THE SURFACE

3 DAYS BEFORE PROJECT BUNKER

Bodies. Torment. Extinction.

And it's all because of me.

The fire starts in my toes.

I'm in the bunker now, cloth hanging off my body like a ragdoll. There's a stifling cloud of ash lingering above my head. After all this time, it's a shame the only precaution I've managed to remember is to shield my eyes.

The room I'm standing in is a small one, but not without character. Yellowed pages pepper the crimson brick walls, words scrawled in blue and red ink. The bedspread is in disarray as if the owner was in a hurry to leave the room. A rusted lamp guards a desk full of books and videotapes, the bulb threatening to blow out any moment.

I study a page that seems to beckon me from the doorway, discovering a limerick describing a life I've never known. I read a few lines aloud, unafraid of the consequences of announcing my presence.

I dream of sunlight on my hungry skin

Rays of flame have been distant for far too long

Sunlight. A delicacy I take for granted without a second thought. My eyes skim over the rest of the page. Two familiar words at the top send a chilling sensation through my body.

Ivy Carlisle.

They've been writing to me? I rub my eyes, refusing to believe that one of the thousands of people I've helped The System lie to for the past hundred years actually cares about who I am. Before I get the chance to look again, a deafening explosion shakes me to my core, and I'm knocked off my feet.

The fire.

I finally come to, but I don't know how much time has passed. My hearing is hindered by a steady ringing in my ears that gets louder as I move. Upon instinct, I check myself for injuries, secretly afraid that getting hurt here means I'll be stuck in this vivid nightmare.

I start with my hands, wiggling my fingers in front of my face. Next, I check my arms. The debris from the blast bathes my skin in monotone gray. Aside from a few scrapes, my arms are completely unscathed. I shift my gaze to my legs next, catching sight of the very thing I was afraid of reaching at me beyond the edge of my socks.

Scaly, red veins mock me in the midst of all the chaos.

The fire. I've become one of the Changed.

The screwed-up thing is that no one knows exactly what types of effects the Chemical will have once Project Bunker starts. And this recurring nightmare has to be my subconscious mind telling me to do what I can to stop it.

But what's more against Protocol? Going through with reporting a fake war while watching innocent, honest people tear each other apart, or risking my own life to save thousands of others?

I'm running out of time.

I push my thoughts aside, pulling myself to my feet. Before I go into a mental spiral, I need to make sure I can get out of here. I stumble over the rubble blocking the doorway. The dust in the hall has settled, allowing me to regain my bearings. I must've been unconscious for a while.

The first thing that jumps out at me is the gigantic red number on the wall directly across from the room I started in.

17

Bunker 17. The Control Group. Over the years, I've come to memorize most of the faces and names belonging to those who live below the surface. My colleagues think knowing who we're sentencing to death is an unnecessary burden. But, everyone deserves the basic human right of simply being acknowledged, whether the perceived value of their life is skewed or not.

The next thing I notice is a picture I'm all too familiar with. Just beyond the bend in the hallway lie hundreds of bodies, each more bloody than the next. The screams start out as a low synchronized hum, slowly rising in pitch. Then comes the fire.

It doesn't take long for the flames to clothe every life in scorching pain. Or for it to reach me and take my life too...

⏳

I JOLT AWAKE with beads of sweat across my forehead. My breathing is frantic, pressure building in my chest until I force myself to my feet. It takes a while before my body realizes that it was just a dream. Somehow this one felt more tangible than the rest of them, even though they always end the same.

A pair of green almond eyes survey me from the far corner of my room. I flick my bedside lamp on, offering Chester a forced grin to reassure him. "Just a nightmare, Chess." He responds with a nonchalant meow, weaving in and out of my legs as I make my way to the bathroom.

My curly hair sits in disarray on my head, deep bags under my eyes. I look like I haven't slept in a month. Truth be told, I haven't been able to get proper rest since the System announced the countdown of Project Bunker a month ago.

I remember the meeting like it was yesterday. The broadcast was cut half an hour short. While nothing seemed out of the ordinary, there was a pit in my stomach that introduced itself before I could finish my breakfast. I followed my fellow anchor into the main conference room, the table already half occupied.

Standing at the head of the table was Alexander True, the founder of the System and mastermind behind Project Bunker. The angular design of his suit matched his facial features, a pointy nose reaching beyond the frames of his glasses adding an intimidating centerpiece to his presence.

With one wave of his hand, he silenced the pockets of chatter throughout the room. As his presentation started, I could feel the atmosphere in the room shift. The sad part about it was that a sense of pride and accomplishment wafted from everyone seated around me. I was the only one who saw something wrong with making a spectacle of the experiments he'd been running without his victims' consent.

