Daphne
The safe room was a misnomer. Louis led me and a dozen other women, and about twenty young children, through one of those identical unmarked doors in the long prison hallway. But instead of a cell, the door opened into another corridor that sloped gently downward in a circle, carrying us to a deeper subterranean level. And it wasn't a room, it was a bunker complex that could probably support 200 people with fold away cots, an industrial kitchen, and enough food stores to last a year. An underground river provided both fresh water and a custom-made hydroelectric generator for power.
“You can thank my grandfather,” Louis said, as he opened a panel in the wall and switched on the lights. “He grew up during the missile crisis, and insisted that we would have a way to preserve the
