Tim, a garbage handler in a post-apocalyptic bunker, loses the little he has. But then he finds Amy, the redhead with an attitude. Together, they will try to change the world they live in.
--
Tim is one of those who shovel the shit and clean away th...
For those who have lived by the Manuals, death is a door.
Beyond it, the garden of life awaits you.
The Manuals of the Bunker, Vol. 3, Verse 15
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"I hope ye've made a good knot back there." Amy pointed a thumb at the tunnel through which we had arrived. The sounds emanating from it faded as we made for the last door.
"Sure."
"Good. Let's try this one." She pushed the handle.
The circular room on the other side was flooded with light, brighter than any I had ever seen. It was maybe twenty steps across. Machines stood along its sides, large boxes of metal studded with tiny lights of various colors and carrying rectangular panels set into their walls. Many of these panels were dark, but a few showed pictures glowing from within. Similar to the one in the shrine.
"Now that's more like it!" Amy stepped through the door and approached one of the machines. With a broad grin on her face, she moved a finger along its buttons as if caressing them.
"You think this is...?" I hesitated to name it.
She looked at me, the grin now almost cracking her face in two. "Yes, sir! The light, the buttons... there can't be no bleeding doubt! This is the fucking control room." She spread her arms and spun around her axis.
The control room—Amy had talked so much about it, but I had never believed her. Never believed that such a place would exist. But this place did have the buttons, rows upon rows of them. And lots of light.
One of the glowing panels beckoned me with the familiarity of the image it showed.
I stepped closer. It was a view of our village, from above, similar to how it looked from the crane. The huts nested against the dark rock behind them. The detail and reality in the picture surprised me—far better than any painting I had ever seen.
A group of people stood in front of one of the huts. Familiar figures, I knew most of them. And they were moving.
Moving like in the moving images at the shrine.
"You see that?" I pointed at the thing, my finger trembling.
"Stinky village, yes. So what?"
"Look, they are moving in it." I gestured at the people. They were smaller than my finger, but most of them looked familiar. My neighbors.
She shrugged. "Sure. That's like the one we saw in the bishop's shrine."
A man had his arm around the shoulders of a woman. I pointed at her. "I think this is Marge, Ed's mom. She's been kinda like a mother to me, too, since my mom's death." The panel was warm to the touch. I pulled my finger back, leaving a smudge in the dust.
