Erol’s Escape

All characters are fictional. Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.

Dear dad,

America is probably on fire from coast to coast. Hope it’s not too much of a bother for you and mom breathing the air up there.

Just so you know, you don’t have to worry about me.

I’m 150 feet underground, in my untouchable bunker. I hope you’re proud. I think it’s even better than the spaceship I built. It’s got everything: a pool; a movie theater; an air and water purification system; food for a decade; virtual reality so I can escape; a robot maid in thigh high stockings; there will be no lack.

Sorry I didn’t have room for you guys. I only budgeted enough supplies to last me 15 years. I couldn’t risk throwing off that delicate calculus, with the half-life of the fallout and all. You know how the saying goes, When push comes to shove, it’s every man for himself.

You know, I think you might have taught me that, after we hit that homeless man crossing the street when I was 12. I remember the thump thump when we drove over him with the Bentley. You told Raymond to step on it and take us home. You turned to me and said, When push comes to shove, son….

I remember seeing the dent and the blood on the car after we got home, even though you told me not to look.

That’s enough about that. Can I tell you about the day I went underground, the day I saw us get bombed by the Chinese? It was wild.

The Chinese had just surprise attacked Los Angeles. Submarines and missiles and — yes — nuclear weapons that nearly flattened downtown. I was up north, in Palo Alto for a meeting with investors, right before the nukes landed in San Francisco, too.

God, those investors were shitting themselves when they saw the notifications about L.A. on my social media platform. I just told them to calm the fuck down.

I said, “This is when you execute on your bailout plan and go underground until things cool off.”

You know what? They still couldn’t stop panicking.

I was in a room with 7 other billionaires, and the best one of them could do was pack up his Macbook in a rush and say he was heading up to San Francisco to get on his yacht. The others were spouting off nonsense about needing to get to their families and why the hell hadn’t we found a market-and-tehchnology-driven solution to avoid this whole mess.

Weaklings. So out of touch with reality.

The thing you taught me, dad, was that weaklings don’t make it in this world. They get eaten. Stepped on. Forgotten and left to rot like old tomatoes in a field just before a frost.

So yeah, I’m sorry there isn’t room in the bunker for you and mom. But you didn’t raise me to be a pussy. You didn’t raise me to compromise my plans. You raised me to become the richest man on Earth, a man who can do whatever the fuck he wants, when he wants.

When I saw that the nuclear attacks were real, I called for my helicopter.

But — you won’t believe this — the pilot wouldn’t come pick me up. The fucker thought saving his own family was too important. He stole my $12 million helicopter to go get his own family. Told me so right over the phone.

He even said, “Fuck you, Erol.”

The nerve.

The more I think about it, the more I think families are useless. They make people weak. They make them unreliable when you need them. People get too gooey and sentimental with their attachments.

The biggest weakness in the human race was letting love get in the way of progress. Isn’t that true, dad?

(If the Internet wasn’t about to go down I’d publish that online. 12 million people would agree with me.)

Hell, one day I think I’ll design an AI that raises your kids for you, so that parents can go enjoy their free time like they’re supposed to. And then kids can get to the business of becoming useful and productive members of society at an earlier age. I’m thinking 14 would be about right. Just the right mix of strength and dexterity to be useful in a factory.

Needless to say, that deserter-thief helicopter pilot pissed me off. I wanted to shoot him with my Barret .50 cal and post the video online, just to make an example of him. You steal from me, I take back 100 times that. That’s how you show strength. And if you can’t pay, well, too bad, compadre.

I would have gotten so many likes for that. I’m kind of sad that when the world ends, so do my likes. It’ll almost be worth supporting repopulation after the apocalypse just for that one reason. Likes really do give me a boner on good days.

Well, when I found out my helicopter wasn’t an option, I knew I had to do something. I wasn’t going to keep hanging out with panicking loser billionaires. And they were losers. The odds were, 90% of them would be fucked in the next 48 hours.

But not me. Because you made me the man I am today, dad. I’ve always got a plan.

I went outside and into the sun and realized I’d have to get myself to my bunker. So I did what any real man would do. I had my driver take me to my little plane, a Pilatus PC-12 I keep parked at the Palo Alto airport. It gets in and out of tight places pretty good. I knew it could land at the private airstrip by my bunker because I’d flown it there before.

