Bomb Shelter Rebirth
by David Desiderio
The deafening sirens roused him from a fretful sleep gripping him with an icy fear. He quickly joined the frenzy to the shelter. The crush of bodies forced him against the wall. “Please let me survive,” he whispered, and grew angry with himself. Prayers were mumbled all about but never by him until that moment, for what else was it but a plea for an intervention on his behalf? From whom? He raised his eyes in the darkness. “I’m on to your tricks,” he scoffed bitterly. These last thoughts collapsed beneath a direct hit on the shelter.
When next he awakened, he lay buried in rubble. To end it like this, he moaned. Why? He couldn’t count on rescue. The city lay in ruins, the casualties and suffering beyond comprehension.
He took stock of his injuries. His fingers flexed. His toes wiggled. Nothing felt broken, though the weight pressing his chest forced labored breaths. But breathe he did. So, his tomb was corrupted but in his favor. Just a slower death, he cursed. Still, his fingers clawed against hope. Soon his wrists came into play. Then his arms loosened, followed by his legs. It wasn’t much, barely enough to sustain hope. When he finally mustered the will for a final assault the rubble shifted and the pressure on his chest cut off his wind.
When next he awakened, he lay on a stretcher surrounded by soldiers smiling and cheering. To his bewilderment he was addressed as General and congratulated on his miraculous survival. He accepted their good cheer with a fearful wave of his hand. He was not familiar with the uniforms, and the language they spoke was not his. Yet, he understood their words.
At hospital, he was attended by an older physician who treated him familiarly. The General could not place him.
“You’re lucky to have escaped serious injury, Eric. A good scrubbing, some hot food and clean uniform in place of those rags will have you back in form. If you will allow it, I will keep away any distractions. Let’s get you rested before you resume command.”
Still hesitant to speak, the General nodded his agreement.
“I expected more resistance,” the doctor remarked jovially.
He was unaccustomed to a hospital room of such comfort. A divan and easy chair anchored the one wall. An oval table and two chairs stood by the window. Though absent of adornment it was impeccably clean. A knock on the door drew his attention.
A trembling nurse entered and placed clean garments on the table. A flicker of fear shown in her eyes. “I’m able to assist if you wish, sir.” Her voice faltered. To her relief he waved her away. He didn’t remember inspiring fear in another. Nor the obvious deference shown him by the doctor. It perplexed him. He was a shiftless person by circumstance and temperament, contemptuous of all under whose dirty thumbs he always found himself. Wasn’t he forced at gunpoint to join the hunt for survivors? But it was unmistakable. He was taken for someone else, a General no less.
Freshly showered and newly dressed he presented himself before the mirror. The uniform fit well. He felt confident to engage in speech. With four stars on his shoulder, he would not be easily challenged. After all, he thought, “I am in a position of rank and authority, with people now at my mercy.”
He opened the door and stepped into the bustling corridor. A young officer loitering by the nurse’s station took notice. A look of fear washed over him like he’d been caught in a criminal act. He rushed over. “Are you feeling better, General?” he stammered.
“Certainly, I’m feeling better,” he snapped.
“Shall I call Dr. Roget?”
“No need.”
“Your staff are assembled in the conference room. Will you be joining them?”
He nodded, ready to field test this charade.
Four grim faces greeted him with stiff salutes and anxious eyes.
“We thought we’d lost you,” one said. “It’s truly a joyous day.”
“How did you make your escape?”
“A miracle,” he laughed. “What else could it have been?”
“It’s good to know such forces are on our side.”
“What was it like?”
“Devastation. Starvation. Terror. Despair,” he recited.
“All we hoped for and more,” said another.
“Still, they fight on,” lamented another.
“We must finish the job.”
“We are of one mind.”
“We will incinerate all who remain. Let the wind scatter the ashes,” the General sneered. “They are vermin.”
“Finally.”
“So, the order is given?”
“Get on with it,” he barked. “Now I must get some rest. I suddenly feel faint.”
The General collapsed before reaching the door.
When next he awakened sirens filled the air. This can’t be, he thought.
He was swept into the crush of bodies streaming to the shelter. Their cries of despair overwhelmed him. He dropped to his knees and bowed his head. “Please let me live,” he pleaded, his words now imbued with deep humility, as the shelter crumbled engulfing him in darkness.
When next he awakened, he lay on a stretcher, hounded by a jeering rabble.
“Don’t worry, General,” the guard said. “We’ll keep them off you. Though if up to me I’d let them tear you to pieces for the immense suffering you’ve caused. The firing squad is too good for you.”
