Dave's Zombie Proof Bunker and Refuge for Unattached Wimmens

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I am sitting in the common room eating cereal when Whip walks in, looking like her old self. It's not just that she seems completely healed. It's the eyes.

For those that can't read them, I feel terribly sorry, but...hey, their loss. The eyes really are the window to her soul. And Whip's eyes reveal a new attitude, an attitude of acceptance, or optimism, and of hope. The world may have gone to hell, but we'll hold on to our little piece of ground and make it heaven. She's barely wearing anything, a t-shirt probably to keep her warm against the very efficient air conditioning, and I don't say a word about it. I'll vouch for her that there are no bites on her after so recently "examining" every inch of her body.

I notice that there are fresh bandages on her leg; Ella must have done that.

"How are you feeling?" I ask, despite knowing the answer.

"Would you care for some Cheerios? There's fresh milk since the dairy cows are producing nicely."

Still, she says nothing and continues to move about the room, clearly uncertain about what to have for breakfast.

"So, even though I would rather you rested for a little longer, I can see that you're not one to be kept confined to a bed. Perhaps we should do more fun stuff today. Darts? Checkers? Movies? What would you like to do?"
 
The promise of fresh milk is welcome, but today I choose oatmeal to go with it. After sitting down, I let Dave pour me a big glass of it.

" Well, I guess I should get to work getting the tank up and running. Right now I wanna get all the drive system off, stripped, and cleaned. Can you help? Its kind of a two-person job."

I stir the oatmeal a little more before beginning to eat. There's more than one reason for me asking for help. One, I really do want to get the tank running, to see what it handles like and what it's capable of. the second is ... well, I like Dave. He's been kind to me and I know working together will bring us closer. The last reason is a lot more personal. Yesterday he managed to see me at my worst, something I don't usually allow people to see. I goddamn fainted, stark naked, in the shower yesterday. A serious lapse in judgement, not to mention consciousness, on my part. Today, I want to prove that I can work and cope just like him. Enough of this sickness and weakness crap.
 
"Come on, then. I've already laid out the tools and the heavy jacks for working on the tank. But are you sure you want to tear one of those down completely? The preventative maintenance on one of those is quite...time consuming."

Seeing her resolve, I know that arguing against taking apart a perfectly running tank is useless. My perfectionist friend means to make sure that it will serve her well and not leave her hanging when she most needs to depend on it. We'll do it. The work will focus her; it will be therapeutic.

"Matter of fact, I've already re-fueled the tank recovery vehicle since we're going to want to use its boom to lift, pull, and winch with. Taking the treads off alone is a massive undertaking for one as petite as you and as lazy as me. LOL"

The steam cleaner is set up, the water tank is full, and there is plenty of sand in the sandblaster. We've got a big job ahead of us and plenty of time to do it.

"I'm going to head up to the ramparts above the bunker and check around before joining you in the motor pool's maintenance bay. See you in a few. Enjoy your oatmeal."


Above the bunker, in the fresh air, the sun is hot. The fields are still and for as far as I can see, there is corn, soy, potatoes, squash, beets, pumpkins, wheat, oats, beans, peas, and straw growing. In other quarters, oranges, apples, pecans, walnuts, and peaches grow in neatly arranged orchards. And in another section, there are black and white Holsteins and brown Swiss cattle for our milk supply, Angus and Senepol cattle for our meat, hogs for our bacon and pulled pork sandwiches, and chickens peck the ground everywhere I look. Clever traps hidden amongst the fields for the living who would harm us and simple traps for the undead who would eat us surround the complex as well as the moat full of Rumple Minz Peppermint Schnapps which circles the bunker itself.

Biodiesel fueled generators power air compressors, air conditioners, water heaters, air circulators, lighting, and microprocessors that all keep us comfortable, safe, and happy. Store rooms full of ammo, canned food, weapons, machine parts, machine shops, millwork shops, firewood, bolts of cloth, and all other manner of things one could expect to need to feed and house up to a hundred other lost souls.

And none of it, none of it, would be complete without the people who have come here to shelter. To build a better life. To resurrect some semblance of order. To live amongst other like minded souls who don't want to simply be scavengers waiting to die. Fighting constantly on the outside to survive. Glad they're all here.

Enough reminiscence. There's work to do. Everything here is fine.

