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It was four months ago when the last of the explosions rocked my family's small shelter. The dust had hardly settled before it was all over. Our family had just made it into the shelter in time to avoid the nuclear blasts, almost burning at our backs as we hurried through the airlock and into the underground home. Unfortunately, my father was working overtime when the attacks happened. He spent years, and countless dollars, constructing this shelter for his family, only to be the only one unable to make it to the shelter. We had all made fun of him for his prepper tendencies, and now we're all living in a physical representation of our mockery.
The next few days were spent with gut-wrenching terror as the sounds of collapsing buildings, raging fires, and screams could be faintly heard through the four-inch thick steel door. Afterwards, the fear of radiation sickness was the talk of my small family. Time eventually cleared the air on those fears, but we were still unsure of the soundness of the nuclear shelter, the quality and quantity of our supplies, and how long we could all last cramped in a hole in the ground.
After a few months, we grew used to life in a fallout shelter. It was cramped, the food was garbage, and entertainment was scarce, but it was infinitely better than any alternative, and we were all happy to have each other. Summer was arriving outside, and faint signs of nature's return could be sensed, even deep underground. Our supplies had lasted a very long time, but it was clear that we would eventually need a Plan B, and that our current home could not be a permanant one, at least not without some changes and additions.