The bunker door sparked lightly, orange embers leaping out from some semi-seized locking mechanism before grinding past its blockage and whirring to life. The circular old tech door groaned in protest as it began to move, its gears grinding and clunking as they struggled to turn. Finally, there was a loud metallic thud, and the heavy bunker door began to cycle open.

I listened in fascination as streel bolts retracted, gears spinning, and electronic devices beeping from somewhere within. A steady stream of static played out from some hidden speaker, hints of words buried in their crackle, but I couldn’t make out any of them. There was a loud hiss of pressurized air as the door sank into the structure. It stopped moving and shuddered a moment, groaned, then continued on, rolling out of view and revealing a dark and musty interior. The scent of ancient metal and dust wafted out, bringing to mind tales of ancient kings and their tombs.

“Time to suit up,” Techlock said, pointing to the pack. I dropped it and opened its compartments.

We pulled everything out and worked over it, putting on the heavy work clothes first. I noticed that the interior was lined with rubber and coal, the same with the boots, and that they also had hoods on them that could be pulled over our heads and secured tightly to the rest of the clothing to form an airtight seal. I raised an eyebrow and took a moment to look at Techlock.

“Mid-tech scavenge gear. I’m not sure of the why of all of it, but it’ll keep us safe against possible radiation and chems. Plus the goggles on the hoods and air filters should keep us from getting dust in our eyes and lungs. It’ll be hot, but it’ll keep us safe.”

I moved to pull my shoes off, and Techlock put a hand on my shoulder.

“Put it over the stuff you have on now. Works better that way.”

I shrugged and did as he told, tugging and pulling until everything was to his satisfaction, chuckling as I looked him over.

The midtech scavenge suit clung tightly to his form, giving him an almost mech-like appearance. The heavy work clothes were a dark, matte black, absorbing the light and making him blend into the shadows around us. The rubber and coal lining added bulk, making his already tall and lean frame appear both fatter and more imposing.

The hood of the suit was pulled up over his head, the airtight seal creating a smooth, unbroken surface that encased him completely. The goggles on the hood were large and round, reflecting the light at strange angles and giving him the appearance of some strange insect. They were tinted a dark green, making it impossible to see his eyes and adding an eerie quality to his look.

Beneath the goggles, a small round air filter covered his nose and mouth, a compact device that hissed softly as he breathed. The filter was chipped but looked functional, and its matte black made it blend in with the rest of the ensemble.

He put out his arms.

“How do I look?”

“Ready for the King’s Court,” I said with a wink.

“You too,” he replied. “Belle of the ball. Come on, the day waits for no one.”

We dug through the rest of the gear, strapping utility vests overtop our suits, and then fitting our tools in the numerous pockets and compartments. We strapped our daggers and their sheathes to our right side and everything that we could fit into a vest we placed back into the rucksack. Techlock grabbed the rusted and boxy rad detector, twiddling with its tubelike sensors, and adjusted them to face the door.

It clicked faintly.

“Normal radiation here, but I’ll keep this in my vest to keep doing periodic checks. How about you shine the torchlight and I man the electro-scanner?”

“Sounds like a plan,” I answered.

I picked up the torchlight, marveling at its mid-tech design. The body was crafted from a sleek, matte black metal that had grooves forged into the metal to make it easier to handle. There was a textured rubber grip adhered to the grooves that provided extra gripping traction, and near the base of it, a series of small, triangular vents spat small wisps of steam after I turned it on.

I noticed there was a rotary dial on the side that allowed me to adjust the brightness and beam width, switching easily between a narrow, intense beam and a wider, softer illumination. And next to that was a meter that indicated current battery power. At present, it was fully charged.

Techlock indicated the open bunker door with a nod.

“After you,” he said, his voice slightly muffled by the air filter.

I stepped forward, raising the mid-tech torchlight and shining it into the dark, musty interior. The beam cut through the shadows, revealing an entrance foyer that held an odd assortment of relics from a bygone era.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Directly in front of me was a metal and plastic desk, its surface covered in a thick layer of dust. Papers, a dead computer terminal, and a single old tech printing device were scattered across it, remnants of whatever operations had taken place there. Behind the desk, a defensive pillbox loomed, its narrow slits designed for guards to watch and defend the entrance.

Behind the pillbox, another circular bunker door stood, larger and more imposing than the first, its metal surface marred with scratches and rust. The writing on it was the same as that of the outside door, ‘HYDRO-BUNKER 3A, MIDWEST. US CIV CORPS XI’.

But what caught my attention most were the vending machines lining the left wall. There were four in total, each one offering a strange glimpse into the past.

I walked over to them, Techlock following close behind.

The first was a soda vending machine, its faded labels advertising long-forgotten brands. The machine itself was decorated with red, white, and blue stars and stripes, proudly proclaiming Refreshing Freedom in Every Sip!

