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It wasn’t their best idea. It wasn’t their safest. They’d argue it wasn’t their worst. In the end it was just something that had to be done. As the Deputy slipped between the slats that had once been the exterior of the Armstrong residence, they were glad they had asked Grace to stay back in the Henbane. It had seemed strange to break into her bunker with her there. They were hyper aware that the ash and soot that coated their boots with every step held all of her hopes and dreams; that every shattered shard of glass and every smoldering beam was all that was left of her life before. The Deputy wasn’t cruel; they had no intention of making her crawl through the skeleton of her home.
So they did it for her, trying to take a little of the weight that she always took on. They tried to imagine what it had looked like; what colors and patterns had filled her life and home; from what window had she looked out on sunny days? The deputy touched a warped and discolored bracket that rattled against their boot. What chair had comforted her when she wept for her father? They glanced at the melted and twisted remnants of picture frames, their contents long incinerated and carried off by the wind. What memories had kept her silent company?
The deputy liked to think that she wasn’t as alone now as she had been. She was respected and well-liked. No matter how hard she was on them; they all knew that her harsh words through the day were meant to keep them safe through the night. She was a rock and a pillar of the community.
But she was still just a woman.
She was too quiet when they passed certain places. The Deputy had once seen her shoot out her own eyes on the billboard that boasted her image, short-tempered and frustrated. They had heard soft sobs in the middle of the night coming from her sleeping bag.
So the Deputy decided to come here alone, in the hopes that perhaps there was something left. Grace deserved that much. They moved with care, treating the ruins as a grave, for it was the resting place of all that she’d had, for they had too much respect for her to act any other way. The bunker door opened with some resistance, groaning as the warped metal tried to move in the way it had been originally intended to. Cold air filtered up from the dark below. The Deputy held their breath, not sure what to expect, and descended.
It was shockingly cold after the heat of the smoldering ruins above. They clenched their teeth so they wouldn’t chatter and looked around. The bunker was bigger than a lot of the other ones that they had seen throughout the county. It was like Grace: practical, neat and well-prepared. The Deputy scrutinized the shelves, stowing ammo and supplies into their bag. When it was full, they turned to address the beeping that served as the only noise.
The answering machine blinked expectantly. Morbid curiosity drove their hand towards the play button, every fiber of their being hoping that they weren’t about to release the last presence of Grace’s father without her ever hearing it. There was nothing like the relief of hearing Mary May’s frantic voice come over the speaker. Her plea for Grace to stand down and be careful followed them into the next room. Even if Grace had heard the message, the words would still be as futile as they were now. Grace was not a quitter.
They found yet more supplies lining the shelves and as they turned to the right, they found the one bit of personality in the entire bunker. Small lights glowed softly from where they were strung up over the bunk bed, handmade blankets adorning both mattresses. A guitar leaned up against the bottom bunk. The Deputy approached slowly, running their hands over the instrument’s dinged and worn surface, wondering who it had belonged to. This little corner felt like Grace; like the small smiles caught in the corner of their eye every once in a while; like the strong hand that pulled you to your feet; like her encouraging words after a hard day.
The Deputy turned their attention to the small bedside table. On it sat a note and picture frame placed face down. They inspected the note first, but didn’t read it, and moved onto the frame. It was broken, glass tinkling as it shifted and fell onto the table. They slid the picture out gently. They stared at both for too long, their breath catching in their throat and limbs growing numb. Neither was meant for them, so they folded the note around the picture and took their leave of the place, aware of the weight they now carried in their breast pocket.
They found Grace sitting on top of one of the picnic tables out back of the 8-Bit, rifle laid across her lap, arms resting on her knees. She stared out into the woods calmly. She did this often, preferring the quiet to the ruckus of Hurk and Sharky inside. They sat on the edge of the table, looking off into the same direction. After a few minutes, she finally spoke. “Your trip worthwhile?”
They shrugged. She turned to them and smiled; a brilliant, steady smile that could calm the most chaotic of storms. “That bad, huh?”
They swallowed, gathering up their courage. Their package could blow away with the wind, yet it felt like the weight of the world as they pulled it from their pocket, hand shaking slightly as they held it out to her. She tilted her head, curious, concern flashing in her eyes. She took it hesitantly.
The silence as she read wasn’t her usual one. It was tense; there was a shake to her shoulders and lines in her face the Deputy had never seen before. Eventually, the pain in her face faded and she relaxed. She held the picture, a couple tears streaking the black paint on her cheeks. The Deputy placed their hand over hers, a comforting gesture. “I wasn’t sure there was anything left,” She admitted, her voice hoarse, “But thank you.”
“For you, Grace, anything.”