The Last War by Elese Mathis
During a world-ending nuclear war, Emma is trapped as a servant in a luxuriously appointed bunker.
Emma wanted so much to shut off the television, but this wasn't her house. Mrs. Thompson binged post-apocalyptic films night and day, even if no one was in the room to watch them. When the Last War was all anyone ever talked about, the last thing Emma wanted to see or hear were movies about the end of the world.
She slapped the floor with her soaked mop and raked it back and forth. The sloshing couldn't drown out the wails of the movie characters fleeing from bloodthirsty aliens.
Emma stopped mopping.
It was strange. People said this war would mark the end of everything, and yet, instead of her life ending in chaos and screams, here she was, serving Mrs. Thompson and her series of never-ending parties.
It wasn't exactly what she expected.
Mrs. Thompson's six-inch heels clacked against the freshly mopped floor as she marched into the foyer. Tonight, she wore a sleeveless, silk emerald gown that hugged her hips and flared out like the petals of a tulip.
"Emma," Mrs. Thompson said her name like a mother reprimanding a child, "don't just stand around watching television." She shut off the TV. Her dress spun as she glided across the floor to the golden mirror mounted on the wall. Her head tilted as she glowed at her reflection and teased her maroon hair. "The guests are due to arrive any minute now," she cautioned.
"Yes, ma'am." Emma left the room to stow away the mop and bucket.
Where did Mrs. Thompson get the energy to throw these parties night after night? Maybe this was her way to distract herself from the mounting casualties of the Last War. Though, of course, it's easy to throw parties when you don't have to clean up after them.
Next on Emma's to-do list was to check the centerpieces on the dining table. She had placed fresh, white roses there this morning but had to make sure that none of them had wilted. Mrs. Thompson wouldn't care for that at all.
When she arrived at the dining room, Mrs. Thompson had beaten her there and was in the process of inspecting her work. With her hands behind her back, she surveyed the immaculate area like a sergeant examining his troops. With a raised eyebrow, she said, "Everything seems to be in order."
Emma ran her hands over her black and white maid's uniform, smoothing her apron. "This isn't my first rodeo, ma'am."
Mrs. Thompson nodded. "Indeed." She took slow steps and circled Emma like a shark. "And it most certainly won't be your last."
Although her boss's comment didn't surprise her, Emma didn't let the disappointment show on her face. These parties would be an endless torment. Emma asked, "Mrs. Thompson, how long do you plan to continue on with these celebrations?"
Instead of answering Emma straight away, the woman strolled to the French doors that lead to the balcony, overlooking the city. Streaks of light pierced the night sky. The first time Emma saw one, she naively thought that the missiles were falling stars.
In a benevolent tone, Mrs. Thompson answered, "We'll keep having the parties until we run out of guests, wine, or until the bombs fall," she smiled through perfect teeth, "whichever comes first."
Emma's face fell.
Mrs. Thompson's emerald dress sparkled as she spun from the window to face Emma. "I know it's a lot of work for you, and I do appreciate your resilience. But when we're trapped here, you will look back at these parties with the utmost fondness."
The absurdity of the comment made Emma grimace. Did Mrs. Thompson seriously believe that she enjoyed serving these people?
The household computer announced that the guests had arrived. Followed by her maid, Mrs. Thompson rushed to the entrance and flung the mahogany doors open. The hostess squealed at the sight of the older, extravagantly dressed couple, in what Emma thought was an over-the-top effort to feign excitement at seeing them. They hadn't spoken to each other in the past decade.
"Maryanne Carter, you look gorgeous." Mrs. Thompson greeted her with a la bise. Emma accepted Maryanne's fur coat and hung it on the rack next to the door. The woman didn't thank or otherwise acknowledge the maid's existence. The guest's gown was as lavish as her hostess's, and her salt and pepper hair was arranged in an attractive braid.
Maryanne looked Mrs. Thompson up and down. "You look quite stunning! Is that dress an Albec original?"
Mrs. Thompson attempted to conceal a modest smile, but only the glitter of her diamond necklace outshined the gleam on her face. "You always did have an eye for fashion, Maryanne."
Bill Carter showed no interest in his wife's praise of Mrs. Thompson's dress. He eyed the mansion's dazzling chandeliers, its priceless art, and the marble that covered its floors and walls. In a skeptical tone, he said, "When you invited us to see your new Burbank Bunker, I couldn't pass up the opportunity. But now that I'm here, it doesn't look like a bunker at all." He chuckled. "Are you sure that you didn't get swindled?"
The group drifted further into the foyer and stopped at the base of twin staircases, covered with a blood red carpet.
Maryanne raised a hand to her chest and said, "Actually, I'm relieved that it is so lovely. When you first told me that you were held up in a bunker, I envisioned that you were living in a hole in the ground. But this," she paused to admire the grand piano underneath the staircase, "this is simply stunning."
"My husband wouldn't have been able to sell me on a Burbank Bunker otherwise," Mrs. Thompson said. "Even if it weren't for the war, we would have bought it. Its security features are second to none."
This comment interested the couple, and they asked Mrs. Thompson to expound upon the security. She claimed that it was impossible to break into the house. "The computer knows who lives here," she said. "Only residents can enter the front door."
Bill asked, "And how exactly does the computer know that?" After Mrs. Thompson struggled and failed to provide an explanation, he said, "How can you assert that a Burbank Bunker is impenetrable when you don't even know how it works?"
Standing behind the three of them, Emma spoke up. "The computer employs a triple biometric encryption system." She pointed to the entrance. "The cameras at the front door scan the face and iris for visual confirmation and reconcile the voice against its internal audio file."
Impressed, Bill smiled and nodded. After asking Emma for her name, Maryanne asked, "How is it that you know so much about computers?"
Although Emma didn't think she had demonstrated that she knew a lot about computers, she appreciated the compliment. "I'm going to school for computer science," she said.
The guests were even more astonished by this, and praised her. Emma felt Mrs. Thompson's eyes burn through her as she drew away attention from the subject of the bunker.
Maryanne said, "You are a bright girl to qualify for the education lottery! What made you apply?"
Emma bowed her head in acknowledgement and said, "I grew up in the north, in the slums. We often had to choose between paying for food or electricity. In the months we couldn't afford power, we were freezing all the time." The Carters appeared interested in Emma's story without feeling pity for her. "I wanted a better life, and getting a degree was the best way to do it, so I applied. I never dreamt I would actually win, but when I was accepted, I packed everything and moved here with my mom."
"You had to move?" Maryanne asked. "Why couldn't you just go to school where you're from?"
Bill crossed his arms. "There aren't colleges up there anymore, dear."
"Of course," his wife mumbled. She looked uncomfortable and then changed the subject. "What are your plans after you graduate?"
Mrs. Thompson rested her hands on Emma's shoulders and squeezed them. Both women were the same height, but in her heels, Mrs. Thompson towered over her servant. Her manicured nails dug into Emma and verged on being painful. She answered on Emma's behalf, "Our Emma plans to spend many, many years with us, safe here in our bunker." She looked down at her with a broad smile. Emma didn't return it.
Mrs. Thompson was right. In the event she finished her degree, what were the chances there would be a world left for her to use it in. She would be trapped here with the Thompsons for the upcoming decades.
Bill asked where Mr. Thompson was.
With a toss of her hair, Mrs. Thompson replied, "Oh, he's in here somewhere. This house is easy to get lost in."
Bill scoffed and scanned the area with his eyes. "It doesn't look that massive."
Mrs. Thompson led them underneath the staircase toward an embellished, wooden door. A diagram of a helix was carved into it with gold emboss. She gripped the golden door handle and, with a glint in her eye, said, "Looks can be deceiving." She pulled the door open.
The door opened to a steel stairwell, less ornate than the one in the foyer, but still attractive. Everyone followed Mrs. Thompson's descent down. Dim lights embedded in the walls lit their steps.
Unbeknownst to the guest, this was a game that Mrs. Thompson played at her parties. Her husband was always curiously absent, which warranted her giving guests a tour of the bunker while searching for him.
"You see, Bill," Mrs. Thompson said, "the real house is underground. The house you just saw is a red herring." Her red fingernail pointed upward. "The upper levels can be all wiped away because the underground bunker is blast proof, impact proof, radiation proof."
Unimpressed, he glanced at the bare, dark, and undecorated concrete walls. The area was rough and seemed unfinished. "But how big is it," Bill asked, "these lower levels?"
They were two levels down now and had reached a metallic door, which Mrs. Thompson pushed open. The motion sensors detected their presence and filled the room with light.
Maryanne gasped as she stepped into the room. "You have your own supermarket?"
They passed carts and baskets as Mrs. Thompson took them deeper inside the mock store. Rows of shelves, stocked with canned food, toilet paper, and other household goods, filled the three thousand square foot room. Easy listening music played throughout speakers. Bill picked up a can of nonstick spray and examined it before returning it to the shelf.
