Where the Walls Watch

As we both climb down, I notice that Lyra stops humming almost immediately toward reaching the hatch. As if she’s scared of something. And for the first time on this trip that we take every week or so, her face darkens, as if something sinister lies below. It darkens, like if she smiled again, something terrible might happen. As both of us reach the end of the ladder down, we walk down a narrow hall of metal so thick you could almost taste it. Lyra speaks, trying to lighten the mood a little bit.

“Whoever built this shelter was overreacting. We don’t need metal walls this thick around it,” she chuckles softly.

I respond back, “You and I both know that isn’t true, Lyra,” I say, leaving her silent, not even trying to cheer up the mood in the slightest, and for the first time during our trip, I actually talk just a little more, I think trying to cheer myself up as well.

“We don’t know what’s out there anymore. You’ve seen those mutations outside these walls,” I say calmly, as I notice her covering her mouth at the mention of those creatures.

She responds, “You know I’m just trying to cheer up the mood.”

I respond back, “Yeah, I know. Sorry,” saying it in the same voice I always say anything.

We reach the end of the long hallway as I move in front of her before the door. She doesn’t protest. She never does.

We both take a deep breath. I glance at her—no words, just a signal. She nods. I open the door. A loud creaking noise sounds from the door as we open it. Walking inside. Faces cold as ice. Showing any expression with so many of these people around us might mean we care. And that means we’re weak. In here, the weak don’t last long.

We both walk at the same exact pace, not too fast, not too slow. In here, they never blatantly stare, but you can always feel them watching, for the moment you do something wrong.

Luckily we’re one of the protected. The protected are people who go out to look for supplies or people who farm on the 3rd level—they’re people who are essential to the shelter’s survival. We’re called many names: sometimes the untouched, the tainted, the protected. There’s never really any way to tell all of the things they call us. But despite being the protected, we’re not safe from everything. We’re more vulnerable.

Soon we walk past the stares into a deserted alleyway, and at the end of that alleyway lies an elevator. This elevator is specifically for the 50th level, where the protected work. It also contains many of the higher-ups’ offices and meeting rooms.

We press the elevator button down. The tension’s not leaving our bodies quite yet. Not until we get inside at least.

The elevator dings, loudly—almost too loud—and no one looks at us, but their eyes linger just a bit too long, their breath becomes just a bit too heavy. Maybe they’re thinking about what they might be able to do to us.

We enter the elevator as it soon closes behind us. And soon after it starts moving down to our floor, we breathe a sigh of relief, but we make sure to still stand up straight. I glance at the camera in the corner—just long enough to remind it I see it too. And then back at the door again.

Soon the door opens to our floor as we walk out, me still standing in front of Lyra. The walls as plain as ever. Except this time, lining the corridor are doors leading to different rooms— all meeting rooms. Some are where the protected live. Where we live.

Soon we get to a door at the end of the hallway as I open it—a face. She sits on her desk writing a few papers, with an obviously old, worn-out laptop in front of her and a clock to tell the time. Books and files line the walls. The floor’s scattered with papers, like she’d torn through them searching for something and never cleaned up. Her room’s always like this. So are her eyes—heavy, dark, tired. A couch at the side of the room, filled with books and papers, so crowded you wouldn’t be able to sit on it.

I look up at her, calling her name, noticing she hadn’t heard us come in.

“Isen, we’re back from our mission,” I say, hands behind my back, standing tall.

Lyra stands behind me, shivering a bit as I look at her, signaling her to stand straight as Isen looks at us with a slight tint of worry.

Isen. A name that means iron. Sometimes she feels invincible—like a sword forged in pure steel. In a world dulled by tainted copper, she shines. She always overworks herself. Sometimes I wonder if it’s out of worry for us. She’s like our protector—the only reason we, the protected, are alive today.

Isen responds, signaling Lyra to speak.

“Did you find anything useful on your mission today?”

“No, ma’am, we didn’t find anything of much use,” Lyra says firmly in her business-like tone.

Isen sighs before speaking, rubbing her temple.

“Did you seriously find nothing? That’s the fourth time this month. We might not survive the year if it keeps up like this,” she says, obviously stressed, as her voice trails off. Soon after, she comes back to reality. “At least you two are okay.”

Both me and Lyra nod.

“Did you… find anything out about the mutations?” she adds.

But this time I reply.

“No. It was strange. We didn’t even see a single mutation. Usually, we would see at least one, but… nothing,” my voice trails off, back to my own thoughts.

It’s honestly strange. This hasn’t been the case since the last mutation attack on the bunker. Something’s weird about all of this. I think, for the first time, a little bit concerned.

Isen makes a face. Maybe of concern. I’m the most knowledgeable about the mutated than anyone in this bunker. The doctor is the other one who knows more. We never talk, but when I do walk past her, I see her expression—those eyes. Living on this level, you hear a lot about her. She’s the one person who scares me most.

Isen knows that if I’m concerned, she should be too.

She pauses and then starts saying something, as that quickly gets disrupted by the sound of the alarm on her desk. She jumps up, surprised, mumbling, “I can’t believe I forgot—I have a meeting with the leader today. I can’t be late.”

She looks up to both of us.

“Get some rest, you two,” she says, as she quickly grabs a few documents from her office and rushes to her room to get changed.

We both head out too, quietly walking through the halls to our rooms. I wave goodbye to Lyra as we arrive at her room, but just before she leaves, she says in a concerned voice:

“Are you sure you’re okay walking back alone?”

“Yeah,” I say plainly.

And soon it’s just me, alone, in the hallway.

It’s never good to be alone in the bunker.