by Kyle West
We walked through the room, until we reached the opposite side. There, we entered a thin, claustrophobic hallway that was little-used. At the end was a circular stairway, leading up. Mr. Kline went first, followed by Khloe, then her mom. I went last.
Mr. Kline opened the door at the top. When I stepped through it, we found ourselves in the atrium of Bunker 108. The exit was one minute away.
“We made it,” I said.
The circular vault door leading into the exit tunnel was wide open. Some had already escaped.
“Keep your gun ready,” Mr. Kline said.
I held my gun up as we advanced.
We entered, finding the rocky exit tunnel dimly lit. The temperature was near freezing. Between us and the final vault door, were two forms: one on the ground, bloody and dead, and the other kneeling beside it.
Before anyone could speak, the man’s face snapped toward us.
It was Chan, his all-white eyes empty and soulless. Wet, red blood stained his uniform. His head cocked to the right side. All his muscles tensed.
He charged forward, letting out an otherworldly bellow.
“Get back!” Mr. Kline yelled.
I aimed my gun and fired three times. The bullets entered Chan’s body – his chest, his abdomen, his right arm. From each wound, purple goo shot out, like it had replaced the blood in his body.
None of the shots had any effect. Chan only stumbled on, set on one goal – killing us at any cost.
I had one shot left. I aimed for the head, watching it bob up and down as Mr. Kline pulled away from Chan.
I fired.
I missed probably by inches.
Khloe screamed as Chan tackled her father to the ground. I dropped my gun and ran to pull Chan off him.
But it was too late. Mr. Kline screamed as Chan ripped into his neck, tearing from it a tendril of bloody flesh. Mr. Kline’s horrible howl became choked with blood. A small fountain of blood shot upward.
Khloe ran up from behind, letting out a desperate scream. She smashed Chan’s head in with the skillet, bludgeoning him until his animalistic eyes rolled back. He keeled over and collapsed on the ground.
Almost instantly, Chan’s body started to inflate.
“Run!” Khloe screamed.
I pulled Khloe back, away from the swelling body. I could see Khloe’s mom and dad were beyond all hope of escaping the blast. Khloe and I ducked behind a corner just as Chan exploded. A wall of purple slime gushed past us.
We reemerged to find both of Khloe’s parents coated with the stuff.
“No,” Khloe said. “No…”
She ran forward.
“No!” her mother yelled. “Do not touch me! You have to go.” Tears ran down Mrs. Kline’s face, cutting a clear path through the slime.
Mr. Kline lay on the ground, twitching, choking. It looked like he was trying to speak, but to no avail.
Khloe’s face was white as she stared at her dying father.
“I…” she said.
“You can’t stay here,” Mrs. Kline said. “Go!”
Khloe recoiled as if struck.
“Go, Khloe,” Mrs. Kline said, desperately. “Run now. You will not die here.”
“Khloe,” I said. “We have to go.”
Behind us, I could hear gunshots, people screaming, and non-human growling. I looked toward the vault door.
“Come on, Khloe!”
More snarls, and the pattering of footsteps from the atrium.
“Goodbye,” she said. “I love you…”
I pulled her toward the exit, just as she had pulled me along when my father was dying. Though I had no strength, I had to be strong.
I had to do what I must, not what I wanted.
We ran down the corridor, and did not look back. People who had been alive and well only hours earlier now flooded the tunnel. I had no idea how, but the xenovirus was turning humans into crazed monsters. They charged forward, their hellish white eyes paralyzing me with fear.
Together, Khloe and I turned the wheel on the door. We pushed it open into the cold, pitch black night and howling, shocking wind. We stepped forward, as if into another dimension. Together, we slammed it shut, shutting out Bunker 108 and its infected denizens forever.
The dusty wind blustered, chilling me to the bone. I latched onto Khloe in the darkness. A single tear coursed down her cheek.
We shivered in the wind, and the cruelty of the world.
It felt like the apocalypse happening all over again.
Chapter 10
We stumbled over rocks into the cold, windy darkness. The wind cut like a knife. Our clothes were not sufficient protection against it. We had no light. We could only hope, by some miracle, that we came across some form of shelter for the night.
After a few minutes, I looked back, and could see nothing but black night, feel nothing but the wind and sand stinging my face, could hear nothing but the maelstrom and Khloe, crying next to me.
“Just a little farther,” I said.
Even though she was with me, I still felt alone, because the wind ate my words as black holes eat light.
Then, we ran right into something hard and metallic. I felt along the surface, and wanted to cry for joy.
“The trailer,” I said. “We have to find the door.”
For minutes we searched, until I found the latch that led inside. I pushed Khloe in, and slammed the door against the merciless cold.
I found the light, and flipped it on. It was mostly bare. A small kitchen sat in front of us, and beyond that, a worn couch. I could see the door to the bathroom. The light could barely reach it, but at the end, I could make out the corner of a bed.
Khloe went to the couch, and crashed down, and began sobbing all over again.
There was a red, fleece blanket on the couch. I took it and wrapped it around her.
