at any moment, I moved quickly, slipping out into the corridor and then eased the door shut behind me. The conversation from the dining room seemed to grow louder. I told myself it was just my imagination. Then I crossed the hall and tried the doorknob to the library. It was unlocked, and the lights were out inside the room. I hurried inside and shut the door behind me.

The library was a relatively small room, but all four of its walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. They’d been built right into the wall. When the bunker had been operational, the government had kept it fully stocked and updated with everything from medical textbooks to classic literature to the latest mid-list paperbacks or hardcover bestsellers. After the bunker was deactivated and sold to the hotel, the staff had kept the books intact, as part of the overall museum experience. Unfortunately, we’d had to get rid of most of them a few years ago after a silverfish infestation. Now the shelves were mostly bare. There were a few dozen Readers Digest condensed editions that somebody had bought for a quarter apiece at a local flea market, along with various outdated magazines and newspapers. My fellow survivors had added to it after our arrival, but their contributions amounted to nothing more than a Robert Randisi western paperback with its cover stripped off, a self-help pamphlet on the wonders of colon-cleansing, and some bullshit teeny-bopper book about vampire cheerleaders in love with werewolf football players. Most of us hadn’t had time to grab our belongings before fleeing below. Several of the survivors had electronic book readers in their purses, or Kindle apps on their cell phones, but those had been worthless without the chargers, all of which had been left behind in their vehicles or hotel rooms. I remembered how proud Krantz had been in our first few days of the siege. He’d complained about the bunker’s selection of movies and the general lack of entertainment choices, as if he was on vacation or something, but he’d gloated over his e-book reader and the fact that it held over two-thousand books. He’d assured us that he wouldn’t be bored, and that it sucked for everyone else, because he wouldn’t be sharing. Of course, that two-thousand book library of his was gone now, eradicated by something as simple as a dead battery. That had always been the inherent danger of the digital age. Once a civilization’s culture became electronic, that culture lasted only as long as the power was on. Archeologists could dig up ancient Rome and find statues and coins and scrolls, but a thousand years from now, what would they make of those dead little handheld gadgets we’d coveted so much?

I thought of my own books, most of which had been boxed up and put in storage or sold for cash after my divorce from Alyssa. There hadn’t been enough room for them in my new apartment, and I’d had to sell some of the rarer and more collectible ones to pay the lawyer. I wished I had them now. At that moment, I’d have given anything to have them there with me. To smell them and hold them. Feel the weight of them in my hands and hear the pages turn. Before the zombies, there had been nothing like holding a physical book in my hands. Now, in this post-apocalyptic setting, that feeling would be magnified a hundred times, simply because it was a connection to a world and a civilization that was no more—and might not ever be again. My thoughts turned back to the archeologists. If humanity survived the zombie plaque and somehow rebuilt itself, would archeologists a thousand years from now discover the works of Stephen King and Tom Clancy and Nora Roberts and Nicholas Sparks, and if so, would the people of that era look upon those works as we did the writings of Homer and Byron and Shakespeare? It was a nice thought. I smiled, and immediately wished I hadn’t. Doing so made my face hurt.

The overhead lights were turned off and the only illumination in the library was the soothing red of the emergency light, which always remained on in case of a fire or power outage. I stared at the soft glow. It was alluringly relaxing—a pleasant enough diversion from all the blood and violence and pain. The light did not judge. It did not weigh me. It didn’t see me as a source of hurt or humiliation. Most importantly, it did not want to eat me. I kept staring, and my eyes felt itchy and heavy. I stifled a yawn and fought to stay awake and alert. Despite my very real and constant peril, the adrenalin was retreating in my body. Combined with the hunger and the beatings I’d taken, it left me feeling both nauseous and exhausted. I wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep. Well, that’s not entirely true. What I wanted more than anything was to eat, but after I’d gorged myself, a nap would be just fine. I’d sleep right here under the lights, bathed in their warmth.