The floor was gleaming hardwood with a few area rugs here and there, and all of the lighting was romantically dim. Tasha found the switch and turned it up, brightening the room as Thomas methodically went through each of the four doorways that lined the two farthest walls.
“Kitchen and supply pantry,” he announced, before moving on to, “Bedroom—whoa,” and “Bathroom,” and “Utility room with more storage—all clear.”
Tash beelined for the kitchen, which despite being small was fully appointed and very high-end 90s, with white cabinets and appliances, dark gray granite countertops, and a stainless steel sink. There was a built-in wine fridge that was fully stocked and running, and when she turned on the kitchen tap, water came rushing out.
“There’s running water!” she announced loudly as she moved to open the larger fridge—how on earth had they gotten that down there? During the renovations in the 90s, they must’ve opened and then rebuilt the concrete bulkhead.
The light came on as the refrigerator door opened. It was sparkling clean and mostly empty, except for an unopened, recently-dated bottle of orange juice and a box of Ted’s favorite brand of almond milk. Ugh. She opened the freezer—nothing but ice.
“Don’t drink from the tap until I check the water supply,” Thomas shouted back. “I saw some cases of bottled water in the pantry.”
Tash turned off the faucet, where—holy crap!—the water was actually starting to come out warm, and went into the separate pantry, which was a larger room than the actual kitchen. It had rows of shelving, again mostly empty, but not entirely.
And there it was—four full cases of spring water. Tasha tore open the heavy plastic cover. “I found the bottled water!” she shouted to Thomas. She grabbed, opened, and chugged, even as she turned to survey the rest of the supplies.
One shelf had an entire very-top-shelf-of-a-five-star-hotel-bar’s worth of gin, vodka, whiskey and more, plus mixers in every flavor. Another had paper goods—toilet paper, paper towels, napkins in all sizes, plus feminine products that were definitely leftovers from the 1990s, an extensive first-aid kit in a plastic container, and yup, a large supply of condoms, tucked neatly away behind the TP. Those were in new-looking boxes with expiration dates far out into the future, which was another rather large clue that her Ted had kept this place going as a... a... sex-pod long after his decadent Uncle Ted had died.
Which absolutely made sense, considering.
The last occupied shelf held drink stirrers and an actual package of little drink umbrellas. Ah! Jars upon jars of green olives and peanuts. Tasha cracked a peanut jar open and eagerly ate a handful, and then another. It was possible nothing had ever tasted so good.
“I’m not finding a lot of real food,” she shouted with her mouth full, “but we’ve got peanuts, hallelujah! Also, we’re good to go if we want cocktails.”
Maybe there was some real food stored in the kitchen cabinets, to go along with that OJ and almond milk that had been in the fridge. Tash grabbed another bottle of water and went back into the kitchen and opened cabinet doors one by one to find dishes and mugs and glasses of all varieties from highballs to martini glasses to the most delicate, long-stemmed wine goblets.
A cabinet with spices—getting closer...
The next cabinet was her holy grail. It held one of those large, round containers of instant oatmeal, an unopened box of corn flakes, several more packaged boxes of almond milk, a small tin of English breakfast tea, and some Starbucks instant coffee packs—medium roast.
Ted had definitely been down here very recently, no doubt prepping for an early morning rendezvous, complete with his idea of the perfect—i.e. easy—breakfast.
“I haven’t found a radio,” Thomas said, coming into the kitchen. “Have you seen one?”
“No, but I haven’t been looking.” Tash handed him the bottle of water she’d grabbed for him.
“Thanks,” he said, and immediately drank it as she ate more peanuts from the jar, rattling them at him enticingly.
“Oh, my God,” he said, coming up for air, the water bottle drained. “Yes, please.”
Tasha handed him the peanuts. “There’s also this.” She showed him the cereal, and then opened the fridge, too, before quickly going through the rest of the kitchen. But each new cabinet was as empty as the last. “Other than that, it’s peanuts and olives. Do olives count as vegetables, in terms of preventing scurvy?”
“No one’s getting scurvy.” Thomas handed her back the jar and went to look for a radio in the pantry. “Besides, wasn’t that OJ in the fridge? I think we’re safe.”
She followed him, crunching as she went. “There’s a party-barge of alcohol, too. And sugared sodas.” She helped herself to another bottle of water from the case she’d opened.
“But no radio,” he said, shaking his head in disgust. “What kind of bomb shelter doesn’t at least have a short-wave? There’s a landline in the living room, but it doesn’t even have a keypad, plus it’s dead.”
“It was probably connected to the main house,” Tash said as he led the way back out to the central living area. She spoke in a Ustanzian accent, faintly British-sounding with a tinge of French, “We’re running low on Glenfiddich. Have one of the more comely serving wenches deliver it to me here in the party bunker. I’m pretty sure this hasn’t been anything close to a real bomb shelter since Prince Tedric-the-first renovated it. Nuclear annihilation was low on his likely-to-happen-in-1995 list—way, way below having sex with powerless servants, assuming there were no wives-of-his-friends in the vicinity.”
Thomas crossed the room, pushed the heavy door closed, and locked it. There was a deadbolt on this side of the door, and he threw that, too, with a very solid ca-chunk. Only then did he put down the rifle, leaning it against the wall.
It was clear that he finally believed they were safe—or at least safe enough. Tasha took a deep, steadying breath, because the reality of what they’d been through—and how close Thomas in particular had come to being killed—was a tad overwhelming.
“The toilet’s not chemical,” he told her, motioning for her to give him back the peanuts. His seeming non sequitur completely blew her up.
“The what’s not... what now?” she asked as she passed him the jar.
“The toilet,” he said, crunching peanuts. “In the bathroom. It’s a real flush toilet.”
She rushed to look. “Oh, my God, Thomas, you found me the peeing-tree of my dreams!” The gleaming bathroom was about as big as the kitchen, with a soaking tub, double sinks with more of that gray granite for the counter, and a glass-encased shower. She opened the medicine cabinet to reveal—yup—dozens of trick-kits—packets of personal care items for “unexpected overnight guests.” She ripped one open and found the toothbrush, but then realized, “Is it safe to use the water?”
“There’s a high-end filtering system in the utility room, so yes.” Thomas stood in the open doorway, watching as she washed her hands using the soap that was out on the counter, then blissfully, gloriously brushed her teeth. “There’s also a hot water heater that was left running.”