The Sunglasses
A short story
Håkon Kristiansen gently closed the optometrist’s door so as not to disturb Jakob, who was scrutinizing a sunglasses lens under his binocular microscope. My sunglasses lens, Håkon thought. Håkon walked quietly to Jakob’s desk, and when he was about two meters away, Jakob looked up and said, “Ah, Håkon, I knew you’d be here today, so I was preparing new lenses for you. Every day, new lenses. You know you really should—”
Håkon raised his hand like a traffic cop telling a driver to stop and said, “I’m grateful for your help, but these sunglasses aren’t dark enough. The light still shines through, and that bothers me.” He pulled off his Wayfarer-frame sunglasses and angled them up to the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. “Yes, even here I can see the light shine through.” Håkon blinked heavily, squinted, swiveled toward Jakob, and pointed to the ceiling bulb. “You know your light is dimmer today. You need to get that fixed before it goes out, or you won’t be able to see well enough to work on my glasses.”
Håkon rubbed his hands together briskly and cinched the top of his button-down shirt closed with his fingers. The fog from his breath solidified into ice crystals, clanging as they fell to the floor.
Shelves from the floor to the ceiling lined the steel walls of this windowless rectangular room. On each shelf sat large, sealed metal containers labeled Sunglasses AB002a, Sunglasses EY832b, Sunglasses BF901c, and so on. Just like the organizational system at the Vault, which struck Håkon as odd because as best he could remember, Jakob had never been there. When Håkon traced one with his fingers, the metal felt industrial and thick.
Håkon shivered. The air was exceptionally chilly for an eyeglasses shop. He wondered if Jakob’s heat was broken or if he liked it cold.
The bulb crackled and swayed. The acrid scent of ozone filled the room. A small tremor shook the floor and Håkon.
He steadied himself against a shelf.
Jakob Pedersen rose from his chair and walked around to the other side of his work desk. He opened his arms and gave Håkon an enormous and powerful hug, then released him and stepped back. He chided, “You’re always complaining, my friend.” He plucked off Håkon’s glasses. “These are eighty percent blocking, right?
“Yes, you made the lenses for me yesterday. Before that, they were seventy percent. That wasn’t enough; eighty isn’t enough, either.”
Jakob sighed. “At this rate, they’ll block one hundred percent of the light, and you won’t be able to see a thing.”
“Are you going to help me or not?” Håkon waved his arm in a circle. “As far as I can tell, I’m your only customer, so what else are you going to do?”
Jakob motioned to the chair opposite his desk, walked back to his seat, and asked, “How’s work?”
Håkon shrugged. “How is work ever? I monitor seeds. The doomsday seed vault, a depository of one point three million seed samples, buried underground in the Arctic in Svalbard, a place where nobody visits and only one person works—that’s me. All I do is check temperature and humidity levels and turn one or two knobs as needed.”
“You’re too modest, Håkon. You are the most important person in the world.”
Håkon shook his head. “Right now, you’re the most important person in the world to me.”
“Well then, give me another minute, and your ninety percent will be finished.”
“Okay.” Håkon paced around the small shop as Jakob ground and polished his new lenses. He tried to will Jakob to work faster because the shop’s lightbulb was growing dimmer and time was running out.
It’s not the bulb, Håkon thought, because he knew a few things about technology. It’s the voltage that’s dropping. The voltage is dropping!
“Sorry, Jakob. I’m very sorry. I have to ask a favor. Can you make the lenses one hundred percent light-blocking?”
“Why? It’s December; it’s dark all day and night. If I make the lenses opaque, you won’t be able to see a thing.”
“I’ll see enough.”
“You won’t.”
“Just make them, please.”
“Fortunately, fully black lenses are easy to make, so this will only take ten minutes.”
“Thank you.” Håkon looked up at the bulb, which had grown even weaker. An unfelt breeze swayed the lightbulb on its frayed cord.
