I was just a little girl when it all happened. The day started as any other day, gentle, predicatable, and safe. My Mom helped me to get ready for picture day at my elementary school. My Mother chose a beautiful pink dress for me to wear, smoothing the fabric down with careful hands as if it was something precious. She put my wavy blonde hair up with a bow, positioning it perfectly with where the elastic rested. I remember how proud she looked when she stepped back to admire her work.
We sat together at the breakfast table. Daddy sipped his coffee while reading the morning newspaper, already dressed in a neatly pressed suit. The sunlight streamed through the kitchen windows, casting warm golden lines across the table. It felt like one of those mornings that promised nothing but ordinary happiness.
After breakfast, Daddy stood and leaned down to kiss Mommy on the lips before pressing a soft kiss on my forehead. "My beautiful little princess," he said, just like he did every single day. I lived for that moment. It made the world feel steady and sure.
Mom packed my lunch in my purple backpack, double checking that my juice box and favorite snack were safely tucked away. Then we headed out to the car.
The sun was shining brightly, the sky a perfect endless blue. Birds sang happily in the trees as neighbors went about their usual morning routines. Kids climbed into their parents cars, some laughing, some still sleepy. A few people rode their bikes on the sidewalk enjoying the warm air. Everything looked peaceful, normal.
Mom turned on our favorite radio station as we pulled away from the house. Music filled the car for only a few seconds before it was abruptly cut off by a piercing alarm. The sudden sound made us both jump. Mom quickly turned up the volume.
"Attention, this is not a drill. A deadly virus has broken out in your area. Go directly to the CDC near you. Sanctuary is being provided for survivors. I repeat this is not a drill."
Mom's hands tightened on the steering wheel. She immediately grabbed her phone and called Daddy. I could only hear her side of the conversation, her voice tight and strained.
"Yes I heard it... We're on the road now... Alright meet us at the CDC"
She ended the call and glanced back at me through the rearview mirror. Her smile was thin and fragile.
"We will be okay sweetheart... I promise."
All of a sudden the car in front of us slammed on its brakes. Tires screeched. There was a sickening thud as the vehicle struck someone who stumbled into the road. Mom and I screamed. The driver jumped out to help the man lying on the pavement.
At first, the man didnt move. Then his body started convulsing violently. His limbs twisted in unnatural angles, his back arching in ways that made my stomach turn. A sound escaped his throat that was low, and animalistic. Before the driver could step away, the man lunged forward and sank his teeth into him! The scream that followed did not sound human.
Mom gasped and threw the car into reverse, her hands shaking so badly the steering jerked. She backed up just enough to manuever around them, then slammed the car into drive and sped past them. I caught a glimpse of the horrifying scene, the injured man on top of the other.
I closed my eyes, pressing my face into the seat. "This isn't real," I told myself. "I'm dreaming."
When we finally reached the CDC parking lot, chaos greeted us. Thousands of cars filled every available space. People were abandoning vehicles wherever they could. Large white tents had been erected outside the building, and long lines of frightened, confused citizens stretched across the pavement.
Uniformed personnel shouted instructions through megaphones. Some people were crying. Others argued. The air buzzed with panic.
Daddy spotted us almost immediately and rushed over, weaving through the crowd. Relief washed over Mom's face when she saw him. He opened my door first and pulled me into his arms, holding me tighter then he ever had before. I buried my face in his suit jacket, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne.
Mom quickly told him about the man in the street, the way he moved, and the way he attacked the driver. Her voice trembled as she spoke. Daddy's face shifted from concern, to something deeper, fear.
Around us, sirens wailed in the distance. The world we had woken up to this morning, the one filled with sunshine and bird songs, was already gone. The world that once felt so steady and predictable, was now gripped with fear and uncertainty. Only hours earlier, everything had been ordinary, sunlight, laughter, picture day at school. Now panic, spread faster than the virus itself, rippling through the crowds in waves of whispered rumors and frantic cries. No one knew what was truly happening, only that something terrible had begun.
I clung to my father's hand as people rushed past us, their faces pale and drawn tight with worry. Mother's held their children close. Some prayed aloud. Others argued with officials in protective suits, desperate for answers that didn't seem to exist. What was going to happen to us now?
The question hung in the air like smoke, unspoken but felt by everyone. The future which had once stretched in simple plans, school, meetings, and family dinners, now felt like a dark hallway with no light at the end. Even the adults, who were supposed to have all the answers, looked confused.
Daddy squeezed Mom's hand, and though he tried to stand tall and steady, I could see it in his eyes. He didn't know what was going to happen next either.
Suddenly a sharp screech of feedback pierced through the air as the megaphones came to life.
