Northern Exposure: Episode Three, Page 3

  Chapter 8

  A sharp pain ran through my neck, I opened my eyes; I was still exhausted, my vertebra felt so twisted and knotted. I was still in a fragile state from all the days I had been in the comma, alas there was no relief for my aching body, I was forced to sleep on the thin mattress which aggravated my sore bones even more so, on top of it all, I had to share the 10 inch sponge with Smith. I pushed the old man’s feet away from my face, and then slowly rose. Even though my body still ached I could feel my strength coming back day after day and now I was able to effortlessly get myself out of bed

  It’s been around three months since I’ve been down here. I’ve somewhat adapted to this new lifestyle as best I can. The hardest thing for me was getting used to the physical aspects of this new way of life. I am used to grinding through tough situations but not to this extent. Bear in mind before my family had saved enough money to open up the fishery, we owned a small smelly fishing trawler which my dad and I would go fishing on for days on end, at sea. So the living conditions I could get used to, it was trying to come to terms with the idea of this new existence, we were trapped under here like a bunch of ground hogs, with ravenous hunters above us who wanted nothing more than to eat us alive. We were so limited it felt like I was in a concentration camp, I could not go up top to smell the fresh air, I could not go take a walk in the sunshine, the only thing I had to occupy my time with was the long dark passageways of the sewer.

  The day’s seemed so long, most nights even longer. I had waged war, and was in a constant battle against boredom, thee oh so irrelevant things kept me entertained for hours on end. “To think, how many hours I sat playing hand games with Sharif’s daughters, or the hours I sat on my bed reading novel after novel, until I had finished all 18 books on the book shelve and had been reduced to reading Shahkierah’s girly magazines. If it was not for my daily workout, I honestly think I would have lost my mind. I spent hours sweating in the passageway just outside the bunker door pumping weights as hard as I could and trying to regain the body I had before the comma. My equipment was much more primitive down here as opposed to the five star Gym I was a member of a few years back, but here or there the results were all the same.

  My routine was basic but effective comprising of 3 sets of twenty crunches, followed by 2 sets of 100 jumping jacks, then 3 sets of 50 squats and that was just the beginning, after I was done with my cardio I’d hit the weights and push the boundaries of my health. Before I arrived Smith had made himself a barbell, which I might add I had taken over. On a supply run to the little grocery shop across the street, he gathered together two 10 gallon paint cans, a 2meter iron bar and two bags of cement. The crafty old man emptied the paint cans and brought all his materials down to the sewer, where he assembled the item together by adding the cement to each can, placing the cans at the end of the bar; waiting until the cement hardened and presto! We had a fully functional Barbell.

  But for now exercise was the last thing on my mind, my neck ached, and I found this to be a common result due to that damn mattress. I could not put all the blame on the uncomfortable mattress however, I was in no condition to be exercising as hard as I was, and this was definitely the main cause of my stiffness. Many time the others tried to stop me, telling me I was still too weak to push that hard. I would agree and tell them Id slow it down, with no intention of doing so. I would not be satisfied until I was at my peak and as strong as I used to be.

  I stood straight reaching up to the ceiling stretching out my entire body, then covered Smith with the blanket we shared, immediately the old man snorted, mumbled then turned to his side. After dealing with Smith I gazed upon the rundown room we now called our home. This place was truly the pits, the sewers were never made to sustain life, and how we had done it for this long was nothing short of amazing. Even though we had the bunker, it was still not sufficient enough to call home, let alone raise two young girls. The bunker was a complete shit hole, The walls were a dark greyish colour, covered with fungus; they acted as a blank canvas for the water stains which painted them from ceiling to floor, my lingering boredom caused me to stay up many nights depicting different pictures from the water stains, my favourite stain was the one right above my mattress, the long protruding figure from its round counterpart reminded me so much of the long nosed, fib telling, little boy, Pinocchio.