Aaron Tippin said, "Ya gotta get it started if ya wanna get it done" so I'm off to the motor pool and hours upon hours of back breaking work with my friend.
 
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By the time Dave comes to join me, I've managed to wriggle my entire upper boy between the top tread loop and the housing while I loosen the bolt that holds the treads on. despite the tank's good overall appearance, several shoes are broken on this tread alone. Thank goodness I can replace and repair them.

" Help pull me out?"

I wriggle my butt as I finally haul the last bolt loose and toss it to the ground at his feet. All this good food has rather filled me out in the past few weeks, and though I haven't had to go get new pants yet, the ones I have are getting rather snug. Gotta get back to work. Once Dave decides to help me....
 
I watch Whip and barely notice when she asks me to help her extract her body from the tight spot. I was lost in a daydream about her sexy body and a warm shower a little while ago.

Geez, I have to be careful not to get caught staring. She's just...gorgeous.

"Sure, Whip, let me get my hands under your arms and I'll support your upper body while you pull those legs of yours out of there..."

Having my hands on her again, even in a non sexual way, is arousing.

The tank. Yes, the tank. I must concentrate on helping her remove the treads and replacing broken pieces. We'll be plenty sweaty and exhausted soon...maybe there is another shower in our future.

But I can't allow myself to think like that...
 
"Actually, could you please just grab my legs and pull? I'm really stuck here."

My voice echoes off the side wall of the tank. Because of the way I've managed to get myself stuck, he pretty much can't see anything from my waist up. my legs are the only thing visible from the outside. Sure enough, he's soon between my legs, hands on my belt and hauling hard. Once he's gotten the widest part of my rib cage free the rest of me pops out easily. We tumble backwards in the dirt, me landing hard on my ass between his splayed legs. He flops back in the dust, wiggling his arms and legs to make a dust angel.

As soon as I get up he follows, and soon we have the tank treads off and ready for repair. We sit facing each other, each loosening the bolt on a damaged shoe. He's still so dusty me makes clouds when he moves fast. I chuckle at him.

"Looks like someone's gonna need a bath before the NNDP."
 
"You will too, though. Maybe...we could save water and do it together again..."
 
By the way....

Is this zombie-proof bunker also hurricane-proof?
 
"You will too, though. Maybe...we could save water and do it together again..."
I grin at him as he pops out a busted shoe and begins bolting in a fresh one.

"I agree.... And I won't faint on you next time."
 
Driving up in the MUTT I borrowed some time back, I approach with care not knowing what enhancements Dave might have made to the perimeter security. I am careful to announce my arrival well ahead of time with the horn and other obvious sounds of a vehicle piloted by a sentient human.

I park it, noticing the thank being worked on, nodding my approval and wondering what kind of shape its in, and how well supplied with ammo.

"Sorry I had it so long. I promise it's just as shipshape as the night you tossed me the keys. I brought back a few extras for the bunker too," I say, vaguely gesturing toward the bed, numerous rows of fuel cans arranged neatly along with some sacks of miscellaneous supplies.

As I head for the door, exhausted and gaunt, my clothes caked in road dust, sweat and a few new splashes of dried blood, I notice.......something.....about the interplay between Dave and Whip, raising a curious eyebrow but quite frankly too damn tired to do anything about it.
 
I wake up on the floor of the work bay. I wasn't aware that I was so tired that I could fall asleep while working. The work lights cast eerie shadows around the bay, the cool of night has descended on the air like a wet blanket of humidity, and I can hear a ratchet being turned by a mechanic that is gleeful to be doing the work.

"Geez, Whip is still at it..." I whisper.

I look around, wondering what else I missed.

"Oh cool...the MUTT is back!" I exclaim. I had been wondering what had happened to our friend, but knowing that he is particularly skilled in the more manly pursuits, I really wasn't worried about him surviving. The jeep, maybe. After all, it's over thirty five years old. It does appear to be a little more worn, but still serviceable. And I know a young lady who I think can fix it up if anything is damaged.

"Hmmmm, fuel, MRE's, packages of lip gloss for the ladies, bags of jerky, boxes of ammo, and...wait...what's this? Dog tags? How many are here?"

A long string of beaten, bent, and bloody dog tags is tossed upon the pile of scavenged items in the back of the little jeep. Like the trophies taken from fallen foes, they are evidence of something disturbing, something terrible that he must have gone through. I wonder if the servicemen and women that they are taken from were already dead when he encountered them....or did he have to finish them again? No matter the number, one does not mess with the predator at the top of the food chain. In any case--whether they are his trophies of battle or something he found--I hope they died well.

