The Bunker Diary (Fiction - Young Adult)
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This is the winner of the 2014 Cilip Carnegie Medal. Room meets Lord of the Flies, The Bunker Diary is award-winning, young adult writer Kevin Brooks' pulse-pounding exploration of what happens when your worst nightmare comes true - and how will you survive? I can't believe I fell for it. It was still dark when I woke up this morning. As soon as my eyes opened I knew where I was. A low-ceilinged rectangular building made entirely of whitewashed concrete. There are six little rooms along the main corridor. There are no windows. No doors. The lift is the only way in or out. What's he going to do to me? What am I going to do? If I'm right, the lift will come down in five minutes. It did. Only this time it wasn't empty...Praise for The Bunker Diary: "[Kevin Brooks'] pacey plots ...have made him a cult among teens. This, though, is the big one. It should be read by everyone". (Amanda Craig, The Times). Kevin Brooks has won the Branford Boase Award and been shortlisted for the Guardian Children's Fiction Award, the Booktrust Teenage Prize, the Manchester Book Award and for the Carnegie Medal (for Martyn Pig, Road of the Dead and Black Rabbit Summer). Kevin Brooks was born in Exeter and studied in Birmingham and London. He had a varied working life, with jobs in a crematorium, a zoo, a garage and a post office, before - happily - giving it all up to write books. Kevin is the author of Being, Black Rabbit Summer, Killing God (published as Dawn in the USA), iBoy and Naked for Penguin. He now lives in North Yorkshire. If you enjoyed The Bunker Diary and want to get inside more of your favourite books, then check out spinebreakers.co.uk for exclusive author interviews, competitions and much more.
furniture or something. Finally she blinked, wrinkled her nose, and looked away. “What are the police doing about Jenny?” I asked her. “What?” I sighed. “What are they saying on the news about Jenny?” “Jenny who?” I glared at her. “Oh, right,” she said. “The girl …” She shrugged. “I think there was one of those appeals on TV, you know, a press conference, with her parents and everything. And there’s been lots of coverage about her in the newspapers, lots of photographs, that kind of thing.”
going. He tires very easily. His eyes—his eye—keeps glazing over and he has to keep sitting down for a rest. So it took a long time, but that didn’t matter. We didn’t have much else to do. I showed him everything. The lift, the rooms, the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the grilles. And he studied it all with a quiet intensity, asking me questions, touching things, listening, sniffing, making notes, looking at things, all the time nodding quietly and humming to himself. Afterwards he went into
to go up, we got started. While Jenny and Fred were in the kitchen, cooking up some bacon, I took a roll of bin liners down to the bathroom and began filling one with whatever rubbish I could find. At a prearranged signal, Jenny “accidentally’ knocked over the frying pan, spilling bacon fat on to the cooker, and screamed Fire! Then she ran back to her room. As the flames spread on the cooker, Bird and Anja came running out of their rooms, shouting at the tops of their voices. Meanwhile, Fred had
people … I’ve had enough of this. Sunday, 4 March Haven’t managed to write for a while. Can’t think of anything to say. I’m hungry, it’s cold, I’m bored, scared, fed up. The same old stuff. God, I’m so fed up. It gets to the point when you can’t do anything. You can’t think any more. You can’t remember anything. You don’t feel anything. You can’t even get angry any more. You just lie on your bed all day staring into space. Then the lights go out and you stare at the darkness. The lights
tied with a bloodstained gag, his nose was bleeding, and his left eye was swollen shut. The right eye stared furiously at me. “Unh!” he muttered through the gag. “Furngehissoh! Nunhh!” I was pretty shocked, but nowhere near as stunned as I’d been when Jenny arrived. I’m not sure why. They were adults, I suppose. It’s different with adults, isn’t it? When you see an adult in trouble you still feel bad, but not half as bad as when you see a child in trouble. It’s the helplessness, I suppose. It