Chapter 1, The Bunker The old pickup truck rattled and bounced as it made its way off the main road and onto the gravel road that led up the mountain. I had just finished a long day at school, followed by a JV match, and was struggling to keep my eyes open during the forty-minute drive. Dad had been in a hurry and I still had my wrestling singlet on under my street clothes. As we approached the gate, I reached for the remote control and pressed the button to open it. The entire mountain belonged to my family. Back in the 1800’s, it had been a bustling coal mine until it ran dry in 1932. Now, all that remained were dilapidated buildings, rusty machinery, and a gravel road that desperately needed maintenance. But for my ancestors, this place served as more than just a mine. Thomas Robinson, the first Robinson that immigrated to America, won the land in a poker game and used it as a hiding spot during the Civil War. He built a fake rock wall to conceal an entrance to a secret side-shaft where he rode out the war comfortably. Whether he was a coward or not didn't matter - he gave us the coal mine and secured a future for the family. As we approached the abandoned mine office, Dad's rugged hands gripped the steering wheel as he spotted campfire smoke from inside the building. "Looks like we got company," he muttered, slamming on the brakes and shifting into park. "Dad, let's just call the police," I pleaded. Ignoring my suggestion, Dad reached behind his seat for the Henry X Model 30-30 rifle and lifted it down. He stepped out of the truck, expertly levering a round into the chamber as he made his way towards the old building. I grabbed my own rifle, identical to my father's but with a scope attached, and followed reluctantly. I moved stealthily through the trees, using their dense branches as cover. When I found a suitable spot behind a sturdy pine tree on the opposite side of the road, I crouched down and peered through the scope, scanning for any signs of movement or danger. My heart raced as I waited for whoever was inside to make a move. I studied each window. There wasn’t any glass left, having been broke out by vandals probably before I was even born. I could see the smoke from their campfire, but I didn’t see anyone at the windows. Not even a minute later, two guys not much older than me emerged from the building holding backpacks. Good, it looked like they weren’t going to fight. I memorized their faces, in case I’d have to give the sheriff a description later. The two young men were dressed like hikers. They’d probably been hiking the Pioneer Trail and decided the mine might be interesting to explore. Dad emerged from the building behind the two hikers, his rifle was lowered but still pointed in their direction. I kept my finger off the trigger as I’d been taught, I didn’t want to shoot anyone on accident. I’d never shot anyone, and didn’t want to start, but if either of them got aggressive and turned on dad, I’d drop them both in a second. I followed them with the cross-hairs of the scope as they headed up to the road where the truck was parked. Dad followed behind them. The one wearing a blue checkered flannel shirt spotted me and stopped, his already frightened expression deepened as he saw a sniper in the bushes on over-watch. I jerked my rifle towards the main gate to indicate he needed to keep walking. They turned and headed to the still open main gate practically at a run. Dad didn’t follow them, but I did with my rifle. Dad waited until they passed through the main gate before turning to me. “You don’t approve?” he asked. “They were just hikers,” I replied. “They were just hikers today, what about tomorrow?" I shrugged. “Why are you mad, I did the sniper backup thing.” “You were too slow to get into position, what if they’d been ready and I’d taken a round. Do you think you could have brought cover-fire before I’d taken a second round, or even defended yourself before they rushed the truck and killed you?” I got up and brushed the pine needles away. “I guess not, I’m sorry, but maybe we should have let the police take care of it.” My father walked across to me, and took my rifle. He cleared the rifle, checked the chamber twice, and handed it back to me. He always did that, even if he had just watched me clear it. “John,” he said. “There won’t always be someone to come take care of things for you. Do you understand?” He jerked his head towards the truck without waiting for an answer. “Let’s get those things inside the bunker, I need to go back down to the hardware store before they close.” The things he was referring to were two big boxes containing commercial sized hot water heaters. Our system used two of them working in tandem with each other to provide enough hot water for the bunker; the old system had finally given up the ghost. “I’m hungry and tired,” I replied. “I don’t want to go to the hardware store.” We put our rifles back on the rack, with dad checking to make sure I’d secured mine properly on the rack. “Help me get them off the truck, then you can make yourself some dinner and head to bed. I need you fresh tomorrow to help me install those beasts.” Dad had the remote control for the bunker doors on his side of the truck and pushed the button as we approached the main blast doors. The doors swung open faster than you might imagine something that big could. The bunker did not look anything like a