I sat next to her for a minute, shivering. Without a word, she took the blanket and wrapped it around both of us.
We let ourselves thaw for a minute. Then, I got up and went to the fridge. Inside was a container filled with ice. I tried to turn on the stove to heat the trailer up. It didn’t work.
I locked the front door, and made sure the shutters were drawn shut. I went back to the fridge to get the container of ice. I had to find a way to heat it, but could see nothing I could do – nothing until morning came. Its warmer temperatures could get us something to drink by noon.
A quick glance in the cabinet revealed a few homemade granola bars. My stomach growled. I grabbed four of them and headed back to the couch.
Khloe was lying down now, a hand over her face. I sat next to her.
“Here,” I said, “I found some granola.”
She was still shaking.
“I feel sick,” she said.
“You’re just cold,” I said. “Close your eyes.”
“That makes it worse.”
“Then look at me.”
Her eyes fluttered open, slowly. They were red, and her face was so pale and blue. Even her lips were blue.
“Here,” I said. “Eat some of this.”
“I feel sick.”
“Lay down,” I whispered. “You’ll be alright.”
I lay with my front against her back. Every part of her was cold. I started eating, even if she couldn’t. I needed all the warmth I could get. I rubbed her back, her arms, her fingers, trying to create some blood flow.
I got up to get the container of ice. I returned to the couch and put it under with us so that it might melt. I kissed her face, her ears. They felt like ice on my lips. Finally, she stopped shivering, and I heard her even breaths. She was asleep.
I stayed like that, trying not to let myself fall asleep in case anything else happened.
* * *
I had fallen asleep sometime in the night, despite my commitment to staying up. Khloe was still asleep, her breaths slow. Too slow. Her heart beat so faintly.
“Khloe?”
I shook her gently. Her skin was clammy, burni
ng up. I felt her forehead. She was on fire.
“No…” she rasped. “No…”
I got up, and knelt on the floor, looking into her face. Her eyes flickered open. They were just as red, and so dim I was not sure she even saw or understood I was there.
“Khloe?”
Her eyes had shut, and she opened them again. I opened the shutters, so that at least some of the reddish morning light could filter inside. Her skin was pale, dry, and hot. She fought for every breath.
“Khloe!”
Her eyes shot open. “What? Where am I? What is this?”
I reached for the water. Over half of it had melted during the night. Though my throat was parched and screamed to be satisfied, I held the water to Khloe’s lips
“Drink this, okay?”
Her lips moved weakly along the rim of the container. I tilted it, ever so slightly. The liquid entered her mouth. She tried to swallow, but coughed it up.
“It’s okay,” I said.
I grabbed her shoulders, softly pulling her up. I realized then just how frail she was, how the night and the cold had taken its toll on her body.
“Drink some water. Just one swallow. That’s it.”
She gave a weak nod. I held the container to her lips once more. This time, she drank several gulps.
“There you go,” I said.
Her eyes opened. “Is there any for you?”
“I already had mine,” I said. “Here. Eat something.”
I took some granola, breaking it up into small pieces. She grabbed one of the pieces from me with her right hand. I noticed a mark on her wrist.
Teeth marks.
I felt my heart stop. She looked at me, her eyes watering. The granola was forgotten, and there was only us, staring into each other’s eyes, understanding everything without saying a word.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
I cupped her face that burned against my hands like a sun. It was all she could do to keep her eyes open and focused on me. I felt my heart ripping apart.
“It happened in the apartment…”
My eyes filled with tears. I couldn’t believe this was happening.
“I love you, Alex. I’m…sorry. I was hoping I would be okay. It was such a small thing.”
“You did nothing wrong,” I said, pulling her close. “I love you, Khloe.”
“I…don’t want you to think it’s your fault…”
“It’s not,” I said, the tears streaming down my face. “It’s not.”
I felt so empty now. The world was taking everything from me that mattered. Khloe was all I had left.
I just wondered when my turn would come.
“I won’t leave you,” I said. “I won’t.”
“You’ll have to,” she said. “Maybe…maybe you’ll find another home. Another Bunker.”
“You are my home.”
I stroked her hair, gave her more water as it melted. The trailer heated up as the day progressed. I tried to feed her, but she refused. From time to time, she would cough, and I would wipe whatever phlegm accumulated around her mouth. I would stroke her hair, once so lush and soft, now so dry and wispy. Her once beautiful skin was now sickly, lifeless, pale, translucent, revealing blackened veins. Her face grew gaunt as the day progressed.
Soon, she began to stink. But I did not remove myself from her side.
“I love you,” I said.
I told her the same thing again and again throughout the day. Her eyes were closed, and I feared they would never open again.
“I…” she said.
Her chest fell, her head slumped, and she leaned against the couch. Every muscle went slack, and some spirit lifted from her face, leaving behind only a body. Her eyes relaxed, and remained half-opened. I stared into her, seeing only a body that looked like Khloe that was not her.
I could not even cry. I stayed, holding her cold hand that grew ever colder which each passing minute. I wanted to be sure she was not really dead.
