Fiction: Bunker
Jun. 28th, 2012 10:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clare_dragonflyTitle: Bunker
Word count: 802
Rating: PG
Prompt:![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
rainbowfic Tyrian Purple 2, hold up the sky; Heart Gold 16, Love is, above all, the gift of oneself. - Jean Anouilh, stayintheroom prompt
Notes: Jorik is the last entry, lily, from Flowers for the Queen.
The radio broadcast had stopped four hours ago. He couldn’t get any stations at all now. He didn’t know quite what that meant, but it couldn’t be anything good.
Still, the sounds had stopped. The bombing seemed to be over, at least in their area.
Jorik still waited.
His city had been fairly lucky. They weren’t considered important politically, only culturally, and not as important as some other cities. So the enemies had tended to ignore them. Until recently, of course.
He hadn’t held out much hope that the city would be spared, but there must have been a little hope in his heart, because now he felt that it had been crushed.
Eventually, though, he realized that he had to leave the bunker. True, he had food, water, and batteries here to last weeks—months, now that the only things he might use the batteries for were the air purifier and the flashlights. The radio was no use any more. But if he hid here, not even knowing what was going on in the outside world, he would be a coward. There might be people out there he could help.
Some of his students might still be out there.
So he came out of the bunker, holding his flashlight in one hand and a heavy stick to defend himself with if necessary in the other. When he breathed the air, he knew that his city was still fairly lucky. True, it was thick with dust and the sky was dim, though he thought it was afternoon. But there was no poison in the air to kill anyone who breathed it. And if any contagions had been sprayed, they were not fast-acting, because he continued to breathe shallowly and did not feel himself rotting or erupting with boils.
But when he turned down the street and saw what was waiting for him at the end of it, his heart stuttered in his chest and for a moment he couldn’t breathe.
He’d loved his job, been a principal for longer than most, even bought a house down the street from his school so he would never be far from work. When the sirens had begun, he’d been halfway there; he’d wavered for just a moment before turning and running to the bunker he’d built himself, hoping that the bunker below the school—built by the government—would be able to hold a few more students that way.
But apparently his house had instead been just far enough away to avoid the bomb radius. The school was collapsed, and there was no movement there.
He ran down the street until he reached it, at which point he had to pause and catch his breath—all the dust in the air was making him wheeze. There was a terrible silence. He pushed aside bits of fallen wall and ceiling until he found the place where the door to the bunker should have been.
Either it was open, or the collapsing building had broken through the door. Jorik pulled out more pieces of debris. The muscles of his arms burned with the unaccustomed effort. He had to stop and pant. When he’d pulled out enough that he could see down into the darkness below, he cupped his hands and shouted. “Hello? Is anyone down there? Are you all right?”
Silence. He turned on his flashlight and shone it around. There were no movement or shapes down there, nothing but more dust and debris. There was no sign of anyone.
Not until he turned and saw the hand that stuck out between two boards.
His heart broke when he saw it. It didn’t move or twitch. He fell to his knees and clasped the hand. It was cold. It must have been dead for hours.
If he had come out of his bunker sooner, would he have been able to save someone?
He had to tell himself no. They had died when the building had collapsed on them. If anyone had survived, it would be because they had gotten out first.
He didn’t know whose hand it was, but he squeezed it tightly and wept.
Then he stood, slow and shaky, feeling as though he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Some of his students might have gotten out. They might be out there, lost and confused, orphaned.
He loved his job, his students. The school building might be destroyed, education itself might be irrelevant in this world after a bomb, but he could still be a responsible principal. He could still find them and do whatever he might be able to do to help them.
If nothing else, there was his bunker, and his presence.
He turned away from the school and walked back, leaving the bomb radius. He would find them.
Did you enjoy this story? You can read more stories in this world or see all my fiction posted at Dreamwidth!
Word count: 802
Rating: PG
Prompt:
rainbowfic Tyrian Purple 2, hold up the sky; Heart Gold 16, Love is, above all, the gift of oneself. - Jean Anouilh, stayintheroom promptNotes: Jorik is the last entry, lily, from Flowers for the Queen.
The radio broadcast had stopped four hours ago. He couldn’t get any stations at all now. He didn’t know quite what that meant, but it couldn’t be anything good.
Still, the sounds had stopped. The bombing seemed to be over, at least in their area.
Jorik still waited.
His city had been fairly lucky. They weren’t considered important politically, only culturally, and not as important as some other cities. So the enemies had tended to ignore them. Until recently, of course.
He hadn’t held out much hope that the city would be spared, but there must have been a little hope in his heart, because now he felt that it had been crushed.
Eventually, though, he realized that he had to leave the bunker. True, he had food, water, and batteries here to last weeks—months, now that the only things he might use the batteries for were the air purifier and the flashlights. The radio was no use any more. But if he hid here, not even knowing what was going on in the outside world, he would be a coward. There might be people out there he could help.
Some of his students might still be out there.
So he came out of the bunker, holding his flashlight in one hand and a heavy stick to defend himself with if necessary in the other. When he breathed the air, he knew that his city was still fairly lucky. True, it was thick with dust and the sky was dim, though he thought it was afternoon. But there was no poison in the air to kill anyone who breathed it. And if any contagions had been sprayed, they were not fast-acting, because he continued to breathe shallowly and did not feel himself rotting or erupting with boils.
But when he turned down the street and saw what was waiting for him at the end of it, his heart stuttered in his chest and for a moment he couldn’t breathe.
He’d loved his job, been a principal for longer than most, even bought a house down the street from his school so he would never be far from work. When the sirens had begun, he’d been halfway there; he’d wavered for just a moment before turning and running to the bunker he’d built himself, hoping that the bunker below the school—built by the government—would be able to hold a few more students that way.
But apparently his house had instead been just far enough away to avoid the bomb radius. The school was collapsed, and there was no movement there.
He ran down the street until he reached it, at which point he had to pause and catch his breath—all the dust in the air was making him wheeze. There was a terrible silence. He pushed aside bits of fallen wall and ceiling until he found the place where the door to the bunker should have been.
Either it was open, or the collapsing building had broken through the door. Jorik pulled out more pieces of debris. The muscles of his arms burned with the unaccustomed effort. He had to stop and pant. When he’d pulled out enough that he could see down into the darkness below, he cupped his hands and shouted. “Hello? Is anyone down there? Are you all right?”
Silence. He turned on his flashlight and shone it around. There were no movement or shapes down there, nothing but more dust and debris. There was no sign of anyone.
Not until he turned and saw the hand that stuck out between two boards.
His heart broke when he saw it. It didn’t move or twitch. He fell to his knees and clasped the hand. It was cold. It must have been dead for hours.
If he had come out of his bunker sooner, would he have been able to save someone?
He had to tell himself no. They had died when the building had collapsed on them. If anyone had survived, it would be because they had gotten out first.
He didn’t know whose hand it was, but he squeezed it tightly and wept.
Then he stood, slow and shaky, feeling as though he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Some of his students might have gotten out. They might be out there, lost and confused, orphaned.
He loved his job, his students. The school building might be destroyed, education itself might be irrelevant in this world after a bomb, but he could still be a responsible principal. He could still find them and do whatever he might be able to do to help them.
If nothing else, there was his bunker, and his presence.
He turned away from the school and walked back, leaving the bomb radius. He would find them.
Did you enjoy this story? You can read more stories in this world or see all my fiction posted at Dreamwidth!