standard privately owned bunker. The main doors were 21-inches thick each, and weighed 14-tons. To give you an idea of their size, they’re about two-thirds the size of the bunker doors on the NORAD bunker in Colorado. They were made from the reinforced bulkhead of a WWI destroyer. Great-great Grandpa James Robinson purchased the destroyer after it was decommissioned. He had the ship cut apart to his specific needs, then shipped all the steel here to be used in the construction of the bunker. From what I was told, it was cheaper to buy the scrap metal than purchase new. The dishes, cups, and silverware in the dining room also came from the ship. And, my favorite part was the Captain’s chair and big steering wheel in the game room. Dad said when he was little, the anchors were out next to the main gate, but they disappeared. He said Grandpa only laughed and said, “If someone wanted those anchors bad enough to figure out how to drag away two 15-ton anchors, they’re welcome to them.” I guess people will steal anything, even if it is anchored down. I know, I know, it’s a corny joke, but Grandpa has said it so many times now, it’s become a traditional family joke at gatherings. Our bunker rivaled some of the best government bunkers, and was on the list of the twenty top largest privately owned bunkers, but it had taken 160 years and 9 generations to build. It started with Grandpa Thomas hiding behind the false wall to avoid the Civil War, then in the 1930’s after the mine closed, Grandpa James started the modern bunker project. He also spent most of the money we’d made off the coal mine to do it. So, the project slowed down until the Cold War scared the heck out of the family and we found the money to start building again. Then, the bunker was finally finished in the 1970’s. Everyone thinks we’re a rich family, but we’re not. Dad says we’re only three steps ahead of the tax man, but I think the tours might be bringing in just enough to keep us out of trouble. The bunker wasn’t a secret like it had been a hundred years ago. You can’t keep something like this a secret in the modern age with the Internet and Youtube. News crews and Magazine reporters come out every once in a while to do an article on the bunker, and we have a fairly regular round of school field trips that visited, and then there’s the regular tourists. It can get really busy sometimes. Mrs. Miller ran the Gift Shop during the week, she made pies to sell in the gift shop, and I ran the Gift Shop on weekends. I sit there, sell stupid trinkets, and give a tour at 10 and 2. We installed twenty miniature museum rooms to show. The standard tour walked through the halls and stopped at the museum rooms with mannequins doing old time stuff, like the poker table room, the old kitchen, the mine cart room, the loom room, the butterfly room, and so on. We never let anyone go through the back door of the bunker to the actual mine, but there is a viewing window and some flood lights so they can see the mine. I get a paycheck for taking care of the gift shop and giving tours on weekends, but I do get breaks. Dad relieves me in the gift shop so I can drive over to Millers Grocery in the UTV to stock up on drinks and snacks for the gift shop, and there’s a video game store next to the grocery store where I can buy used games or a movie for the evenings. There were three cars in the parking lot out in front of the bunker. One was Mrs. Miller’s 2007 Ford Bronco. We called it my twin brother because it was made the same year I was born. The other cars belonged to two families of tourists getting ready to leave. Mrs. Miller was just locking up the Gift Shop. We were already past closing time, and the gates out front had been closed when we arrived. Mrs. Miller must have given a late tour and was going to let them out as she left for the day. I’m glad we took care of the trespassers before Mrs. Miller found them. I jumped out of the truck and waved at the tourists. “Thanks for coming, I hope you enjoyed the tour. Come again soon.” I noticed both families were carrying two pie boxes each. Mrs. Miller waved at me and shouted. “Hi, Johnny. There’s two apple, three lemon, three pecan, and four peach pies left, make sure you sell them. I’ll bring more on Monday.” “One’s already sold,” I replied. “I’ll take one of the peach pies.” Dad and I loved peach pie, we’d probably have it for dessert Saturday night. I waved as Mrs. Miller got into the Bronco and followed the tourists to the gate. Dad turned the truck around and backed into the garage. I ran over to get the forklift parked between all our other vehicles. The garage between the main blast doors and the inner blast doors was very large and contained Grandpa’s old truck, five snow mobiles, a snow cat, and Dad’s collection of Army surplus vehicles. There were also five dirt bikes, and a ton of bicycles hanging from the ceiling. My favorite army vehicle was the huge M88 Tank Recovery Vehicle. There were also tool cages, a side alcove with stored propane canisters, and tons of skis and snowshoes hanging from the walls. The interior blast doors were kept open and only closed in an emergency. It only took ten minutes to lift the big boxes off dad’s truck. I was going to drop them in the garage until tomorrow, but he wanted me to put them next to the utility room inside the bunker. After I dropped the second box off, I shut the forklift down and left