“They’re done,” Jakob said. “Your one hundred percent light-blocking lenses.” He held the glasses out for Håkon, but as Håkon was about to take them, he said, “Remember, you’ll be blind with these lenses. No light will pass through. Are you sure that’s what you want? It’s more than you need to protect your eyes, more than anyone needs, and as I said, it’s dark both day and night now.”
Håkon snatched the glasses out of Jakob’s hand and put them on his face. He fished in his pocket, pulled out a thousand kroner note, and held it in Jakob’s direction. When, after a few moments, the money was still in his hand, Håkon asked, “Jakob? Are you there? Take my money. I want to pay you for these.”
Silence.
“Jakob, where did you go?”
Blind, Håkon held out his hands and walked forward until he contacted the wall. He patted against the metal, tracing the surface all around, grateful that he hadn’t bumped into anything in his blindness. He winced as the cold, metal wall stung his fingers. He continued around ten or fifteen more times, calling for his friend every few seconds, until he reached a fist-sized knob.
For a moment, he hesitated, puzzled by the object, and confused about why it was at the optometrist’s.
The emergency call! I need to summon help, help for me, but more importantly, for the Vault.
With all his might, he slammed his fist against the call button. It didn’t depress. His entire body ached.
He gathered as much energy as he could, and tried again. The button held firmly. No, the seeds!
He took a deep breath and exhaled as he smashed the button once more.
The door creaked open.
A cold gust stunned him, and sleet pelted his cheeks and forehead. He trembled. The door creaked again, this time louder.
A woman’s voice called his name. “Kristiansen. Are you Håkon Kristiansen?” Her timbre was tentative, young, soft.
“I am. Who are you?”
“I’m Sissel Gangestad from The Ministry of Agriculture and Food.”
Håkon heard her stomp several times, as if she were kicking off snow from her boots.
“Are you okay?”
“I can’t see you or see anything. My head hurts, too.”
“You must have been looking at the blast—that’s why you can’t see. They tried to destroy the Svalbard Global Seed Vault. The nuclear detonation was nearby, and if you were outside and looking toward it, you would have been rendered blind.”
“Nuclear detonation? Blinded? Who tried to destroy the Vault? Why would somebody do that?” Håkon rubbed the back of his head. It felt sticky. Blood.
The afterimage of a white flash burned behind his retinas.
I fell. Håkon’s legs wobbled as his memory swirled and coalesced, like a million tiny rocks coming together to form a planet. I hit my head when the bomb went off, and the force pushed me back against the building’s steel wall. The light—it was brighter than anything I’d ever imagined, like being on the sun’s surface. I crawled back inside and pressed the emergency button.
He winced as he touched his elbows. The skin was raw there, too.
“We don’t know. The Russians? The Americans? It could be either. It’s insanity, chaos, death out there. But the most important thing is that the Vault is intact.”
“What’s happened?”
“Nuclear war. Civilization is over, at least in the northern hemisphere. We don’t know anything about the countries south of the equator because communications have failed worldwide. Hundreds of millions perished, and millions more will die soon. We’re going to use these seeds to restart agriculture and feed people as best we can.”
“Oh.”
“We have a lot of work. Can you help me move the seeds to my truck? I realize you’re blind, but—”
“I know the Vault with my eyes closed. I will help. But where are the others?”
“There are no others. I’m a staff assistant at the Ministry. I just started last week and was on my way to Svalbard when the war began. Oslo’s been vaporized, too, so I’m all that’s left of the government. Why Norway? What did we ever do to anyone?”
Håkon plunged his hands into his pockets. His fingers bumped against something plastic—sunglasses. He’d never carried sunglasses before, but he knew what they were, even if he didn’t know how they arrived in his pocket. He put them on because if his vision somehow returned, he didn’t want to see anything.
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If you liked this story, I think you’ll also enjoy The Last Delivery.
Have you ever read Robert Bloch's story "The Cheaters"? I was getting that sort of vibe.
Whoah. Heavy story. (I almost said "dark.")