Munitions

Melody Hoffman

It’s been a two-hour drive from our hometown of Camp Hill, Pennsylvania, to State Game Lands 252, where our bunkers awaited us. I’m not a great driver, easily distracted, and my depth perception leaves a lot to be desired, but I’m the only one who can legally operate a car. So, to minimize the chance of me driving into a tree and killing us, we waited until I got us on the highway before Ezra started giving me the historical gist for the place, which is honestly one of my favorite parts of our excursions. Don’t tell him I said that.

“A couple hundred years ago, there was this little village called Wisetown, population 100. It was in the middle of bumfuck nowhere with basically nothing interesting aside from a few Civil War era graves, but life was probably okay-ish for whoever lived in town.”

He shrugs, dark brown curls moving slightly with his shoulders, and readjusts that stupid Women want me, Fish fear me hat he takes everywhere.

“Then, the government showed up. So, they said to Wisetown, ‘hey, we’re in World War Two and we want TNT, so take some money and skedaddle, cause we’re gonna’ turn your town into a manufacturing and storage facility for explosives.’ Then they realized that TNT was kind of fucking useless, so the project was abandoned, the people never got their land back, and now there’s over a hundred bunkers just rotting away.”

But hey, Ezra and I get to kick around and try not to get shot, so I guess it all worked out in the end.

…That was a horrible thing to say. I’m sorry. Let’s just pretend that didn’t happen.

After an hour of driving, Ezra’s Spotify playlist (an eclectic mix of 80s pop and rock, midwestern emo, Irish Republican Army anthems, and a frankly disturbing amount of Five Nights at Freddy’s fan songs) , and me rambling on about who-knows-what and whocares-what goes by, I finally get to pull into one of the parking lots for the Alvira Bunkers.

Other than the fact it’s on hunting ground, the tricky thing about the domes is the fact that they’re all hidden in little hills. From the pictures I’ve seen, they’re kind of like the Hobbit homes from the Lord of the Rings, but if they were in central Pennsylvania and also Gandalf isn’t there. Probably.

We take our time before setting off. While Ezra finishes up his Arizona Iced Tea and grabs some water bottles from the back, I make quick work of zipping my visibility jacket over my Cthulhu sweater, triple checking the battery on our flashlights, and double-tying my water-proof sneakers. Finally, we slam the doors to my white, beaten-the-fuck-up Equinox. I take a deep breath, hope with all my heart that neither of us look like deer, and follow after him.

* * *

Ezra’s my best friend for a reason. I take him to abandoned places for a reason. We put up with each other’s bullshit for a reason. He’s a cool dude, simple as that.

But it’s times like these where I remember he’s a bit of an asshole.

I grit my teeth and pull on the heavy bunker door, my stupid little noodle arms aching from the effort. It feels like I’ve been pulling on the door for the whole damn day, but it hasn’t moved an inch. My hands are red and smell vaguely metallic, not quite iron but something close to it, and my biceps are trembling slightly. I slump against the heavily graffitied wall beside me and glare at my best friend.

“Ezra,” I grumble through clenched teeth, though there’s a disappointing lack of actual annoyance in my voice. I cross my arms across my bright orange visibility jacket to compensate.

“Stop taking dick pics and fucking help me, will you?”

“Just one more and I’ll stop, promise!” He finally turns to look at me. I’d almost believe him if it wasn’t for the shit-eating grin on his face.

“It’s literally a graffiti penis, we’re gonna’ see millions of them by the time we’re done.”

“But this one’s so weird! C'mon, Bon-Bon, take a look.”

I roll my eyes, both at the nickname and the idea of a graffiti penis looking any different from the dozens I’ve already seen, but I decide to indulge him and trudge over to the concrete wall opposite me. Same old blue rocket ship, only difference is the thrusters sag down to the bottom of the cracked concrete. I kick at the graffiti nuts idly, not even out of annoyance, but just to feel the sensation traveling up my legs and wait for Ezra to chastise me for busting his balls. In a rare moment of restraint, he doesn’t.

“That sure is a penis that exists.”

He nods sagely.

