An old-fashioned pencil sharpener was still attached to the wall under fluorescent lights, near a sign reminding people that "Safety begins with me." But there was no sign of the comfy chairs and well-appointed living areas featured in the company's promotional material.
Vicino described how the area would eventually be divided into dozens of bedrooms, complemented by an atrium, a workout center and even a jail. He said the bunker would be equipped with air filtration systems and was already protected from electromagnetic pulses, which, he says, could destroy all electrical equipment.
Sample menus describe a typical bunker meal. One features sloppy joes, broccoli cheese soup and something called "potato pearls."
"This will be the most comfortable nuclear-blast-proof shelter on the planet," he said.
Vicino started his career in advertising, gaining some notoriety by mounting a giant inflatable King Kong on the Empire State Building in 1983 as a promotional stunt. The license plate on his white SUV reads "ROYLTYS," a nod to the chunk of money he's made on ad products and toys he has developed.
Vivos, his company, says it plans to build several bunkers around the country. A red digital clock on its website counts down the hours, minutes and seconds until Dec. 21, 2012 (only 948 days left!). It also details real and theoretical threats facing the planet, including nuclear wars, solar flares, pole shifts, global tsunamis, killer comets and super volcanoes.
In a down economy, spending money on a bunker berth may seem an extravagance. But Debby Leite of San Diego thinks it's prudent, and she's scraped together $7,500 for a spot in the bunker for herself and her 6-year-old daughter.
"If you look at Noah's ark, everybody thought he was crazy, and then the floods came," she said. "At least this way I know I'll be taken care of."
Of course, fallout shelters were never a bargain. The typical cost of building a backyard bunker in the early 1960s, at $2,500, was half the annual income for most families at the time, says Kenneth Rose, author of "One Nation Underground: The Fallout Shelter in American Culture."
Then, as now, the cost put post-apocalyptic digs out of reach for most Americans, which Rose deems a good thing.
Fallout-shelter culture "creates a society of fear, a society obsessed with its own survival," he said. "I don't think that's any way to live a life."
Indeed, many believe, to borrow from Sartre, that hell is other people — especially when you're stuck with them underground in a concrete bunker with no escape. Some, including Steve Kramer's father, would rather sit on their porches with a cold drink and watch the end come.
Steve Kramer has other plans. He can foresee days of anarchy and desperation, when roving bands of have-nots assault the homes of the haves. His hilltop abode, with its stately columns, might be a target.
"We're not crazy people, but these are fearful times," Kramer said.
He's plotting out routes to the bunker on a topographic map, stocking up on dried food and teaching his 12-year-old son to ride a dirt bike in case they have to travel off-road to get there.
Kramer thinks others will start to feel the same way as 2012 approaches. And if he has the money to ensure that his family will be safe when something happens, Kramer said, why not use it?
"It's a matter of priority," he said. "My family wants to survive."
alana.semuels@latimes.com
Times researcher Scott J. Wilson contributed to this report.
