Brian Keene: Entombed

Which I was.

“Hang on, Alyssa.”

I started to worry when she didn’t respond. Even though she’d begun to annoy me, there was something safe about the familiarity of having her ever-present voice in my ear. The bunker felt emptier without it. I hoped again that she was okay.

Pushing my fears aside, I cautiously opened the door and peeked into the hall. The corridor was indeed empty. If they’d found the screwdriver and set a trap for me, then the surprise was waiting elsewhere. I noticed that there were a half dozen empty bottles and cans lined up around the stairwell door. If I’d opened the door, it would have knocked them all over. Damonte was at least telling the truth about that part, but I still wasn’t completely convinced. I hurried out of the library and then noticed the screwdriver. It was lying on the floor, mere inches away from the library door. How had Damonte and Nicole not seen it lying there? Or had they, and they’d left it there to help bait their trap? My heart rate increased, throbbing so hard in my throat that it felt like I’d swallowed an apple. Glancing around, I bent down and picked up the screwdriver. I expected to be ambushed, but nothing happened.

Just to be safe, I ducked inside the media room. I slipped the door shut behind me and leaned against it. The lights were out, but my eyes adjusted quickly. It was hard to believe that only a few hours before, I’d been sitting in here watching stoner cartoons and trying not to go crazy from hunger and cabin fever. Eisenhower still lay on his side in a congealed pool of Krantz’s blood. I nodded hello at him, but he didn’t nod back. I felt a sad wave of nostalgia. Other than Drew, that bronze bust of Eisenhower’s head had been my closest friend and companion during these last few trying months. Many times I’d confided in him, laughed at him, and wept to him. He’d offered silent solace. He’d never spoken to me. He couldn’t. Eisenhower wasn’t real. I know that. I’m not crazy. But all the same, that statue meant something to me. I’d grown very attached to him, and it didn’t seem right to let him lie there in a puddle of gore.

“You’re a mess, Mr. President. Here. Let me give you a hand.”

Kneeling, I sat my newspaper rod aside and righted Eisenhower again. His cold, hard features were sticky with blood and dirt. I tried to use my shirttail to wipe the mess away, but only succeeded in making things worse. Grunting, I picked him up and put him back on his pedestal. Then I took a step backward and studied him.

“Thanks for helping me out earlier,” I whispered. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

I winked, half expecting Eisenhower to wink back at me, but he didn’t. The eyes stared, boring into me. The bronze features remained impassive. It may sound silly, but I began to feel uncomfortable under the statue’s gaze. It felt as if Eisenhower were judging me, as if he could see inside of me and was holding me accountable for my actions.

“You don’t understand,” I whispered. “What other choice did I have?”

Eisenhower’s silent admonishment was enough.

“I’m sorry I got you involved. I’ll make it up to you once I find Alyssa. We’ll restore you to a place of prominence down here.”

I took another step back and my foot came down in Krantz’s blood. When I withdrew my heel, it made a squelching sound. I wondered where the rest of Krantz was. Had Drew or Dave or one of the others said something about Chuck ordering Krantz to be cut up? I couldn’t remember. Maybe they had, or maybe I just imagined it. For that matter, where was Dave? The last I’d heard, he was badly burned but still alive. Chances were he was in the infirmary. I decided that maybe I should check there next. Like the rest of the bunker, it was just a museum-piece now—an exhibit to give the tourists the authenticity they expected. Most of the original equipment and supplies that the government had kept here when the bunker was still active had been removed and replaced with placards and glass showcases. But the hospital beds were still there, along with a few bigger pieces of medical equipment that the hotel had elected to display. And when we’d first come down here, we’d gathered all the stuff from the first-aid kits scattered at various point throughout the bunker and stored them in the infirmary. If they were trying to save Dave, or ease his suffering until he passed, there was a good chance that was where I’d find him. Perhaps I’d find the others there, too. Or maybe they’d already eaten Dave. Maybe they’d devoured both him and Krantz and Drew, and were now saving me for dessert. Chilled Pete, served with chocolate sauce and fruit topping. Yum-yum. That’s fine dining.

The longer this cat and mouse game went on, the harder it was becoming for me to think clearly. I was running on adrenalin fumes, and my hunger pangs had become a steady throb, pulsing in time with my other pains.

“Maybe I should just give up.” I leaned close to Eisenhower’s ear so that the others wouldn’t hear me if they were lurking on the other side of the door. “Maybe I should just take my chances and try surrendering again. I mean, Nicole sounded pretty reasonable back there in the library. Maybe she and I could try to convince the others. Get them to team-up against Chuck or something. That’s got to be better than the alternatives. What’s the point of going on like this? What am I turning into? Maybe Damonte was right, after all. What’s the point of living if I’m no better than those things outside? Why should I keep going on?”

“I’ve waited so long here…”

For a split second, I thought it was Eisenhower, but it wasn’t. The voice belonged to Alyssa. She was singing.

“For a reason to still carry on…”

I recognized the song right away. It was one of her favorites—‘The End of The End’ by Bella Morte. It’s a fair statement to say that most women in West Virginia liked gospel, hip-hop, or country music (or sometimes all three) but Alyssa had always been into gothic and industrial rock. That was one of the reasons I’d fallen in love with her in the first place—not because I was particularly into that kind of music, but because she was. That’s what I’d liked about her—that she was different from the other girls I met.

And I’d sullied that with my betrayal. Tears welled up in my eyes. I pushed the thought from my mind and took a deep breath.

“Alyssa? Where are you?”

“Feels like I’ve been living a lie, and I don’t want to face it alone…”

I had a flash of memory then, so strong that I almost thought it was really happening again, and that the bunker and the zombies and the divorce and my emotional affair with Hannah had all been just a dream. Alyssa and I had driven up to Charlottesville, Virginia to see Bella Morte in concert. She’d played their music on the way up, and we had dinner and a few drinks in a quiet little pub before the show. It was a good time. In truth, I’d gone along because it made Alyssa happy. It wasn’t really my kind of music or scene. The band was good, if loud, and I’d amused myself for a while by gawking at some of the Goths in the crowd. When I’d got bored with that, I’d pulled out my cell phone and updated my Facebook and Twitter accounts. Then I’d gone to the bathroom and texted Hannah. When I came back a half hour later, Alyssa was annoyed. She hadn’t been able to enjoy the show because she’d been worried about me. When I didn’t return right away, she’d thought something happened. I’d apologized, and lied—telling her there was a long line at the bathroom. Her glance flicked to my cell phone and then back to me. She didn’t say anything. Instead, she’d simply nodded and then turned her attention back to the show.