"This is our supply room," Mrs. Thompson said. "Burbank Bunkers designs them to simulate the shopping experience."
Emma suppressed a chuckle as she imagined Mrs. Thompson pushing a cart around to mimic shopping for groceries, an experience she doubted the woman ever had done in her life.
Having browsed all the aisles, Mrs. Thompson asked, "Onto the next level?"
She showed them the wonders of the fitness level. They passed an Olympic-sized pool to survey tennis, basketball, and racquetball courts. They weaved through weights, treadmills, and other gym equipment to reach the door to the next level, the entertainment center, which included a theater with hundreds of seats. Emma never understood its purpose. The Burbank Company knew that almost all the seats would go unfilled, so why were they there? Like the store, she guessed it was intended merely to simulate an experience. Even when the world was desolate outside their walls, excess would surround the Thompsons.
The following level was the library. Books ascended from the floor toward the muraled ceiling, modeled after the Sistine Chapel. Although Emma considered the knockoff to be tacky, the guests were impressed by the quality of the imitation. Comfortable sofas filled the floor, and in the corner was Mr. Thompson's desk. Wearing a jacket over his black turtleneck, the man was occupied, typing on a laptop.
"Darling," his wife sang out.
At the sight of the group, Mr. Thompson rose from his work to greet the Carters. They complimented his extraordinary bunker.
"I'm afraid we must cut the tour short," Mr. Thompson addressed his wife, "If we show them the entire bunker, we'll never have time for dinner."
The Carters marveled that there was even more of the bunker to see. On their way back to the house above ground, they showered their hosts with questions, from the bunker's cost to its construction. Their sycophantic praises of the Thompsons for being wise enough to order a bunker made Emma nauseous.
The worship didn't stop by the time they reached the dining table. As they took their seats, Bill said, "No one saw it coming. While we all thought WWIII would be the last, they were here, building this fortress!" He raised his hands above his head and shook them with victory.
Maryanne rested a hand over her pearls. "I didn't think that WWIII would be the last. A first world war is an anomaly. A second is a fluke. But a third is -"
"A nuke," Mrs. Thompson interrupted her with a giggle.
"No!" Maryanne exclaimed. Emma reached in front of her to pour chardonnay into her glass, interrupting her train of thought. "Thank you, dear." She nodded to Emma, "No, a third world war is a cycle, a trend. I always expected another war after the third, but I didn't have the foresight to think of building a bunker."
Bill said, "After WWIII, we bought property in the wastelands up north to prepare." He looked up at Emma who poured his wine. "The land where you're from, young lady."
Emma smiled down at him and went to pour Mrs. Thompson's glass. She ignored her maid and asked Bill, "Why would anyone want to buy property in the frozen north? Everyone's trying to move down here."
"Because it's frozen, it isn't a target for the bomb," Bill said. "How many missile strikes is Kansas getting about now?"
Mrs. Thompson waved his remark away. "Enough about wars. This is a party! Emma has prepared us a wonderful dinner, duck a l'orange. And afterwards, we will close the evening by watching fireworks on the balcony."
Bill coughed from the water he drank too quickly. "Fireworks? You even arranged for those? Aren't those banned because of the war?"
For a second, Mrs. Thompson appeared annoyed and said, "Missiles, Bill. That's what we call the missiles. They always go off between eight and ten."
He coughed again and his large belly jiggled. "Isn't that grim - almost celebratory of the state that the world is in?"
In defense of his wife, Mr. Thompson pushed up his glasses and said, "The world has always been in a precarious state. We shall survive this world war, just as we did the third." He raised his wine glass.
Mrs. Thompson raised hers as well. "To the survivors." The guests joined her in the toast although they appeared skeptical while doing it.
Behind them, Emma rolled out the duck on a cart and began to carve and serve it for the table.
Maryanne turned the wine stem between her fingers. "We aren't exactly survivors yet. A war must end before you can survive it."
Bill rested his elbows on the table and folded his hands. "On the subject of that - this bunker of yours - there appears to be plenty of room in it, enough for at least two more." The man stared at the Thompsons with intensity and didn't seem to notice when Emma placed his dinner plate in front of him. He insisted, "Surely, there's room for two more."
This was the part of the party that Emma hated the most. Without fail, the guests begged the Thompsons to allow them to wait out the war in their bunker. The guests' pleas were always the same: "There's plenty of room here." "The bunker's so big that we'd go unnoticed." "You'll be lonely without the company of friends!"
Once the begging stopped, it was Mrs. Thompson's turn to speak. In her most benevolent voice and a smile that showed more teeth than a crocodile's, she said, "It's quite difficult for us. We have such a long line of friends, and of course, they all want to bring their families. Saying yes to one would mean turning down another." Although her tone was remorseful, there was a gleam in her eye that Emma had never noticed when she gave this speech in the past.
Mrs. Thompson enjoyed this.
She didn't throw these parties to lift her own spirits or even her guests'. She loved the power. Each time someone pleaded to stay, she lorded the power of life and death over his head.
Maryanne reached across the table and grabbed Mrs. Thompson's hand. "Surely, there's something you can do. We've always been close!"
Mrs. Thompson looked at her husband with a coy smile. Her diamond necklace glimmered in the light. "We're still considering which of our dearest friends will survive the blasts with us."
Maryanne squeezed her hand tighter. "If there's anything you can do -"
"Maryanne," Mrs. Thompson said through gritted teeth, "I'm afraid that your dinner is getting cold."
Maryanne withdrew her hand as if she had touched something hot.
For the rest of the dinner, Emma remained in the background as much as the paintings that adorned the walls. Each time she entered to refill a glass or carry away a plate, an awkward silence hung over the table. Encouraging guests to beg for their lives dampens the mood of a party.
Sparks flashed in the night sky, followed by thunderous booms. Mrs. Thompson brandished a smile and said, "Right on schedule. Shall we go to the balcony and watch the fireworks?"
Flustered, Maryanne removed her napkin from her lap and put it on her plate. "We really should be heading home -"
Her husband interrupted her, "It's not too late. We have time to watch the fireworks."
The Thompsons rose from the table and entered the balcony, arm in arm. Emma cleared Carter's plates from the table.
"I don't know what she's playing at," Maryanne whispered to her spouse. "She invites us here for the sole purpose of showing off, reminding us that she's going to be the one to survive -"
Bill cut her off and shook his head. "I'm sure that's not her intention."
As Emma carried away the plates to the kitchen, she caught the tail end of Maryanne saying, "She's forcing us to watch the missile strikes, reminding us that we're going to die. Of course, she..."
Emma loaded the plates into the dishwasher and wiped her hands off with a rag. Yes, they had the Thompsons pegged. Most of the guests weren't so adept at connecting the dots, and even if they did, they still played the game. No one risked upsetting the Thompsons when they held so much power.
When Emma returned to the dining room, Mrs. Thompson stood by the table, waiting for her. Through the French doors, Emma spotted the Carters on the balcony with Mr. Thompson.
Emma asked her boss, "Not watching the fireworks, ma'am?" She picked up the drained wine glasses and was about to return to the kitchen when a look of frustration in Mrs. Thompson's eyes held her back.
Through an angry smile, she said, "I don't know what's up with you today, Emma. You've never been the type to show off."
Surprised, Emma batted her eyes. "Ma'am?"
Mrs. Thompson waved a jeweled hand toward the doorway. "Earlier this evening, you bragged about your knowledge of the security, trying to embarrass me -"
Emma dropped the glasses back on the table and rushed to her boss. "I wasn't trying to embarrass you. Sorry, I didn't think! I've been so distracted."
Mrs. Thompson relaxed her stiff posture. "The war has been hard on us all," she conceded.
Perhaps this was the opportunity that Emma had been looking for. She had been meaning to ask the Thompsons for more money to support her mother, but she'd been so busy with each night's party that she never got the chance. After they denied her request a month ago to let her elderly mother live in the house, she'd been hesitant to ask them for another favor.
Emma folded her hands over her apron. "I've been distracted by more than just the war. It's my mother. I told you that she lives in a home."
"Of course." Mrs. Thompson nodded. Her voice was coated with sincerity.
"I have just enough money to pay for her rent or medication, but not both."
Mrs. Thompson raised a hand to stop Emma from saying anything more. She ran her hands down her shoulders. With a voice was smoother than silk, said. "You're family to me. If you're ever in trouble, come to me." She removed her diamond necklace and dropped it into Emma's palms. "This was given to me by the actress Michelle Monroe. She wore it in the film The Darkness. Did you see it?"
Astonished, Emma stared at what might be the most expensive thing she had ever held.
"Well, it's yours now," Mrs. Thompson said. "Please sell it and take care of your mother."