That’s right, dad. I became a pilot last summer. It just felt like a real man kind of thing to do.

After I got out of the car, I told my driver I’d be in touch after I landed, but I think he knew better. He looked like a ghost. I told him to take the car back to the office. He made the sign of the cross and rolled up his window and drove away.

I took a deep breath. With the world ending and all, I figured I didn’t have time to do my normal pre-flight inspection. So I walked out to the apron and decided I’d just check the fuel level of the aircraft and then fly.

But man, was I ever pissed when I saw the tanks were only 1/4 full.

How that happened was that I’d flown in some friends for a party only three weeks back, and we’d just parked the plane and taken the limo to San Francisco. And now that I needed the plane, there wasn’t enough fuel to get to the bunker in Nevada. On top of that, with the world ending and all, no one seemed to want to answer their work phones, including the bastards supposed to be manning the fuel truck.

There had to be another way. And that other way was right under my nose.

I looked around the apron and saw row upon row of little tin can Cessna 172s and Piper PA-28s. Those are planes that have to work just to get 4 people off the ground.

I’d taken my very first lesson in a 172, so I made another decision you’d be proud of. I went right over to the flight school, found the back door was open and the building empty, and helped myself to the keys and log book of one of their own Cessnas. Then I walked right back out to the apron like I owned the place (and I’m a little surprised I don’t), found their plane, and climbed up on the struts to check the tanks in the wings.

This airplane had nearly full tanks. Which was a stroke of luck.

I jumped in and got the plane running and taxiied to the runup area before the runway, and that’s when I saw the flash.

The whole sky went white. And then a cloud started rising, and when you see that kind of cloud, you know it’s time to get the hell out of Dodge.

I took off without making any radio calls and flew east, toward the mountains. From 7,500 feet, you could see the panic setting in below. Cars all jammed up on the highways. Columns of smoke. And, yes, when I scanned the horizon, even more of those clouds we thought we’d never have to see at home, here in America, the ones that reminded you how close we’d been to the end all along.

I’m a resourceful boy, dad. You’ll love this next part.

After crossing the mountains, I saw another bright flash in the sky, this one coming from the general direction of Las Vegas. But this time, my avionics got fried.

Goodbye, GPS. Goodbye VOR. I’d just lost my primary and secondary means of navigation. To make matters worse, my fuel was starting to get low. Which meant I might not even make it to the bunker. And you know me — I did not want to end up like the rest of the low-intelligence humans who hadn’t invested in their own survival shelters.

I was prepared, goddammit! This kind of thing wasn’t supposed to happen to an apex human like myself.

I had to rummage around in the plane while hand flying it (there was no autopilot), turning back to look in the seat pockets behind the front seats, and that’s when I found an old sectional chart.

When I got it all folded up the right way, it took me a minute to get my bearings. I put my finger on a road marked on the chart, a big one, and realized it looked like one I could see outside. Then I found another landmark to confirm my position.

Lost no more.

God, I’m such a damn genius sometimes, dad. Even in an apocalypse, I think I’m just better than 99.8% of most people.

Now that I knew where I was, I plotted my course to the bunker. It was smooth sailing right through the landing. I’ll tell you, I was so proud when I taxiied that little tin can Cessna right up to my bunker’s above ground door and pulled the mixture to shut down the engine.

I got out of the plane and walked to the retinal scanner by the door. I laughed to myself, knowing I was about to get a 15 year underground luxury vacation while most of the rest of humanity was screwed.

There was a beep and then a woosh as the door opened.

And now for some encouraging words.

Dad, I know it might seem frightful up there, but don’t worry. This is just another beginning. Sure, the world is ending and 90% of humanity is going to die, and probably you and mom, too. But at least the smart ones are going to survive.

Plus, I’m so excited for the next world, when I come out in ten to fifteen years depending on radiation levels.

See, I’ve got a server farm down here, and I’ve been mining Bitcoin. I’m going to be the richest man in the world 1,000 times over, if my predictions are correct. But why stop there? I think people will see me as their Supreme Leader, and ask me to lead them with my army of AI robots (in development), perfect for rebuilding a society that had gotten soft and rotten at its core.

Now I’m rambling. I guess I just wanted to say thanks, dad, for making me the man I am today.

Faithfully yours,

Erol

P.s. If you and mom get radiation sickness, please shoot her first. I don’t think she has the guts to do it herself.