nuclear-bunker

Project Greek Island, the secret bunker that was never used

In the late 1950s, the United States government approached The Greenbrier Hotel and sought its assistance in creating a secret emergency relocation center to house Congress in the aftermath of a nuclear holocaust. The classified, underground facility was built at the same time as the West Virginia Wing, an above-ground addition to the hotel, from 1959 to 1962.

For 30 years, The Greenbrier owners maintained an agreement with the federal government that, in the event of an international crisis, the entire resort property would be conveyed to government use, specifically as the emergency location for the legislative branch.

The facility was decommissioned in 1992 after the program was exposed in a U.S. newspaper article.

If we combine posadism, anarcho primitivism and hoxhaism we end up with the perfect edgy leftist ideology. The general premise is fairly simple and it’s that we build a shitload of bunkers incite nuclear conflict and emerge from the wreckage as hunter gatherers who are cared for by the extraterrestrial leftists that the posadists were looking for who will clear off all of the radiation and give humanity the ability to communicate without words the way zerzan always wanted. Anything else is revisionist

Safekeeping (Alex Summers x Reader)

Word Count: 5k

Rating: M

Song I listened to while writing: “Screen” by twenty one pilots

Excerpt:  “(Name),” he calls, as casually as he can possibly manage, given the situation, shoving one hand into his pocket. He nudges the granola bars he had brought with him. Maybe he could give her one? Except—no, no, that’s fucking stupid, and he’s fucking stupid, and what the hell has come over him recently, anyways, it’s not like she’s even that big of a deal, except that when she sees him walking towards her she lights up and the way she says his name makes his throat actually fucking tighten around his next breath. Dimly, Alex realizes that he’s screwed.

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How to Transform Your Nuclear Bunker Into Paradise 

The phrase “nuclear apocalypse” does not bring to mind visions of blue skies and palm trees or a lush forest. But that’s exactly the sort of post-apocalyptic vision Oribe Seiki Seisakusho sells. For just $225,000, the Japanese company will build you a bunker strong enough to survive an atomic blast. It’ll even decorate the place with cheery landscapes so you can enjoy paradise while cowering underground.

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Paura della terza guerra mondiale? Basta compare la casa bunker

La tensione tra Stati Uniti e Corea del Nord è alle stelle. Il regime di Kim Jong-un continua sulla via dell’armamento nucleare. Se qualcuno avesse qualche timore di troppo e non si sentisse particolarmente sicuro in casa propria, potrebbe pensare di traslocare. A patto che abbia voglia di spendere una fortuna!

Credits: Caters News

L’ex bunker oggi è una villa di lusso

In Georgia è in vendita un ex bunker, convertito in una villa di lusso. Il prezzo? Circa 17 milioni di dollari e mezzo. Non è chiaro quanto sia trattabile.

Source: Yahoo Notizie

La sicurezza prima di tutto. E se si tratta di quella della casa, non è mai troppa. Per scampare ad ogni calamità naturale o attentato terroristico, si può pensare di trasferirsi nell’ex bunker di Savannah, in Georgia.

Source: Yahoo Notizie

E’ stato costruito nel 1969 durante la Guerra Fredda, quando il rischio di attacchi terrorizzava forse anche più di oggi la popolazione.

Source: Yahoo Notizie

Il bunker è stato convertito nel 2012 in una villa sotterranea super lusso. Dotato di ogni comfort è in grado di resistere anche a un’esplosione nucleare.

Source: Yahoo Notizie

Prezzo da capogiro. Il costo è di 17,5 milioni di dollari ma certi optional in salotto hanno il loro prezzo. Come il sistema di video sorveglianza.

Source: Yahoo Notizie

La villa si sviluppa su due livelli in uno spazio di 14mila metri quadrati, oltre al terreno esterno. In questa foto uno dei salotti presenti nella residenza anti-nucleare.

Source: Yahoo Notizie

Il secondo piano è suddiviso in quattro appartamenti di lusso, ognuno con la propria cucina, sala da pranzo, due camere da letto, bagni e altre stanze personalizzabili.

Source: Yahoo Notizie

Il primo livello per gli spazi comuni. Come in un mini condominio, al primo piano ci sono spazi da condividere come un teatro, una sala giochi, un laboratorio e una sala. In questa foto una cucina.

Source: Yahoo Notizie

La casa bunker è situata a 45 piedi di profondità sottoterra, e prevede tutti i servizi degni di un hotel a 5 stelle.