"Attention! All families with children, bring them to the front immediately! I repeat, all children to the front now."
A wave of confusion swept through the crowd. Parents looked at one another, unsure whether to feel relieved or alarmed. The urgency in the announcement didn't sound comforting, it sounded desperate.
Daddy didn't hesitate. His hands tightened around mine as he looked at Mom. Without a word they both knew what to do.
"Stay right between us," Mom said firmly, her voice trembled despite her attempt to sound calm.
They began pushing carefully but urgently through the sea of people. Some stepped aside when they saw me, their expressions softening at the sight of a small girl in a pink dress clutching her father's hand. Others resisted, unwilling to lose their place, fear making them rigid and unyielding.
"Child coming through!" Daddy called out, his voice louder than I had ever heard it.
Mom shielded me with her arm as we squeezed past shoulders and elbows. The noise around us grew louder, people questioning the announcement, others shouting that it wasn't fair. But my parents kept moving, determined, focused only on getting me to the front.
By the time we reached the barricade near the tents, my heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. A worker in a protective suit spotted me and quickly waved us forward.
"Bring her here!" they urged.
Daddy lifted me into his arms as we stepped out of the crowd and toward the front, where uniformed officials waited behind folding tables covered in medical equipment. The air felt heavier there, charged with something I couldn't name.
Mom's fingers found mine again. Everything was happening so fast. A woman in a white protective suit knelt down in front of me, her face was hidden behind a clear shield, her voice slightly muffled through the glass.
"It's okay sweetheart." She said gently. "We just need to check you."
They moved quickly but carefully. A thermometer was pressed against my forehead. A small light flashed into my eyes. Another worker wrapped a band around my arm to check my blood pressure. I tried not to cry. I tried to be brave like Daddy always told me to be.
Mom and Daddy stood just behind the table, watching every moment. I could see how tightly they were holding hands, Mom's knuckles were turning white. The workers stepped aside and spoke quietly to each other. Seconds felt like hours.
Finally the women looked up at my parents. "Her vitals are stable. No fever. No visible symptoms. She's clear."
That word felt important, even though I didn't fully understand it.
Mom let out a shaky breath, her hand flying to her mouth. Daddy closed is eyes for a second like he had been holding in his breath the entire time. Then they both rushed forward and wrapped me in the toughest hung I've ever felt.
"Your so brave, " Mom whispered.
"We'll be right behind you," Daddy promised, kneeling so his face was level with mine. His hands rested firmly on my shoulders."You just go inside with them, okay? We'll join you soon."
I searched his face, looking for any hint that he was unsure. But he smiled, strong and steady, just like he always did when he wanted me to feel safe.
"Okay." I whispered.
Mom kissed my forehead again and again, as if she couldn't bare to stop. Daddy pulled me into one last hug before gently guiding me to the entrance of the building.
The large doors opened, and a worker motioned for me to walk inside. I turned back one more time. They were both standing there, holding onto each other, trying to look calm for me. A guard pointed towards the doors and I walked into the building alone.
As soon as I stepped inside, the doors shut behind me with a heavy thud that echoed down the corridor. The sound made my heart jump.
Everything was white. The floors were white. The walls were white. Even the ceiling seemed to glow under the harsh florescent lights. It was so bright that it made my eyes sting, and I had to squint until they adjusted. The air smelt sharp and clean, like strong chemicals and something metallic underneath. The outside world, the noise, the shouting, my parents, felt far away already.
I took small, careful steps forward, the soft soles of my shoes squeaking against the polished floor. My pink dress which felt so pretty that morning, now seemed out of place in this cold, glowing hallway. I wrapped my arms around myself as I walked, unsure of where I was supposed to go but too afraid to stop moving.
The hallway was narrow and long, with identical white doors lining each side. Some were closed. Others were slightly open, and I could hear faint noises, muffled voices, the rolling of carts, the distant beeping of machines. Every sound made my imagination race.
I followed the corridor until it opened into a small reception area. A large white desk sat beneath even brighter lights. Behind it sat a women with brown hair pulled tightly into a bun. She wore thin frames glasses that rested low on her nose, and she typed something on the computer with steady practiced hands.
When she noticed me standing there, she paused. Her eyes softened. She offered me a small reassuring smile.
"Well hello there," she said gently, her voice calm and warm against the sterile quiet of the room. "You must be one of our brave ones!"
I didn't answer at first. My throat felt tight. I just nodded slightly.
She stood up slowly from her chair, careful not to startle me. Up close, I could see faint lines near her eyes, like she smiled often. But there was something else there too, something tired.
"Are your parents right outside?" she asked.
