Author: Gwenyth Skoog – Second Place Junior Division 2025
Grade 7 (Washington Middle School, Calumet) Sponsor: Callie Rastello
The bunker has a musty smell. As far as I can remember, I’ve been here. I have never seen the outside; I have been told its ashes. I’m in bunker B-3, cement walls make a 25 by 25 square foot room. I have had a lot of time to measure.
I am a child in care of the bunker, in other words I am an orphan. My parents died getting into the bunker. No one enters; no one leaves. I’m taken care of by another family. They love me like their own; it’s not the same. I have no memory of my parents.
The light of the bunker is as dim as always. I step out of the warm bed and the cold air hits me. I stumble towards the mirror and comb my fingers through my long dirty blonde hair. I stare into my own brown eyes.
“You up already?” muttered Mom, her dark brown hair tangled from sleep.
I call her mom. She isn’t actually my mother. I try to believe she is.
“It’s 9:00,” I replied.
“And, you have to do what?”
“I don’t know, I need to do something. I’m not just going to lay in bed and rot,” I said, a little caustic. “Sorry, that was an overreaction. Just woke up on the wrong side of the bed.” I let out a snort at my own words. I don’t use idioms much.
I walk over to the kitchen which has a stove, counter, one pantry all a dull gray. I put an oatmeal packet in a metal bowl and pour my boiling water in. I hesitate to grab the bowl; the metal gets really hot. We use metal because it’s unlikely to shatter. We get the five bowls for our lifetime. One for Mom, one for Dad, one for Margie, one for me, and an extra for emergencies. When I was little, I asked when the visitor was coming to use the bowl. That was when I learned no one enters; no one leaves.
I sit at our black walnut table. The hot oatmeal hits my lips, making me shudder. I sit and ponder. I have been having this dream where I leave the bunker.
Someday, I’m leaving the bunker.
Today I have plans for nothing to happen. Today is going to be the same as always. I wake up, eat oatmeal, spend time on schoolwork, and watch Margie. I love Margie, Margie is my sister. Days are like this, over and over.
I need something to happen; I need something to change.
A whine fills the bunker, and Mom leaps out of bed to attend to Margie. It was a nightmare.
When the clock reaches 10:00, I take out my math book. It is about two and a half inches thick. I open it near the end and start my multiplication warm-up. It takes me one minute to do 130 questions.
For my language arts, I am writing a book about my life. It’s not very interesting. It will be when I leave. Then everyone can know what it was like.
I make plans with myself to inspect the bunker inch by inch.
When we came to live, the instructions were left by mouth. Originally my parents got the instructions, passed it to mom, I’m next of kin. I know I will be the one to end it all. When I get the instructions, I will leave if I’m not already gone.
After schoolwork, I begin to look around. There is a door, I don’t know if it can be opened. It sits there and taunts me day after day. It has a heavy cement look and it appears to be sealed. I don’t think anyone has tried to open it. It may not even be sealed.
Nearly every bone in my body wants to leave. I’m conflicted, because then I have to leave my family. They strive to be their best here. They like it here. I love Margie too much to leave her. She can’t come.
Supper is finished. Bread, butter, chicken, and broccoli. We have to eat a lot of broccoli. The four metal plates are set on the table with their carefully proportioned contents. I sit down and shovel the food in. I’m eager to go to bed because tomorrow I leave for the outside.
Tonight is the first time I am grateful for oatmeal. Oatmeal is easy to cook. Simply add water. I pack enough oatmeal for two weeks. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I slip Mom’s orange backpack from under her bed and pack it with oatmeal.
Unexpectedly Dad sits up, “Watcha doing?”
“Erh, I’m getting a drink of water,” I lied. I never lie.
I head over to the sink and pour water into a metal cup. The metal is icy cold. I lay back down in bed hoping Dad doesn’t see the backpack. Eventually, he lays his head down and his snores fill the bunker. I stand up once more. Taking a full water bottle and shoving it in the bag. I swiftly place the backpack under my bed and wait. Wait to drift off into a deep sleep.
I wake up after three hours of sleep. I layer my clothing, grab my backpack and start toward the door. Just then I see Margie. A tear leaves my eye. A lump swells in my throat. Brushing my fingers on her cheek I whisper, “I love you.”
I stand looking at the door. The vast block of cement. I rotate the handle. It turns. I continue and soon It’s ready to open. I look back one more time. Tie my hair back into a ponytail and leave.
The world is not ashes.
The air is fresh and warm. Smells like joy. Grass, something I’ve only seen in textbooks, is beautiful. It brushes against my ankles making me want to laugh. I look up and see stars, actual stars! I fall to my knees, impossible for me to process. I feel an indescribable version of amazing.
I see lights in the distance, I believe they are called houses. Other people! I turn around to go back to the bunker to wake my family. I don’t know if I can. Do I tell them now or go to the lights?
Inertia is pulling me towards the lights.
I wander down a cement lane marked with yellow stripes in the middle. Nearly identical houses are on either side of me. A person with dark hair, in a green shirt, and baggy black pants steps out.
“Are you lost?” Asks the stranger.
I begin to run, run to the unknown building at the end of the lane. Pulling the heavy wood doors open, I slip inside.
“Welcome to the Visitor and Help Center! How may I assist you?” There is another stranger sitting behind a desk. Sitting on the desk is a label with “Sherry” imprinted.
“Um, I’m from B-3.” Hoping that makes sense.
“We were waiting for someone to have the guts to come here. The mayor is now being woken up. He wants to speak with you immediately,” informed the woman.
I didn’t expect my appearance to be an ordeal. I didn’t know I would have to talk with official leaders.
Somehow all I can mutter is, “Okay.”
I sit down in a large room. The leader on one side of the dark wood desk, me on the other. He is a big man, with wisps of hair on his chin. Margie is still in the back of my mind. He begins to give me information.
“Your bunker B-3 is one out of three bunkers. Currently you are the first to leave. I understand you have foster parents and a sister in custody of you.”
I want to say more. I have so many questions, all that comes out is, “Yes.”
“You are the daughter of Maribel and Thomas Scott. You my dear, are Willow Scott.” He pauses for a moment then continues, “Your parents came to the bunker during World War II. It was a place of safety. The war was especially strong here. As your parents were taking you into the bunker Thomas was shot. Maribel stayed to be with your father. She gave the Edwards custody of you.” That means there is hope of my mother being alive. He must have seen me perk up because he adds, “Willow, I am so sorry, I knew your mother quite well. She did not make it.”
My blood starts to boil. They let me stay in the bunker. They let me stay in the bunker while my parents died to get me here. Somehow, I swallow the lump in my throat and let him continue.
“Part of the B-3 trial was to see if anyone would ever leave, you did. When we put your parents, and the Edwards in the bunker, we knew the world would never be ashes.”
I decide to intervene, “How could you leave us there? With no space. I love the Edwards, especially Margie and you put me through this. I left them! They will never trust me again!”
“We know, we have people retrieving them in the morning.” I look up at a clock, it reads 4:32 a.m. “If you’d like, you can come.”
“Of course.”