  There were no walls; hence no boundaries, the only time you got some freedom from the group was when you walked in the passages of the sewer or proceeded to the old runoff water pipe for an ice cold shower. Sometimes I would just sit in the narrow sewer passageways and feel the air run past my face. The bunker would become so claustrophobic at times with all of us in that room; you would often feel as if you were stuck in a shoe box.

  The hideousness of the room was magnified by the repulsive furniture which lay scattered from side to side. But nothing more untidy, more eerie, more dishevelled, than the weapons pile. Bats, machetes, spears, axes and the rest of the crude weaponry lay all around the little crate box. I had initially just seen a hand full of the weapons on my arrival to the bunker, oh how I was shocked when I witnessed axes being pulled from underneath pillows and knifes being revealed from under mattresses. Smith always said you could never be too safe in the new world, and even with the safety of the bunker he was still very paranoid.

  The only comforting commodities of the entire room were the dozens of blankets we had been stock piling. Every time we went for supplies and got the chance we took one or two down with us, until eventually the little grocer had not one left on the shelves. They were so versatile; we used them for so many different thing. We lined the bottom of the mattresses to make the beds a bit thicker and used the others as pillows; we kept ourselves warm and even occasionally used them to entertain the girls by making crude looking tents.

  Other than the blankets we also owned a little gas stove that was responsible for most of our cooking; however more and more meals had to be consumed cold due to the lack of gas bottles. The grocer was running out and limitations on hot meals were implemented. Another main feature in the bunker was the long rope which hung above, it served for an array of different tasks, from hanging washing to holding lanterns. Smith initially installed the line to try and create a barrier and give Sky and the girls some privacy by hanging up a blanket. However that idea only lasted a few hours and almost immediately the blanket was removed and the line became a constant tool at our disposal.

  The passageways became my salvation, whenever I had reached boiling point and needed some space away from the group I could head outside the bunker for some R&R. Don’t get me wrong the quietness of the passages was lovely, but sitting in the pitch dark could be relaxing for only so long. Some time I could feel the presence of non existing entities standing right beside me, sometimes I would freeze from shock swearing something was watching me. During workouts the bunker door was open and all my equipment was directly in the light coming from inside. But in the passages there was no lanterns, no light, only darkness. Deep down I knew there was nothing lurking around down there, I knew it was just delusional paranoia rearing it deceptive head. But that did not make the bangs which echoed down the pipe line, or the shadows of the passing rats less scary.

  But regardless of how scared I would get, I needed the relaxation time. As I stood in the middle of the bunker I decided that’s exactly what I needed, Id skip the workout today and give my body a chance to rest. So I grabbed a blanket, took a bottle of water and headed down the east corridor, my favourite passage. I found my spot which I had made into a little salvation point from thee announces of the group, sometimes a guy just had to do guy things in his own privacy, if you know what I mean.

  There was only one thing that could snap me out of the state of euphoria as I lay on the blanket in the quiet passageways, and that was the odours of Sky’s meals penetrating through the passages. The smell of food would send me running back to the bunker in a hungry frenzy. Since I woke up I had lost my passion for cook
ing, I often asked myself what the point was when one had so little to work with. But subconsciously I knew the real reason; I knew the last meal I made was for her before she betrayed me.

  Sky was extremely exceptional at rationing our food; she had a talent for using what limited goods we had acquired, constantly pushing the boundaries of the canned cuisine. She tried adding her little touches here and there; trying to make sure the meals were as appealing as possible. Take for example our staple oat breakfast; she always tried to find a mean of lighting the monotonous meal up. Maybe today she’d add a sprinkle of sugar, perhaps next week a dash of cinnamon? But her most creative pieces came in the form of our Supper dishes, my favourite comprising of tinned pilchards on a bed of instant mash soaked in a thick succulent sauce made from reduced canned apricot jam. Our suppers were always accompanied by a side dessert consisting of preserved cherries and a sprinkle of cocoa powder.

  Even though Sky’s attempts were admirable, food had lost that “je ne sais quoi”, the excitement of cooking eluded me, the magic had died. After so much time eating all this