Nuclear Winter Wonderland

The overlapping strands of fairy lights made the innocence of my infant years come flooding back. My guts cramped up from the bitter nostalgia of the sight. The comfort of the memories is hard to put away. Now I can truly understand his cage…

It’s been years since the colour was syphoned from the earth, and yet this bunker overflows with festive vibrance. The red, green and gold spills off every decoration, the whole room is alive and gushing holiday mania. It’s like saint Nick’e own living room, and we’re under his spell of festive optimism.

This home is a rare safe haven from the crumbling remnants of our world, which is no longer recognised. So much of our past was tarnished from the evils that took control. The last day felt so normal, and then it changed forever. It was a five minute warning and then 16 minutes of carnage. I shivered as the inferno unloaded above us. I was lucky to be nearby a checkpoint. Had I been home, I’d be dust in the sickening wind right now. Come to think of it, perhaps I should have just stayed at home… Easier I suppose…

The first two years were complete hell in abandonment. Any semblance of government was now a vicious barrier to any sustenance, not much of a change there, just more transparent in their slaughter. All survivors were free game for hell’s revolving door to solitary suffering. Trust amongst humans had evaporated to a dry stain on the earth.

I truly believed nothing would ever be so cosy again, until I caught sight of this phenomenon. You see, for Lovey, everyday was a holiday. And that wasn’t a figure of speech for his jolly demeanour, it was a fact of life for this tight space he resided in. In this bunker, it was a literal, never ending Christmas.

The spicy scent of tinsel is what tethered me to his bunker so firmly. You’d think it had been the food, or the warmth, or this carefree play room tucked away from the dreary rat pit we resided in. But no, the tinsel sealed the deal! Everything above was now grey and riddled with cancerous dust, anything that once shone had rusted to orange glazed detritus. The orange in this room was sweet and endearing, it was like an indoor sunset that left a perfume of zest. It wasn’t just a home for Lovey, it was a state of being, an act of rebellion against such horror that darkened his doorstep.

I can barely remember my final legitimate christmas. We all gave up on tracking dates, I forget even what my age is, 19 maybe? The only recollection was that the atmosphere was nervous. The drop hadn’t been confirmed, but it was imminent. “Any day now”, my father would say, with a pessimistic tone. My mother would tut crisply at him, with scornful eyes. The fear laid dormant in our minds as we unwrapped our indulgent gifts. I don’t recall any of the gifts, but they were impractical. They were just a gesture of unconditional love. It was a testament to our affection for each other. The evening meal felt less christmassy and more like a last meal before execution. Each swallow was dry and followed by anxious regret. We could do nothing but wait for the storm and mentally retreat to the direct comforts before us.

Rudy was only 12 when he lost his parents, For me, (that’s Jackson to you), I was 14 when my folks vanished. It’s far too common a story, and hardly nuanced. The mayhem was a miserable cliché. Everywhere you treaded scratched a mass grave of 60 poor sods that perished from the midnight sun. From the time the world had died, everything was lopsided at all angles and rotting in poison. The government had sworn to maintain order, but barely passed a glimpse from their iron boxes as their electorates melted. The rest of us was abandoned to a leftover residue of human civilisation. We would traipse barefoot in glass sprinkled dirt to obtain a fraction of a tinned meal. Children and elderly were the first to depart, pregnant women too. Soldiers and rebels were what made up the tribes now. I barely know where I stood, I was said to be one in a billion, a youngster that defied the invitation to eternity, only to indulge in more misery.

I scurried along with whatever faction seemed tolerant for the time, it was just me, plodding to survive, turning sides when it seemed viable to do so. That was where Rudy found me, the only friend I could scrape from the wreckage of our people. All I can say of Rudy is that he had attitude. His spirit was infectious, and he made me cackle when needed.

It didn’t matter how dire our travels were, nor how minimal the picnics could be. He had a way of making fun of it all, it was my antidote from the nihilism that soaked us at every turn. Picnics were what he called any occasion when we’d happen to eat. It was his form of a joke. “Every meal is a picnic when all buildings are blown to shit and you’re forced to eat in the mud”, he’d say with a sardonic chuckle. “Extra rat and hold the maggots”, he’d mutter as our bland slop and flat breads were slapped to our palms. I admired Rudy’s spirit. He was the first person in years I worried for. It’s inevitable that either of us is fit for the grave at any moment. I’d hope every day that I’d be the first in that succession of demise. I felt he’d cope in the loneliness better than me. It’s a selfish hope, though I’m sure he’d understand. He somehow had the amour to cope with it all…

Rudy was the guy who inspired our straggling. The camp we crawled with had grown hostile. Accusations of theft had been darted around, and every cretin was sharpening their spikes. We saw no way out that didn’t end with us split from chest to gonads, so we vacated with all we could carry, in hopes to find any semblance of oasis. Little did we know, our saving grace would be an old man and a bunker that visually screamed “Ho Ho Ho!”

