One Shot

One Shot

Clive watched the bunker for the past eight days, long enough that his supplies were dwindling. He saw the skinny man head out before sunrise every other morning, with a rifle and a backpack, probably hunting for small game. He never heard a shot fired, and the skinny man always returned empty handed.

On the ninth day, the skinny man left the bunker in the late morning with a larger pack and overnight gear. He headed in a different direction than he normally did. This was Clive’s chance.

Clive carefully circled around to the west of the bunker and kept as much space between himself and the skinny man as he could, both to avoid being seen and to cover his tracks. It took him about 30 minutes to get through the thick underbrush and reach the hidden bunker entrance.

He paused to listen. He heard only the chatter of birds and the wind. He felt confident no one else was in the bunker. After watching closely for the past eight days, other occupants or a guard dog would have made themselves known. He was alone.

He scanned the entrance for booby traps. The most common were trip wires tied to hidden shotguns and shallow pits that contained sharp punji sticks, but in a collapsed and chaotic world, even military spec landmines were possible. Clive was methodical, but quick. He’d watched the skinny man enter and exit the bunker numerous times now and observed that he did not seem particularly worried about where he stepped.

He slowly pushed the steel bunker door open and probed into the dark space with his 9mm handgun. Some outside light filtered into the space from somewhere above and more poured into the entrance as he stepped inside.

The bunker was surprisingly large, dank, and musty. On the far end, metal shelves were stocked with bottled water and boxes of random supplies, blankets, hand warmers, tools, and what looked like a military field radio that might even work. There wasn’t any food, but still, this was quite a score.

Click.

Clive froze, his heart stopped and he felt his skin ice up with sweat. It wasn’t the sound of a gun cocking, but it was definitely mechanical, and intentional. The door had closed behind him. Maybe it was the wind, he thought.

Beeep.

Clive’s eyes went to the red numerals on a digital display next to the door which read 2:00, and started counting down.

Clive’s heart stopped. He holstered the 9mm and walked back to the door and the display. How could he be so careless? He’d never seen the skinny man attend to any booby traps on the outside of the bunker, but it was impossible to see what he might have done inside the bunker whenever he entered and exited.

The digital display was wired to a circuit board, and from there more wires led into a bundle of dynamite on the floor nearby. Next to the door there was a keypad from an old ADT alarm. Two black wires led from the keypad to the door, where two metal contact tabs had been welded in place. The circuit closed when the door closed. Two more wires led from the ADT keypad back to the circuit board. It looked a little shabby, but it looked real enough.

1:39 and counting.

Clive pulled out his knife and flashlight to inspect the device. This situation was a cliché in the bygone days of Hollywood movies before the world crumbled…a countdown timer, a bomb, a red wire, a green wire, and yellow wire, and the hero trying to determine which wire to cut to stop the device from blowing everything to bits. And in the movies, the hero always guessed right.

But all these wires were black and Clive knew nothing about bombs. Anything he did would be a guess. He followed the wires from the door to the circuit board, and tried to trace the paths from where they were soldered to the circuit board along the labyrinth of little gold lines to determine what was what, but it was hopeless. Any one of the wires could be the right one to cut and render the bomb inactive, or the wrong one. He looked at the wires that led to the contact points at the door again. It was fairly obvious by the design that opening the door, cutting the wires on the door or in any way breaking the circuit would set off the device, otherwise what was the point?

1:14 on the timer.

Wait a minute, Clive thought. Gold. Gold. He reached to his collar and pulled out the gold chain and heart shaped locket. Mary had given him this, it was all he had left. He carefully unhooked the chain and tucked the locket into his satchel. The chain was probably gold plated, not solid gold, but it might conduct enough current and maintain the circuit long enough for him to squeeze through. He dug through his bag and found some duct tape. Electric tape would be better, but this would have to do. This was his one shot.

:48 on the timer.

Clive taped the ends of the chain to either side of the contacts on the door. He pressed on the tape at either end, trying to make the contacts as secure as possible, and took a deep breath as he pulled the door open. The contacts parted….and nothing happened.

:34 on the timer...

Clive opened the door as wide as the chain would let him, careful not to allow the slightest amount of tension on the chain, lest the contact break. At its widest it would still be a tight squeeze. He started with his right leg, and then his arm, holding the door firm. He slid his pelvis into the gap, then his shoulders, and finally his head. He kept count and figured he had another 20 seconds. He slid through to the other side of the door, and was clear, and then carefully backed away as he gently pushed the door closed.

He turned and faced the morning light, feeling the fresh air on his face for a second as he prepared to sprint away from the bunker. But he didn’t.

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The skinny man’s legs were tired - he had to hurry and get into position. He’d not eaten much in weeks, his diet limited to the berries and mushrooms he could scrounge up on his outings, and his traps hadn’t caught any game in nearly a month. His stomach ached constantly and the headaches were unbearable. He walked onward, wading through the thick brush and up the hillside to his vantage point, pulled out his rifle and waited for his prey.

Pop.

The skinny man fired the one and only round he had for his Remington hunting rifle. He emptied the chamber and collected the shell casing so he could repack it and use it again. He watched as the man outside the bunker teetered, stumbled, and fell at the entrance. His trap had worked, his fake bomb made of road flares and scavenged electronics had bought him the time he needed to get into position for the perfect shot.

He’d eat well tonight.