Source: Yahoo Notizie

Ci sono una sala d’armi, un sistema di video sorveglianza da 100mila dollari, pareti spesse più di un metro e anche docce di decontaminazione.

Source: Yahoo Notizie

I had a dream last night that i was in a club with some friends, getting drunk and high, when a meteor hit earth. It destroyed the middle of the city we were in which I’m pretty sure was Bournemouth but there was a forest where the sea should have been. We then went and commandeered a bus in order to drive through the forest to get to the nuclear bunker under a mansion. There was a box full of cocaine in the bus, so we all did lines of cocaine. I got off the bus and walked to a windmill, where a family lived inside. I slept in the attic, on a rug surrounded by snow. In the dream i woke up naked, walked outside and stole a car. I crashed the car into a tree after driving through the forest where the sea should have been, and sold the car to a French man for 3000 euros, paid in two 1500 euro notes. The car burst into flames and the man walked off. My friends found me and dragged me onto the bus, and i was about to pay for our entry into the bunker beneath the mansion before the second meteor hit. Dream ended, and i woke up.

A very strange colony of wood ants has been discovered in an abandoned nuclear weapons storage bunker in Templewo, Poland. 

A wood ant nest was built over a vertical pipe. Many ants fall down it and can’t climb back up. They are forced to live in the very cold, harsh environment of the bunker, which has no clear food sources and almost no light.

In fact, some don’t even think this group should be called a colony. There are no queens- all of the ants are female workers. The only reason it hasn’t died out is because ants continuously fall down into the dark.

Overwatch: Truce (Shadow - End)

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3

You can read it all on AO3


Winston! Come in! Talk to me!

Security is on the fritz

Lena felt her stomach turn to stone, “Oh just my luck…”

I’m trying to counter it. Otherwise, we’re going to have company real soon

Roger that.

Pharah sighed, but straightened her shoulders and jammed her helmet over her eyes before turning around to face her team.

“Everyone spread out, I want all possible openings on lockdown. We need to get the officers and governor out of here”

Within seconds, each overwatch agent had weapons drawn and shields up in front of important officials that had become targets, ready for a possible ambush.

Pharah loaded her weapon as she made her way to the flanker extraordinaire,“Tracer…”

She grinned after doing a couple of squats and leg stretching, it had been a month since she had been out on the field, not since her last run in with Talon’s new set of eyes and ears. It left her paranoid and anxious beyond repair, but her itch to return to the fight and the chance for payback was enough to convince her friends to let her on the plane.

But now that there was a true possibility of the hacker being there, she might have some second thoughts.

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FRIGHTED WITH FALSE FIRE!

A Soviet Hamlet AU:

  • Above all else, know this: you are never alone in Elsinore.

  • They say there is something rotten in the core of the Soviet Union, but for something to rot it must have been alive at some point. Perhaps a truer statement would be to say that there is something cold and harsh and essentially non-living here.

  • Hamlet Sr. appears with a red band tied around his arm and curses on his tongue. Traitor, he whispers in Hamlet’s ear, your uncle has betrayed me, but more importantly, he has betrayed the very cause we fought for. Later, Hamlet will check the security tapes over and over but hears nothing besides his own scratching breathing. When his father fades away, he leaves behind only a slip of red cloth—Hamlet takes it and it stays wrapped around his wrist until the day he dies.

  • A note: that day will come just a few weeks later.

  • When Claudius smiles at Hamlet, it is the same smile he wears to meetings with the American President: one that is sly enough to unnerve but pleasant enough to sell his supposed honesty. Horatio is the only one who dares to frown in response.

  • Laertes leaves for France and comes home with bursting ideas about democracy and freedom and Claudius only smiles, clasps his back, and beckons him back into the cold concrete halls. Soon enough, his foreign ideals are dropped in favour of vengeance and loyalty.

  • After she drowns, Ophelia’s name is stricken from all the records. A black bar where a girl once was.

  • A paradox: there is no God in the Soviet Union, but everyone prays anyways. Hamlet sees Claudius on his knees and stays his hand. He looks up and sees blinking red lights and wonders if God watches them all on grainy security cams. He wonders if there is an afterlife that is more than this endless concrete purgatory. He wonders if hell looks like a nuclear bunker.

  • In the end, Elsinore collapses, the USSR collapses, Hamlet collapses too as the poison eats away at his stomach.  

Alright, I guess I should probably explain myself. I’m working on this story right now. The plan is to release the first chunk this Halloween (and by chunk, like, 20+ chapters hallelujah, no promises people). But since I’m bugging y’all by posting a bunch of excerpts I’ll try and summarize the basics without giving a ton of the plot away.