I take a step back and rock on my heels, absentmindedly trying to fix my visibility jacket. The damn zipper broke the second I put it on, which I probably should’ve expected since I bought it from Walmart for, like, two bucks, but still annoying. It doesn’t even matter; as long as potential hunters see orange and don’t try to hunt me for sport, then the jacket is doing its job. The logic does nothing to make me feel less infuriated. Or afraid.

“Think this one might actually be locked. Wanna look for another one?” I lightly tap on the metal door for emphasis.

He pretends to mull over my words. “Nah.”

He grabs onto the door and pulls. He’s stronger than me, but in the same way that licking a psychedelic toad is worse than licking a regular toad; it’s still a shitty idea either way. I join him, arms straining, heels digging into the earth and dry, yellow grass, eyes closed to focus on pulling as hard as we can. I’m just about to call it quits and try to talk Ezra into trying out another bunker when the metal door finally capitulates. It creaks open with a loud, painful groan, and we’re suddenly faced with the motherload.

“Woah.” Maybe it’s the shock, maybe I’m just exhausted from driving and pulling on this stupid fucking door, but I can’t muster the energy to sound more than monotone.

“Holy shit, that actually worked?!” A disbelieving laugh punctuates his voice, and he rushes forward.

We shoulder our way through the crack and get our first good look at the dome’s guts. It was weirdly well lit, owing to the hole in the center of the roof and the clear skies, but I need some extra light to see the finer details, so I flick on my flashlight and give the dome a sweep.

Who wouldda’ guessed that an abandoned WWII era concrete bunker would be an absolute mess?

The floor was covered in junk: overturned boxes of nails, empty plastic bags, soda cans, bullet shells, even a partially destroyed bed frame. How anyone managed to squeeze that thing through the narrow door was anyone’s guess. But of course, the main decor consists of graffiti. Inspiring and thoughtful quotes like “STEPHS A WHORE”, multicolored anarchy sigils, phone numbers (wonder how those conversations go), and, of course, good old Mr. Long Johnson.

The air is still and dry. For some reason I think of asbestos, even though I doubt these domes were actually insulated. The more we rummage through it, the more I realize just how quiet it is. All the junk crammed in here kills any potential for an echo. Its absence only makes me feel more cramped.

That’s part of why I started exploring abandoned shit, you know? All the space you have. It’s just you, maybe a guide or a friend, and the place you chose. Sure, all the locations have baggage, some heavier than others; Cresson State Prison and the abandoned POW camps in Cumberland County and Fulton County (and far, far down our bucket list, the town of Centralia) have particularly hefty luggage in my mind, though there’s probably more storied ones that I’m missing. But unless you (or any companions you bring along) have a personal or family tie to where you go, those memories can’t really crowd you. The ghosts stay ghosts.

This, though. My eyes dart from the ruined bed frame (someone was supposed to sleep on it) to the phone numbers (there’s a real person waiting for me to call them) to the dicks on the walls (each one carefully made with human intention). Everything is too alive. I shut my eyes tightly and strengthen my grip on my flashlight. The plastic stick is too smooth to actually be satisfying to touch or squeeze, but it does enough to derail my train of thought.

In the mess of graffiti, one manages to catch my eye. Partially hidden behind a hoard of trash is an illustration of a garden in the wasteland, strange mutant plants sprouting from dead grass and the sun melting high in the sky and dripping down the horizon. Scrawled over it, in messy, cheery yellow script, reads:

YOU + I ARE BEING LED TO THE SLAUGHTER

I focus the light on the graffiti and take a picture with my phone, but that doesn’t feel good enough. I wish I had a camera, a physical one, some cheap ass polaroid or something that only captures black and white. I want this moment, this art, these words to go on forever, until Wisetown, population of 100 people and 100 TNT bunkers, drags me below the dirt and concrete.

A warm, human hand gently rests itself on my shoulder, coaxing me out of my reverie.

I sigh deep. Something in my chest feels hollow.

“Ready for the next one?” His voice is soft and ready, grounding me like he always does when my thoughts are drowning me.

“Ready.” Maybe the next bunker, a little further from the entrance, will echo like it should.