With watery eyes, Emma looked up from the necklace to Mrs. Thompson. She stuttered, "I - I don't know what to say!"
Behind them, Mr. Thompson leaned his head through the balcony's doors. "Honey, are you going to come out here?"
Mrs. Thompson released Emma's shoulders and followed her husband outside. Before she closed the door behind her, she looked over her shoulder and said, "Be a dear and bring us some cosmopolitans, won't you?"
"Yes, ma'am. Of course." Emma bowed her head and hurried to the kitchen.
Emma didn't intend to shout, but she struggled to keep her voice down. As if to protect it, her hand covered the diamond necklace on the glass counter. She leaned toward the pawnshop owner and whispered, "But what you're offering me for it wouldn't even buy me a loaf of bread!" It was so ridiculous that she almost laughed as she said it.
From the other side of the counter, the shopkeeper's steel eyes didn't budge. With his arms crossed, he said, "Look, lady, I can only buy things I can resell, and I can't sell this. No one wants to buy fancy jewelry in a nuclear war. Now, if these were diamond bullets, maybe I could give you something for them." He shrugged. "But this is worthless to me."
Emma slipped the diamond chain back in her pocket and left the pawn shop. What should she do next? She could try to sell it elsewhere, but her heart knew that would be useless. He was right. People thought they weren't going to survive this war. No one needed to be pretty anymore. Still her mother's rent was due, and her prescription needed to be refilled. She had to make a choice.
Emma strolled to the rest home with her hands tucked into her hoodie pockets. The icy wind beat on her face. What a fool she was! Mrs. Thompson got her hopes up and played her just like one of her hapless guests.
The cold air made her nose drip, and she sniffed and wiped it with the back of her hand. Rage boiled within her and threatened to pull tears from her eyes. Underneath her breath, she cursed the Thompsons.
"Got any change?" an old man, with a beanie covering his ears asked. He crouched against an abandoned building and used cardboard as a blanket. Instead of answering him, Emma continued up the sidewalk.
Guilt crept over her. She was thinking about this the wrong way. Maybe Mrs. Thompson didn't know that the necklace would be worthless, and maybe she wasn't toying with her. After all, the wealthy woman was well-insulated from reality. If the Thompsons didn't give her a job and a place to stay, she'd find herself homeless on the streets, just like that man she passed.
Of course, the Thompsons didn't allow her to stay in their home out of kindness. She was there to cater to their every need. But the Thompsons also had other staff, and she was the only one to whom they provided boarding. She would be the only one safe if the bombs fell. Emma was going to survive this war and had them to thank for it.
If only her mother could make it too.
When Emma arrived at the nursing home's front desk, the receptionist reminded her that the rent was due. Emma asked how much the rent was even though she already knew the cost. The amount hadn't changed, and neither had the fact that she didn't have enough money to both pay for it and buy her mother's medicine.
From the reception, Emma could see her mother crafting with other elderly women in the parlor, without a care in the world.
"I'm ready to accept your payment now, ma'am." The receptionist's words snapped Emma back to reality. Her hand was out, ready. Emma stared into the empty palm.
She paid her mother's rent.
Emma slipped her hands into her hoodie's pockets and drifted into the parlor. With small steps, she approached her mother's wheelchair from behind. She opened her mouth to greet her, but hesitated, feeling as if she had betrayed her with her decision.
She looked over her mother's shoulder at her work. The elderly woman filled in a coloring book with markers and failed to stay within the lines.
"That's beautiful," Emma praised.
Her mother looked up at her with unrecognizing eyes. Her voice was so frail that Emma struggled to hear her say, "Thank you."
"I have something for you." Emma removed the necklace from her pocket and fastened it to her mother's neck.
Her thin, delicate fingers touched the diamonds, and her eyes flared wide and reflected the sparkling jewels. "This is for me?" she asked.
Emma wiped away tears that formed in her eyes and nodded.
Her mother tapped a friend to her right and showed off the jewelry, then she turned back to Emma. "Thank you, young lady."
Through a forced smile, Emma said, "It's the least I can do."
In the morning, Mr. Thompson preferred that his breakfast be presented in a certain way. A cup of orange juice to the right of a plate that contained one halved grapefruit, sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. To the left of his plate should be a black cup of coffee and the morning newspaper.
Mr. Thompson wouldn't have his favorite breakfast that morning. The war had disrupted the supply chain of food and eliminated the farms in the surrounding area. At least the man had his newspaper. Emma set it next to his coffee when the front page caught her eye.
Two cities in their state were wiped out as of that morning. The closest was only a hundred miles away.
She opened the paper. The other stories were just as disconcerting. An article on the Burbank Bunkers stated that all the bunkers exposed to conditions of war had failed to live up to the promises of their manufacturer. Most experienced structural problems and crumbled when impacted by weapons. Others experienced gas leaks that either poisoned their inhabitants or ignited the structure, burning all inside. There was not a single example of a Burbank Bunker that withstood an assault or protected the residents. They were extravagant death traps.
Her one hope of making it through the war alive was a fantasy.
Emma hadn't realized it, but she was crying. She did her best to dry her eyes and stuffed the newspaper into her apron. Mr. Thompson couldn't read this. The longer the Thompsons were ignorant of this news, the better it was for her. Her gut said that if they understood their bunker was useless that they might not be so magnanimous. Today, they saw themselves as gods, bestowing blessings upon the vulnerable mortals, but once they understood that they too were in danger, how would they treat her? The possibility that they might throw her out on the street was something for which she should prepare.
Her train of thought broke when her employers sauntered into the dining room, wearing jogging suits. A security officer, contracted from the Burbank Company, trailed them in an all-black uniform. He carried their designer suitcases.
Emma wiped her cheeks and tried to keep her voice steady. "Going on a trip?"
If they noticed that she was upset, they didn't show signs of it. In her pink tracksuit, Mrs. Thompson looked like a wad of bubblegum, and her attitude was just as bubbly. Her hair was still wet from the shower.
"I didn't tell you because I didn't know myself. He surprised me with a romantic trip this morning." Mrs. Thompson squealed and squeezed her husband's arm. "He bought us a goodbye tour! You know what goodbye tours are, right? You see historic landmarks before a nuke blows them away."
Emma couldn't bring herself to pretend that she was happy for them. She struggled to keep herself from bursting into tears.
Mr. Thompson glanced at the brochure. "Thirty sites in thirty days. It's an honor to be among the last people in history to see these landmarks." After Mrs. Thompson agreed, he told his wife they needed to leave now. The Burbank Company had a convoy outside, waiting to escort them to a private airport.
Mrs. Thompson trailed her husband out of the dining room, but then returned to tell Emma, "I see that you're upset. Sorry that we couldn't bring you along. But I imagine a break from all my parties is enough vacation for you." She didn't wait for Emma to respond before she left.
Emma took Mr. Thompson's empty seat at the head of the dining table and stared into his untouched coffee.
She had this mansion all to herself for a month. That assumed the Thompsons made it back alive at all. They thought that they were invulnerable and their money would protect them from everything. So did everyone else who had invested in and died in one of Burbank's faulty bunkers.
She pulled the crumpled newspaper back out of her apron and reread the sections that described the latest wiped-out cities. What if, while on their heartless tour, a missile strike annihilated the Thompsons, or at least made it impossible for them to return. What if they never came back? Emma blinked tears from her eyes, and her heart raced as she thought of the possibility of being free of them.
Regardless of whether the Thompsons survived their goodbye tour, this was the perfect opportunity for her mother to stay here while they were gone! In her many years, her mother had lived a hard life of sacrifice in the slums. She should know what it's like to live as a queen in a castle!
Emma rushed to the phone and dialed the nursing home. She told the receptionist that she was interested in transferring her mother out for the month.
"Emma, we've been trying to get a hold of you." The receptionist's voice was urgent and tinged with regret. "I have terrible news."
In silence, Emma nodded as the woman explained that her mother passed away without pain while sleeping in the night. When she said that she couldn't refund her for the month's rent, Emma hung up. What did she care about money at this point?
She couldn't stop shaking.
This was all the Thompson's fault! There were so many points when they could have prevented this death from happening. They could have granted her request to let her mother stay here. If Mrs. Thompson had just given her money instead of that stupid, useless diamond necklace, she could have paid for both the medicine and the rent. Her mother would still be alive if they extended a mere iota of kindness.
Such evil, sadistic people. And now they were going on a tour to watch the world burn. They should burn!
Emma clutched her head in her hands, and her nails sunk into her scalp. The Thompsons had so much. The bunker was massive. They wouldn't have even noticed that her mother was there. But this was their house, and they could be as generous or as restrictive with it as they pleased. If anything, they made that abundantly clear.
It was their house.
