[dedicated to my sister, @DreamLyte whose story DESERVED to win Round 1]

BENEATH THE SURFACE

BUNKER 17

MONOTONY.

It’s an acquaintance I was introduced to the day I was born in Bunker 17. Now, we’re more like family, its figure an ever-present shadow no matter where I go—not like there’s much ground to cover down here.

Today starts like any other. 

Dottie (our self-appointed bunker mother) knocks on the steel door of my room, our only indication of sunrise. I'm already awake hours before, hunched over my desk in concentration, squinting to see in the introverted light my lamp casts across the page.

These letters always begin with the one thing I’ve managed to fall in love with down here. Poems never fail to bring me peace, the only way I can possibly feel connected to an outside world I’ve never seen. My focus skips across the videotapes stacked haphazardly around me, their labels reminding me of entertainment people indulged in centuries ago.

The Little Mermaid. Stranger Things. Harry Potter. Tom & Jerry. Back to the Future.

This treasure trove is both a blessing and a curse, something my parents used to teach me about the world. About how people are different, but everyone has a place where they belong. How sometimes the enemy you’re facing is someone you once trusted, or maybe another version of yourself you no longer recognize.

About how anything is possible, and you can overcome every obstacle life throws at you… That you can find a friend in the most unlikely of places… That it’s better to look forward to the future than dwell on the past.

But, what about when your parents die, leaving you to navigate such an uncertain life alone? What about when you’ve lived your whole life underground as a never-ending war unfolds mere miles above your head? What do you do when the only hope you have to hold onto is in the one person who reports the war from the Surface?

Because that’s how my letters always end. Addressed to Ivy Carlisle herself, the news reporter who I’m sure has no idea who I am. The news reporter who will never know the sliver of hope she brings with every broadcast, no matter how intangible a new life may be.

The second knock from Dottie comes before I sink further into my pity party. 

Breakfast.

I sign the bottom of the page, vowing to post it on my wall along with the others as soon as I get back to my room. Just in time for the broadcast.

I fall into step with a crowd of my bunkmates in the hallway as we migrate towards the Garden. This is the only community space that allows us to see people from other bunkers. For me, I anticipate seeing the hazel-eyed twins I’ve come to call my siblings. 

Somehow, I feel like they were sent to Bunker 13 just to find me. 

To fill the void my parents left over a year ago.

The chatter around me is quieter than usual, as if I’ve missed out on some sort of secret everyone else is aware of. The building confusion dissipates just as quickly as it came as the bright light ahead indicates we’ve reached our destination. The hallway gives way to a massive clearing that leads to several hallways in every direction.

Rings of LED lights stretch overhead, creating a masterpiece that illuminates every inch of the room. Frosted glass panels line the curved walls, giving this place a modern and futuristic feel in contrast to the rust-colored theme of our bunker itself. In the center of the room are rows of greenery, misters hovering above them timed perfectly in six minute intervals.

The vibrant red, green, and yellow hues of the fruits and vegetables before me make it feel like I’m on the Surface itself. I allow myself to revel in that feeling as I catch a glimpse of two heads of chocolate curls. 

A mischievous grin tugs at the corners of my lips as I slip into the one role that detaches Monotony from my spine, if only for a moment.

I browse a row of ripe tomatoes nonchalantly, a spring in my step as I creep around the corner, my prey unaware of my presence. I inhale, steadying myself before pouncing on my unsuspecting subjects. To my surprise, they turn in unison to face me, sliding just out of reach. My momentum causes me to stumble forward and I curse under my breath, positive that I had them this time.

Two pairs of hazel eyes glare at me in mockery before the twins burst into a laughter I’m sure is heard all throughout the Garden. Grant regains his composure first, clapping me on the shoulder before checking in with his female doppelganger. Gracie wipes tears from her eyes, failing to stifle sporadic giggles.

“Ha ha ha. Get it out already,” I mutter, a hint of bitterness staining my voice. We've been playing this game since the day I met them. They were so much smaller then, always getting the best of me. No matter how many times I try, they’re always a step ahead.

I guess two heads really are better than one.

“Thought you had us, didn’t ya?” Gracie sneers, nudging her brother with her elbow.

“Not a chance. Might as well give up, old man,” Grant jokes, tossing an oversized tomato my way. It nearly slips through my fingers, and I can’t help but shiver at the pit in my stomach it gives me. 

Like something as insignificant as a smashed tomato means much more than that today.

Just like the unusual silence around us.

The three of us stock up, hauling as much as we can carry to the table we etched our names into. We eat until we’re more than satisfied, indulging in our endless spread of food. The Harvest comes every three months, allowing us to eat to our hearts’ content before our rations are restored for the next quarter. 

Of course, we have no clue what food tastes like above the Surface. No clue whether the beautiful Harvest we get access to four times a year is really just full of artificial junk. 

A figment of our imaginations.

But we don’t care. And neither do our stomachs.

At the end of breakfast, I fall into routine, fist bumping Grant and Gracie, lingering behind as I watch them disappear into their Bunker. I grimace as I make my way to the back of the crowd, Monotony’s claws sinking into the holes in my vertebrae where they belong.

I reach my room in a matter of minutes, skimming the letter I wrote just this morning. As I find a place for it on the wall, different words on neighboring pages jump out at me.

Sunlight. Warmth. Dawn.

The lights in the Garden are as close as I’ve ever been to seeing the sun in all its glory. The closest I’ve ever been to breathing fresh air. I shut my eyes for a moment, flipping through images in my mind from the films I’ve studied a million times. Trying to imagine what it’d feel like to be part of that world.

Even if all that awaits is disappointment. Fear. A monster more unforgiving than Monotony. I'd give anything to experience it all for a day.

As if to send me a message from the Surface, my room becomes submerged in a yellow glow, a familiar alarm sounding above my head. It's time for Ivy’s latest broadcast. I’m usually the first one to the common room and today is no different.

The tattered leather couch sitting in front of our ancient television has become my favorite place in the bunker besides the Garden. I drum my fingers across my knees impatiently, holding my breath as the rest of the residents pour into the room. A thin girl—affectionately nicknamed Mouse—takes the cushion next to me, her round frames too large for her face.

She blinks at me, turning her attention to Dottie as she quiets the room without a word. Her presence always seems to shift the atmosphere, the respect for her evident. Her gaze lingers on me for a moment, as if trying to tell me something telepathically. The television clicks in response to a push of the power button, a static screen greeting us at first.

Then, there’s her.

Immediately, I notice something different. Her compassionate eyes are red, her gaze darting back and forth momentarily instead of boring into mine through the screen. Her words are unsure and wavering as she begins her report, like she’s fighting two different versions of herself.

Trying to stifle something unsaid.

I draw closer to the television, not caring that I’m obstructing everyone else’s view. As I get closer, I can see her shaking in her chair, her voice bathed in a tremble.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she whispers, beginning to stand from her seat. I almost think I misheard her until her gaze seems to meet mine—only this time there’s a fire burning in her eyes. 

And then, her facial expression deadpans. The volume in her voice cuts through the pounding of my heartbeat and it feels like the wind is knocked out of me at the sound of her frantic words. “Everything is fine! They’re lying! Th—”

And then the signal cuts out…

And so do the lights.