The Seventh Day of the Fifth Month

The bunker door slid open, and a shaking hand reached out into the stagnant, cold air.

It was over now.

All of man's quarrels had been silenced at last. Ironically enough, by his own innovations.

Adam Newman coughed the raspy cough of one who has taken a very long rest.

That was what the bunkers were designed to do; to throw one into a long rest, to shut one's ears to the terror around them. They were designed for the elite only, of course, but they blocked most of the noise from the exploding bombs above, along with the cries of some unfortunate soul that sometimes limped past their doors.

The bunkers did not, however, block the vibrations of the war that raged above them, the terrible war that they all had started.

Newman, a young scientist with the weaselly look that many had developed in this new age, greedily pushed his way out of the bunker doors.

“You will need the respirator. Radiation levels are still quite high.”

Newman looked back at his companion with hasty annoyance. But he took the respirator offered and slipped it on. He was no fool.

Together, the two men, perhaps the last of their kind, stepped out onto the grey earth.

A gust of dry air, carrying the particles of a world now fragmented, whipped their faces.

The monitors in the bunker not only recorded when the war had ended, it also kept watch for when the dust on earth had settled. Only then would it open its steel doors and release the forefathers of a new generation.

They hadn’t considered how the survivors would find each other.

Ichabod Mathis glanced back at the bunker.

Meanwhile, his associate stared silently at the pale sun that looked angrily down on them.

A sharp, high-pitched bray broke through the whistling patterns of wind that ran to and fro around the two.

“Look at this! Look at this! Fit for life it said, fit for life indeed!”

Newman’s gaze swiveled back to Mathis; his cracked lips pursed in a sardonic smile.

“You’re thinking it, but you’re not saying it, aren’t you Mathis? Wish we’d gone out on the frontlines instead?”

Mathis, an older gentleman nearing sixty, felt his brows dip downwards.

He had a weary air about him, a weariness that penetrated far beyond his bones, and pierced into his soul.

“Stop that, Newman. Talking so won’t get us anywhere.”

He gestured back towards the bunker.

“I’m sure there’s some way we can connect to others-”

“There are no others.”

Adam spat venomously.

“Can’t you see? We’re in London- or whatever’s left of it. There’s no telling what the rest of the world looks like. Those bunkers were hooked up to the old communications systems anyway, and all that’s ruined- ruined!”

The words were shaky, penned by the young man’s nervous tongue.

Silence fell upon them once more.

Dust and tiny bits of what once was clung to the black fibers of Newman’s coat.

Mathis stood silently beside him.

“We’ll stay near the bunker then.”

Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months and soon the chill gave way to a sudden wave of heat. The heat was unforgiving, scorching the two men, fogging up their brains and reminding them of all their sins. The bunker would not have power forever; this was proved by the spasms of blackouts it would experience suddenly.

Soon it was the fifth month, or so they supposed.

The bunker lights flickered before shutting off completely.

This did not faze the men but then a low droning noise rose from the bowels of their shelter, growing louder and louder by the minute, a low droning that went on like a dying animal’s cry.

And when it ended in a twisted cacophonous howl, they were grimly certain of one thing.

The power had perished.

On the third day of the fifth month, Mathis exited the dark bunker, sick of quarrelling with Newman.

His breath echoed in his ears as he shakily took in air through the respirator.

Huge, hungry gulps of air, hoping that with each breath, it would grow fresher, or at the very least, how he remembered it to be.

“What are you doing?”

Newman’s nasal voice rang out accusingly.

“That’s one of the few respirators we’ve got left.”

Mathis spun round; his eyes cold as he surveyed the only other face of their race. A face that he was growing to despise.

“We’ve plenty left. Now, I came here to- to clear my head. Do you mind, Newman?”

“Newman, Newman, Newman…”

The younger man took a step to Mathis’s right.

“There’s really no need for formality, now, Ichabod.”

Mathis stiffened in shock.

“What does it matter? Can’t you get it into your head that in order to live, we have to leave stupid nonsense like that behind?”

“Just what type of world would we have then- without that "stupid nonsense"?”

Mathis retorted, tracking Newman with his eyes.

Newman had taken to pacing him now, his hands skewed a little to either side of his body, his mouth parted slightly.

Mathis stepped back towards the bunker.

“Newman- or, Adam, I believe the heat has gotten to you. Grab a bottle of liquid from the bunker.”

“Liquid’s gone.”

Newman straightened up and slid his hands into his pockets.

“You know, when people were still in the deserts, they had a curious way of getting water when they ran out of it.”

Mathis nodded, inching back towards the bunker.

Newman took a step forward.

“They had camels back then. Interesting thing, camels. The horse’s hunchbacked brother.”

Newman let out a chuckle that rose into his bray of a laugh.

“They’d cut the water out of a camel’s stomach when they ran out of water.”

“Out of its stomach?”

Mathis reiterated, one foot inside the bunker.

“Well, it wasn’t really water. But it was liquid, and they didn’t care much, I suppose.”

The sun began to sink. The air became cooler, and in the fading light, shimmering dust danced round and round.

“Ichabod?”

“Yes, Adam?”

“We haven’t any more liquid. Or food.”

“None at all?”

“None at all.”

On the seventh day of the fifth month, man had perished.

The bunker had a collection of dust piling up around its entrance.

Wedged between the heavy steel door was the head of Ichabod Mathis.

The sun shed its last rays on the pale, lifeless form of Adam Newman, and the battered respirator that lay beside him.

One could argue that the two men had reverted into nothing more than savage animals.

But perhaps they had been beastly things all along.

©coyotetrickstergod|daniellejacobs