Lovey had it all planned since 1983. He’d outlined, ordered, packed and prepped the ideal spot of the wasteland since the fear had occurred to him. The bunker was oozing with every ounce of the christmas spirit. Mince pies by the trey load, clouded with sugary powder that sweetened the air. A gingerbread house stood firm on the mantel, the only building in one piece for miles. Gallons of Cranberry sauce was situated in buckets by the main water filter. He even had a whole generator just for the reindeer display. Lovey was the embodiment of chilled and checked out, right down to his slippers and snowman pull over.

Leonard was his real name, but he demanded we call him Lovey; a nickname from his late wife. His appearance was aptly suited to his mission, Lovey was a white haired, portly and savagely kind gentleman. His handshakes were aggressive, but with joyous intend. He even laughed like the old saint Nick. When Rudy first entered the bunker, he laughed so hard until he cried with joy. “I pray to god that I never wake up, Jackson. Please don’t let this be fake, I couldn’t live with that torment!”. That night we both refused to sleep, we were warm and fed and safe, but to sleep was to possibly wake up and it be a mirage.

Lovey had scouted us as we slept in a hollowed out barn, he told us of his bunker and that he was thirsting for company. We assumed he was the typical pervert looking to claim a five minute thrill from our ill guarded bodies. We obliged for the hope of nabbing some tinned peaches after. Whatever he offered in exchange for our corrupted innocence was enough for us. Little did we know, he wasn’t flogging a fiction. His ramblings that translated as senile tall tales were made real by the revelation of the promised haven. The memory of that first warm smell of walnuts, evacuating the bunker entrance, lives with me till I perish.

The rules of the bunker were simple: No talk of outside, no mentions of disaster, the date is December 25th 1983 and we were to never complain nor allude to anything beyond the bunker. Any utterance of outside, and that’s where we’d be, abandoned once more.

We wore ill fitting pyjamas and ugly jumpers that were warm, but mildly irritating to the skin. We drank cocoa as if it were on order by the ocean load. Our teeth were encrusted by the copious toffees that sank into our gums. Charades was always in eternal play, with Rudy dead set on pushing buttons with his rule breaking answers. He got a stern warning once for his four worded charade; it was an H.G Wells novel. We’re banned from bleak guesses or answers. Only light hearted suggestions allowed. War films were out of the question. Lovey soon made it christmas themed only, but no Black Christmas or Silent Night, Deadly Night, only happiness was to be present.

The turkey dinners were prepared with every variety of vegetable. The whiff of horse radish burnt our nostrils at every turn, the whiff of mint sauce soothed them. The novelty 1950s Christmas music echoed in the background. Every meal, I sat there with a dreaded itch, but not from my makeshift reindeer pull over. I was itching to ask where all this food was coming from. Though I feared that such a question would allude to the real world and result in my eviction!

Lovey grinned with every tooth on display as he carved us extra helpings. At points his eyes looked pained, like he was fighting back his offended spirit. I tried my best to keep his dread from floating to the surface, though the pressure would get to me. How could we be, under a catastrophe, just playing pretend? It’s like we were trapped in a puzzle of avoiding words. All we had was charades and cheap cracker jokes to hide behind. The stench of turkey stuffing seeped into our clothing. I’d bite a nail and there’d be stuffing from three dinners before. Everything insists on seasonal delight, and yet I seldom felt it…

The monotonous streams of Christmas cakes were cloying and soul wrenching , like a purgatory catered with incessant, sickly confectionary. Every door beyond our bed chamber and the lounge were off limits. We dared not stray, for fear of being cast out. We could here an uproar of turkeys hollering as Lovey entered their pen from his bolt locked, steel metal door. The turkey’s panicked whistles would infect my unsavoury dreams. I’d spin in my sheets, restless and sweat glazed from the noise flying around my subconscious. It was as if my own self had morphed into rotisserie poultry, stewing in my own anxiety sweat.

Rudy and I had been in the holly jolly shelter for 52 sleeps or so (we had started tallying once we arrived). We shared bunks in a makeshift pantry, adjacent to the constant buzzing freezer room. Night is the only time we can outpour our concern. Rudy swears and spits bleak limericks at me, with a splash of sarcasm to lift the spirits. Like the pillow chocolate of turn down service, Rudy’s sarcasm sweetens the predicament. It’s not that I’m ungrateful to Lovey’s hospitality, or that I am so eager to talk of the world, it’s just that the kindness feels more obligatory for the sake of his own indulgence. It’s a safe space, but on Lovey’s terms. His insistent denialism had a habit of suffocating me. Rudy and I often wondered how many had cosied up here before us. There are opaque remnants of past roommates; a wooden trunk that’s out of bounds to Rudy or me. There’s no lock, but we are told firmly to steer clear, or face the dust blizzard once again.

