Patricia and The Zygorg

Written by Xavier Clayton

Twenty years ago, my planet was destroyed. I was the only survivor out of 14 billion 348 million inhabitants. I luckily escaped on our last spaceship. I saw it sitting on the edge of the western landing field and ran to it as the red domes were being attacked all around me. When The Shagards started bombing our Icicle Towers, I knew. I had to get out immediately. Now all of our supplies were gone. There was no time to look for my wife, my family, or my friends. We were being massacred and I had mere seconds left before I too would have died.

For years, I floated in space with only the reserve supplies I had on board to sustain me. Not knowing where I was going or if I would be rescued, the food I had, I rationed. There was enough to last me for quite some time. Our eight-leveled ships were big enough to hold a crew of hundreds – and often our exploratory missions lasted several months.

But still, I missed companionship. I missed my friends. My wife and daughter. I missed my planet. On Thebsus, I would walk to the purple lakes and look at the sky. Sitting down beside them, I enjoyed watching the orange and green clouds float by. I remember how I would gaze up at our three moons – Kravar, Voltan, and Sa – and see flocks of silver Kleitrons fly across the horizon. In the red dome we lived in, I could see three mile-high Icicle towers in the distant blue desert. My life was simple and I was happy, until the war when The Shagards wanted our planet of tri-breeds annihilated.

The years I drifted in space were the loneliest of my life. I longed to speak to other Zygorgs again. Each empty, eventless day seemed repetitive and Time was taking me into an infinite abyss of nothingness.

Since I am part-Android, I programmed the ship’s sensors to search for life in the vast Universal Void I was drifting in. Yet the silence that the sensors echoed back only made me feel lonelier and more desperate. I found myself spending all my time just looking for other—hopefully friendly—life forms. For years, I was an intergalactic nomad. A lonely part-alien, part-android, part-mortal wanderer with no home to return to. I learned how dark a place outer space is. The countless constellations are beautiful to see, but the planets and moons containing life are extremely rare. 

Then one day, my scanner beeped. One single, solitary beep that sent instant shock and wonder throughout my entire ship. It meant that there was the promise of Life somewhere nearby.

The beeps were sparse at first. But as my ship drifted on, they became more frequent and louder. I had forgotten how long it had been since I had programmed these numerous radars—and I had completely forgotten to expect something this exciting. I was thrilled and immediately reprogrammed the tracking system so that that beep would guide me to it. The beeping accelerated over the next days until I looked out into the vast darkness and, with my hopes extremely high, saw a little blue planet with a singular moon. I had homed in on something that was teeming with Life!

I flew closer. From my ship, I took a multitude of tests on its climate, temperature, and gravity. Its air was very close to the atmosphere Thebsus had. I can breathe down there, I thought. But more importantly, the dominant inhabitants looked like me, acted like me, and seemed to have friendships like I once had. I was surprised. Like Zygorgs, they all had two legs, two arms, two feet, two hands, and a body. I was hovering above an unknown sister planet.

Finding this unique place could not have come any sooner. My supplies were running short and I would have to soon go down there to find food. I calculated the hundreds of similarities our planets had, as well as their handful of differences. It had rivers but instead of purple -- theirs were blue. It also had clouds, but instead of orange or green—theirs were white, gray, and sometimes pinkish. Yes, this place was beautiful—but it was different. The biggest worry I had was, I did not know if they would accept me. Days later, I could wait no longer—I had to go. The only other choice was starvation.

My food had completely run out and I was feeling very weak. So, one night, I landed my ship outside of a city. From my numerous observations of this new planet, I knew there would be few inhabitants out at this time. So, I got out of my ship and walked into this large settlement, trying to avoid being seen. All I wanted to do was to find some food and get back. I had seen the inhabitants throw food away in large green cubic containers behind their tall, rectangular, multi-tiered living units. So that was the first place I went.

I saw three of these green waste deposits at the end of an alley and rushed to them. I opened the first one and started digging through the garbage. I tore through the many black plastic bags, tasting everything I found. It all went in my mouth and I chewed as fast as I could. But nothing was good. Nothing satisfied my voracious hunger.

