Atomic Soliloquy

“I doubt anyone remembers,” I murmured. “Except maybe that faithful dog of yours, the one you found tucked away behind the old filling station. She was a digger, that one.”

“When was that?” you asked, furrowing your brow. “Must’ve been back in 2024 –– no, the War hadn’t started yet. And you were driving that sleek Tesla, so it must’ve been ’28, now that I think about it.”

“You can’t dig much in these hills,” I chuckled. “But that hound sure gave it her all.”

“She didn’t dig a hole, per se. Just a deep divot, more like a bowl. But if we’d had a drop of rain, we’d have had ourselves a proper swimming spot. Probably would’ve attracted a few rattlesnakes, too.”

“You spent most of that summer in that pit, moving dirt and rocks. Then you started bringing tools –– a spade at first, then a pick and auger.”

“I had no idea what you were searching for. Silver? Buried treasure? Never in my wildest dreams did I think you’d find what you did.”

“You used to talk about building a fortress against Hell’s fires. Thought you were just being poetic, talking about survival. Never imagined a literal underground refuge, though.”

“Whether you were preparing for Lucifer’s army or some other catastrophe, who knows? But when Washington DC melted in a blinding flash, your foresight seemed eerily prescient.”

“I still don’t know how that dog knew where to dig. Maybe it was just luck. But she saved us. And you, too, for finding that hatch.”

“I try not to dwell on it. We had a good life down here, away from the chaos above.”

“It feels like a lifetime ago,” I said softly, pulling the sheet over your face.

He pushed down on the recorder’s stop button and considered redoing the soliloquy following the loud rumble that echoed through the bunker. Instead, he left it as it was.

He was nearly eighty and couldn’t wait for death any longer. With a sigh, he rose from his weathered rocking chair, gathering his strength.

It was time to face the world above one last time, even if it meant confronting some desolate battlefield. But the hatch wouldn’t budge. A century’s worth of dirt and rock had sealed it shut.

“From the looks of that old foundation there, it looks like a house sat here once,” the surveyor remarked.