Beneath the Surface | ONC 2023

XIII | IVY

BUNKER 17 — PROJECT BUNKER

6:48:13 HOURS REMAINING

I WRITE WITHOUT STOPPING.

I start with the clues from the first test, spacing them out at the top of the page. My mind runs through code possibilities on autopilot.

C. O. V. A. R. T. I.

I notice that A and T are Alexander's initials. And then, I notice my own. That just leaves O, V, and R. After a minute of problem-solving, I decide it's much too simple and straightforward. Alexander and I bonded over a love of science, meaning I'll have to put more effort into solving these clues than a simple, predictable acronym.

But, maybe that's just it. The acronym is only half of it. I clamp my eyes shut, running through the events of the past forty-eight hours that led me here. The last nightmare I had, and how I woke up in this room. The letters, the explosion, and the alarm. Even still, it ended the same way they always do—with a pile of burning bodies.

I retrace my steps from that morning next. Getting ready to walk into the news station for the last time. Making the conscious decision to finally stop the lies. To tell hundreds of innocent people that there's no ongoing war happening above their heads. I recall the anxiety rising inside of me as I made my confession. The way the broadcast was cut short. The look Alexander gave me from the shadows.

And then, our conversation in the foyer of the building. The way he wore his hatred for me so proudly. The way he confessed to manipulating me—to stealing my research when I was fully convinced we were having a moment. A moment that only existed in my imagination.

The last major event that led me to Bunker 17 was my van escape. I recall the phrases flashing across the screen in front of me. How I came to the conclusion that they were a message from Alexander himself, something he counted on me figuring out. Something he assumed I would've solved faster.

LACARU.

I freeze, the realization hitting me like a ton of bricks. The periodic table. Atomic numbers. He really is predictable. I rack my brain for the other two phrases I'd solved, coming up short beyond the fact that I thought they were coordinates.

Instead of wasting time digging through my memories, I open that file cabinet in my subconscious filled with my knowledge of the elements. If there was ever a time I needed it the most, it would be this exact moment. I let out a shaky breath, steadying myself before dissecting the first phrase with a fresh perspective.

Slowly but surely, the letter combinations sort themselves out in order from the lowest on the atomic scale, to the highest.

AR, representing Argon with an atomic number of 18. T, Titanium at 22. V, Vanadium at 23. And last but not least, CO, Cobalt at 27. As soon as I have all of the individual pieces, the original phrase I solved reveals itself on the page.

AR-COTIV.

I take a quick sum of each atomic number, circling it before moving onto the letters from the second test. Even though they're scrambled, my mind defaults to the same strategy I just used, sorting the letter pairs with ease.

B-O-S-A-B-A-E-C turns into BA-BEACOS—atomic numbers of 56, 4, 89, and 76 totaling 225. Adding this to the total of 90 from the first phrase leaves me with 315. Just as this final revelation sets in, my vision goes blurry.

The pages before me look like they're melting along with the walls of Ezra's room. I try and call out for him but silence is the only thing that comes out. The chair I'm sitting in begins to move backward and I brace myself, realizing this isn't another test. I'm the only one being affected.