Suddenly, behind me, I heard, Give me your money! I turned and there was an inhabitant about my height and size pointing a black metal weapon of some kind right at me. He was wearing a black ski cap, black sunglasses, and a long black coat. 

When I turned and looked at him, extreme shock immediately appeared across his face. He was horrified. Maybe it was my three yellow eyes that surprised him? I then tried telling him nicely that I was a visitor from Thebsus and that my planet was destroyed by Shagards. As polite as I could, I said that I was just hungry and I wanted to look for some food. But when I began talking, he dropped his weapon, covered his ears, and screamed! It was like he was being tortured by the ear-piercing sounds coming out of my mouth. I didn’t know what to do. I was scared he might wake other inhabitants. So, to calm him down, I stepped up to him and I looked him in his eyes. Then the lower two of my three face opticals turned from yellow to orange and the thief fell unconscious. When he hit the pavement, one of the dark lenses on his eyewear broke.

I knew I had to hurry back to my ship, but I was still famished. So I turned back to the large green containers and found something called a “Snick”. It was in a half-torn wrapper and partially eaten. I put it in my mouth. It wasn’t until I ate THAT that I felt better. I was instantly reinvigorated. There was something in that Snick that tasted like the food on Thebsus. I needed to find more of it. What I ate would only last me a day, I thought.

I then looked at the man on the ground and took his ski cap, long black coat, and cracked sunglasses. It would be my disguise as I looked for more of this food.

I entered an all-night supply store. Many times, I saw the inhabitants go into these structures for provisions. Outside, I looked through its tall, see-through walls and saw that it had very few inhabitants there. The woman at the front looked at me suspiciously when I entered in my black disguise. But at least, she did not scream. My stolen black ski cap was covering the yellow optical in the middle of my forehead. My cracked eyewear were covering the other two. But still, when I glanced at her she frowned.

I walked around the food supply lanes for more Snick and finally found them between other colorfully wrapped provisions: Kit, MMs, Mars, and Baby Ruths. I immediately grabbed every Snick there. These should last me a few weeks, I thought. I was relieved.

Then, trying to be inconspicuous, I headed to the small, invisible wall I entered through. But the woman at the front saw me and said, “Excuse me! You’re gonna have to pay for that, Sir!” I stopped and looked at her. I didn’t know what to say. I just wanted to get my food and leave. So, I turned again towards the door. “Sir, you have to pay for that or I will call the police!” She said. What are police? I thought. Then when I turned to leave, I saw her push a button under her cash register. So, I tried explaining to her that I was a visitor… from Thebsus… and that all I wanted was some Snick. But when I did, the ear-piercing sounds of my voice shattered all the tall glass windows and doors. Everything came crashing down! She too covered her ears and screamed. Alarm bells and sirens rang out and the woman and the two inhabitants inside were hiding under the register and in the food lanes. As I ran back to my ship, I saw a speeding black and white vehicle with red flashing lights approaching the provision establishment.

When I was safely back on board my ship, I ate one of the Snicks – but not all of it. Only the part that was like Thebsus food. The brown, sticky paste reminded me of home and tasted just like the food my wife made. The rest of it I threw away.

Life on the sister planet was curious to me. I saw a different kind of suffering that we did not have back at home. One family, in particular, had a young child. Their baby girl was sick. I often saw her mother crying and the father consoling her. 

One night, when I went back to the planet for more food, I stopped by their home. I went into the pink baby room with its stuffed animals, rainbow painted walls, and hanging unicorn mobile. The infant had amazing blue eyes. But I saw that she suffered. When I put my hand on her head, I felt a small, black growth in her brain. My left optical turned green as I got rid of it for her—dissolving it completely. I then saw a small puff of black smoke come out of her right ear and dissipate. I looked down at a pink pillow in her crib and saw the word “Patricia” stitched into it.

I’ve been up on my ship following her life for 15 years now. When Patricia learned how to speak, I learned how to speak. When she danced, I danced. To pass the time, I would practice these things alone up on my ship. I wanted to learn how to be less conspicuous on my food trips. I thought maybe it was how I spoke that made the inhabitants suspicious of me. I eventually learned to speak their language without the ear-piercing sounds. Learning was fun because, to me, Patricia was my schoolmate. I enjoyed watching how she always said “Hidee!” when she met her friends.