“You must let me explain. I’m not who you believe me to be. I am not responsible.”
“Such madness. You take us for fools?”
When next he awakened, he lay buried in rubble. To end it like this, he moaned. Why? He couldn’t count on rescue. The city lay in ruins, the casualties and suffering beyond comprehension.
He took stock of his injuries. His fingers flexed. His toes wiggled. Nothing felt broken, though the weight pressing his chest forced labored breaths. But breathe he did. So, his tomb was corrupted but in his favor. Just a slower death, he cursed. Still, his fingers clawed against hope. Soon his wrists came into play. Then his arms loosened, followed by his legs. It wasn’t much, barely enough to sustain hope. When he finally mustered the will for a final assault the rubble shifted and the pressure on his chest cut off his wind.
When next he awakened, he lay on a stretcher surrounded by soldiers smiling and cheering. To his bewilderment he was addressed as General and congratulated on his miraculous survival. He accepted their good cheer with a fearful wave of his hand. He was not familiar with the uniforms, and the language they spoke was not his. Yet, he understood their words.
At hospital, he was attended by an older physician who treated him familiarly. The General could not place him.
“You’re lucky to have escaped serious injury, Eric. A good scrubbing, some hot food and clean uniform in place of those rags will have you back in form. If you will allow it, I will keep away any distractions. Let’s get you rested before you resume command.”
Still hesitant to speak, the General nodded his agreement.
“I expected more resistance,” the doctor remarked jovially.
He was unaccustomed to a hospital room of such comfort. A divan and easy chair anchored the one wall. An oval table and two chairs stood by the window. Though absent of adornment it was impeccably clean. A knock on the door drew his attention.
A trembling nurse entered and placed clean garments on the table. A flicker of fear shown in her eyes. “I’m able to assist if you wish, sir.” Her voice faltered. To her relief he waved her away. He didn’t remember inspiring fear in another. Nor the obvious deference shown him by the doctor. It perplexed him. He was a shiftless person by circumstance and temperament, contemptuous of all under whose dirty thumbs he always found himself. Wasn’t he forced at gunpoint to join the hunt for survivors? But it was unmistakable. He was taken for someone else, a General no less.
Freshly showered and newly dressed he presented himself before the mirror. The uniform fit well. He felt confident to engage in speech. With four stars on his shoulder, he would not be easily challenged. After all, he thought, “I am in a position of rank and authority, with people now at my mercy.”
He opened the door and stepped into the bustling corridor. A young officer loitering by the nurse’s station took notice. A look of fear washed over him like he’d been caught in a criminal act. He rushed over. “Are you feeling better, General?” he stammered.
“Certainly, I’m feeling better,” he snapped.
“Shall I call Dr. Roget?”
“No need.”
“Your staff are assembled in the conference room. Will you be joining them?”
He nodded, ready to field test this charade.
Four grim faces greeted him with stiff salutes and anxious eyes.
“We thought we’d lost you,” one said. “It’s truly a joyous day.”
“How did you make your escape?”
“A miracle,” he laughed. “What else could it have been?”
“It’s good to know such forces are on our side.”
“What was it like?”
“Devastation. Starvation. Terror. Despair,” he recited.
“All we hoped for and more,” said another.
“Still, they fight on,” lamented another.
“We must finish the job.”
“We are of one mind.”
“We will incinerate all who remain. Let the wind scatter the ashes,” the General sneered. “They are vermin.”
“Finally.”
“So, the order is given?”
“Get on with it,” he barked. “Now I must get some rest. I suddenly feel faint.”
The General collapsed before reaching the door.
When next he awakened sirens filled the air. This can’t be, he thought.
He was swept into the crush of bodies streaming to the shelter. Their cries of despair overwhelmed him. He dropped to his knees and bowed his head. “Please let me live,” he pleaded, his words now imbued with deep humility, as the shelter crumbled engulfing him in darkness.
When next he awakened, he lay on a stretcher, hounded by a jeering rabble.
“Don’t worry, General,” the guard said. “We’ll keep them off you. Though if up to me I’d let them tear you to pieces for the immense suffering you’ve caused. The firing squad is too good for you.”
“You must let me explain. I’m not who you believe me to be. I am not responsible.”
“Such madness. You take us for fools?”
David Desiderio is retired and a lifelong Western New York native where he reads, writes and reflects while seeking publication for his many short stories and three novels. His works have appeared in The Raven Review, The Scarlet Leaf Review, and Everyday Fiction.