There were no more than three kilometers left to his house when the road was blocked by an abandoned checkpoint: two tanks by the roadside and several armored infantry vehicles lined up across the road. Their massive silhouettes loomed in the gray veil of rain like dead sentries, the metal gleaming with gray paint under the spray of the heavy summer rain.
On one of the armored vehicles hung a sign. A new, brightly painted inscription was hastily scrawled over an old one, apparently done with spray paint; its colors were already running in the rain:
EXIT FROM CITY CLOSED! CITY CONTAMINATED – NEAREST EVACUATION POINT - NATIONAL GUARD BASE 4 KILOMETERS. FOLLOW HIGHWAY IN DIRECTION OF ARROW!
An arrow below pointed left, toward the city's industrial district; its paint gleamed like a false promise.
Right in front of the sign, Leo, noticing the danger in time, slammed on the brakes. The tires screeched against the asphalt, nearly crashing into the barrier; his heart skipped a beat. Next to the checkpoint stood the riddled wreck of a car whose driver, apparently, hadn't wanted to stop upon seeing the blockade.
Neither at the checkpoint itself nor in the shot-up car was anyone visible—no living, no corpses. The area was empty.
Leo felt cold and fear in his chest, ice spreading through his veins. A National Guard base? These could be the same military he'd seen in the parking lot, their cold voices echoing in his memory. Or perhaps someone else, even more dangerous. Leo didn't trust signs, especially ones painted with spray cans; their brightness smelled of a trap, like bait for the naive.
Stopping, he abruptly reversed, his hands shaking, and turned onto a narrow road skirting the barrier. The rain flooded the windshield. Leo had to turn on the wipers; trying not to make noise, he set them to the slowest speed so their squeak was barely audible.
The way home took about two hours—a labyrinth of alleys clogged with wreckage, a test even for the armored SUV. Its wheels grated over pieces of metal and torn parts of wrecked cars blocking the road. Leo felt fatigue beginning to shackle his entire body, his muscles aching as after a long, hard workout, but he kept driving, gripping the wheel like his last support.
Finally, he reached his neighborhood. The house was barely visible through the rain's veil, its outlines dissolved in the darkness like a ghost of the past. Leo parked the SUV in a neighbor's garage, blocking the gate with old tires and boards to hide any trace of his presence.
From the cabin, he took the revolver—its cold weight still calming—the shotgun, a flashlight, and a service tablet he'd found under the seat during a more thorough inspection of the vehicle in the garage's calm. It had apparently belonged to the mad one he had shot; its screen was dark and dead, like everything surrounding him in this City, but there was hope the gadget likely just needed charging.
From the trunk, he took bags of supplies—canned goods, batteries, bottles of water, laptops, and the game console, everything he'd gathered from wrecked cars. Their weight, like the wet jacket, unpleasantly pulled on his shoulders. Plus, he was mortally tired, and every step was an effort; his legs felt leaden, as if carrying the whole world.
The house was dark and quiet. Leo carefully switched on the flashlight; its narrow beam picked out familiar walls covered in dust and the empty basement. The path was clear. Carefully, he descended into the bunker through the reinforced door; its metal clanged with the lock, and he felt the dampness and cold envelop him like a dead grip. The solar panels weren't working in the deep night; their silence was deafening. The heating, deprived of power, was off, leaving only icy air. The bunker, his refuge, his new home, now seemed alien, like a tomb, and its walls whispered of loneliness.
Leo shed the soaked jacket; it fell with a wet slap. He dropped the bags on the floor and collapsed onto the bed. Wrapping himself in a blanket, he pulled his knees to his chest like a frightened child. The cold chilled him to the bone, but fatigue was stronger; its weight pressed on his eyelids.
The image of Anna slowly surfaced before him—her smile, warm and alive; her gentle voice sounding in his memory; her hands smoothing her hair, their softness warming his emptied soul. He didn't know if she was alive, but hope, thin as a thread, still held him; its light trembled in the darkness.
Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, sharp and unpleasant, and its echo reflected off the walls of the cold, empty bunker. Leo tensed, his muscles tightening, but the sound quickly faded into the night, leaving only the noise of the rain.
With a habitual press of a button, he tried to turn on the monitor connected to the cameras. The screen flickered to life and went dark, as if there was no electricity. Leo stepped back from the screen, unable to do anything more; his eyes burned with fatigue.
Thoughts gave him no peace and swarmed like flies: he needed answers he hadn't yet found. But now there was the strange sign at the abandoned checkpoint made of trucks. What did it mean? What were they after? And why were they hunting everyone indiscriminately, without distinguishing who was mad and who wasn't? Leo took out his notebook and flashlight; its light trembled on the pages.
In the dim flashlight beam, he slowly wrote:
National Guard base. Find out more. Anna where are you.
He lovingly circled the last word.
Fatigue pressed on him more and more; his eyelids grew heavy and closed, but he knew he couldn't sleep now. Tomorrow he needed to check that house where he'd seen the light; its address burned in his memory. Maybe there was another survivor there; maybe he'd find answers there. Or another mystery, another step in this nightmare.
Curling up on the bed, he pulled the blanket up to his chin; its warmth was poor comfort. Leo closed his eyes, whispering into the darkness: "Everything's under control." But his voice trembled, and he knew control was slipping away like sand through his fingers.
Tomorrow would be a new day. A new hope.