"Whip? Knock it off. You've been at it too long. Hit the showers. That is, if you want to go to the Nightly Naked Dance Party!"

I move towards where I hear the ratchet working. "Did you hear me? Take a break. We're done for the day..."
 
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"Alright, alright, I'm coming."

I set the ratchet down and circle back around the tank to where the MUTT's parked. Dave's standing at the tailgate, looking at something in the back. I slide my arms around his waist and peer out behind him. He's fingering the daisy-chained dogtags. Ick. Neither of us need to deal with whatever Animal's done right now. In fact, we don't need to deal with it at all. His business is his own. I tug Dave backwards, towards the door into the rest of the bunker.

"Let's get a shower honey. And I promise I won't faint on you this time."
 
(so happy to see you guys zombie-ing it up!) :)

We miss you! Come back! :(

"Let's get a shower honey. And I promise I won't faint on you this time."

"You dear, tired girl. Working eighteen hours straight...on that thing? There's no immediate threat to us, but I appreciate that you want it ready."

I slip an arm around her waist and make a decision. "I know you're not that tired, but let me do this, ok?"

And before she can ask what "this" is, I pick her up and carry her in the direction of the showers. I kiss her gently on her pretty lips and say, "Are you sure you're ready for this?"
 
Still slaving away in the kitchen, I hear some movement in the corridor. I guess the aroma of today's offering is starting to attract some hungry residents.

Glancing down the hall, I see Chain headed toward the showers, with a very tired Whip in his arms. She has her arms wrapped tightly around him, and I see her nuzzle his neck as they disappear down the hall.

TheAnimal mentioned to me yesterday that it looked like there was something happening between these two. I smile (more like grin, actually), wondering if we'll see them anymore today. I may have to leave a tray of food for two outside Whip's door...
 
In the showers, I scrub, wash, and caress my friend as she sleepily allows it. The hot water turns her skin red--as red as I'd planned to make it with the palm of my hand later--and she seems to be enjoying my attentions. Small moans escape her lips when I touch sore spots, happy smiles accompany my contact with her sensitive spots.

And that, My Friends, is all you get to know. My personal rules of decorum prevent me from describing further what Whip and I might share in that steamy shower.

;)
 
Fourty-five minutes later Chain and I leave the shower room for the common room. We're both scrubbed clean, and he's got a huge grin on his face. Under my thin camo pants, my legs feel like Jello. I won't go too much into the details of what happened behind those closed doors, but suffice it to say I'll never look at a bottle of shampoo the same way again. Blushing and grinning, we settle down for a movie.

Ella's rattling around in the kitchen, working on something that smells like lasagna. She glances out the doorway at us and quirks an eyebrow in surprise. I guess she wasnt expecting us to come out so soon. I wave, grinning like an idiot. She chuckles and goes back to her work.
 
~looks tentatively inside~

There's no zombie's inside here right?

Oh, Honey, we don't let them in here. This place is for fun, games, and merriment. You're safe on the inside of the bunker. Come on in and join in. It's almost time for the Nightly Naked Dance Party!
 
Hours later, after the party has died down and all are either asleep or off playing somewhere, I walk quietly through the darkened corridors of the silent bunker. The low hum of the air handlers keeps the place ventilated and small LED's come on as I advance through the hallways, lighting my way as the motion sensors turn them on with my approach.

I take several twists and turns, doubling back more than once, making sure that no one is following. The halls are silent and otherwise dark.

At a secret panel, I push a combination of buttons, twist a dial to a predetermined point, and push against the wall. The hidden door yields and I am inside a long hallway that has been unused since the night I "abducted" five of the girls to teach them a lesson about embarrassing me. That didn't end well.

Forty yards down hill of where I entered the hallway, I turn and make a motion in front of a hidden sensor. A light on the opposite wall illuminates and I twist the fixture until another hidden door opens. The hallways ahead appears to be a blind hallway; it dead-ends twenty feet in. Standing on a floor sensor, a piece of the floor falls away to reveal another hidden passage leading even further down. I hop down into the passage and more lights flicker on.


