This is from a reader named Mike, who remembered a bunker blunder incident with his Uncle Gary, who’d stockpile beans like squirrels collect acorns. The one who insisted the apocalypse was just a grocery list away? This is a story about him, me, and a regrettable encounter with household chemicals. It serves as a cautionary tale for all you budding preppers out there – sometimes, the best way to survive the end times is not to rush them.
It all started with a text: “Meet me at the bunker, midnight sharp. SHTF scenario imminent.” I knew Gary had a “doomsday den” in his backyard, but I figured it was just another one of his eccentric projects. Turns out, I was tragically mistaken.
Midnight found me shivering at the mouth of a rickety metal door, half-buried in Gary’s overgrown lawn. Inside, it was like stepping into a post-apocalyptic Pinterest board. Canned goods stacked precariously, dust motes dancing in the single bare bulb illuminating the scene. And there he was, Gary, decked out in camo pants and a gas mask, fiddling with a contraption of hoses and buckets.
“The time has come, nephew!” he boomed, eyes gleaming with manic excitement. “The water grid’s down, the chemtrails are thicker than ever, and I’ve rigged up this bad boy to purify our own H2O.”
He gestured toward the contraption, which, to my untrained eye, resembled a Heath Robinson fountain built by a mad scientist. I bit back a nervous giggle. Bless his paranoid heart, Gary was a good guy, just…enthusiastically misguided.
But then, he did something that turned my amusement into bone-chilling dread. He reached for a dusty bottle labeled “ACID” and, with a flourish, poured its contents into the contraption. A hiss filled the air, followed by a plume of green smoke that made my eyes water. Gary coughed, sputtered, and ripped off his gas mask, revealing a face contorted in pain.
In his haste to be a DIY survival guru, he’d confused muriatic acid (used for cleaning concrete) with citric acid (a common food additive). And now, we were trapped in a toxic gas chamber of his own making.
Panic threatened to consume me, but seeing Gary’s glazed eyes and gasping breaths snapped me back to reality. We had to get out of there. I fumbled for the door, praying it wasn’t bolted shut (it wasn’t, thank heavens), and dragged Gary into the night air.
The fresh air stung my lungs, but it was a sweet sting compared to the chemical inferno we’d escaped. We collapsed on the grass, coughing and wheezing, gasping for air like fish thrown onto land. As the shock subsided, I looked at Gary, his face streaked with tears and snot, his chest heaving.
“S…SHTF averted,” he rasped, a sheepish grin spreading across his face.
I couldn’t help but laugh, a nervous, shaky laugh that echoed through the quiet night. We’d stared death in the face, courtesy of a misplaced bottle of acid, and somehow, against all odds, we were alive.
That night, under a sky full of indifferent stars, Gary and I swore off the doomsday prepping business. We learned that true preparedness isn’t about hoarding beans and building bunkers; it’s about basic knowledge, common sense, and maybe, just maybe, listening to the people who actually know what they’re doing.
So, to all you aspiring preppers out there, here’s my two cents: Before you go digging for fallout shelters in your backyard, invest in a first-aid kit and a decent flashlight. Learn how to purify water the safe way (hint: it doesn’t involve dubious chemicals). And above all, remember, sometimes, the biggest threat to your survival isn’t zombies or meteor strikes; it’s your own overzealous imagination and a misplaced bottle of acid.
Trust me, it’s a lesson I won’t forget in a hurry. And let’s hope Gary hasn’t either. Though, knowing him, he’s probably already stocking up on gas masks, just in case…
P.S. Uncle Gary is fine, mostly. His lungs coughed up some pride, but no permanent damage. We even managed to salvage his bunker (with the help of a professional hazmat team, of course). And just in case you’re wondering, yes, he’s labeled his cleaning supplies now. In bright, neon orange letters. You can’t miss them.