Emma woke up to a sky covered in a thick layer of black smoke and knew that today would be different. It was typical to hear intermittent rumbling, punctuated by a thunderous boom that pierced the air, but today, the sound never stopped. War was at her door.
She retreated to the underground levels of the bunker, reaching the security floor. Screens mounted to the walls of the dark room displayed the mansion's exterior at varying angles. The shrubbery, statues, and fountains that surrounded the building were all intact.
In the distance, six armored vehicles pulled off the road and onto the driveway. The emblems on the side of their trucks belonged to the Burbank Company. After only being gone for a week, they were escorting the Thompsons back from their trip.
The convoy crawled up the thousand foot long, cobblestone driveway and parked in front of the mansion. The Thompsons emerged from the third vehicle, appearing annoyed and arguing with the security guards that surrounded them. Emma turned on the microphones and listened in to what they were saying.
The couple shouted at the security for refusing to escort them any farther in the goodbye tour. They threatened to sue them if they didn't return their deposit.
The security force wore black shirts and cargo pants, with body armor plates over their clothes. Four of the men stood guard around the vehicles, while two loaded the Thompson's luggage from the trucks to the mansion's front door. The man who appeared to be in charge argued that they brought them back home for their own safety.
Having lost the disagreement, the Thompsons ascended the mansion's steps and stopped at the door. Mrs. Thompson leaned on the wall and watched her husband attempt to open it. "All I want to do when I get inside is take a hot bath," she groaned, while fanning herself. Sweaty hair poked underneath her pink head band.
Mr. Thompson stepped away from the door. "The house isn't registering me or my keycard."
"What?" Mrs. Thompson moved her sunglasses from her face to the top of her head. "Let me try." Unable to recognize her biometrics, the front door flashed a red light. She spoke into the intercom, "Emma? Darling, could you please open the door? The computer's acting up. It isn't registering our -" she looked to her spouse for the word.
"Biometrics," Mr. Thompson said.
"Yes, it's not recognizing our biometrics."
Emma crossed her arms and watched the couple lean against the wall as they waited for her to open the door. She didn't move an inch.
Mrs. Thompson grew tired of waiting and tried the intercom again. "Emma, are you there? Are you sleeping? We are at the front door!" She beat on the door with the palm of her hand. "We're locked out!" She mumbled something disparaging about her servant that Emma couldn't quite make out. Mr. Thompson ordered the security officer behind him to open the door.
In a matter-of-fact way, the officer said there was nothing that he could do because the bunker's encryption couldn't be overridden, even by the Burbank Company. Mr. Thompson disregarded this explanation and told the man to open the door immediately. His wife stayed at the intercom and pleaded with Emma to open the door.
"Who is Emma?" the officer asked. They explained that she was the live-in maid. "You gave administrator access to the maid?" He repeated in disbelief. "She locked you out. Only she can restore your access again. This is why Burbank only recommends that no more than two authorized users -"
Looking up into the cameras facing down at her, Mrs. Thompson screeched at the top of her lungs, "What do you want from us?" She slammed the door with her fist. "Emma! You can't even speak to us?"
Behind his wife, Mr. Thompson paced. He negotiated, as with himself, offering Emma money, cars, whatever she wanted. She watched him from the bunker's security room and said nothing.
While pointing at the door, Mr. Thompson screamed at the captain of security, "Get that girl out of my house!"
The security officer scratched the side of his face. "I would advise working with the police, at this point, sir."
Mr. Thompson stood toe to toe with the captain and shouted, "If I could depend on the police, why would I be paying you?"
The guards who gathered around the cars were talking but were too far away from the microphones for Emma to pick up what they were saying. While clutching the radio strapped to his shoulder, one of them jogged to the chief security officer and stood between him and Mr. Thompson. Over the squawking of the radio, the man said, "We've got hostiles approaching from the northwest, sir."
Inside the bunker's security room, the top monitors displayed fifty fighter jets miles away headed straight for their direction. On the ground, the guards had climbed back into their vehicles, all except for the chief, who ordered the Thompsons to return to the car. They refused to leave the house.
The first jet passed over the mansion at a speed so fast and so low that it almost knocked all three of them off their feet. After the Thompsons got their bearings, they abandoned the house and followed the captain inside a vehicle. The convoy took off, leaving behind piles of the couple's luggage on the house's doorstep.
Emma turned off the security cameras and stood alone in the darkness of the room. She needed to absorb what had just happened.
The Thompsons were gone.
She had won.
This was her house.
The exhilaration of freedom filled Emma's chest. From now on, whatever she did would be for herself. So much energy coursed through her that she didn't know what to do with herself. She dashed out of the security room, down the stairwell. There were so many levels, all of which she'd only had a passing interest in before, but now that they were all hers, she looked forward to enjoying them to the fullest.
The bunker even had its own shopping mall, stocked with clothes that Mrs. Thompson had never touched. Emma discarded her maid's uniform and put on a silk dress.
Barefoot, she ran into the recreation floor, through the bowling alley. She was great at the game, and if she had someone to play against, she bet she would have won.
What she wanted to enjoy right now was the Olympic-sized pool. She didn't know how to swim and wondered if it was something that she could teach herself during her time here.
She pushed open the door to the dark pool room. Light embedded along the pool's walls illuminated the water. Emma discarded her silk dress onto the concrete floor, not caring for its condition since she had unlimited others.
She descended the steps into the pool and enjoyed the coolness of the water against her skin. The sound of the water rippling almost served as a lullaby. In the future, she should relax here after a long day -
After a long day of what?
The pool's light reflected the rippling water on the ceiling, and the cool water, which was so comfortable only a moment ago, felt freezing now. Her voice echoed off the concrete walls, "None of this is real."
Here she was, pretending that nothing was happening, while the fighter jets that flew above her were still out there. While she relaxed in the pool like nothing had happened, countless others died around her. What was the difference between her and the Thompsons?
The walls and the floor rumbled and shook. An alarm blared and the lights flashed angry and red. Water sloshed out of the sides of the pool and hit her face. It felt like an earthquake.
Three loud booms echoed throughout the building, as if lightning bolts had struck the bunker on all sides. Emma instinctively covered her ears.
"Warning! Warning!" a voice called out from the speakers, "The bunker is under fire. Please avoid returning to the upper lev-"
At first she thought that the automated voice cut out, but then she realized that everything was silent. She couldn't hear the rumble from the blasts or the sloshing of the water. She clapped her hands together, but all was quiet.
Cracks formed on the ceiling. Small bits of debris fell into the pool. Would this bunker suffer from the same structural integrity problems that the others had? Would it collapse and bury her alive?
This was it. She could spend her remaining hours in the Last War dying in a fantasy of someone else's creation, or she could bear witness.
Emma crawled out of the pool without bothering to dry herself off. She left the recreation floor and ascended the bunker's staircase to the upper level.
A thick, steel door separated the underground levels of the bunker and the house above ground. The door separated fantasy and reality. Emma pressed her shoulder against it and pushed it open. It groaned and resisted as if it didn't want her to open it, but she pressed through.
What hit her first when she emerged from the bunker was the smell of burning. Ash drifted to the ground like snowfall, and it was hard to see amid the cloud of smoke and the darkness of the night. She covered her mouth with her arm and coughed into it.
The wind pushed away the cloud enough to reveal what was left. The once beautiful mansion was carved open like a cake. The half of the building that contained the entrance was a smoldering pile of rubble and debris, while the other half was intact, maintaining its former grace.
Emma stepped over the fallen chandelier and past the grand piano to ascend the staircase to the second floor. On her way up, she gripped the wooden railing, leaving a handprint in the dust. Once she reached the top of the stairs, she marveled at the fact that to her left, where the living room should have been, was now only empty sky. Ahead of her, the dining room had survived. Emma passed the dinner table that was still set with now wilted, white roses and entered the balcony that overlooked the city.
She swallowed, and her eyes watered as her mind couldn't believe what lay before her. Only this morning, from this same position, she saw traffic from cars, bright lights from the holographic advertisements in the sky, and skylines that never seemed to end. The city was still full of lights, but now they came from flames. The skyline was a fractured mess. Most of the skyscrapers were ruined and crumbling. The city was gone.
Emma gripped the balcony railing and tears escaped her eyes. Was she the last person left to mourn for all the lives lost? For a moment, she wondered if she had made a mistake. Perhaps the peace of ignorance was better. No! She was right to emerge from the bunker and see it. If all the people in the city had been brave enough to face the end, who was she to hide from it?
She saw the blast before she heard it.
It was like someone had turned on a light switch in a pitch-black room - it was that sudden and bright. The light was so intense that, for a moment, Emma wondered if she would go blind. But the shining dissipated and revealed, miles away in the distance, a furious, red flame. The fire climbed into the heavens and clawed at the sky.