I was the only one who was tired of lying to thousands of people just to keep up this elaborate lifestyle that's turned out to be more lonely than luxurious. The only one repulsed by the idea of making a game out of innocent people suffering. By the time the lights flicked back on, the pit in my stomach progressed to unbearable nausea.

I can feel the same wave of sickness washing over me now. I only have a second before every bit of anguish held in those screams comes up, yet another routine Chess has had to witness over the last couple of weeks.

It's not easy being an accessory to murder.

I steady myself on the ledge of the bathtub, turning the water onto the coldest setting. It's almost as if I'm sinking back into the nightmare, but the heat from the flames covers every inch of my body now. I cry out in fear, a nagging voice in my head telling me I deserve everything that's coming to me.

That I deserve to suffer just a fraction of what those Below are getting ready to experience. I plug the drain, willing the ice-cold water to quench the embers rising beneath my skin. I subconsciously reach for my legs, as if the red veins somehow materialized past the construct of my mind.

As soon as the water level is high enough, I clamp my eyes shut and inhale, shrinking beneath the surface. The temperature is a shock to my body initially, but I force myself to lean into the feeling. I let images of the nightmare flash through my mind, one detail too prevalent to ignore.

The letter that was addressed to me. My previous question to myself attaches to this memory, giving me the chance to weigh my options without the fear of not waking up. I decide that taking a stand is my only option. I've been the one reporting on the fake war for around ten years now. The one directly feeding lies to the victims, priming them for Alexander's sinister plan to throw the Changed to the wolves.

I try to anticipate the consequences of sabotaging my own career as I get dressed for work. In one possible reality, they might cut the broadcast in the middle of my report once they realize my intentions. In another, I imagine myself getting thrown into the bunker myself, getting real-life experience with the place I feel I know so well without ever having seen it in person.

And the last consequence? The one that no one deserves more than me. Death.

I scratch Chester between the ears and set out a bowl of tuna, positive that he'll be hungry long before I make it back home from work. That is if I ever do. I take a deep breath as I step out into the hallway of the third floor, half expecting to see a pile of burning bodies in front of me.

You can do this, Ivy Carlisle. You're going to save lives, I tell myself. There's no way to guarantee that this small warning will stop Project Bunker in its tracks. But if there's one thing I'm sure of, it's that going against Protocol on such a grand scale will cause a domino effect.

I can only pray it doesn't mean more deaths than there would've been if I didn't say anything at all. I reach the light rail just outside my condo building, secretly glad that our currency system lies in our fingerprint. I have a knack for forgetting my wallet.

I settle in the seat just inside the sliding doors. The glass body of the train allows me to distract myself during the ride with the scenery whizzing past my vision-sprawling metropolis buildings, well advanced in technology and stature. Shimmering blue lake water holds docks and catamarans in place beneath my feet as the train hovers over a thin bridge.

The magnetic field between the tracks and the train ensures it stays on course, no matter the terrain we pass through. Even still, I brace myself as my stomach does a somersault in anticipation of a loop. Once the loop passes, I let out a sigh of relief and fish for my keycard in my backpack.

The irony of my job title in black ink beneath my profile picture nearly makes me laugh aloud. It's not like I haven't seen it every day for the last decade, but today it holds a different weight. War Reporter.

The only war we seem to be fighting on the Surface is whether or not to have caviar with dinner. Those Below, on the other hand, fight to survive every day in conditions that have been presented as their only option.

A subtle chime sounds from a speaker right above me, and I step off the light rail and into the parking lot of the news station. Like every other day, there are three cars here, telling me everyone's at work today. I'm not sure whether or not it's a good thing considering my intentions for the day, but it's now or never.

I can't live like this anymore.

The first person I come into contact with when I walk in is Sabrina Townsend, a preppy intern lucky enough to be plucked from one of the testing groups in the bunkers. I almost want to ask her what living conditions were like. How many people have died in their bunker? And whether people have been acting out of the ordinary.

Each question might give me more insight into the severity of the Bunker situation. But there's no time for that now. I know enough of what's been happening to understand Alexander's intentions and make the judgment call.

I settle into my booth and skim the stories for the day, trying to decide when to issue a warning. As the minute countdown to the broadcast starts, I dig my nails into my seat.

Three... I take a deep breath, ignoring the onlookers from behind the camera.

Two... I swallow the frog forming in the back of my throat, willing my nerves to steady themselves.

One... I exhale, praying that my confession doesn't do more harm than good. Praying that I'm able to save just one life.

And then the broadcast starts.