The Bunker

The fourth day was when everything started to fall apart.

It wasn’t the food, though none of us had much appetite left. It wasn’t the stale air, even though it clung to us like a second skin. It wasn’t even the radiation gauge Hank brought back; its needle was frozen in the red zone. It was something else, something unspoken, shifting like haunting shadows in the corners of the bunker, a growing realization some of us might not get out of this alive.

We didn’t talk about it. We played Monopoly instead. Hank cheated to keep Zelda in the game, and I let him. She didn’t notice. She hadn’t spoken much since we’d gone underground, but her quiet wasn’t peaceful. It was heavy, like the lead lining the walls. Sweet Bobo sensed it, too. He stayed close to her, his tail wagging cautiously as if even that tiny joy might shatter something fragile.

I always thought the bunker was a silly addition, and I never really thought about that odd concrete door near the woods. I can finally think now. The first two days were the worst. None of it was real until we heard the deafening sounds. We kept thinking we would lose power, the walls would cave, or we’d slowly roast in painful radiation. The couch collected a lot of tears in those first 48 hours. Even Bobo whimpered and cried with us. I can’t imagine what those sounds were like for a dog.

That night, Hank asked me to bring out the good stuff: the turkey, the beans, the mozzarella sticks. He said we should celebrate, but I knew better. He wanted to make sure Zelda had one last good meal.

*        *        *

My girls are so tough. It’s all I ever wanted—to provide for them. Zel is quiet, but she’s a trooper. Sandra stepped up, too. I’m proud of them, but I’m ashamed of myself. I should have planned better.

I figured thirty days of food would be more than enough. I had no idea. I need to give them all the time I can. We must have been hit worse than I expected. Hell, I don’t even know what country or countries hit us. I don’t care. The world has shifted, and it’s gotten a whole lot smaller.

Sandra thinks I don’t notice how little she’s eating, but I do. I see everything. I know what she’s doing, and it kills me. But not as fast as skipping my heart meds will.

It’s better this way. Zelda will need her mom more than me. Sandra is the glue that keeps us all from falling apart. I just built the bunker. She’s the reason we’re surviving in it.

Tonight, I’ll give them this meal and let them believe everything’s fine. Bobo’s head is in my lap as I write this, his brown eyes watching me like he knows. Maybe he does. He’s always been a good dog.

They’ll need him when I’m gone.

*        *        *

I watched him flush his pills down the sink this morning. He thought I didn’t see, but I’ve always been watching Hank. He’s been the center of my world since the day we met. My husband. My true love. My heart.

I didn’t say anything. What could I say? It was too late when I realized what he had done. I just stood there, frozen, as the little orange tablets swirled down the drain, taking his life with them. 

What can you say once the deed is done? That I knew he was trying to save us by making himself expendable? That I’d already started skipping meals so they’d have more? It wouldn’t matter. Hank is the kind of man who will always find a way to put us first, even if it kills him.

And it will kill him. Just like not wearing the suit will kill me.

It started yesterday. I told Hank I wanted to learn how to check the gauge myself, and he seemed relieved like he’d been waiting for me to ask. He didn’t know that I left the zipper open just a little, just enough. I can feel it now, the radiation burning in my chest. It’s a slow fire, but it’s there stealing my breath, making each one shorter.

I was a scuba diver before all this. We used to say that if a diver ran out of air too deep to decompress, they were “beyond the bend.” That’s where we are now. Out of air. Out of time. The only thing left is to leave enough so Zelda can live.

*        *        *

I love them, but I can’t live like this. My friends are probably dead. The world I knew is gone. I can’t even scroll through my disconnected Instagram without imagining all those people who will never post again.

Bobo whines in his sleep, his paws twitching like he’s dreaming of chasing squirrels. I scratch behind his ears and wonder what he’ll dream of when I’m gone.

When I found the morphine last night, it felt like a sign. Like the universe was giving me an out. I’m stuck in this coffin, pretending Monopoly is fun and rehydrated beans are edible.

I love my parents, but I can’t do this. I can’t stay here, waiting to become the last person alive. I don’t want to grow old in this place. I don’t even want to grow up.

Bobo nuzzles closer to me, his tail wagging faintly. I bite back tears as I imagine him searching for me tomorrow, not understanding why I’m not there. Maybe that’s what hurts the most.

*        *        *

The next morning, the bunker is silent. The hum of the air system drones on, indifferent to the stillness. Bobo moves between the three of them, his nails clicking softly on the floor, nudging at hands that will never stroke his fur again. Finally, he curls in a tight ball, shaking. Above them, the radiation gauge ticks steadily, its needle pinned deep in the red.

They were always beyond the bend.