As she watched the mushroom cloud, the last thing she thought was that the plume of fire was beautiful. Somehow, it was beautiful.
She was glad that she came.
from FICTION on the WEB short stories https://ift.tt/e6CiXNt
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She slapped the floor with her soaked mop and raked it back and forth. The sloshing couldn't drown out the wails of the movie characters fleeing from bloodthirsty aliens.
Emma stopped mopping.
It was strange. People said this war would mark the end of everything, and yet, instead of her life ending in chaos and screams, here she was, serving Mrs. Thompson and her series of never-ending parties.
It wasn't exactly what she expected.
Mrs. Thompson's six-inch heels clacked against the freshly mopped floor as she marched into the foyer. Tonight, she wore a sleeveless, silk emerald gown that hugged her hips and flared out like the petals of a tulip.
"Emma," Mrs. Thompson said her name like a mother reprimanding a child, "don't just stand around watching television." She shut off the TV. Her dress spun as she glided across the floor to the golden mirror mounted on the wall. Her head tilted as she glowed at her reflection and teased her maroon hair. "The guests are due to arrive any minute now," she cautioned.
"Yes, ma'am." Emma left the room to stow away the mop and bucket.
Where did Mrs. Thompson get the energy to throw these parties night after night? Maybe this was her way to distract herself from the mounting casualties of the Last War. Though, of course, it's easy to throw parties when you don't have to clean up after them.
Next on Emma's to-do list was to check the centerpieces on the dining table. She had placed fresh, white roses there this morning but had to make sure that none of them had wilted. Mrs. Thompson wouldn't care for that at all.
When she arrived at the dining room, Mrs. Thompson had beaten her there and was in the process of inspecting her work. With her hands behind her back, she surveyed the immaculate area like a sergeant examining his troops. With a raised eyebrow, she said, "Everything seems to be in order."
Emma ran her hands over her black and white maid's uniform, smoothing her apron. "This isn't my first rodeo, ma'am."
Mrs. Thompson nodded. "Indeed." She took slow steps and circled Emma like a shark. "And it most certainly won't be your last."
Although her boss's comment didn't surprise her, Emma didn't let the disappointment show on her face. These parties would be an endless torment. Emma asked, "Mrs. Thompson, how long do you plan to continue on with these celebrations?"
Instead of answering Emma straight away, the woman strolled to the French doors that lead to the balcony, overlooking the city. Streaks of light pierced the night sky. The first time Emma saw one, she naively thought that the missiles were falling stars.
In a benevolent tone, Mrs. Thompson answered, "We'll keep having the parties until we run out of guests, wine, or until the bombs fall," she smiled through perfect teeth, "whichever comes first."
Emma's face fell.
Mrs. Thompson's emerald dress sparkled as she spun from the window to face Emma. "I know it's a lot of work for you, and I do appreciate your resilience. But when we're trapped here, you will look back at these parties with the utmost fondness."
The absurdity of the comment made Emma grimace. Did Mrs. Thompson seriously believe that she enjoyed serving these people?
The household computer announced that the guests had arrived. Followed by her maid, Mrs. Thompson rushed to the entrance and flung the mahogany doors open. The hostess squealed at the sight of the older, extravagantly dressed couple, in what Emma thought was an over-the-top effort to feign excitement at seeing them. They hadn't spoken to each other in the past decade.
"Maryanne Carter, you look gorgeous." Mrs. Thompson greeted her with a la bise. Emma accepted Maryanne's fur coat and hung it on the rack next to the door. The woman didn't thank or otherwise acknowledge the maid's existence. The guest's gown was as lavish as her hostess's, and her salt and pepper hair was arranged in an attractive braid.
Maryanne looked Mrs. Thompson up and down. "You look quite stunning! Is that dress an Albec original?"
Mrs. Thompson attempted to conceal a modest smile, but only the glitter of her diamond necklace outshined the gleam on her face. "You always did have an eye for fashion, Maryanne."
Bill Carter showed no interest in his wife's praise of Mrs. Thompson's dress. He eyed the mansion's dazzling chandeliers, its priceless art, and the marble that covered its floors and walls. In a skeptical tone, he said, "When you invited us to see your new Burbank Bunker, I couldn't pass up the opportunity. But now that I'm here, it doesn't look like a bunker at all." He chuckled. "Are you sure that you didn't get swindled?"
The group drifted further into the foyer and stopped at the base of twin staircases, covered with a blood red carpet.
Maryanne raised a hand to her chest and said, "Actually, I'm relieved that it is so lovely. When you first told me that you were held up in a bunker, I envisioned that you were living in a hole in the ground. But this," she paused to admire the grand piano underneath the staircase, "this is simply stunning."
"My husband wouldn't have been able to sell me on a Burbank Bunker otherwise," Mrs. Thompson said. "Even if it weren't for the war, we would have bought it. Its security features are second to none."
This comment interested the couple, and they asked Mrs. Thompson to expound upon the security. She claimed that it was impossible to break into the house. "The computer knows who lives here," she said. "Only residents can enter the front door."
Bill asked, "And how exactly does the computer know that?" After Mrs. Thompson struggled and failed to provide an explanation, he said, "How can you assert that a Burbank Bunker is impenetrable when you don't even know how it works?"
Standing behind the three of them, Emma spoke up. "The computer employs a triple biometric encryption system." She pointed to the entrance. "The cameras at the front door scan the face and iris for visual confirmation and reconcile the voice against its internal audio file."
Impressed, Bill smiled and nodded. After asking Emma for her name, Maryanne asked, "How is it that you know so much about computers?"
Although Emma didn't think she had demonstrated that she knew a lot about computers, she appreciated the compliment. "I'm going to school for computer science," she said.
The guests were even more astonished by this, and praised her. Emma felt Mrs. Thompson's eyes burn through her as she drew away attention from the subject of the bunker.
Maryanne said, "You are a bright girl to qualify for the education lottery! What made you apply?"
Emma bowed her head in acknowledgement and said, "I grew up in the north, in the slums. We often had to choose between paying for food or electricity. In the months we couldn't afford power, we were freezing all the time." The Carters appeared interested in Emma's story without feeling pity for her. "I wanted a better life, and getting a degree was the best way to do it, so I applied. I never dreamt I would actually win, but when I was accepted, I packed everything and moved here with my mom."
"You had to move?" Maryanne asked. "Why couldn't you just go to school where you're from?"
Bill crossed his arms. "There aren't colleges up there anymore, dear."
"Of course," his wife mumbled. She looked uncomfortable and then changed the subject. "What are your plans after you graduate?"
Mrs. Thompson rested her hands on Emma's shoulders and squeezed them. Both women were the same height, but in her heels, Mrs. Thompson towered over her servant. Her manicured nails dug into Emma and verged on being painful. She answered on Emma's behalf, "Our Emma plans to spend many, many years with us, safe here in our bunker." She looked down at her with a broad smile. Emma didn't return it.
Mrs. Thompson was right. In the event she finished her degree, what were the chances there would be a world left for her to use it in. She would be trapped here with the Thompsons for the upcoming decades.
Bill asked where Mr. Thompson was.
With a toss of her hair, Mrs. Thompson replied, "Oh, he's in here somewhere. This house is easy to get lost in."
Bill scoffed and scanned the area with his eyes. "It doesn't look that massive."
Mrs. Thompson led them underneath the staircase toward an embellished, wooden door. A diagram of a helix was carved into it with gold emboss. She gripped the golden door handle and, with a glint in her eye, said, "Looks can be deceiving." She pulled the door open.
The door opened to a steel stairwell, less ornate than the one in the foyer, but still attractive. Everyone followed Mrs. Thompson's descent down. Dim lights embedded in the walls lit their steps.
Unbeknownst to the guest, this was a game that Mrs. Thompson played at her parties. Her husband was always curiously absent, which warranted her giving guests a tour of the bunker while searching for him.
"You see, Bill," Mrs. Thompson said, "the real house is underground. The house you just saw is a red herring." Her red fingernail pointed upward. "The upper levels can be all wiped away because the underground bunker is blast proof, impact proof, radiation proof."
Unimpressed, he glanced at the bare, dark, and undecorated concrete walls. The area was rough and seemed unfinished. "But how big is it," Bill asked, "these lower levels?"
They were two levels down now and had reached a metallic door, which Mrs. Thompson pushed open. The motion sensors detected their presence and filled the room with light.
Maryanne gasped as she stepped into the room. "You have your own supermarket?"
They passed carts and baskets as Mrs. Thompson took them deeper inside the mock store. Rows of shelves, stocked with canned food, toilet paper, and other household goods, filled the three thousand square foot room. Easy listening music played throughout speakers. Bill picked up a can of nonstick spray and examined it before returning it to the shelf.
"This is our supply room," Mrs. Thompson said. "Burbank Bunkers designs them to simulate the shopping experience."