I nodded again. "They said they'd come soon."
Her smile didn't disappear, but it changed. Just a little.
"They will," she said. "Let's get you settled while we wait, okay?"
She walked around the desk and extended her hand. I hesitated for a moment, staring at it. Then I placed my small hand into hers. Her grip was gentle but firm.
As she guided me down another hallway, deeper into the bright white building, I couldn't help but glance back toward the entrance. I couldn't see the doors anymore.
She led me into a small room with tiled floors and bright overhead lights that hummed softly. It looked like a locker room, but colder. Cleaner. Too clean.
Along one wall were metal hooks and small lockers. A long bench sat in the center of the room. Folded neatly on top of it was a white tank top and a white jumpsuit, perfectly pressed, as if they had been placed there just moments ago.
I stopped walking.
I looked down at the clothes, then back up at her. My pink dress suddenly felt very important to me.
She noticed the confusion on my face and crouched down so we were eye level. Up close, I could see the reflection of the bright lights in her glasses.
"We just need you to change into these for now," she said gently. "It's part of our safety protocol. We can't risk bringing anything from outside further into the facility."
I swallowed. "But… this is my picture day dress."
The words came out small and shaky.
Her expression softened even more. "It's a very beautiful dress," she said kindly. "We'll keep it safe for you. I promise."
I looked at the jumpsuit again. It looked plain. Identical to something everyone else would probably be wearing. My dress was pink and soft and chosen by Mom that morning with such care. Changing out of it felt like letting go of the last piece of normal.
"Will my mommy and daddy have to change too?" I asked quietly.
"Yes," she replied after a brief pause. "Everyone does."
That made it a little easier. If they had to wear the same thing, maybe it meant we were still together somehow.
She stood and turned slightly toward the door. "I'll step outside to give you privacy. When you're done, just open the door, alright?"
I nodded.
She left the room, and the door clicked shut behind her. For a moment, I just stood there staring at the folded white clothes. The room felt too quiet. I could hear my own breathing, quick and uneven.
Slowly, I reached up and untied the bow from my hair, setting it carefully on the bench beside my dress once I slipped it off. I folded the pink fabric the best I could, just like Mom had taught me, smoothing it down with trembling hands.
Then I picked up the white tank top. The material felt thin. Unfamiliar.
Piece by piece, I changed into the white clothes, my movements hesitant and unsure. When I finally zipped up the jumpsuit, it felt strange against my skin, too stiff, too plain. I looked down at myself. The little girl in the pink dress was gone. In her place stood someone I barely recognized.
After carefully placing my folded pink dress and bow on the bench, I took a deep breath and reached for the door. My hand hesitated on the handle for just a second before I pulled it open.
The woman was waiting right outside, just as she said she would be. She looked down at me, her eyes scanning the white jumpsuit to make sure it was zipped properly. Then she smiled, warmer this time, almost motherly.
"There she is," she said softly. "You look very pretty."
The word felt strange now. I didn't feel pretty. I felt small. I felt like I had stepped into someone else's life. But the way she said it made something loosen in my chest.
"Thank you," I whispered.
She gently adjusted the collar of the jumpsuit near my neck, smoothing it down the way Mom had smoothed my dress that morning. The small gesture made my eyes sting unexpectedly.
"We're going to take you to the children's wing," she explained calmly. "There are other kids there. You won't be alone."
Other kids. That made me feel a tiny bit better.
She placed her hand lightly on my shoulder and began guiding me down the hallway again. The building seemed even larger now, the bright lights stretching endlessly above us. We passed doors with small windows, and inside I could see people in hospital beds, doctors moving quickly, machines blinking and beeping.
Some people were crying. Some were very still. I tried not to look for too long.
As we walked, my thoughts kept drifting back to Mom and Daddy. I imagined them being checked just like I was. I imagined them changing into white clothes too. I imagined Daddy walking down the hallway in his business suit one moment and then wearing the same jumpsuit as me the next. The image felt unreal.
"They'll come soon," the woman said suddenly, as if she could hear my thoughts.
I looked up at her. "Promise?"
She paused just long enough for me to notice.
"We're doing everything we can," she said gently.
That wasn't exactly a promise.
We turned a corner, and I could hear children's voices ahead, soft chatter, a few nervous giggles, some sniffles from crying. The sound both comforted and scared me at the same time.
She stopped in front of a set of double doors.
"Ready?" she asked kindly.
I wasn't. But I nodded anyway.
She pushed the double doors open slowly, and a wave of soft noise spilled into the hallway.
Inside the room were dozens of children.
