Beneath the Surface | ONC 2023

I | IVY

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.