Emma suppressed a chuckle as she imagined Mrs. Thompson pushing a cart around to mimic shopping for groceries, an experience she doubted the woman ever had done in her life.
Having browsed all the aisles, Mrs. Thompson asked, "Onto the next level?"
She showed them the wonders of the fitness level. They passed an Olympic-sized pool to survey tennis, basketball, and racquetball courts. They weaved through weights, treadmills, and other gym equipment to reach the door to the next level, the entertainment center, which included a theater with hundreds of seats. Emma never understood its purpose. The Burbank Company knew that almost all the seats would go unfilled, so why were they there? Like the store, she guessed it was intended merely to simulate an experience. Even when the world was desolate outside their walls, excess would surround the Thompsons.
The following level was the library. Books ascended from the floor toward the muraled ceiling, modeled after the Sistine Chapel. Although Emma considered the knockoff to be tacky, the guests were impressed by the quality of the imitation. Comfortable sofas filled the floor, and in the corner was Mr. Thompson's desk. Wearing a jacket over his black turtleneck, the man was occupied, typing on a laptop.
"Darling," his wife sang out.
At the sight of the group, Mr. Thompson rose from his work to greet the Carters. They complimented his extraordinary bunker.
"I'm afraid we must cut the tour short," Mr. Thompson addressed his wife, "If we show them the entire bunker, we'll never have time for dinner."
The Carters marveled that there was even more of the bunker to see. On their way back to the house above ground, they showered their hosts with questions, from the bunker's cost to its construction. Their sycophantic praises of the Thompsons for being wise enough to order a bunker made Emma nauseous.
The worship didn't stop by the time they reached the dining table. As they took their seats, Bill said, "No one saw it coming. While we all thought WWIII would be the last, they were here, building this fortress!" He raised his hands above his head and shook them with victory.
Maryanne rested a hand over her pearls. "I didn't think that WWIII would be the last. A first world war is an anomaly. A second is a fluke. But a third is -"
"A nuke," Mrs. Thompson interrupted her with a giggle.
"No!" Maryanne exclaimed. Emma reached in front of her to pour chardonnay into her glass, interrupting her train of thought. "Thank you, dear." She nodded to Emma, "No, a third world war is a cycle, a trend. I always expected another war after the third, but I didn't have the foresight to think of building a bunker."
Bill said, "After WWIII, we bought property in the wastelands up north to prepare." He looked up at Emma who poured his wine. "The land where you're from, young lady."
Emma smiled down at him and went to pour Mrs. Thompson's glass. She ignored her maid and asked Bill, "Why would anyone want to buy property in the frozen north? Everyone's trying to move down here."
"Because it's frozen, it isn't a target for the bomb," Bill said. "How many missile strikes is Kansas getting about now?"
Mrs. Thompson waved his remark away. "Enough about wars. This is a party! Emma has prepared us a wonderful dinner, duck a l'orange. And afterwards, we will close the evening by watching fireworks on the balcony."
Bill coughed from the water he drank too quickly. "Fireworks? You even arranged for those? Aren't those banned because of the war?"
For a second, Mrs. Thompson appeared annoyed and said, "Missiles, Bill. That's what we call the missiles. They always go off between eight and ten."
He coughed again and his large belly jiggled. "Isn't that grim - almost celebratory of the state that the world is in?"
In defense of his wife, Mr. Thompson pushed up his glasses and said, "The world has always been in a precarious state. We shall survive this world war, just as we did the third." He raised his wine glass.
Mrs. Thompson raised hers as well. "To the survivors." The guests joined her in the toast although they appeared skeptical while doing it.
Behind them, Emma rolled out the duck on a cart and began to carve and serve it for the table.
Maryanne turned the wine stem between her fingers. "We aren't exactly survivors yet. A war must end before you can survive it."
Bill rested his elbows on the table and folded his hands. "On the subject of that - this bunker of yours - there appears to be plenty of room in it, enough for at least two more." The man stared at the Thompsons with intensity and didn't seem to notice when Emma placed his dinner plate in front of him. He insisted, "Surely, there's room for two more."
This was the part of the party that Emma hated the most. Without fail, the guests begged the Thompsons to allow them to wait out the war in their bunker. The guests' pleas were always the same: "There's plenty of room here." "The bunker's so big that we'd go unnoticed." "You'll be lonely without the company of friends!"
Once the begging stopped, it was Mrs. Thompson's turn to speak. In her most benevolent voice and a smile that showed more teeth than a crocodile's, she said, "It's quite difficult for us. We have such a long line of friends, and of course, they all want to bring their families. Saying yes to one would mean turning down another." Although her tone was remorseful, there was a gleam in her eye that Emma had never noticed when she gave this speech in the past.
Mrs. Thompson enjoyed this.
She didn't throw these parties to lift her own spirits or even her guests'. She loved the power. Each time someone pleaded to stay, she lorded the power of life and death over his head.
Maryanne reached across the table and grabbed Mrs. Thompson's hand. "Surely, there's something you can do. We've always been close!"
Mrs. Thompson looked at her husband with a coy smile. Her diamond necklace glimmered in the light. "We're still considering which of our dearest friends will survive the blasts with us."
Maryanne squeezed her hand tighter. "If there's anything you can do -"
"Maryanne," Mrs. Thompson said through gritted teeth, "I'm afraid that your dinner is getting cold."
Maryanne withdrew her hand as if she had touched something hot.
For the rest of the dinner, Emma remained in the background as much as the paintings that adorned the walls. Each time she entered to refill a glass or carry away a plate, an awkward silence hung over the table. Encouraging guests to beg for their lives dampens the mood of a party.
Sparks flashed in the night sky, followed by thunderous booms. Mrs. Thompson brandished a smile and said, "Right on schedule. Shall we go to the balcony and watch the fireworks?"
Flustered, Maryanne removed her napkin from her lap and put it on her plate. "We really should be heading home -"
Her husband interrupted her, "It's not too late. We have time to watch the fireworks."
The Thompsons rose from the table and entered the balcony, arm in arm. Emma cleared Carter's plates from the table.
"I don't know what she's playing at," Maryanne whispered to her spouse. "She invites us here for the sole purpose of showing off, reminding us that she's going to be the one to survive -"
Bill cut her off and shook his head. "I'm sure that's not her intention."
As Emma carried away the plates to the kitchen, she caught the tail end of Maryanne saying, "She's forcing us to watch the missile strikes, reminding us that we're going to die. Of course, she..."
Emma loaded the plates into the dishwasher and wiped her hands off with a rag. Yes, they had the Thompsons pegged. Most of the guests weren't so adept at connecting the dots, and even if they did, they still played the game. No one risked upsetting the Thompsons when they held so much power.
When Emma returned to the dining room, Mrs. Thompson stood by the table, waiting for her. Through the French doors, Emma spotted the Carters on the balcony with Mr. Thompson.
Emma asked her boss, "Not watching the fireworks, ma'am?" She picked up the drained wine glasses and was about to return to the kitchen when a look of frustration in Mrs. Thompson's eyes held her back.
Through an angry smile, she said, "I don't know what's up with you today, Emma. You've never been the type to show off."
Surprised, Emma batted her eyes. "Ma'am?"
Mrs. Thompson waved a jeweled hand toward the doorway. "Earlier this evening, you bragged about your knowledge of the security, trying to embarrass me -"
Emma dropped the glasses back on the table and rushed to her boss. "I wasn't trying to embarrass you. Sorry, I didn't think! I've been so distracted."
Mrs. Thompson relaxed her stiff posture. "The war has been hard on us all," she conceded.
Perhaps this was the opportunity that Emma had been looking for. She had been meaning to ask the Thompsons for more money to support her mother, but she'd been so busy with each night's party that she never got the chance. After they denied her request a month ago to let her elderly mother live in the house, she'd been hesitant to ask them for another favor.
Emma folded her hands over her apron. "I've been distracted by more than just the war. It's my mother. I told you that she lives in a home."
"Of course." Mrs. Thompson nodded. Her voice was coated with sincerity.
"I have just enough money to pay for her rent or medication, but not both."
Mrs. Thompson raised a hand to stop Emma from saying anything more. She ran her hands down her shoulders. With a voice was smoother than silk, said. "You're family to me. If you're ever in trouble, come to me." She removed her diamond necklace and dropped it into Emma's palms. "This was given to me by the actress Michelle Monroe. She wore it in the film The Darkness. Did you see it?"
Astonished, Emma stared at what might be the most expensive thing she had ever held.
"Well, it's yours now," Mrs. Thompson said. "Please sell it and take care of your mother."
With watery eyes, Emma looked up from the necklace to Mrs. Thompson. She stuttered, "I - I don't know what to say!"