Some sat cross-legged on the shiny white floor. Others were gathered around small tables where crayons and blank sheets of paper had been laid out. A few older kids stood near the walls, whispering to each other. Every single one of them wore the same white tank tops and white jumpsuits.
Just like me.
The room was large but plain, with white walls and bright lights overhead. Along one side were rows of small cots with thin blankets folded neatly at the foot of each one. On the other side were shelves stacked with bottled water, packaged snacks, and plastic bins filled with toys that looked like they had been brought in quickly, board games, stuffed animals, puzzles.
It was meant to feel safe.
But it didn't.
Some children were crying quietly. Others stared at the doors as if expecting their parents to walk through at any second. A little boy near the corner clutched a stuffed dinosaur so tightly his knuckles had turned pale. A girl about my age sat with her knees pulled to her chest, her eyes red and puffy.
The woman rested her hand gently on my back and guided me inside.
"Everyone," she called softly, trying not to startle anyone. "This is our newest brave friend."
A few heads turned. Curious eyes looked me over—my blonde hair now loose without its bow, my white jumpsuit still too stiff from being folded.
"You can sit wherever you'd like," she told me quietly.
I hesitated near the doorway, suddenly wishing I could run back down the hallway and into my parents' arms. The room felt too big. Too full of other children's fear.
But then a small girl with dark curly hair, sitting at one of the tables, gave me a tiny wave. There was an empty seat beside her.
I swallowed and walked toward it, my footsteps slow and careful. When I sat down, she slid a crayon toward me without saying anything. I looked at the blank piece of paper in front of me. For a moment, I didn't know what to draw.
Around us, the low murmur of children filled the room—whispers about sirens, about scary things their parents had seen, about promises that they'd "be right back."
I picked up the pink crayon. And I started drawing my house. I pressed the pink crayon harder against the paper than I meant to. I wanted to remember everything. Every single detail. Because deep down, even though no one had said it out loud, I didn't know when I would see my house again.
I started with the roof—the small dip in the middle where Daddy always said rainwater collected too much. Then I drew the big front window where Mom kept her plants lined up on the sill. I added the crooked stepping stones that led up to the porch, the ones I used to hop across pretending the grass was lava.
My hand trembled slightly as I drew the big oak tree in the yard. I made sure to include the tire swing Daddy had hung for me the summer before. I even drew the tiny crack in the driveway near the edge where weeds always tried to grow through. I didn't want to forget anything.
Beside me, the curly-haired girl watched quietly.
"That your house?" she asked softly.
I nodded.
"It's pretty."
"Thank you," I whispered.
I added the little flower bed beneath the front window—the yellow tulips Mom loved so much. Then I drew three stick figures standing in front of the door. One tall one in a suit. One with long hair. And a small one in a dress. I almost drew the dress pink, but all I had left in my hand was white paper and fading crayon.
My chest tightened. The room around me buzzed with soft noises—sniffling, whispers, the scratch of crayons. Somewhere across the room, a little boy asked loudly when his dad was coming back. No one answered him.
I focused harder on my drawing. I shaded in the sky above the house, making it bright and blue just like it had been that morning. I added birds in the corner—small "V" shapes the way teachers showed us to draw them. I even drew the sun smiling down on the roof.
Because that was how I wanted to remember it. Warm. Safe. Still.
I stared at the picture once I was done, trying to memorize it the way it had looked before sirens and screams and white hallways. I was afraid that if I didn't hold onto it tightly in my mind, it would disappear. And if the house disappeared… Then maybe everything we had before would disappear too.
The double doors opened again, and the room slowly quieted. A different woman stepped inside. She wasn't wearing the heavy protective suit like the workers outside. Instead, she wore simple white clothes like the rest of us, but with a badge clipped neatly to her chest. Her hair was pulled back, and her smile was wide—almost too wide.
"Hello, everyone," she said brightly, clapping her hands once to gather our attention. "I'll be your teacher while you're here."
Teacher. The word felt strange in this place.
She walked toward the center of the room, her shoes tapping lightly against the floor. "This room will be your classroom. We're going to learn the basics—how to stay safe, how to help each other, and how to be strong during emergencies."
Some of the older kids straightened up at that. A few younger ones just stared.
I slowly raised my hand, my heart pounding in my ears. For a second, I thought maybe she wouldn't see me.
But she did.
"Yes, sweetheart?" she said, pointing at me.
I swallowed. My voice felt very small in the large white room.
"Will our parents pick us up afterwards?"
The question hung in the air. The room went completely silent. The teacher's smile didn't fade, but it tightened just a little at the corners.
"No," she said gently. "After class, one of us will escort you to dinner. Afterwards, we'll take you to your new rooms."