A Snapping Sound is a Danny Phantom horror AU. Emphasis on horror. In its most basic form, it’s a haunted house AU. BUT WAIT THERE’S MORE.

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Good to see not only Molerats burrow. I like this mechanic because it makes sniping less monotonous (you now need a plan for enemies that can close distances outside your field of fire) and increases the value of melee and armor.

The new radscorpions look a bit more like crabs to me - y’know, the kind overgrown with all sorts of wildlife. Not complaining, mind you.

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I just love these tantalizing little background details. There’s a number of crates, a crashed truck (?), two pools of no doubt radioactive gunk, one with a lamp sticking out of it like a steampunk palm tree … Oh and those barely visible dust clouds?

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This looks like a bunker ventilation system. Which is interesting because a bunker at nuclear ground zero has to have a pretty interesting story.

There’s at least four of these structures too; pretty extensive installation …

… especially considering the “bunker" icon shows up before pointing directly at the towers (i.e. the marker is some way off). Plus, it just might have an associated airport.

So my guess is it’s a heavy-duty pre-war military installation that got targeted by the Chinese - and it looks like it’s up for grabs!

I think the military still uses their old bases. Or something else does.

I think the military still use their old bases. I don’t know what for. But they’re hiding something, and I hope I never find out what.

For a while, I was just a police officer in a sleep little village. The village itself wasn’t creepy at all – I knew everyone, they knew me. Life was simple, and as I was coming up to thirty. I had a house, and whilst I was single – I enjoyed the company of a few colleagues, and occasional visits from school friends. I was happy with my lot in life. I work in Corsham, in the South West of the UK.

Corsham really doesn’t have much going for it. There’s a new military base a mile or so out, and that’s about it. Occasionally, we’ll be assigned to patrol the roads around the new military base. Not so much as to arrest people breaking in, but more to stop people parking around, or to stop people fly-tipping. Not the most interesting job.

But yesterday, I was assigned to the old base. I thought it was funny at the time – the base had been out of action for 30 or so years, a huge, monolithic structure that was made out of drab concrete. It wasn’t being used for anything, and it just stood there in the country side – empty. I was assigned to sit in a small booth outside the main gate and guard it all night. It didn’t seem too hard, in fact – it seemed pretty easy.

The shift was 10 until 5 the next morning, and so in the day I had time to do a little research. A quick google search shows that the base was shut down some time in the 80s. Further research showed that it was built as a type of nuclear bunker. It was designed to house a huge, underground city. It was labyrinthine, with a main control room then hundreds of smaller corridors running off to create a living environment. I was convinced that I was working there to prevent people breaking in. Free parties, if you don’t know, are a phenomenon in the UK whereby younger teenagers take as many drugs as possible, find an abandoned warehouse – and play music until the early hours. There was a huge free party scene in the South West, and I assumed I was preventing people from breaking in and taking as many narcotics as they could funnel up their noses. It seemed logical at the time, I was to prevent anyone from abusing Government property. But there was something off about my job. It could be done by regular patrols, and the offer was disclosed with a ‘CONFIDENTIAL’ stamp, I was only to discuss the job with members of the police force.

I worked there for five days, in a tiny booth just outside the large, metal doors – that led down a ramp into the main room, or I assumed so from the outside structure of the place. The doors were safety programmed, made so that they could be unlocked from both the inside and the outside – to prevent builders, whilst constructing the complex, from getting locked inside. The booth was just big enough for me, my laptop and some books. It had glass windows, that would gradually fog up as I watched the roads ahead. Every couple of hours or so I was to walk on patrol around the grounds. The first night was fine, I simply stayed awake, smoked and watched downloaded movies on my laptop. It rained, and the relaxing pitter-patter sent me into a trance. It didn’t seem strange at the time, but now I think about it – the sound of the rain masked something else, though I couldn’t tell what.

The second night was when it started to get weird. Silence covered the base like a thick blanket, almost muffling any noise I would make. Except, from inside the base came an irregular series of tapping noises. I assumed that they were simply rainwater dripping, but there was something organic about them. They would slowly grow in volume, the only sound for miles was an almost desperate tapping. The noise began to bug me, and so I began my patrol. The flashlight showed nothing by the fences, and when I put my hand to the concrete it was dry. The moisture slowly went from my mouth. That meant no rainwater could be dripping. I finished my shift and drove home, checking my wingmirror the whole way.

