According to the computer's electronic calendar, it was Sunday. In a feeble attempt to reclaim some humanity, Leo Cormac decided to give himself a day off.
After days spent on fuel and supply runs, he felt fatigue eating into his bones; its heaviness pressed on his shoulders. The rain had given way to suffocating heat; the air trembled with sultriness. It eased slightly by evening, but in the bunker buried beneath the house, it was stuffy despite the humming air filters; their noise was poor comfort.
He turned on the old speaker connected to the laptop and played music—Beethoven's Third Symphony. Its notes filled the concrete walls like a bridge across the void. Leo closed his eyes, recalling how his mother had taught him to listen to such music in his childhood. Her voice sounded in his memory. She had said Beethoven was a bridge across the void. Now that void was his life, and its echo reflected off the walls.
He glanced at the clock: four-fifteen. Its hands ticked slowly, like sap, and Leo felt time pulling him toward an abyss; its weight pressed on his mind. He stood up, his muscles aching, and walked over to the work station; its metal was cold. He checked the monitor. The cameras showed empty streets, their grayness gaping, but he knew that somewhere out there, mad ones roamed—their shadows flickered in his memory—and at night, the military prowled—their roar echoed in his ears. Today he didn't want to think about them. Their images were too heavy.
Today he wanted to be a person, not a survivor. A feeble spark of hope glimmered in his chest.
Leo approached the refrigerator in the corner of the bunker; its door creaked open, revealing shelves stocked with canned goods, dried vegetables, packages of jerky found in abandoned cars. Their smell rose into the air. His tired gaze slid over the supplies; his fingers trembled. He selected a can of meat with beans—its metal chilled his palm—a packet of pasta not yet past its expiration date, rustling under his fingers, and a small plastic bottle of soda—a rare find reminding him of normal life. Its bright color beckoned.
Slamming the door shut with his elbow, he went to the corner where the canned goods were stored in an uneven stack reaching to the ceiling. Their labels shone with bright pictures. There, he took a can of tomato juice—its cold pierced his hand—and went to the hotplate.
Leo poured water into a small pot; the sound echoed off the walls. He placed it on the electric hotplate and turned it on; its hum was faint comfort. He knew the hotplate strained the solar panels; the weak light in the bunker flickered. But today was a hot, sunny day, and he allowed himself this luxury. As the hotplate warmed, its heat spread through his soul.
He separated a few pieces of meat and made something akin to bacon, tossing them onto a frying pan where they sizzled, filling the bunker with the smell of food. Its aroma awakened memories. The water boiled, and Leo threw in the pasta, covered it with a lid; its steam rose to the ceiling. He cut two slices of bread baked from flour and water—packets of flour lay piled in the bunker corner alongside the mountain of cans and rows of alcohol bottles.
He poured soda into a glass and sat at the table, watching the second hand on the clock; its ticking cut the silence. Ten minutes to six. Soon it would be dark, and the mad ones would become more active; their cries echoed in his memory. But today he would stay inside; this thought was his shield.
He drank the soda, feeling the sweet, fizzy taste awaken memories. Anna loved soda and always added a cocktail stirrer to the glass. Her image flashed before his eyes. Leo pushed the thought away, but her smile, her habit of smoothing her hair, were stronger. Their warmth warmed his soul.
Out of habit, he stood up, put on the respirator, and emerging through the metal door leading to the house's basement, stepped onto the porch. The damp wood creaked softly under his heavy steps. The sky was darkening; its colors dissolved into the night. Coolness descended upon the city, softening the acrid chemical smell in the air that penetrated even through the respirator. Leo inhaled. The air was heavy and unpleasant. He looked at the empty street, understanding that its silence was deceptive. But this silence was better than the roar of military vans and trucks, whose rumble still echoed in his ears, he thought. Fear and the desire to stay outside a little longer fought in his chest.
Returning to the bunker, he flipped his homemade bacon; its sizzle filled the space with its aroma. He took the pasta off the heat and leisurely set the table; each gesture was a ritual. The clock showed six twenty-five; its hands ticked slowly. At this time, he and Anna, tired but happy, used to sit down to dinner, turning on a favorite movie. Her laughter sounded in his memory.