Behind them, Mr. Thompson leaned his head through the balcony's doors. "Honey, are you going to come out here?"
Mrs. Thompson released Emma's shoulders and followed her husband outside. Before she closed the door behind her, she looked over her shoulder and said, "Be a dear and bring us some cosmopolitans, won't you?"
"Yes, ma'am. Of course." Emma bowed her head and hurried to the kitchen.
Emma didn't intend to shout, but she struggled to keep her voice down. As if to protect it, her hand covered the diamond necklace on the glass counter. She leaned toward the pawnshop owner and whispered, "But what you're offering me for it wouldn't even buy me a loaf of bread!" It was so ridiculous that she almost laughed as she said it.
From the other side of the counter, the shopkeeper's steel eyes didn't budge. With his arms crossed, he said, "Look, lady, I can only buy things I can resell, and I can't sell this. No one wants to buy fancy jewelry in a nuclear war. Now, if these were diamond bullets, maybe I could give you something for them." He shrugged. "But this is worthless to me."
Emma slipped the diamond chain back in her pocket and left the pawn shop. What should she do next? She could try to sell it elsewhere, but her heart knew that would be useless. He was right. People thought they weren't going to survive this war. No one needed to be pretty anymore. Still her mother's rent was due, and her prescription needed to be refilled. She had to make a choice.
Emma strolled to the rest home with her hands tucked into her hoodie pockets. The icy wind beat on her face. What a fool she was! Mrs. Thompson got her hopes up and played her just like one of her hapless guests.
The cold air made her nose drip, and she sniffed and wiped it with the back of her hand. Rage boiled within her and threatened to pull tears from her eyes. Underneath her breath, she cursed the Thompsons.
"Got any change?" an old man, with a beanie covering his ears asked. He crouched against an abandoned building and used cardboard as a blanket. Instead of answering him, Emma continued up the sidewalk.
Guilt crept over her. She was thinking about this the wrong way. Maybe Mrs. Thompson didn't know that the necklace would be worthless, and maybe she wasn't toying with her. After all, the wealthy woman was well-insulated from reality. If the Thompsons didn't give her a job and a place to stay, she'd find herself homeless on the streets, just like that man she passed.
Of course, the Thompsons didn't allow her to stay in their home out of kindness. She was there to cater to their every need. But the Thompsons also had other staff, and she was the only one to whom they provided boarding. She would be the only one safe if the bombs fell. Emma was going to survive this war and had them to thank for it.
If only her mother could make it too.
When Emma arrived at the nursing home's front desk, the receptionist reminded her that the rent was due. Emma asked how much the rent was even though she already knew the cost. The amount hadn't changed, and neither had the fact that she didn't have enough money to both pay for it and buy her mother's medicine.
From the reception, Emma could see her mother crafting with other elderly women in the parlor, without a care in the world.
"I'm ready to accept your payment now, ma'am." The receptionist's words snapped Emma back to reality. Her hand was out, ready. Emma stared into the empty palm.
She paid her mother's rent.
Emma slipped her hands into her hoodie's pockets and drifted into the parlor. With small steps, she approached her mother's wheelchair from behind. She opened her mouth to greet her, but hesitated, feeling as if she had betrayed her with her decision.
She looked over her mother's shoulder at her work. The elderly woman filled in a coloring book with markers and failed to stay within the lines.
"That's beautiful," Emma praised.
Her mother looked up at her with unrecognizing eyes. Her voice was so frail that Emma struggled to hear her say, "Thank you."
"I have something for you." Emma removed the necklace from her pocket and fastened it to her mother's neck.
Her thin, delicate fingers touched the diamonds, and her eyes flared wide and reflected the sparkling jewels. "This is for me?" she asked.
Emma wiped away tears that formed in her eyes and nodded.
Her mother tapped a friend to her right and showed off the jewelry, then she turned back to Emma. "Thank you, young lady."
Through a forced smile, Emma said, "It's the least I can do."
In the morning, Mr. Thompson preferred that his breakfast be presented in a certain way. A cup of orange juice to the right of a plate that contained one halved grapefruit, sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. To the left of his plate should be a black cup of coffee and the morning newspaper.
Mr. Thompson wouldn't have his favorite breakfast that morning. The war had disrupted the supply chain of food and eliminated the farms in the surrounding area. At least the man had his newspaper. Emma set it next to his coffee when the front page caught her eye.
Two cities in their state were wiped out as of that morning. The closest was only a hundred miles away.
She opened the paper. The other stories were just as disconcerting. An article on the Burbank Bunkers stated that all the bunkers exposed to conditions of war had failed to live up to the promises of their manufacturer. Most experienced structural problems and crumbled when impacted by weapons. Others experienced gas leaks that either poisoned their inhabitants or ignited the structure, burning all inside. There was not a single example of a Burbank Bunker that withstood an assault or protected the residents. They were extravagant death traps.
Her one hope of making it through the war alive was a fantasy.
Emma hadn't realized it, but she was crying. She did her best to dry her eyes and stuffed the newspaper into her apron. Mr. Thompson couldn't read this. The longer the Thompsons were ignorant of this news, the better it was for her. Her gut said that if they understood their bunker was useless that they might not be so magnanimous. Today, they saw themselves as gods, bestowing blessings upon the vulnerable mortals, but once they understood that they too were in danger, how would they treat her? The possibility that they might throw her out on the street was something for which she should prepare.
Her train of thought broke when her employers sauntered into the dining room, wearing jogging suits. A security officer, contracted from the Burbank Company, trailed them in an all-black uniform. He carried their designer suitcases.
Emma wiped her cheeks and tried to keep her voice steady. "Going on a trip?"
If they noticed that she was upset, they didn't show signs of it. In her pink tracksuit, Mrs. Thompson looked like a wad of bubblegum, and her attitude was just as bubbly. Her hair was still wet from the shower.
"I didn't tell you because I didn't know myself. He surprised me with a romantic trip this morning." Mrs. Thompson squealed and squeezed her husband's arm. "He bought us a goodbye tour! You know what goodbye tours are, right? You see historic landmarks before a nuke blows them away."
Emma couldn't bring herself to pretend that she was happy for them. She struggled to keep herself from bursting into tears.
Mr. Thompson glanced at the brochure. "Thirty sites in thirty days. It's an honor to be among the last people in history to see these landmarks." After Mrs. Thompson agreed, he told his wife they needed to leave now. The Burbank Company had a convoy outside, waiting to escort them to a private airport.
Mrs. Thompson trailed her husband out of the dining room, but then returned to tell Emma, "I see that you're upset. Sorry that we couldn't bring you along. But I imagine a break from all my parties is enough vacation for you." She didn't wait for Emma to respond before she left.
Emma took Mr. Thompson's empty seat at the head of the dining table and stared into his untouched coffee.
She had this mansion all to herself for a month. That assumed the Thompsons made it back alive at all. They thought that they were invulnerable and their money would protect them from everything. So did everyone else who had invested in and died in one of Burbank's faulty bunkers.
She pulled the crumpled newspaper back out of her apron and reread the sections that described the latest wiped-out cities. What if, while on their heartless tour, a missile strike annihilated the Thompsons, or at least made it impossible for them to return. What if they never came back? Emma blinked tears from her eyes, and her heart raced as she thought of the possibility of being free of them.
Regardless of whether the Thompsons survived their goodbye tour, this was the perfect opportunity for her mother to stay here while they were gone! In her many years, her mother had lived a hard life of sacrifice in the slums. She should know what it's like to live as a queen in a castle!
Emma rushed to the phone and dialed the nursing home. She told the receptionist that she was interested in transferring her mother out for the month.
"Emma, we've been trying to get a hold of you." The receptionist's voice was urgent and tinged with regret. "I have terrible news."
In silence, Emma nodded as the woman explained that her mother passed away without pain while sleeping in the night. When she said that she couldn't refund her for the month's rent, Emma hung up. What did she care about money at this point?
She couldn't stop shaking.
This was all the Thompson's fault! There were so many points when they could have prevented this death from happening. They could have granted her request to let her mother stay here. If Mrs. Thompson had just given her money instead of that stupid, useless diamond necklace, she could have paid for both the medicine and the rent. Her mother would still be alive if they extended a mere iota of kindness.
Such evil, sadistic people. And now they were going on a tour to watch the world burn. They should burn!
Emma clutched her head in her hands, and her nails sunk into her scalp. The Thompsons had so much. The bunker was massive. They wouldn't have even noticed that her mother was there. But this was their house, and they could be as generous or as restrictive with it as they pleased. If anything, they made that abundantly clear.
It was their house.
Emma woke up to a sky covered in a thick layer of black smoke and knew that today would be different. It was typical to hear intermittent rumbling, punctuated by a thunderous boom that pierced the air, but today, the sound never stopped. War was at her door.