After a while, Rudy and I started to identify as pets, we knew nothing of the real world. Our existence consisted of the pleasures brought before us by our captive/owner. Although, they were pleasures no longer. It felt entitled, down right disgraceful, to long for more than this bunker. Thanks to Lovey, our bodies were full, though our spirits were a spacious void. How could we remain in this loop indefinitely? It felt like madness, submitting to toxic nostalgia.

Rudy very often pushed his luck, we’re on thin ice, and he stomps. And Lovey isn’t the type of captain to fish such a person out of the sludge. If Rudy persisted, then he would be banished to the decay, and it’ll be Lovey and I; forever entangled within a net of twinkling fairy lights, forever codependent.

At bed time, Rudy regaled me with stories of the trunk. What bleakness was stuffed in that wooden shell? Perhaps it was a body parts of past companion, keepsakes of the banished. Or maybe a whole body? His finest guest in one piece, holding an eternal stare in the blackness of the inner chest. What a keepsake, or perhaps, the final reserved meal?

The stories made me nauseous beyond belief, though it was welcoming to extract such intensity in my emotions so vividly. Rudy seemed to bring out the best in me by simply being so raw. He didn’t hide from the nastiness of the world, he soldiered through it with vigour and a sardonic wit. Those night talks kept me sane, for the day was good on the body, but not for the soul. Rudy championed how the world was, somehow he fell into a despairing life, and bounced up as everything else tumbled.

Rudy felt the warmth of my smile that night, this bunker was strange, but at least I weren’t alone. But alas, that wasn’t to last, was it?

It’s now been two days since Lovey woke us from that night. He stood in the doorway frowning so tight, the veins on his forehead jiggled. He stood there, trigger ready with rifle in hand, still in his Christmas regalia and mince pie dust dabbed to his jumper… He pointed the rifle towards our bunk. “Which of you was it?”, he said with a tremble. It was as if his world had burnt to charred rubble around him; the tragedy in his eyes maxed out in volume.

Despite the familiarity of gazing at a gun barrel, we both felt obliged to raise our hands, Rudy looked unfazed, I was terrified.

“One of you shits looked in the trunk, the inside components are jumbled oh so slightly. You thought I’d be too senile to notice. You stupid little bastards! You’ve really done yourselves in now, haven’t ya?” Rudy and I exchanged a look, the worry on my face was uncensored for all. My body trembled like I was readying to collapse into pieces. I knew it was over, the harshness of the world opened its arms to us once again and Lovey was determined to throw us into its embrace.

Before I can push out a syllable, Rudy barks out a single sentence. “Leave him out, it was all me, mate”. I turn to Rudy, my face red with pent up stress and a panting breath to match. My eyes started to stream with tears, and my insides quivered. We both knew, this was the end of the line.

“Pack up and sling your hook”, Lovey said with a cold, dismissive tone. He then took a look at me and said, with sombre acknowledgement, “breakfast in 20, go get washed up”. I froze like a tree in a blizzard, I didn’t know what to do. “Never mind, Jackson. It’s a poxy place anyway”, Rudy exclaims as he grabs his few, dire belongings. Again I stay so still, unable to process the reality. Rudy merely shrugs it off, “I’ve survived worse, don’t let it hurt you, mate, better me than you, hey?”.

It all happened in a flash. Five minutes from our awakening and he was gone, completely rinsed from this place. The group polaroids of us at our Christmas dinners taken down from cork board. His cracker prizes brushed off the mantel piece. In a matter of moments, Rudy was scrubbed from the bunker, and what’s worse, Lovey foreboded any sombre farewells. I sat there for fifteen minutes, and I wept. I wept for the hell my only true friend had returned to. I wept for this purgatory I grew so dependent on. I felt like a parasite clinging for dear life to a host that refused to acknowledge any truth of our surrounding. I sobbed at the foolish ignorance I’d been so submerged in, not knowing when the food would run out, or when the lights would cease twinkling. Whats more, I wept for the selfless act of my only friend, taking the blame for an action that he knew was mine…

The curiosity had taken over, I needed to know the truth. And it cost me a priceless treasure.

I’m now incapable of digesting the burdensome guilt that festers inside me. Instead, all I do is bury it evermore deeper than we already are in this dirty chamber. Who am I now? I’m not so sure. A guest? A prisoner? A pet? Who cares? All I know now, is that survival depends on my locked smile and repressed inquisition. Everyday I now sit at the table, and soak into this charade, hiding my panic behind a lying smile. And I prey before sleep, that the second helpings are held down with my despair, and not not spilled before my host, for fear of facing Armageddon again…