I stared at the word freedom. Seemed to tie in with that whole ‘us’ theme that the ancients had bandied about. I looked over the product selections curiously. They had names like Eagle Cola, Liberty Dew, Patriot Pepper, Stars & Stripes Soda, and Freedom Fizz. Next to the names were pictures of their can design, one sporting a giant eagle holding a red, white-and-blue flag, while another had some old angry man wearing the same flag as clothing, pointing his finger and screaming at us. The Liberty Dew had a statue of a queen holding a torch up into the sky, while the Freedom Fizz seemed to display some old ancient battle.

I stared at that one for a while, imagining a sky filled with explosions of red, oranges, reds, pinks, and blues, and how horrifying it must have been despite the obvious beauty that the blasts created.

Techlock put a hand on my shoulder.

“Yeah, it’s a bit overwhelming, isn’t it? Looking into the past is a strange and emotional thing to do. But best not to get caught up in it, Alaric. Let’s once over the other machines, then check back in with it all if we aren’t full of loot by the time we leave this place.”

I sighed.

“Do you think any of it is still drinkable?”

Techlock shrugged.

“Probably. Made by the ancients. Anything’s possible with them.”

We moved on to the snack machine, looking at the items within.

There were Stars & Spuds Potato Chips that promised, ‘Crisp Freedom in Every Bite!’ Freedom Fritos, which from the packing looked to be yellow-colored baked corn stars. The snack labeled Liberty Rings seemed to be the sliced layers of an onion, but dried like jerky. Scrolling through all the items, from a top shelf labeled A1 all the way to the bottom shelf labeled G1, the most remarkable of the snacks was one called Liberty Logs. They were finger-shaped chocolate that looked so thick to have certainly cost a small fortune, and each promised a “Crisp Sweet Independence in Every Log.”

The third machine was more unusual. There was no clear window through which to see the stock, and although the words at the top said it was an ‘ammunition vendor’, its attached old tech screen showed not even the slightest flicker of life.

I shot Techlock a look.

“These have got to be worth their weight in gold. Should we crack them open?”

Techlock sighed.

“Yes, possibly. But selling them is going to have to go through the Bandit Lords, which have its own set of difficulties. No one my stature has any customers with an old tech rifle. Functioning ones are legendary; they wear out and keeping them functional takes a great deal of skill and attention.”

I nodded and moved on. The last machine was much the same way, though I couldn’t understand the product that it held. It offered a variety of ‘Play Cards’, but offered no view of the product, and the screen was just as dead as the previous one had been. I glanced over at Techlock, saw his tremendous lack of interest, and didn’t bother to ask any questions.

This find was worth very little it seemed.

We moved over to the desk next, examining the papers scattered across its dusty surface. The documents were yellowed with age, the ink faded and barely legible. Most of the papers seemed to be old reports and memos, their contents unimportant now. Still, I sifted through them, hoping to find something of value, but it quickly became apparent that there was nothing worthwhile there.

“Anything?” I asked, glancing up at Techlock as he worked through his own pile.

He shook his head.

“Just old junk. Nothing useful.”

We turned our attention to the defensive pillbox next, its concrete walls were stained and chipped. Inside, we found a few rusted-through rifles and some rust-mulched ammo cans, but nothing good. I cast a glance back at the ammunition machine.

“You sure we can’t crack that open and sell what’s inside?” I asked.

Techlock grunted.

“There’s a system to the black market, and I’d be dead within a day if I sold those myself. And, let me tell you, you don’t want to sell them to the ones who can. They cause a lot of problems when you enter into business with them. Will be better to sell them the location and specs than to loot and sell it personally.”

It was understandable. Everything worked like that in the city. Everyone had their place, and every place had their restrictions.

“Fine. Why don’t you open that door so we can find something that we can scavenge.”

Techlock nodded, moving towards the imposing circular bunker door at the far end of the room. It was larger and more intimidating than the first, its surface covered in intricate patterns of rust and decay. He pulled out his hacking device, the same one he had used on the initial door and began to work on the electro-lock.

“Keep an eye out, Alaric,” he said, his focus on the task at hand. “This might take a bit.”

I watched as he again forced the system to provide its data, then worked through the words to force its opening. The bunker door sparked lightly, then proceeded to open much more smoothly than the first one had.

Static shot out again, but this time it was somewhat legible. Through the crackling noise, a garbled voice emerged, distorted but recognizable.

“Welcome . . . to . . . hydrobunker 3A, Midwest . . . US Civ Corps 11 will facilitate your entrance into society.”

Music played, a medley that I’d seen in the prayer books, and I found myself clasping my hands together as it rolled through the chamber.

The rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in the air . . .

I glanced back at Techlock and saw that he too had his hands clasped together. We waited in worship until the song finished, and moved to a defensive stance, our daggers in hand, when the lock began to cycle.

As we watched, the door recessed and rolled out of view. I brought up the torchlight with my other hand and cast it within. We were greeted by the sight of a long metallic corridor, damp shining from its floor and mold clinging to its sides.

“Well that looks inviting,” I quipped as we stepped forward.