As she grew, I tried many times, and in many ways, to connect with her. When she was about ten, and starting grade school, I would come to her in her dreams. But she always woke when we landed on Thebsus. We’d walk to the purple lakes and I’d introduce her to my Zygorg family and friends. She’d wake up crying and screaming, telling her father something about a “nightmare” and having “dreamt of that man again.”

At twelve, she played soccer. I enjoyed sitting alone in the bleachers, watching her. I’d be in my disguise, so as not to attract attention. Trying my best to blend in. But soon, the black and white cars with red flashing lights would come and I knew that I had to leave. My years-long experience with The Shagards has helped me sense danger.

There was even a time I waited for her in the shadows. I had practiced speaking her language for weeks and wanted to surprise her. So, I waited for her in her neighbor’s dark alleyway, wearing my cracked sunglasses, my black ski cap, and long black coat. I was excited when I saw her get off the large, metal, multi-inhabitant vehicle. Then when she passed me by on her way home, I stepped onto the sidewalk and said “Hidee!” as she approached. It was the first word I’d ever spoken out loud, and it came out so slow—and so slurred and gurgled, “Hiiiyaydee!” She screamed as she jumped back, and looked terrified when she saw me. Before I could say “Patricia”, she ran home.

After that, I was devastated and did not come off my ship for months. I thought of never coming back down to this planet and just letting my rations run out.

It was during the time she met and then broke up with her boyfriend that I realized I had fallen in love with her. He was her age—but went to another school. By then, I had forgiven her for that alley incident and had started going to her soccer matches. I saw her meet Greg at one of them. For me, going to her matches was better than going to her practices. I could more easily blend in. I could watch her parents rooting for her from the back row. They had Snicks there too! I must admit, I sometimes used telepathy to help her score points. I wanted to help her more than just taking out that tumor in her brain.

When Greg would come over to talk to her, I was jealous. He could never do more for her than me. I could take her to different galaxies. I could show her how to levitate. I could make every one of her dreams on this simple, elementary, little blue planet come true. He was just a boy. But she liked him… So, all I could do was just watch their relationship from a distance. It wouldn’t be right to use telepathy for that. I wanted her to like me from her own power.

I saw their love blossom for a few months… But then, it ended for some reason. I’ll never know what happened between them—But I was glad. She had lost her love, Greg, and I had lost my family, Xantha and Viindi. We were both alone. Now I just had to find a way for me and her to help each other. Each time I looked down on her now poster-filled bedroom, her big blue eyes never failed to enrapture me. They always made me feel less lonely. I blend in better because I speak the inhabitant’s language fluently now. I sneak into their house and watch the flat screen of moving images behind Patty and her parents. It’s helped. Twice someone has asked me where my accent is from and I said, “From another planet!” They laughed and I laughed too. Laughter makes all three of my face opticals turn light blue.

It was three years ago tonight that I noticed something about the inhabitants. Each year they have this peculiar, bizarre celebration. It is a tradition for them. A happy tradition where they come together and have fun. I call it “The Yearly Snick Party”. Lots of times I’ve seen Snicks served at these events and enjoyed by adults, teens, and children. All of them love it. And what is more, it’s given out free! In one night, I can easily stock up for a year on food.

Patricia also looks forward to this day. I’ve seen her planning for it with her friends and her parents. She is constantly talking to her classmates on the phone about what they are going to wear and where they are going to go. Dressing up is a big part of the occasion.

In the dancehall that “Patty” and her friends always go to on this night, there is lots of music, food, and socializing. Everyone has fun at “The Snick Parties”. Two years ago, I went and had the most fun I’d had in my entire life.

When my princess walked in, I knew for sure I loved her. She looked so radiant. So beautiful! The creatures of this world with their two white-eyes seem to be growing on me!  Patty and I danced. We laughed. We drank. And I ate enough Snick to be energized for two months. That night, I even discovered what Thebsus food is called here—"Caramel.” They even dip apples into it and sell it in individually wrapped packages.