Her body, by some small, cruel mercy, did not attack me, and did not swell like the others. I didn’t know why, and didn’t really question it. Maybe since it was a small bite, it would have taken more time.
I kissed her face, so cold and frail. When my lips touched her skin, I thought it would disintegrate.
I went outside in a daze. I found a shed behind the trailer. Inside was a shovel.
I knew what came next. I lost myself in digging a grave not worthy of Khloe. Putting a body in the ground was foreign to me. Everyone in Bunker 108 was cremated.
As I emptied the hole, I emptied myself. Though it was cold, I was covered in sweat by the time I finished.
I laid her body in, and let my tears fall into the grave. I was completely bereft of all hope and life. Khloe had been that for me.
It was an hour before I could bring myself to cover her. I could only think of all the memories Khloe and I had shared.
And now, all hope was gone. She was gone, to be buried in the cold, hard earth, never to move, laugh, or breathe again.
When the last of the grave had been covered, I felt so guilty. I knew objectively that it wasn’t my fault. But that did not help. Everyone around me had died. While I longed for death myself, it never visited me.
I could have brought myself to take my own life, but I didn’t for one reason – Khloe would not have wanted it, and neither would my father.
I knew them well enough to know that.
* * *
By the next day, I couldn’t stay in the trailer any longer. I had to find somewhere else. Food and water were running low. It was late September, which meant it would be getting cold, soon – too cold to stay anywhere above ground.
I found a backpack in the trailer. I put the container of water inside, as well as the rest of the granola – twenty four bars total. I could eat three a day, which gave me rations for eight days. Eight days to find a new home, or more food – though my caloric intake would be pitiful. I also packed some blankets. I could not count on finding shelter, and needed enough to shield me from the nighttime cold.
Finally, on the morning of the third day after arriving at the trailer, I set off, kissing the loose earth atop Khloe’s grave. I marked it, with rocks arranged in the shape of a heart.
I headed toward the sun, rising in the east.
Chapter 11
I knew of several settlements not far from 108 – Oasis, Last Town, and even L.A.. But L.A. was consumed with gang violence, so it wasn't an option.
My goal was to find one of the smaller settlements and try to get taken in. The only problem was, I had no idea where any of them were.
The morning warmed quickly, but it must have never gotten above fifty degrees. The wind was calm, which I was thankful for. It would be October soon, and I would need warmer clothes.
I didn't have much to my name: my pack, filled with granola and water; my blanket, rolled up and tied with some nylon rope, and the clothes on my back. I didn't even have a weapon. I had forgotten the handgun back in the tunnel – it had been out of ammo, anyway, but it still could have come in handy.
I left behind the line of red mountains where Bunker 108 was hidden. I crested a hill and turned back to see the metal trailer, glimmering in the red midmorning haze. I could see a small spot of turned earth, where Khloe lay. I looked out, north and east, surveying several ramshackle buildings spread over the vast tract of desert and dunes, long conquered by the victorious elements. A crumbled highway, half buried in sand, cut through the twisted landscape, maybe two klicks out. The red sky spread upward like something out of a nightmare. The day was relatively clear, yet still, the meteor fallout reduced the sun to a slightly brighter shimmer on a small part of the sky.
Nothing moved or breathed, save myself.
I walked on. I did not speak a word. In fact, I felt like I would never have reason to speak again.
I don’t remember that first week much. All the days blended and I cared for nothing, not even myself. I could only mourn my past
life and everything I’d lost, and wonder if there was any point in going on.
At nights, I would hole up in some building that offered the least bit of protection. I would eat my stale granola, drink my water, and curl up in a corner with my blanket and shiver myself to sleep. I cried the first two nights. I had nightmares of Khloe rising from the grave.
I felt hungry and thirsty constantly. When I came across pools of water I would drink from them and refill my container. It was not cold enough to freeze except in the dead of night. I had expected to find food in the buildings. But every cabinet was bare. The Wastelanders had had thirty years to take everything.
I came across ruins often. But I had yet to come across any city, lived in or not.
On the third day, I arrived at a deep gully spanned by a collapsed bridge. I almost fell to my death while picking my path across it.
The Mojave Desert, even in the Old World, had been a dry, harsh place – scant of vegetation and hostile to life. Now, it was even more so. I did not see a single living thing other than the odd bush or barest wisps of grass. Red dunes slanted against the skeleton remains of civilization.
The mountains to the south were almost out of sight, now. They had once been my home.
There were mountains everywhere in the distance - to the south, to the east, to the west. Some areas I walked were flat and bare - others were hilly and mangled. I had no idea where I was going, so I followed the path of least resistance, which often meant following the old roads. In places, the asphalt and concrete still showed.
It was startling how much could be buried and lost in thirty years.
Often, when I camped for the night in a building, I would see a black spot on the floor from previous campfires. I would try to find another place in those cases.
It was a week after I had set out when I came across my first Wastelanders. I was camping in a small hole on the side of a bare, rocky hill, when I heard the laughter. At first, I thought it was my imagination and loneliness. Curiosity made me follow the sound.
