Abraham Lincoln and Stephen King are stuck in Underground Bunker in a False Alarm and forced to have a deep conversation.

"Well, Mr. King," Lincoln drawled, "seems this here predicament echoes some of the darker corners of human folly, doesn't it?"

King chuckled darkly, "Indeed, Abe. Fear, like a rabid dog, can make us do some mighty stupid things, bury ourselves alive for no good reason."

"A house divided against itself cannot stand," Lincoln intoned, "and a mind divided by fear is just as unstable."

King nodded, "Exactly! Fear's the ultimate unreliable narrator, always twisting the truth into something monstrous."

Lincoln sighed, "But hope, like the rising sun, has a way of peeking through the cracks, even in the deepest darkness."

"Hope's a fragile thing, though, Abe," King countered, "easily snuffed out by the sharp teeth of reality."

"Perhaps," Lincoln mused, "but it's the only weapon we have against despair, the only thing that keeps us reaching for the light."

King leaned forward, "So, you think even in a bunker, under a false alarm, there's a story worth telling?"

Lincoln smiled gently, "Every life, Mr. King, every moment, is a story waiting to be written, even if it's just about two unlikely souls sharing a quiet dread."

King grinned, "Now that's a premise I can sink my teeth into, Abe. A premise with bite."