Sitting at the small table in the corner, he lit a small festive candle; its flame trembled, casting shadows. On the wall hung an old poster he had cut from a fashion travel magazine—a seascape, blue-green waves crashing against rocks, and a solitary tree over a cliff. Leo looked at it, feeling loneliness and loss tighten his chest; its pressure was almost physical. Once, this had been his world. Now it was the abyss over which he balanced, and the depth frightened him.
Leo sat in a chair with a plate of food and a glass of whiskey, prepared at a small improvised bar made from bottles found in abandoned houses. Their labels beckoned. He turned up the music volume until powerful chords filled the bunker, drowning out the silence; its vibration trembled in the walls.
Closing his eyes, Leo tried to relax, leafing through an old, dog-eared magazine found in a car. Its pages crackled, and words and pictures blurred before his eyes; his mind grew foggy. But his thoughts returned to the mad ones, to the military, to ANNA. Her image was always like an open wound.
But the most unbearable thing was what he tried to suppress, the dark feeling waiting in the depths. Every night it was the same. Music, a book, or a movie—all those pitiful attempts to distract himself—and the inevitable feeling that flared up inside each evening, a pulsating heat he hated but couldn't stop. Leo gritted his teeth, squeezing the glass so hard his fingers turned white; its cold burned his palm. He knew what this was—loneliness, despair, and his body demanding what no longer existed and what he could never have again. Its weight pressed on his soul.
He remembered how mad women wandered the streets, their torn clothing revealing underwear and exposing pale, desirable bodies. They weren't people, but they were still women, and their presence stirred in him a dark, almost animalistic feeling. His pulse quickened. He hated himself for it; shame burned his skin.
Leo stood up, walked to the work station, and turned the music volume to maximum; its notes thundered like a scream. He forced himself to toss the magazine aside and turn on a series, an old, good series that had brought him joy on weekends in his past life—one that should distract and calm him. But the past cut into his mind. His body tensed; his muscles became like steel, and he knew that if he didn't find an outlet, this feeling would consume him. Its fire consumed him more and more.
Leo snapped the laptop lid shut with a thud, tossing it onto the bed, and cursing quietly, prepared another cocktail. The whiskey burned his throat but didn't help; its warmth was false. He went to the greenhouse, checked the humidity sensors and ventilation operation; its monotonous hum was faint comfort. He watered the sprouts; their tender greenery trembled under his fingers. This was routine, his anchor, but even it no longer saved him; over time, it even irritated him.
From outside came a rustling against the walls—or was it just the wind? Leo turned on the cameras, but the monitor showed only dark streets; their gloom, slightly dispelled by infrared illumination, was deceptive. The mad ones were always out there; he knew that for sure, as were those "others"—the military or whoever they were; their shadows haunted the contaminated air of the dead city. He turned off the monitor, not wanting to see anything else. Today was his day off, his attempt to be human. This thought was his last bastion.
Leo approached the washbasin, undressed, leaving only his underwear. His skin was cold and pale as a corpse's under the cold LED lights. He brushed his teeth thoroughly.
Getting an appointment with a dentist would be tricky now, he thought with a bitter smirk. Health was the only thing he could still control, but the whiskey, loneliness, and this damned heat in his body—they were stronger. Their weight pressed on his mind. Why couldn't he stop? Why couldn't he quell this feeling? His pulse throbbed in his temples.
He returned to the bed, turned off the light, lay down, pulling the thin blanket over his naked body; its coolness was poor comfort. Beethoven still played, but now softer, like a distant echo; the notes of the fading music trembled in the air.
Leo lay, staring at the ceiling where an LED strip flickered dimly. Thoughts of Anna returned like waves—her face, her smile, her hands, her large white breasts. Her image kindled hope. He didn't know if she was alive, but he had to believe it. This faith was his shield. Without her, he would be like those mad ones outside.
Leo closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe evenly. Each breath was a struggle; his heart beat in time with the music.