On our last date a year ago, I was so anxious. I’d been waiting months. Watching her life from afar only made me want to be closer to her. Having been away for so long, I couldn’t wait to see my princess again. I was so overcome at the sight of her when she walked into the dancehall… she was an angel. I almost cried when she waved at me. She remembered me! She knew who I was and I had the time of my life. 

I’ve long thrown away that black ski cap, the long coat, and cracked sunglasses. As I prepared for our date tonight, I put on bright blue satin pants, a lemon-yellow satin shirt, a big, white bow tie and a curly red wig. The wig has a long white satin cap hanging down from it. There is a fuzzy blue ball on the end. And again, I’ve colored my face.

I know I’m early. But tonight, she will be here again. I’ve waited another year and am constantly looking for her to come through the entrance. The moment she walks in, she sweetly waves at me like she has done these recent years. I wave back, and the optical in the middle of my forehead turns as red as a rose.

She walks over to me smiling. “Hidee, Zeppo!”, she says. I smile back, “Hidee, Patricia!” She looks amazing. She’s my beautiful butterfly who has returned to me to melt my clownish heart once more. We then laugh together, as we each say, “Happy Halloween!”

“BUNKER 759”

Written by Xavier Clayton

“Bunker seven-five-nine-Alpha, come in… Bunker 759-Alpha…,” a voice rings out from my walkie-talkie.

            “Bunker 759-Alpha… This is Bunker 88-Charlie-Foxtrot-Oscar,” a young, boyish voice says again. “Come in. Are you there?”

            I rush to it on the nightstand next to my bunk bed and turn on the small lamp above it.

            “Yes, yes! I’m here!” I say, turning the dial for better reception. “This is Bunker 759-Alpha. That’s a copy!” Then I crank the dynamo a few times and see the red light on its power supply light up brighter.

            “Ah, good! Reporting that we haven’t seen any suspicious movements from the enemy in a while. Just checking to see if you and your men are ok.” His voice has a staccato rhythm.

            I turn to the captain lying on the wooden plank floor. He must have passed out again sometime last night. The colorful medals above his shirt pocket are hidden in the folds of his shirt. He’s leaned up against the wall next to our Wurlitzer Jukebox. He’ll wake up later, I know. But I think our vault is strong enough to withstand an enemy attack. It was freezing cold last night and I can tell that it must be morning outside the bunker because there is condensation on all the steel walls.

            Then I turn and look at the lieutenant. She is still on the top bunk of one of our bunker’s 6 bunk beds. The beds each have thin mattresses and are held up by a series of small, interlinking fence-like chains. She doesn’t move. She’s still asleep, I think.

“Yes, we are ok, Bunker 88!” I say. “Both the captain and the lieutenant are resting. I am in charge. Are there any signs that the enemy has changed position?”

            “That’s a negative, Bunker 759. But we are maintaining surveillance.”

            “Good! Keep us updated on any suspicious activity.”

            “Will do! Signing off now.”

            “Roger!” I say, turning off the dial and hearing it click. I’ll talk to him again tonight. Or tomorrow… maybe. Or in a few days… or a few weeks. I never know. He’s a Five-star general and has hundreds of troops in three battalions to oversee. None of us know how long this war is going to last. It’s been about a year so far. I am just glad that I keep getting updates from him from time to time.

            The captain and lieutenant told me how they spent 18 months loading up this place with provisions. They washed every can… every spoon… every chair… everything inside this bunker with soap and Epsom salt, so that there was no chance of bacteria or polio getting inside. Millions of people have died and memories of wars in Japan and Europe were still fresh in their minds, the lieutenant has said many times. And more, people like us are getting rounded up, identified, and sent to detention camps. No one ever comes back.

            My two superiors brought in everything they could think of so that we could stay here. They told me how dangerous it was outside. How it was filled with seen and unseen threats. How the war was on many fronts – and how only here is safe.

