Survivalist Bruce Beach, is seen in his bunker near Horning's Mills, Ont, in October 1999. (Rick Chard/Maclean’s/THE CANADIAN PRESS)

Bruce Beach is fighting a war that began more than four decades ago.

The effects are showing.

It's a personal battle against the elements which corrode his life's work, as well as those — including news writers like myself — who have seemed to belittle and laugh-off those efforts over the years.

Bruce is a genial, 74-year-old retired computer science teacher, who lives in the small Ontario community of Horning's Mills — halfway between Orangeville and Collingwood. The village is postcard perfect, but Bruce imagines — expects and plans for — a soon-to-be world of death and hard lessons on survival.

He is the architect of what may be North America's largest, privately constructed nuclear fallout shelter — a Hail Mary base during Armageddon.

Ark II sits under farmland — 42 buried buses, all connected to form a 929-square-metre bunker. They are covered with at least 2.4 metres of earth, as well as concrete.

The site has long been a thorn in the side of provincial officials, who conduct regular raids and safety inspections. They'd like it wiped off the map.

But Bruce and his bunker have survived.

However, the years have not been a friend to Ark II, which Bruce constantly tends to for the dark days ahead.

The air inside is slightly cooler than the spring temperatures above ground. A very slight draft moves through air vents — causing water to form underground icicles in the winter months.

The ceiling and doorways are low.

The floor is a patchwork of degrading linoleum and worn wood, along with concrete.

"Much like a sub," says Bruce. "A lot of people can't handle the claustrophobia."

Contractors hired to do work sometimes refuse to venture down into the vehicular cavern.

Beige paint peels and blisters from the walls of some of the buses, exposing the truer green underneath.

Dozens and dozens of bunk-beds, meant to give survivors of a nuclear war a place to try to sleep, have had to be torn out because the wood was simply rotting away.

People wrongly envision his refuge as a bright and spotless retreat, he complains.

"It's not a trip down into the subway mall in Toronto," Bruce says.

"I've heard people say, 'I couldn't live down here.' Well, it's not for living...it's for surviving."

With indoor plumbing, it's still better than many homes on top of the Earth, he adds.

There is no real furniture, except for a painted green dentist's chair. Bruce is unsure whether it still works, but hopes for the best.

While the winter means the inside of Ark II is largely dry, the summer brings humidity, which adds to the rot.

Even now, water can collect along the ceilings of the buses, closest to the entrance.

"Moisture is the biggest problem...and the government," he complains.

Light comes from naked 40 watt light bulbs, but thanks to a bad electrical element, only half the bunker can now be lit through the large diesel generators.

Bruce built his ark for 400 survivors — friends and family and those who have faith man could survive a nuclear nightmare. He also keeps a large stockpile of medicine, radiation detectors and how-to-guides on rebuilding the framework of society.

It is exhausting to keep his mission and bunker alive.

"The amount of work is unimaginable," he says.

And Bruce is not getting younger. But when asked whether he will run out of health and energy, and watch as time wins a conventional battle against his ark, he simply says: "That's not in my paradigm (thought pattern)."

He just knows he'll have to take refuge in his shelter before his own years run out.

Time and menaces march on.

Nuclear bunkers were once not a fringe idea. But new threats have surfaced to give us new nightmares.

And today's modern ark more closely resembles plans to one day build a warehouse on the moon, which would — if European scientists have a say — contain DNA, embryos and important information to rebuild civilization in the event of a world shaking catastrophe. The databank would constantly send information back to Earth, if we're ever hit by a giant asteroid.

But back on Earth, Bruce wonders how many people will join him in his dated digs. Still convinced the bombs will soon rain down, he says the world has fallen into a complacency about the threat of nuclear annihilation. That, for many figuring out their list of worst fears, nuclear bombs are just so old school now.

"That's a problem," he agrees of convincing people to follow his lead into Ark II.

American born, he has long been a father figure to other survivalists around the world. But it's the general public which — as the seasons scrape by — have worn away at Bruce's good nature.

He says he's done all he's done for the greater good of humanity, and yet is treated like a relic of the Cold War.

The History Channel has asked to be allowed into his retreat, but he's sure he'd be shown as an outdated war horse.

"In the paper, it's all a joke...I'm called the 'Doomsday Santa," he says, referring to a headline on an article I wrote about him years ago.

I ask him whether he's frustrated.

"Just appalled," he answers. Bruce is confused that people know all the intimate details of celebrities, yet are oblivious to the ever-present or possible threats around the world.

They range from troubles in the banking community to sea water flooding rice fields half a world away.

He's asked, why not turn his back on the world and people like me — just what other survivalists have encouraged him to do.

"This is destiny...I'm building an ark," he continues.

A few people have seen his parallel with biblical Noah, Bruce says.

"It's my calling," he continues. "I have to be true to it."