Survival

The war was inevitable. Everyone saw it coming, yet nobody was able to figure out how to stop the missiles from screaming through the skies. Nobody could create peace to stop death. The only ones that still slept were the nuclear missiles. It seemed the only thing anyone could agree on was the fact that the planet needed to be livable for when the war was over.

When I was ten, my father was drafted. The war itself was already five years old and each side seemed to be running out of the younger generations to run into the battlefield for their cause. Before he left, he made sure that my mother and I were in a position to survive. In desperation, pacts were formed and smaller groups of people came together like never before. For most people, survival in the face of death trumped the petty squabbles.

Sure, factions formed and the most fervent and fanatical became exclusive. Years of strife showed us that extremists lived in every corner of life. But, for the most part, the walls of religion crumbled, skin color stopped being stigmatized, and being rich meant little to nothing. All that mattered was making sure we got through the next day and surviving the next missile hell bent on hitting our home.

Shortly after my father left, my mother got more involved; anything to be able to fill the emptiness made by his absence. I wasn’t insulted, I felt it too. She ended up joining the nurses guild and volunteered any chance she got. I would tag along as much as I could. It was a mix of being afraid of losing her too, and the same urge to fill the piece of me that always felt missing after my father left. Seven years and countless lives saved, mom was helping clear rubble and searching for survivors when a bomb exploded from under the rubble. From what we could gather, the bomb hadn’t detonated on impact as designed. Instead, the shifting rubble managed to hit it just the right way.

The memorial service was beautiful. Many of the people that she saved showed up to give their thanks and pay their respects. I did my best to be strong. I didn’t cry… at least, not until after everyone left. Call it stubbornness, call it pride, I just felt like the people there needed to see the strength. Maybe it would help give them hope. Maybe it would help strengthen how they remembered my mom. Enough of them said I reminded them of her. They must have known. Everyone saw me leave when the service was finished. Nobody followed me. They let me have my space and my time. They definitely knew.

About an hour after I left, I found my way back to the camp. It was getting to be about the time they started prepping the food. Rodney, our resident chef, was a genius. No matter what he had, now matter how much, he always had a smile and always knew how to blend the food so we would forget that we were on rations. Somehow, it always hit the spot. When he saw me walk back into the camp, Rodney called me over. I had offered to help prep, or clean up after. Whatever I could do to keep me out of my own mind.

“Don’t worry about us today.” Rodney started after we finished the pleasantries. “We have enough people here that you can take one day off.” Before I could say anything, Rodney cut me off. He knew me well enough that he expected me to not take no as an answer. That day, his will seemed absolute. There was no convincing him. “When you’re done eating, I want you to come see me, right here in the kitchen.”, he instructed before ushering me back out of his work space. A bell rang from behind the kitchen doors and the volunteers on kitchen duty started making their way over. Some of them avoided eye contact, others just smiled meekly as they passed. I found myself kind of grateful for their silence and distance. All the attention from the day started to get to me, and I’m not sure I would have been able to really handle any more without cracking.

When I say that Rodney is magical, I mean it. Dinner was a simple potato and beef stew, and yet, as I ate, I could almost feel the sadness dissipate. After returning the dishes for the cleanup team, I made sure to keep my promise and found Rodney in the back of the kitchen, enjoying a rare cigarette. “They don’t make them like they used to kiddo.” Rodney welcomed me with a grin as he stood and stretched his arms out for a hug. “That’s cause they don’t make them at all anymore, Rodney.” I couldn’t help the smile as it crossed my face and he gave me a big bear hug. Rodney’s hugs were almost as magical as his food.

“Here, your mother wanted me to make sure this made its way to you if something happened to her.” Rodney reached up to the top shelf and pulled down a small wooden box. “She said some of the things in there were left by your father. She added something herself.” Rodney explained as he handed it over. “I don’t know what’s in there; gave my word to only let you open it. Feel free to do it here or at home, up to you kid. You know where to find me if you need me.”

I thanked Rodney with another hug and excused myself. Not knowing what was in the box made me worried I’d crack again and not be able to keep my emotions contained. Better to open it in private. When I got home, I went straight to my room and lit the lantern next to my bed. I didn’t really feel like letting people know I was home by turning on the lights. I didn’t want to open the invitation.

The box was simple, probably salvaged from one of the hardware stores when they were taken out. The words “WITH LOVE” were etched into the top of the box. My mom always did have a knack for being sentimental. With a deep breath, I undid the clasp and opened the lid. A lump caught in my throat as the first thing that caught my eye was my mother’s wedding ring. She hated taking it off, but hated the idea of losing it in the field more. Next to the ring was a key, a compass, and a heart shaped locket. That’s when I noticed the only other thing in the box was a map of what used to be the state of New York and a letter from my father.

Well, letter isn’t really the best word. It was more just a quick message. “I love you more than you’ll ever know. I hope we can see each other again. I left you one last multicache.” The last sentence made me smile through the tears. Geocaching was my favorite pastime with my father. I was only five, but there was so much adventure in finding things hidden in seemingly random places. Opening the locket, a picture of my parents was on the left. On the right were a pair of coordinates.

The next morning, I found Rodney sharpening his knives for the day. After I explained what was in the box, Rodney smiled and gave me a hug. “Before you go, let me get you something.” Going into a back room, Rodney came back and handed me a large blade. “It’s dangerous to go alone. Take this.” Rodney paused. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”, he chuckled. “But on a serious note, you make sure you come back.” When I agreed, Rodney packed some food, wished me luck, and sent me on my way with another hug.

When you grow up in a beaten and battered world, using a compass and map becomes second nature to make sure you can get home. I doubt my father saw that part coming, but my mom definitely wanted to help me find the coordinates in the pendant. After about forty-five minutes, I reached the coordinates, not far from where our family home used to be. I recognized it easily, this was the site of my first geocache. My elementary school was in ruins, but some of the walls were still intact. Grabbing a large stick, I started to dig. Five holes later, I hit the ammo can my father had buried here. In a sealed bag, another map sat with a second set of coordinates. Beneath them, my father wrote “If we never see each other again, I hope this helps. Don’t forget the neighbors loved to burrow.”

I could have guessed the location of the second set of coordinates. My family’s house was long gone, but my father insisted on the foundation being reinforced. The rectangle that framed the basement still stood. A few cracks from detonations crawled across the cement. We were the last house on a dead end street, so I walked between where our house and our neighbor’s once stood. Grabbing the sharpest things I could, I started to poke and prod as close to center as possible.

The dirt was loose from recent nearby explosions, so it was easy to work with. After about twenty minutes, I felt a thud at the other end of my impromptu digging tool. It took another thirty minutes of digging to clear what looked like an iron grate. I grabbed the key and tried to clear as much dirt out of the lock as possible. Just as I heard the click of the lock, I could hear the sirens start to cry out in the distance. Another bombing run was on the way. I pulled the door up and open, grabbed the ladder inside and climbed down just enough to close and lock the door from the inside.

Even though I was tired from the work, I climbed down until I couldn’t go further. As I reached the landing, the ground and foundation shook, but stood firm. I lit the lantern I had packed so that I could see what was there. A doorway led further into the bunker. Above the door were the words “Be Safe” painted in yellow. With enough food for the night, I decided to stay and find Rodney in the morning. I’m not sure how long my father was working on this, but the bunker was massive. There was plenty of space for everyone. On a shelf was an empty book. The cover said :”Tell your story”. So here I am, except it’s not just my story. It’s the story of my friends and my family. It’s the story of my parents who did everything to make sure I would survive doomsday.