            I stand and pull my khaki beige sweater tighter over my beige long-johns. Then I walk over to the captain. There is a half-empty bottle of bourbon next to his hand. His back is hunched up against the steel wall and his head is slouched to the side. He snores and slobbers a thick drool. Vomit is on the floor again and I know that he will not clean it up. So, I take the bottle to the table and then the circular 10-step metal staircase down to the kitchen area to look for a towel. There are large water and gas pipes shaped like huge pythons against the walls. A long neon light hangs from the rounded ceiling above. I turn the squeaky handle of the polished faucet and water drizzles out. I’m sure that it has snowed and that this water is, in fact, melted ice. I take a wet towel and walk over to the captain to clean off his shirt. As I wipe up the vomit on his uniform, he moves, but only to shoo me away.

            Before heading back to the kitchen area, I look over at the lieutenant. Her body is lying in the same position as last night—facing the wall with her right leg bent over her left. She has been silent a lot.  She and the captain used to argue a lot. But now, there are fewer fights… if any at all, between them. Not since the accident she had with the power generator.

            All my life, these officers have been my only companions—excluding the general. But he’s just a faceless voice on a walkie-talkie, echoing throughout these thick, cold steel walls.  

            My other companions have been piles of magazines; LIFE, Popular Science, and The Saturday Evening Post – and the dozens of books that the captain and lieutenant have encouraged me to read. They’re all stacked in a row of numbered army lockers. “Patton”, “A Farewell to Arms”, “The Red Badge of Courage”… and so many other military novels have filled my activities during the day and my dreams at night. War. Resistance. Fighting Enemies. Courage.

            I know every room of this bunker; a three-leveled fallout shelter with two ventilation shafts. Below this sleeping and living area, there is a kitchen with a large storage place next to it. And below that, there is a room for washing clothes and the bathroom.

            I walk down the metallic staircase to the lowest level, hearing my polished black leather boots clang on every step. I fill a copper pot with water and add Tide, Epsom salt, and the towel to it. Then I open one of the green metal drawers and find a box of matches. The drawer itself is nearly full of matchboxes. I then turn on the gas. The small gas tank next to the stove is almost full and is the third we’ve used since I started counting. There are at least ten more stored in the back. I take out a match and strike its sulfur red head. I turn on the gas and watch the blue flame glow to heat up the water.

            The captain often says that these walls are solid enough to not only keep the enemy out… but many other threats: Radiation. Viruses. Disease. The End of Days. An Apocalypse or an invasion from Mars. This bunker shelters us. It protects us like an army helmet.

            “Jim!” I hear from up in the living area. The captain is up! I think, putting soap and the towel into the big pot.

            “Jimmy! Where are you!!” the captain shouts.

            “Coming, Sir!” I shout back and run upstairs.

            The captain has his eyes open and is hunched over on the floor. He’s looking around and tries to lift himself up – but he’s too fat.

“… oh shit!” He says before I get to him. “Where the hell is my –" he complains as I rush up to him and salute.

            “Sergeant Kimsey reporting for duty, Sir!” I say, out of breath.

            The captain doesn’t say anything. He just glares at me with a blank expression.

            After a moment, he says, “Where the fuck did you put my bottle? It was right here!”

            “Here it is, Sir!” I say pivoting to the table and taking his bottle of bourbon.

            He snatches it out of my hand.

            “Help me up!” He commands, raising his arms. I bend down and help him stand and then to one of the white formica chairs in the “canteen”.  His nearly empty bottle of sleeping pills are on the blue formica table I sit him down next to.

Although I helped him walk a mere five steps, the captain is sweating when he finally plops down on the chair. His skin looks greenish as he opens the bourbon and takes a swig.

            “Should I wake the lieutenant, Sir?” I ask.

            “No! You leave her up there! She’s fine,” the captain says.

Then for a moment, he gets lost in his thoughts… and then he starts to cry. Every day, throughout the day, sudden uncontrollable sobbing has overcome him for a few moments. I don’t know what to do. After he calms down, he then starts drinking again.

            “Captain, is there something I can you want me to do for her—” I begin.

            “Captain?!” he shouts. “You leave her alone, okay? Just leave her the fuck alone!”

            “Ok,” I answer. “Are you hungry, Sir? Do you want me to make you something?”

            “Yeah. Make me some breakfast.”

“What would you—"

            “I don’t care!” He shouts.

            So, I pivot towards the stairs.

            “Wait!... Give me my bucket first,” he says.

