#ContinuityOfGovernment, #WW3, #TEOTWAWKI
Buried a thousand feet beneath Ohio, the ten trillion dollar, UN-constructed SuperBunker can shelter a million members of the global elite indefinitely, with all the comforts of the surface including simulated blue skies, boutique shopping, and three golf courses. The President of the United States, Arman “Our Man” Manfred, regains consciousness in one of the bunker’s six hospitals. Surrounded by his trusted advisors and his official hagiographer, his office becomes ensnared in the Machiavellian underworld of SuperBunker geo-politics. The situation worsens when the president’s Russian and Chinese counterparts execute Protocol 4, sealing the blast doors and severing all contact with the surface, relegating the world’s leaders to governing a mere computer simulation of the world above. An attempt to blackmail the POTUS with a salacious video taken by his own security agency forces President Manfred into seclusion. With his office infiltrated by a traitor and hobbled by incompetence, he attempts one final ‘Hail Mary’ that might just save the office of the president… even if it destroys the world in the process.
The workers trapped inside the bunker turned away from the blast doors and staggered silently back toward their workstations. They passed through gauntlets of gawking elites, some smugly sipping their iced coffees, others casting looks of contrived pity, but most just appearing perplexed by the dazed looks on the sulking Greys.
“Why do they look so glum, grandfather?” asked the little toe-headed Prince Edward William Charles Henry, while clasping the aged hand of his great grandfather, James Edward William George, the Duke of Watford Gap, who was also known as the Kingforebear as he was the grandfather of the future King of England, Prince Henry William Edward Philip, who himself was cursed with his maternal grandfather’s hairline and was already balding at thirteen years old. The Duke of Watford Gap patted the little Prince of Northumbria and Strath Clyde atop his blond head, between the boy’s two enormous, satellite-dish-shaped ears, while examining the throngs of stunned Greys shuffling past. The little prince grinned revealing two enormous central incisors separated by a large gap.
“Everybody is saying we must have more people brought down into the bunker,” the Duke pondered, “but the people that are here are looking so ghastly that they’re here.”
In Sub-sector 16, the French sector, the glum procession was observed by French President Magimel and his sultry, ivory-skinned mistress, from the balcony of his suite.
“Francoise?” she asked.
“What is wrong with them?” she asked in French, her upturned, purple nipples visible through her sheer robe.
“Who, my dear?”
“The workers, the Greys.”
President Magimel, who stood draped behind the burgundy silk of his curtains wearing only his silver rolex, took a long drag on his electric cigarette. He exhaled the steam which dissolved into the recycled air. “Madame,” he answered as his eyes rolled up into his bushy Grey eyebrows evoking a state of deep introspection. “It is because hope is the source of all sadness and worry.”
“Hope is the source of sadness?” she asked, innocently. “How can that be? Hope is what carries us through.”
“Non, my child. Hope is the anchor that pulls them down into the abyss of despair.”
“I feel sad for them.”
“Because they are the fortunate ones.”
“But they are separated from their families.”
“My dear, this bunker— this soute— will soon be all that is left of the world.”
“But I still feel sad for them.”
“I said no! Their lives have been spared. What else can be done for them? We have done what we can. Without us, they would soon be gone.”
“Still, we must do something to cheer them.” She pondered behind the curtain fluttering in the air-conditioned breeze. “I think that perhaps… perhaps we should let them have a sherbet.”
In Section F, which was situated the farthest possible distance from the European and North American sectors, there were hostels of the former African colonies. Sub-sector 178 was the partition carved off by the United Nations for Zimbabwe, which was comprised of a single, baroque suite, floored in marble and fine finishes, constructed for the elites of that country that consisted of two human beings with PINs: one allotted for the Zimbabwe president and one for his special guest. The Greys who worked that section— almost entirely white, bourgeois-leftist, North American coeds— appeared even more sullen than the Greys who worked the other sections. Not knowing if nuclear war had begun but fearing the worst, they worried that there would be no empathy forthcoming from their potentially permanent African masters. They were trapped in a place that was culturally and linguistically and radically foreign to them. And they feared they would be forever separated from their cozy, Silicon Valley and East Coast suburban enclaves, deprived of the most fashionable technical gadgetry, estranged from their parental guardians who were supposed to support them into their mid-thirties, and severed from the trust fund accounts to which they were duly entitled. Their lofty idealism had been shattered by an alarm bell, crushed by a descending steel blast door, and exposed by the regret of signing up for a one-year secular mission to signal their high-minded virtue to potential employers on their otherwise empty resumes.
The president of Zimbabwe, himself nary distinguishable from a murderous gangster, bankrolled into power by Chinese industrialists, poured back his Cristal champagne, snorted a vile of cocaine, and bellowed a derisive, schadenfreude cackle at the caste of pasty-faced Greys lumbering past.
“Attention!” came the vaguely sultry voice over the loudspeakers once again. “Attention: all guest worker personnel! Please refer to lodging instructions on the SuperBunker intranet home page. You are required to report to your designated Protocol 4 accommodations within thirty minutes of the end of your shift.”
Nurse Baum walked toward her post, consumed with worry for her daughter and parents, siblings, and friends. She trudged along beneath the canvas sky illuminated in happy, pastel blue. She returned to the infirmary finding it in a state of dysfunction with many posts untended and the lobby filling with elite patients in need of treatment for migraines and sciatica and toenail fungus. The check-in desk was manned by an empty chair.
She turned to the sound of the voice. It was Dr. Waters. He was walking a patient into an examination room.
“So glad to see you. What I mean is: I’m sorry you were not able to escape, but I’m glad you are here.”
She stared at him blankly.
“Would you mind running over to pharmacy and filling this prescription for me?”
Baum stood frozen.
“Don’t worry, Emma,” he assured her. “It’ll be all right.”
At that moment, the comfort of escape into routine took hold of her. She took the slip from the doctor and turned to make her way to the pharmacy. She approached the counter and rung the service bell. The station there was also un-manned. She glanced left and right and did not notice anyone. She rang the bell again to no avail. Finally, she reached over the counter and felt under the surface for the switch. She found it and toggled it over which unlocked the door. She walked around the counter and into the dispensary to fill Dr. Waters’ prescription. Aisle J-L… Aisle M-N… Aisle O-P. She turned and started reading the labels on the bins: Patinase… Pavacot… Paxil. She skipped a shelf. Pharmaflur… Phazyme… Phenadoz. She jumped down a few rows. Phernergan… Pheniramine… She stopped at one label. It grabbed her attention, popping out as if it were labeled in giant font. It read “Phenobarbital”.
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