The third night, the tapping stopped until about midnight. Then came a gentle scraping noise, the sound of nails against concrete. It wasn’t just at the gate, but instead it would move around inside the complex. I lit a cigarette, and began my patrol again – determined to find the source. However, as I walked round the edge, following the wire fence, the noise followed me. The scraping wouldn’t go any quieter – and when I stopped to stub out my cigarette, it scratched in the same place. It was as if something was inside, and through delusion was trying to burrow through the concrete. For me.

The fourth night, I turned up early – when it was still light, and patrolled the grounds. Nothing was there, except for the faint smell of rotting fish, a wet, damp smell that lingered just above the ground. It began to get dark, and the scraping continued. This time, more frenzied. I hadn’t told anyone about it before – hoping that it was an animal trapped or a machine deep inside still working. I called a friend of mine, who was on patrol nearby and asked them if they could swing by. I think the fear was evident in my voice, as they turned up as fast as they could.

When they appeared, the scratching ceased. They patrolled with me, and assumed that I was going a bit nuts, penned in a small box for seven hours in the dark. Laughing, they left me alone again.

The scratching returned as soon as they left, but faster. Much faster. This time there was an determination to it, a desire to be heard. It was almost as if something was playing a sick game with me. I locked the door of the booth, and must have smoked about fourty cigarettes, clouding the small room with smoke. Whatever was inside there was taunting me. For some reason, it was trying to target me. I didn’t sleep that night, and barely in the day. I was kept awake, sat in my apartment with an ear to the wall – terrified of the incessant scratching.

I almost called in sick on the fifth night, but decided to return. Again, as soon as it got dark the scratching came. If you have a desk nearby, start scratching it as fast as possible. Imagine that noise, but echoing through a huge, empty concrete bunker and you’ll understand why the very noise made me shake. That noise, that horrid noise felt like it was scratching at the inside of my skull.

The scratching stopped at one in the morning. It fell silent, and I had to push my face against the window to see whether the gates were open. They were tight shut, from what I could see. I felt I could hear my own breath getting louder and louder – it almost echoed, in fact I was convinced it did - and when I leant back into my chair the windows were steamed up. I used the cuff of my sleeve to rub the steam off, but it didn’t work. Puzzled, I tried again, rapidly rubbing my sleeve to clear any moisture from the window. Again, the steam stayed.

My heart skipped a beat.

The steam wasn’t from inside the booth. Something had been looking in – right at me. Something had left its breath condensed against my booth. Terrified, I inhaled and realised I’d been holding my breath.

I’d been holding my breath.

That meant the deep, heavy breathing I’d heard echoing around the complex wasn’t mine. Something was out there. It was one thirty when I left – locking the main gate - packing my bags and running for my car, heart pumping in my chest. Half heartedly I convinced myself I’d been hearing myself breathe, and that the mist on the window was merely a coincidence. I’d almost convinced myself. But something wasn’t right with the story in my head. In fact, something was very, very wrong.

I arrived home safely, bursting into my house and turning on every light I could find. There was this niggling thought that something was wrong still playing with, and although I lay in bed I couldn’t quite work out what it was.

When I figured it out and sat bolt upright and screamed. I screamed and I screamed, shaking, with spittle flying from my lips. I’d locked the gate.

Except, I’d never had to do that before.

Because the gate was always locked. Whatever was in there, had escaped.

I stayed up all the next day, drinking coffee – watching TV without actually absorbing any of what was happening on screen. I became paranoid, turning the volume off on the TV and simply listening, even the sound of cars driving past set me on edge. I called my boss, and told him I couldn’t work there anymore. He didn’t sound surprised at all, and instead told me patrols would be taken over by someone else. A tone haunted his voice, it wasn’t quite fear – but the quick breaths in between his words suggested something was up. Or I was paranoid. I’ve never really had faith in my own judgement – an odd quality for a police officer – but I’m usually able to convince myself that I’ve simply misunderstood. As I hung up, and put the phone down next to me the sun began to set.

As darkness crept over, I closed all the blinds and sat on the sofa – staring at the white noise on the television.

It was faint, almost inaudible to the untrained ear.

A small scratching coming from outside the walls of my house.

I bit my lip, closed my eyes and listened as it gradually moved. Slowly, the scratching would slide from wall to wall, as if trying to find a way in.

I haven’t slept yet. I don’t think I will.

London - Day 2 the Sherlock tour

At Clapham Junction

Waterloo is the earworm of choice today

From the train

Not so secret nuclear bunker! 

Quick detour

SQUIRREL

aaaàhhh

Um, no.

British Library!

King’s Cross!

Vauxhall aka MI6