            I go to the corner and grab the large, white plastic bucket sitting there. I come back and hand it to him. I turn my back to him and hear him unzip his pants and relieve himself into it. I am glad that it is just urine this time. It’s been quite a few months that going up and down the metal staircase has been too hard for him—and he no longer pick vegetables in our small garden.

            When he’s finished, I take the bucket and carry the foul-smelling liquid to the basement toilet.

            “Bring me another bottle while you’re at it!” He yells, before sobbing again. I go to the kitchen area level and see the last bottle of bourbon from the storage—something that for weeks I have been putting off telling him.

            I hand it to him. He turns the bottle cap, cracking it open.

            “Sir?” I say.

            “What?” I watch his glossy eyes turn to me and feel my knees shake.

            “This is the last bottle.”

            “What?!” he screams. “…and you’re just sayin’ that now? Fuck!”

            “I was afraid to tell you.”

            He lets out a long, heavy sigh and shakes his head. Then he looks up at me.

“How old are you?”.

            “Fifteen.”

“Shit!”

            We both know it’s been a while since we’ve gotten supplies. Every six months, the captain would go for food, water, and gas. He’d leave before I got up and be back after I fell asleep. But not anymore.

            “Can I make breakfast now, Sir?”

“Yeah. Go ahead. Make it. Toast. Coffee black,” He says, shooing me away.

            I come back with two plates of toast, scrambled reconstituted eggs, coffee, and fried processed ham. The plates are for me and him. I know that the lieutenant never eats breakfast. The captain looks upset. Worried and anxious.

            “I have a headache,” he says as I put his plate down.

            “Do you need your pills?”

            “Get ‘em.”

I go to the metal cabinets and find a near empty box of aspirin.

When I hand it to him, he looks inside and swallows the last four pills, throwing his head back and washing them down with the bourbon. His sweat drips into his eyes, making him blink. Then he cries again.

            As we eat, I think how I don’t like when the captain is like this. I worry what could happen when he is what the lieutenant calls “woozy”. He has lashed out at both me and the lieutenant when he has drank too much. I secretly hope he drinks enough to fall asleep for the rest of the day. It seems I fight two enemies—one out there and one in here.

            Thinking about the future paralyzes my body at times and his anger sometimes gives me panic attacks to where I can’t breathe. More and more, I’m glad he cannot navigate the stairs anymore because the lower levels are my only sanctuary—my sanctuary within a sanctuary.

            Now that he’s eaten, I know he’ll usually go back to sleep. Sometimes he’ll read, write, or listen to music. But today, he’s agitated and his bottle is already a third gone.

            Suddenly, I get an idea. This will cheer him up and me too.

So, after breakfast, I go to the stack of vinyl records next to our jukebox. Many records would work, but I know one that always does. So, I place it on the Victrola…

“One, two, three o’clock, four o’clock rock…

Five, six, seven o’clock, eight o’clock rock…

Nine, ten, eleven o’clock, twelve o’clock rock…

We’re gonna rock around the clock tonight…”

I smile as Bill Haley and The Comet’s song starts to boom through the bunker.

            “Stop!” the captain screams over the ripping guitars and drum snares. The bunker is bursting with fun and energy, so I don’t understand why the captain is upset. I lift the needle from the black vinyl record and look at him. Confused… and a bit angry.

            “That was her favorite song,” he says. “She’d always dance to it!”

            It’s true, I think. She would dance. I look over at the captain. She hasn’t budged.

            “Bunker 759-Alpha… Come in. This is Bunker 88-Charlie-Foxtrot-Oscar”, the voice says again. “Bunker 759, are you there?”

            I rush to the walkie-talkie.

            “Yes, yes! I’m here! This is Bunker 759-Alpha. Roger!” I say, cranking the dynamo until its light brightens.

            “Be advised that we have seen reinforcements arriving at the enemy camp.”

            “You have?!” I say. “I copy that and will be sure my men take precautions. If we see the enemy, we will contact you!”

            The captain shakes his head.

“Roger, Bunker 759. Over!” The voice says.

            “Over!” I say.

            Deep creases show in the captain’s brow as he stares at me.

What if they strike our bunker? We have no weapons. No arms to speak of. No grenades.

I jump up and start opening cabinets, looking for rope.

