Contain by Saul Tanpepper Page A

half
expecting to see Dad standing there staring at the screens. But I'm
alone. Both he and Jack Resnick have gone, leaving the room
unattended. My father's broken his own rule.
    I circle the table and scan the bank
of monitors before me. All but one show the same view they always
have, not a trace of movement. All except the one right in the
middle of the desk.
    A man is standing beneath
the camera at the main entrance to the bunker, the one we raced
through three years ago to get inside. Our Welcome Mat . He's wearing clothes
that look old and worn out, faded from too many washings. There are
dark spots on them, but I can't tell if it's mud or
blood.
    He steps backward, looks around, then
begins to gesture wildly with his arms. He's shouting at the
camera, but there's no way to know what he's saying, not from here,
anyway. The security cams have no audio capability.
    “ But there's an intercom at
the front door,” I whisper to myself, and I realize that that’s
where they've gone.
    I fly from the room, no longer worried
that someone might notice me. I need to see this for
myself.
     

There are already a dozen people gathered around the front door
when I arrive at Level Four, and more are coming up behind me.
Apparently word has spread quickly. I can hear my father speaking
into the intercom as I skid to a stop on the edge of the crowd.
Susan Miller looks up briefly, a mixture of excitement and
apprehension in her eyes. She beckons me over to join
her.
    “ What'd I miss?” I
ask.
    “ Open the damn door, Abe!”
Jack Resnick shouts.
    I see him standing next to my father,
leaning against the wall. He slaps his palm against the bare
concrete beside him and curses. Dad holds up his hands and pleads
with everyone to be quiet.
    “ Well, other than Jack and
your dad arguing, nothing much,” Susan answers. “He says his name
is Michael Williams, or Mi cheal — I couldn't exactly hear. I
guess he's not infected.”
    There's a buzz of chatter, and it's
growing louder by the second. Everyone's pelting my father with
questions. Some are ordering him to open the door, or at least give
Jack the security code so he can. “Quiet!” he shouts. “Everyone,
please. Be quiet. We need to be sure before we do anything
rash.”
    “ This is why one man
shouldn't have all of the access codes,” Jack snaps. “One man
shouldn't be able to make all the decisions for
everyone!”
    But the din subsides. Dad turns and
presses the button on the intercom. The electrical crackle further
quiets the crowded hallway.
    It's been months since I've actually
made it to this part of the bunker. I used to come on occasion to
listen to the wind, the occasional chirp of a bird, hoping and
praying I wouldn't see another Wraith or hear their bloodcurdling
howl. I know others used to come here, too. We all just want a
reminder every once in a while that the world isn't dead, that
there are still normal things out there. What I would have given to
hear the distant roar of a jet. Or a car.
    At some point, we all gave up waiting.
It's too depressing.
    The door is down some eighty feet of
sloped concrete passageway, with walls growing to maybe forty feet
high at this end. It's very claustrophobic. Not even the sound of
the water gushing down the spillway a few hundred yards away is
able to reach us. Nothing but the electric hiss and crackle of
static.
    That the system still works after all
these years is something of a wonder.
    “ Are you safe?” the man
asks.
    It seems like a strange thing to say,
especially considering he’s the one out there.
    “ When was the last time you
opened your doors?”
    Dad frowns. “Why do you want to know
that?”
    “ Have you had any breaches
in containment?”
    “ No.”
    Jack stabs the button impatiently.
“Have you seen any Wraiths?”
    The man looks startled by the
question. “Wraiths?”
    “ Are there any infected out
there still?”
    “ I— I don't know. Listen.
It's important that you listen to me. You need to