it outside the utility room; we might need it again tomorrow. I walked back to the garage, and heard dad talking with someone on the phone. I know I shouldn’t eavesdrop on his conversations, but I was curious. “Paul, you see what’s happening overseas, tanks have already crossed the border,” said Dad. Uncle Paul? I hadn’t seen Uncle Paul since last Christmas. Uncle Paul and Grandpa didn’t get along very well, so Uncle Paul had moved away a few years ago. “I have him with me,” continued Dad. “I’m keeping him out of school next week.” What? No, I can’t be out of school. If I miss even one match, I’ll lose my chance to be the varsity wrestling team captain next year. Has dad lost his mind? Dad and Grandpa are the Kings of Preppers, and every time something bad happens in the world, they think it’s the apocalypse and I miss a few days of school. He promised, no missed school this year. “I already called her, she won’t come,” said Dad. “She hasn’t seen him since his birthday last year, and that was only a Zoom call.” I knew he was talking about mom now. She hated Grandpa, and the bunker. She’d divorced Dad when I was six and moved to where her big important job with a real estate company was. She wouldn’t come here even if asteroids were falling out of the sky. “Just get here,” continued Dad. “And see if you can get hold of Tiffany, she won’t answer my calls.” Aunt Tiffany? No, she wouldn’t come either. She hated Grandpa and the bunker even more than mom did. I hadn’t seen Aunt Tiffany for years. I liked the bunker, but I also didn’t have to live here year round, trapped away from all my friends. Uncle Paul, my dad, and Aunt Tiffany had grown up living here, but I’m only here on weekends. So, yeah, I could understand. Dad got a little rough on me sometimes trying to make me into some kind of super soldier that could survive the end of the world, but he usually backed off pretty quick when I gave him the sad eyes, probably remembering how Grandpa had done him when he was my age. I went hunting with Grandpa once. I liked him, he’s my grandpa, but I refuse to ever go hunting with him again. He can be funny sometimes, and I always get the best Christmas and Birthday presents from him, but he’s bat poop crazy. I heard the truck start up and pull out. I peeked around the corner and watched the big doors swing shut. So, dad was trying to get everyone to come home because someone was starting another war somewhere in the world. Someone was always starting a war somewhere, but I’ll admit I had no idea who it was. I don’t watch the news, I’ve got too many other things to do with my friends. If you want me to know something, text me a meme, maybe I’ll look at it. Though, I would like if Uncle Paul came to visit, he’s fun to go hunting with, and he doesn’t get pushy and tell you all the things you’re doing wrong. I headed for the kitchen to find something to eat. The kitchen was one of my favorite places in the whole bunker; it was like a restaurant kitchen, but warm and cozy. There was an old 12-burner gas stove with three ovens, a huge center work table you could park a car on, and cast-iron pans hanging from racks attached to the ceiling. The kitchen was made to feed a lot of people, but my favorite part of the kitchen was the pantry. Imagine a hundred years of spices with all their smells soaked into the wood. I loved to go in there and just stand. It was like smelling memories. I would close my eyes and imagine I could smell a hundred years of pumpkin pies, turkeys, hams, apple sauce, and well… every holiday my family had gathered to celebrate here. I could see in my mind all the Robinson’s that had ever been. I could see and hear them moving around the big work table, laughing and talking as they prepared feasts to feed a hundred people. The bunker was the most perfect place in the world. Down here we’re safe from the whole world, but during the last three generations, they had all moved away. I was going to be the last generation to even live in the bunker part-time. I opened the door to the pantry and was swept away by the sweet aroma of preserved fruits and vegetables. There were onions, turnips, and peppers neatly lined up in wooden containers. In the back corner I spotted a jar of peanut butter. The faint scent of cinnamon wafting through the pantry gave me an idea. I grabbed the peanut butter, a bottle of cinnamon, and a bag of instant pancake mix. Ten minutes later I had three pancakes smeared with peanut butter and rolled like a burrito. I headed to my room with two rolled pancakes in my hand, and the other stuffed in my mouth. Dad wasn’t going to be back for a couple hours, I already knew the hardware store wouldn’t be his only stop. He would hit up the grocery store for another load of dry goods; rice, flour, beans, sugar, oatmeal, and anything else he could bring back and vacuum seal to put away in storage. We already had enough food to feed a whole town for a year, but he couldn’t help himself. Stocking food and supplies was like a hobby for him. I set the two pancakes on my nightstand for later. I’d wake up in the middle of the night looking for a snack. I stripped off my clothes, my wrestling singlet, and put on a sweat shirt and pants. I wanted to take a shower, but the water heater was broken until we put the new one in tomorrow, and anyway, I was exhausted. I was asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.