            “What are you doing?!” The captain shouts.

            “Making booby traps, sir!” I say. “Just like you taught me. If the enemy gets inside, they will trip—and then you, me, or the lieutenant can ambush them!”

He takes another swig of the half-empty bottle. Most of it drips down his chin.

            I walk to a wall and put my hand on its cold steel. I listen for the enemy outside. I don’t. Maybe they’re hiding in the garden? The enemy is smart, I think. They could have high tech Russian military equipment that would disguise their movements.

            “We can’t wait, Sir,” I tell the captain. “There could be Russian soldiers surrounding us.”

He watches me change into army fatigues. As I put on my helmet and camouflage my face, I remember the day of the accident. Somehow the enemy booby-trapped our power supply. The lieutenant was fixing it when the captain went for supplies.

When he got back, the captain asked me to help put her up on the top bunk bed so she could rest. The lieutenant used to be a nurse and thought her burns would heal—but for weeks, the bunker started having a foul, rotting smell.  One day she fell asleep and never came down. Eventually, the foul smell went away – but the captain has never been the same.

The bunker is empty without the happiness she brought. The games we played. She loved dancing. Elvis, Chuck Berry, and The Andrew Sisters are her favorites.

“Private Thompson…”, the captain whispers. He looks tired. Greenish.

            “Yes, Sir?!” I ask.

            “Jimmy… I’m… I’m sick,” he says. “I think I’m dying.”

            “Dying?”

            “Yes, Son. You have to leave. Leave the bunker. You have to go out and find help. Take water, food, and a knife. Follow North for a good 20 miles.”

            I don’t know what he means by… leave?…  find help?

            “Your mother needs a proper burial, Jim! Don’t you understand?”

            I don’t.

            “We were playing a game with you… to pass the time,” he says with tears in his eyes. “… but no more games now. No more.”

            I listen, trying to understand.

            “You have to find help. The lieutenant has to be buried. I may have to be buried too,” he says.

            “Bunker 759-Alpha… This is Bunker 88-Charlie-Foxtrot-Oscar,” the voice booms from the walkie-talkie, “Come in!”

            “I’m here!” I get up and yell into the walkie-talkie. “This is Bunker 759-Alpha.”

            “The enemy has attacked us! I am the only survivor!”

“Oh no! What happened?” I say. “Do you need help?!”

            “We were under attack! Now, I think the enemy is moving closer to your location”, the voice says.

            Terror makes my skin shiver. Maybe they heard Bill Haley?

            “We are advised, Bunker 88. We’re making booby traps!” I insist. “Over!”

            “Good luck!” He says. “Over!”

            Behind me, I hear a thump. The captain is slumped over the table and the bourbon bottle is empty. I try to lift him. But he’s too heavy. He doesn’t respond.

            He needs medicine. But it was all used for the lieutenant.

Private Thompson, you need to get help, he said. But, I can’t.

            “Bunker 759… Bunker 759-Alpa,” the walkie-talkie shouts.

“I copy, Bunker 88!” I say.

            “The enemy is on our radar. Be advised. They’re approaching you!”

            “We are secured, Bunker 88! I made a blockade.”

            Then I hear a distant strange sound on Bunker 88’s end of the walkie-talkie.

It’s music.

“Jeremiah was a bullfrog…

Was a good friend of mine…

Never understood a single word he said…

But, I helped him drink his wine…”

“Bunker 88? Bunker 88… are you there?” I say.

“I’m here!”

“Andrew, dinner!” A stern female voice shouts at the general.

“Yes, I’m here, Bunker 759,” the general affirms, whispering.

“I copy that there are enemy troops approaching!” I say. “I think the enemy has a honing device! Turn your music off!”

“Joy to the world…

All the boys and girls now…

Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea…

Joy to you and me…”

“Yes, I see them on my radar. They are near you! Copy?”

“Can you send help, General?!”

“I will, Bunker 759!! Good Luck!”

The music clicks off and the line goes dead.

It’s quiet again. The bunker feels hollow, as I look over at the captain. He hasn’t moved. His eyes are closed.

I think he has finally found the peace he wanted for himself…. for me and the lieutenant.