All characters engaged in sexual activity are over the age of 18.
Thanks to Masakari / BirchesLoveBooks for beta reading this. I'd also like to thank the QT Writer's Room for their assistance where it was needed.
Lastly, I'd like to thank each of you for continuing to read The Bunker. Now where were we? Oh Yess...
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Characters
Kevin Ansen -- a community college physics professor selected by lottery to enter one of four government bunkers to ride out the impact of The Rock.
Jennifer Rodriguez -- a former student of Kevin's; intended to major in Family Therapy, applies those interests to helping her new family, the first of Kevin's ladies to get pregnant
Sarah Moran -- a fellow faculty member and friend of Kevin's for several years. Sarah and Kevin were both interested and failed to recognize the signs in each other.
Constance Worthington -- a student at Simpson college, but never in Kevin's classes, learning canning and pickling techniques from a Mennonite friend and her mother.
Jessica Peters -- widowed mother of three that agreed to serve as Kevin's slave to save her children. Also pregnant with Kevin's child.
Belinda Ansen -- 16 year old daughter of Kevin Ansen
Leslie Roark -- just barely eighteen, a friend of Belinda and her mentor in band.
Melissa Ballas -- a former student of Kevin's from a prior semester, Kevin was surprised to learn she'd been flirting with him most of the semester.
Gabriela Fernandez -- the realty agent that helped the Ansens select a new home for the growing family, denied her commission by the seller and her boss.
Melanie Nakamura -- formerly partnered to Devon, a man Kevin killed in the melee. She had been a professor of reading techniques at a large university's teaching program.
Nicole Pharris -- formerly partnered to Devon. She had been a local news anchor when Devon selected her.
Shaunice Yancy -- 14yo old daughter of Devon, adopted by Nicole.
Levon Yancy -- 7yo son of Devon, adopted by Nicole.
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Ch 8 -- The Cullings, pt 2
We were climbing into the curve at 120mph and slowing for the sharp turn. The semi was descending towards us at 50mph. I pulled as far to the outside of the turn as I could. That wasn't much, given the shoulder had gone from one car width in the flats to maybe an inch up here. I eased lightly off the gas pedal, dropping more speed than originally planned. Braking would have just rammed the guy behind me right up my ass. My maneuvering to the outside and slowing should have allowed truck boy to slip in front, if he acted quickly.
He didn't.
I watched the front of the pickup crumble like a sheet of paper in the fist of a frustrated jock taking a drawing class. Then I was past it. I rounded the curve, skidding to the outside. My right side tires ate dirt and the differential traction from asphalt on my left and grass on my right threatened to rip the steering wheel from my hands and send me rolling. I had a death grip on it, bracing my back and putting my whole body into maintaining control. I crashed through three of the little metal posts marking the side of the road before I safely got all four wheels on the asphalt at an angle that wouldn't shoot me across the road on the other side.
About a hundred yards behind me, at the curve, a loud boom rolled out. My eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, spying the edge of an orange red fireball and a white Camaro skidding just under it, mostly in the grass.
A cold certainty settled in the pit of my stomach. There wasn't a damn thing I could do. Just keep driving.
Funny thing, I elected not to use Connie's Camaro because I didn't like the cornering and did better in M's Audi. The guy behind me was having less trouble cornering. He was gaining on me. Frankly, I didn't give a shit. I wasn't giving up, by any means, I'd make him earn it. I entered the race intent on finishing in the top ten, minimum. Given what just happened, I had a lock on second. So what if this guy overtook me? I wasn't gonna gift wrap it for him, but I was way past giving a shit.
He steadily ate the distance, passing me about a mile out from the finish line. I kept pushing and had him in full view as he reached the final turn. It was just inside the edge of town, where the speed limit had already dropped to 50, and the curve was marked 45, but it was a race. Still, that meant it had been rated for the max speed one could keep the road. Engineers are notoriously conservative, at least on paper, so if the posted limit was 45, then it should be possible, under dry conditions, to make the turn at 55 with only minimum tire squeal.
Pretty sure the Camaro was doing 70 or more when he cut left from the outside of the turn. That's when I saw a big white puff from his front right. And then he rolled. Four times the Camaro rolled about its long axis, intermittently flashing its underside at me, before slamming into a copse of elm trees. One bumper and a couple of body panels flew off in the process. I slowed, both for the turn and to make sure I didn't encumber anyone responding.