467 Days

Looking at the scratches on the wall, I knew it had been 467 days. Four-hundred and sixty-seven days of isolation. The poor sleep, the odd filtration system to use for the toilet, and the never-ending cans of food. Except, they were not never-ending, in fact, they were running low. Down to that one can of black beans and one of peas and carrots.

For the last 467 days I have been contemplating this exact crisis and what I was going to do. After being cut off from everything for so long, I no longer recalled what people were like, or even what I was like. People should realize that being away from them is good in many ways, but it really means that we’ll forget how to behave once we get around them again.

For the millionth time I cursed myself for not checking if a cell signal or wifi could reach all the way down here. As far as bunkers go, they knew how to make them in the 50s. But now I don’t know if the pandemonium happened. I don’t even know if there was nuclear warfare, who won the election, or even get to see WW84. But now, time for thinking, for fear had run out, it was time to climb up the 100 feet of iron ladder to see how the world had fared during the pandemic.

I didn’t have a mirror in the bunker, but looking down I could tell that I had lost weight and was wearing the same sweat suit for this week. Yes, I choose one a week. I’m not trying to impress anyone. It also helps me to edit any survival videos I’ve made. Oooh, I wonder if social media was destroyed. I mean I’m all for tearing down the patriarchy, but the patriarchy tends to fight with big ass bombs, so who knows what’s upstairs.

487 days

The blood had dried, adding to the many existing rust colored stains on my sweat suit. With a sardonic chuckle I continued to sharpen the makeshift spear made from a discarded kitchen knife and broom.

You guessed it, things did not fare well in the pandemic. They say we’re only 4 missed meals away from societal collapse, and that’s what happened. After marshal law was declared and Trump bunkered in the White House the resistance started, reminiscent of scenes from The Purge. Lawlessness and violence consumed everyone.

Darwin really nailed it – the strong will survive, and being strong means you can’t be afraid to kill to survive. The first time is the most horrifying, no matter how it’s done, but it’s necessary, critical even. If you don’t have that first kill, you won’t harden up and shed that last remnant of society that tries to stay alive in you. That world is gone, and there’s no place for the softness that once was.