New rooms. The words felt heavy.
She clasped her hands together in front of her. "Grown-ups take longer to process before entering the bunker. There are more tests for them, more procedures. But don't worry—" she added quickly, giving us an exaggerated wink, "they'll get here eventually."
I lowered my hand slowly. Eventually wasn't the same as soon. Around me, a few kids looked relieved. Others looked confused. The curly-haired girl beside me frowned down at her paper. I stared at my drawing of the house.
The bunker. That was the first time anyone had said that word out loud. This wasn't just a building. We weren't just waiting. We were going somewhere underground. Somewhere meant to keep us safe. But if it was so safe… Why weren't our parents coming with us right now?
When class finally ended, the teacher clapped her hands softly and told us to line up quietly. The scrape of small chairs against the floor echoed through the room as we stood. My legs felt stiff, like I had been sitting for hours even though I couldn't remember anything she had actually taught us. Words like safety, containment, routine, and cooperation had floated around the room, but none of them answered the only thing I cared about.
Mom.
Daddy.
When the doors opened, a tall man was standing outside waiting for us. He wore the same white uniform as the others, but his badge was a different color. His face was serious, his posture straight and watchful.
"Alright, single file," he instructed calmly. "Stay together."
We shuffled into the hallway, a quiet line of white jumpsuits and small, uncertain footsteps. The brightness of the lights made everything feel even more unreal, like we were walking through a dream that wouldn't end.
He led us down two long corridors and through a set of heavy metal doors that opened with a loud mechanical hiss.
The room beyond was large—larger than our classroom. Long metal tables stretched across the space in neat rows. Overhead lights buzzed softly. The walls were the same clean white, but this room felt colder somehow.
It looked like a cafeteria.
We were directed to stand behind chairs while workers placed trays in front of each seat. Every tray was exactly the same. No choices. No colorful packaging. Just small portions laid out with precision.
A scoop of plain rice.
A serving of steamed vegetables.
A small piece of chicken.
A carton of milk.
No dessert. No snacks. No smiles from lunch ladies asking what we wanted.
We all received the same food.
I sat down slowly, staring at the tray in front of me. That morning, Mom had packed my favorite lunch into my purple backpack. A sandwich cut into triangles. Apple slices. A little treat tucked in as a surprise.
That backpack felt like it belonged to another lifetime.
Around me, some kids began eating immediately, as if hunger had finally caught up to them. Others poked at their food without much interest. The room was filled with quiet chewing and the soft clink of plastic forks against trays.
The curly-haired girl sat across from me.
"Do you think this is forever?" she asked in a whisper.
I didn't know how to answer.
I picked up my fork and forced myself to take a bite. The food wasn't bad. It just wasn't… home.
I chewed slowly, staring down at the identical trays lining the tables. We all looked the same. We all ate the same. We were all separated from the people who made us feel safe.
At the front of the room, the tall man stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching us carefully. Not like a parent. More like a guard, and for the first time, the word bunker didn't sound like protection. It sounded like something else.
After dinner, we were told to stand again. Chairs scraped softly against the floor as we pushed them in. The tall man returned to the front of the room, joined now by two women holding clipboards.
"Listen carefully," one of them announced. "When your name is called, step forward. You will be escorted to your assigned sleeping quarters."
Assigned.
The word felt permanent.
One by one, names echoed through the cafeteria. Small groups of two or three children stepped forward and disappeared through the metal doors. No one ran. No one argued. We just obeyed.
Finally, my name was called.
My stomach flipped.
I stood, and so did the curly-haired girl who had shared her crayons with me earlier.
"You two," the woman said, glancing at her clipboard. "Room B-17."
We looked at each other for a brief second—half nervous, half relieved not to be alone. Then we stepped forward together.
A different escort led us down another hallway, this one narrower and quieter than the others. The lights here were dimmer.
The further we walked, the more the air seemed to hum with a low mechanical vibration, like we were deep underground.
Finally, we stopped in front of a door labeled B-17. The escort swiped a card along a small panel beside the frame. The door clicked open.
"This is your room," she said simply.
It wasn't very big. Two small beds sat against opposite walls, each neatly made with crisp white sheets and a folded gray blanket at the foot. A small metal desk was bolted to the floor beneath a square mirror. There was a narrow closet with sliding doors and a small bathroom tucked behind another door in the corner..
Then she left, and the door shut behind her with a soft but final click.
The curly-haired girl stepped further into the room, turning slowly in a circle as if trying to decide which bed felt less lonely.
"I'm Maya," she said quietly.
I swallowed. "I'm—" My voice almost cracked. I cleared my throat. "I'm Lily."