She retreated to the underground levels of the bunker, reaching the security floor. Screens mounted to the walls of the dark room displayed the mansion's exterior at varying angles. The shrubbery, statues, and fountains that surrounded the building were all intact.
In the distance, six armored vehicles pulled off the road and onto the driveway. The emblems on the side of their trucks belonged to the Burbank Company. After only being gone for a week, they were escorting the Thompsons back from their trip.
The convoy crawled up the thousand foot long, cobblestone driveway and parked in front of the mansion. The Thompsons emerged from the third vehicle, appearing annoyed and arguing with the security guards that surrounded them. Emma turned on the microphones and listened in to what they were saying.
The couple shouted at the security for refusing to escort them any farther in the goodbye tour. They threatened to sue them if they didn't return their deposit.
The security force wore black shirts and cargo pants, with body armor plates over their clothes. Four of the men stood guard around the vehicles, while two loaded the Thompson's luggage from the trucks to the mansion's front door. The man who appeared to be in charge argued that they brought them back home for their own safety.
Having lost the disagreement, the Thompsons ascended the mansion's steps and stopped at the door. Mrs. Thompson leaned on the wall and watched her husband attempt to open it. "All I want to do when I get inside is take a hot bath," she groaned, while fanning herself. Sweaty hair poked underneath her pink head band.
Mr. Thompson stepped away from the door. "The house isn't registering me or my keycard."
"What?" Mrs. Thompson moved her sunglasses from her face to the top of her head. "Let me try." Unable to recognize her biometrics, the front door flashed a red light. She spoke into the intercom, "Emma? Darling, could you please open the door? The computer's acting up. It isn't registering our -" she looked to her spouse for the word.
"Biometrics," Mr. Thompson said.
"Yes, it's not recognizing our biometrics."
Emma crossed her arms and watched the couple lean against the wall as they waited for her to open the door. She didn't move an inch.
Mrs. Thompson grew tired of waiting and tried the intercom again. "Emma, are you there? Are you sleeping? We are at the front door!" She beat on the door with the palm of her hand. "We're locked out!" She mumbled something disparaging about her servant that Emma couldn't quite make out. Mr. Thompson ordered the security officer behind him to open the door.
In a matter-of-fact way, the officer said there was nothing that he could do because the bunker's encryption couldn't be overridden, even by the Burbank Company. Mr. Thompson disregarded this explanation and told the man to open the door immediately. His wife stayed at the intercom and pleaded with Emma to open the door.
"Who is Emma?" the officer asked. They explained that she was the live-in maid. "You gave administrator access to the maid?" He repeated in disbelief. "She locked you out. Only she can restore your access again. This is why Burbank only recommends that no more than two authorized users -"
Looking up into the cameras facing down at her, Mrs. Thompson screeched at the top of her lungs, "What do you want from us?" She slammed the door with her fist. "Emma! You can't even speak to us?"
Behind his wife, Mr. Thompson paced. He negotiated, as with himself, offering Emma money, cars, whatever she wanted. She watched him from the bunker's security room and said nothing.
While pointing at the door, Mr. Thompson screamed at the captain of security, "Get that girl out of my house!"
The security officer scratched the side of his face. "I would advise working with the police, at this point, sir."
Mr. Thompson stood toe to toe with the captain and shouted, "If I could depend on the police, why would I be paying you?"
The guards who gathered around the cars were talking but were too far away from the microphones for Emma to pick up what they were saying. While clutching the radio strapped to his shoulder, one of them jogged to the chief security officer and stood between him and Mr. Thompson. Over the squawking of the radio, the man said, "We've got hostiles approaching from the northwest, sir."
Inside the bunker's security room, the top monitors displayed fifty fighter jets miles away headed straight for their direction. On the ground, the guards had climbed back into their vehicles, all except for the chief, who ordered the Thompsons to return to the car. They refused to leave the house.
The first jet passed over the mansion at a speed so fast and so low that it almost knocked all three of them off their feet. After the Thompsons got their bearings, they abandoned the house and followed the captain inside a vehicle. The convoy took off, leaving behind piles of the couple's luggage on the house's doorstep.
Emma turned off the security cameras and stood alone in the darkness of the room. She needed to absorb what had just happened.
The Thompsons were gone.
She had won.
This was her house.
The exhilaration of freedom filled Emma's chest. From now on, whatever she did would be for herself. So much energy coursed through her that she didn't know what to do with herself. She dashed out of the security room, down the stairwell. There were so many levels, all of which she'd only had a passing interest in before, but now that they were all hers, she looked forward to enjoying them to the fullest.
The bunker even had its own shopping mall, stocked with clothes that Mrs. Thompson had never touched. Emma discarded her maid's uniform and put on a silk dress.
Barefoot, she ran into the recreation floor, through the bowling alley. She was great at the game, and if she had someone to play against, she bet she would have won.
What she wanted to enjoy right now was the Olympic-sized pool. She didn't know how to swim and wondered if it was something that she could teach herself during her time here.
She pushed open the door to the dark pool room. Light embedded along the pool's walls illuminated the water. Emma discarded her silk dress onto the concrete floor, not caring for its condition since she had unlimited others.
She descended the steps into the pool and enjoyed the coolness of the water against her skin. The sound of the water rippling almost served as a lullaby. In the future, she should relax here after a long day -
After a long day of what?
The pool's light reflected the rippling water on the ceiling, and the cool water, which was so comfortable only a moment ago, felt freezing now. Her voice echoed off the concrete walls, "None of this is real."
Here she was, pretending that nothing was happening, while the fighter jets that flew above her were still out there. While she relaxed in the pool like nothing had happened, countless others died around her. What was the difference between her and the Thompsons?
The walls and the floor rumbled and shook. An alarm blared and the lights flashed angry and red. Water sloshed out of the sides of the pool and hit her face. It felt like an earthquake.
Three loud booms echoed throughout the building, as if lightning bolts had struck the bunker on all sides. Emma instinctively covered her ears.
"Warning! Warning!" a voice called out from the speakers, "The bunker is under fire. Please avoid returning to the upper lev-"
At first she thought that the automated voice cut out, but then she realized that everything was silent. She couldn't hear the rumble from the blasts or the sloshing of the water. She clapped her hands together, but all was quiet.
Cracks formed on the ceiling. Small bits of debris fell into the pool. Would this bunker suffer from the same structural integrity problems that the others had? Would it collapse and bury her alive?
This was it. She could spend her remaining hours in the Last War dying in a fantasy of someone else's creation, or she could bear witness.
Emma crawled out of the pool without bothering to dry herself off. She left the recreation floor and ascended the bunker's staircase to the upper level.
A thick, steel door separated the underground levels of the bunker and the house above ground. The door separated fantasy and reality. Emma pressed her shoulder against it and pushed it open. It groaned and resisted as if it didn't want her to open it, but she pressed through.
What hit her first when she emerged from the bunker was the smell of burning. Ash drifted to the ground like snowfall, and it was hard to see amid the cloud of smoke and the darkness of the night. She covered her mouth with her arm and coughed into it.
The wind pushed away the cloud enough to reveal what was left. The once beautiful mansion was carved open like a cake. The half of the building that contained the entrance was a smoldering pile of rubble and debris, while the other half was intact, maintaining its former grace.
Emma stepped over the fallen chandelier and past the grand piano to ascend the staircase to the second floor. On her way up, she gripped the wooden railing, leaving a handprint in the dust. Once she reached the top of the stairs, she marveled at the fact that to her left, where the living room should have been, was now only empty sky. Ahead of her, the dining room had survived. Emma passed the dinner table that was still set with now wilted, white roses and entered the balcony that overlooked the city.
She swallowed, and her eyes watered as her mind couldn't believe what lay before her. Only this morning, from this same position, she saw traffic from cars, bright lights from the holographic advertisements in the sky, and skylines that never seemed to end. The city was still full of lights, but now they came from flames. The skyline was a fractured mess. Most of the skyscrapers were ruined and crumbling. The city was gone.
Emma gripped the balcony railing and tears escaped her eyes. Was she the last person left to mourn for all the lives lost? For a moment, she wondered if she had made a mistake. Perhaps the peace of ignorance was better. No! She was right to emerge from the bunker and see it. If all the people in the city had been brave enough to face the end, who was she to hide from it?
She saw the blast before she heard it.
It was like someone had turned on a light switch in a pitch-black room - it was that sudden and bright. The light was so intense that, for a moment, Emma wondered if she would go blind. But the shining dissipated and revealed, miles away in the distance, a furious, red flame. The fire climbed into the heavens and clawed at the sky.
As she watched the mushroom cloud, the last thing she thought was that the plume of fire was beautiful. Somehow, it was beautiful.
She was glad that she came.
from FICTION on the WEB short stories https://ift.tt/e6CiXNt
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