Zthechapelrelicoftheevent



THE RELIC OF THE EVENT

A journal, tattered and yellowed with age, found underneath the chapel bearing the phrase "Eternal Father of the Sea". Hardly legible, but using computer imaging, were able to recover some sort of documentary from around the time of the Event, or perhaps the aftermath. Upon closer inspection, there was a dug-out section underneath the chapel that was virtually air-tight; one has to wonder why a underground...for lack of better word 'hovel'... would be so secure. The journal entries have no dates, and no name was found with it. S/he expected to make it out of there alive.

Entry 1:

//I don't know what day it is, no one does. It was April when the air raids started...and none of us have been outside since. Judging from how many rations we've gone through, I'd say it's been about a month, and we don't have much longer to live. I'm trapped underneath the chapel on the Navy Base, with two other people just as frightened as I am.// //No one's said a word; we're all too busy convincing ourselves that we're not going to die. Time passes slower down here, when you have nothing to do except listen to the wailing of the sirens above the chapel.//

//Whomever built this chapel put some forethought into it, because there was a shelter down below with enough supplies for a small army. There's no windows. Everything's pitch black save for the brief intervals when we light the lantern to see what food and drink we're consuming. I find myself wishing only that I could see outside...then I remember that first raid. The blasting of shattering glass from above, the clunk as loose pieces of wood slide off, and the relief as we slowly realize that the death trap that we're in will save our lives. Thank God for airtight bomb shelters.//

Entry 2:

//I didn't say the first word. I was perfectly content with listening to the sound of my two companions breathing and worrying out of my mind. I was good at that; I'd had tons of practice worrying about when I'm going to die. The man spoke first, with a voice rusty and uncertain from lack of use.// "Beautiful weather we're having, eh?" //he said. We're underground, no way to see into the outside world, and he's talking about the weather that we can't even see. My first reaction is frustration, and then I realize - what exactly// could //we talk about? Philosophy? What was it that I expected to happen? Some profound look into the world that can only be observed from a state of darkness and panic? I assume he was grinning when he said it, though of course I couldn't see. I respond with// "Why yes, very beautiful indeed. The sunsets in particular are amazing this time of the year, I've heard. I'm afraid I haven't been outside much. Have you seen one lately?" //That's how it went. A conversation about hypothetical weather. It was a relief, though. It made me feel less...alone. Slowly our voices started to come back as we talked. I had forgotten what I sounded like. The voice in your head can only keep up for so long.//

Entry 3:

//Over the next couple of weeks, we began to know each other. When you're locked up in a bomb shelter, it's hard to avoid talking about practically anything. He has a family. God, it makes me cringe at the thought. I am happily single, with all of my family dead and gone, so I have no one to worry about. He has two sons and a daughter as well as his wife to be concerned about. He has no idea if they ever made it to safety. It makes me realize how messed up the human psyche is. We can hide ourselves perfectly, but then we agonize over the people who - due to spontaneous instincts of self-preservation - we have left behind. Somehow, knowing his story makes it less horrible down here. The girl in the corner still scares me though; she still hasn't said a word.//

Entry 4:

//They've become more frequent now, going from about once a "day" - what we determine by our sleep patterns - to what seems like at least once an hour. There was a lull yesterday, and the man next to me said in a rusty voice that he was going up.// //He said he would come back if all was clear.// //It could be he knew something that he wasn't saying, about The Event or what weapons they were using for the raids. All I know is that I never saw him again. He went up, opened the door, sealed it shut again from the outside, and walked off. Shortly after his footsteps had faded away, another air raid struck. It's doubtful he survived.//

//I like to think sometimes that he made it out, that he got to some other building in the surrounding area. When I ran into the church so long ago, I noticed a peculiar cement building across the street; perhaps he found shelter there and will yet outlive us. Or perhaps some rescue group was out there, and managed to save him before the next air raid. Perhaps he's been taken hostage. Perhaps he never existed at all.//

Entry 5:

//I'm starting to think I've lost what little sanity I had remaining. The woman down here with me never says anything, just gazes at me with a frightened look in her eyes, like a deer in the headlights. It's starting to smell down here, regardless of our attempts to keep our waste isolated. I can't take much more of this. I know there's a pipeline, but with the chemical attacks, it would prove fatal to attempt to use them. I take little consolation now in the fact that I'm alive. Some things are worse than death.//

Entry 6:

//We're almost out of water, and we've been without food for several days. My pen is starting to run out of ink... The air raids have died off some; enough that an escape out of here is feasible. Though, I don't have much reason to stay down here. At this point there could be air raids every other minute and I'd still be willing to get out of here. It could even be that they're not even lethal. I don't even care. I'm leaving tomorrow. This girl down here with me hasn't eaten for a week and a half, despite me carefully rationing out her portion of the food and setting it aside for her alone to consume. She's lost the will to live in a world of constant fear and darkness. Then again, so have I. I'll leave this journal here, where it will be preserved, in the case that I end up like t he other man whose name I will never know as long as I live. When I said to her that I was leaving, she spoke: "Finally."//