Sixty feet further, I am in an underground workshop near my secret quarters. A collection of digital data is stored here; things that I make sure to keep good copies of in case the outside world destroys all other evidence of it. This may be the library that helps rebuild the culture of the world we knew...if that ever gets re-established.

I put on one of Brad's old radio broadcasts while scanning through pictures, audio files, and large PDF's. Flo from Progressive. William Shakespeare's Othello. The plans to a solar panel. My dad's birth certificate. The exploded view of a Graco G40 Air-Assisted Airless spray gun. A map of Verizon's nationwide 4G coverage. An owner's manual for a lawn mower. And a handbill from an escort service in Las Vegas. And finally, a picture of a bunch of Marines; all earnest, young men, fresh from some very specialized training and ready to eat fire.

All dead now.

Except me.


I open a bottle of Knob Creek bourbon and pour a rocks glass three fingers full.

"To you, Boys. I'm sorry..."
 
At noon the next day, I emerge from the secret citadel deep underneath the bunker. New resolve steels my nerve against what I must do.

A night of self reflection, thought, and problem solving has cleared my head of all the cobwebs. The drink, although completely consumed, did nothing to dent the introspection that went into today's plans. Like a worry stone worn smooth from long use, the determination in my head will no longer abide distractions or sidetracks. This must be done. My sanity is on the line.

Whip's attentions surely helped to clear my head of the lackadaisical attitude that had crept in. Too many things have been ignored, allowed to fall by the wayside, or just plain been neglected. The generators need servicing. The hot water heater elements should be checked. The desalination plant needs preventative maintenance. Left unchecked, any of these things could eventually be our undoing.

But more than the maintenance on the physical plant of the bunker's confines, it's the maintenance of our safety that is of concern. These ladies have come here for shelter because it's practically the only game in town, not because of my sparkling personality or chiseled good looks...or my self effacing sarcasm.

ANYTHING that threatens the bunker or even threatens me, threatens THEM. I must protect the first two to insure the third. "In the event of loss of cabin pressure, an oxygen mask will drop down. Place it over your own face and breathe normally. Make sure yours is on first before helping small children or others..."

Yes, the lesson is that I must be at 110% to keep them at 100%.

My night with my friend woke me up to that. That here is something worth protecting, worthy of cherishing, demanding of the best of care. And if I am complacent, slack, neglectful, lazy, or allow my guard down, then she--and her sisters who live here with us--are all in danger. What a night. And what a day it will be.



"It's on, Bitches," I say to nobody in particular as I exit the bunker through the hidden steel man door from the motor pool. Securing it behind me, I make one last check of equipage.

Bullet resistant vest (Bullet proof? Yeah, show me that. I'll believe it when I see it.), a sharpened machete, a Glock 20 with seven magazines loaded with hollow point ammo, and a "borrowed" M16A3 rifle that I liberated from one of the Guardsman at the check point when we were recovering the tank. It's magazines and those of the Glock are such a heavy weight, I have my doubts about moving easily, but I am carrying water, plan on moving very cautiously, and my plan requires careful, methodical work. I have a radio in case I need to call the bunker for help, but I don't know what they could do if I do bite off more than I can chew.

Mounted atop the rifle is an infrared scope, in case I'm out here after dark. There's dirty work afoot.

Moving into the corn, I step gingerly between the rows, wondering if I might fade and disappear like the ball players in Field of Dreams.

I channel Elmer Fudd as I whisper, "Be vewwwwy, vewwwwwy quiet. We're hunting scarecrows..."
 
Deep in the rows of corn, after hours of searching, I stop as I do every couple of minutes to listen.

As usual, I only hear the dry skin sounds of corn leaves rubbing against each other in the light wind. the rifle is heavy in my hand. Sweat drips into my eyes. And frustration is sinking in. Perhaps, I'm sane after all. There are no scarecrows--moving or otherwise--in this cornfield. At least not that I can see.

I crouch, to look between rows where the stalks are thinner. No huge corn leaves down here to obstruct my view.

I am about to stand back up and resume the search when a noise reaches my ears; a new noise.

A scratching...as if something is being dragged. And way off to my left...the west...I think. The corn field is large and I've been here a long time, so I may be confused about directions.

I swear I see something move and I am moving, carefully, weapon at the high ready position. It can't be an illusion. I will find it.

And as I get close to the spot where I am sure I heard and saw movement, the small radio crackles in my vest. It's Whip.

"Dave, where are you? What are you doing out there?"
 
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