Click. Click.
I grabbed the pot and put it in the middle of the table. A scoop for each person. Not much.
Dad opened his mouth – in protest, I guess – when I filled his soup bowl. I ignored him, and silence settled over us as we ate what little we had.
Dad didn’t pick up his spoon at first. I glanced up and pleaded with him with my eyes: Stop sacrificing yourself. He dipped his head and stared at the soup. Then, finally, he began eating, guilt radiating from his face.
Dinner took us less than two minutes. Mia was the last to finish. She put down her spoon and looked at the empty plate with so much longing that I wished I’d given my soup to her.
Minutes dragged by in silence. Not the silence that surrounds you like a warm blanket, but a silence that threatens to crush you.
Longing glances were cast at empty plates, resigned glances at the empty pantry.
1,139 days since I’d seen daylight.
Only 2 minutes since we’d run out of food.
The kitchen smelled of lebkuchen and apple pie. Grandma formed the dough into small crescents for the vanille kipferl.
Perfect.
I dipped my finger into the cream-cheese creme, brought it to my lips. The sugary taste filled my mouth, coating my tongue. The best pie filling in the world. Home-made. Grandma would never allow convenience food into her house.
Just one more taste.
“Sherry, honestly, don’t eat it, you’ll be sick tomorrow.”
Nothing but a rumour Grandma spread so she had enough creme to bake her Bavarian apple pie.
“I’m just testing the quality.”
She tried to look disapproving, but pushed the bowl in my direction.
“One more taste, then wash your hands. And don’t tell your mother.” She smiled at me conspiratorially.
The cream-cheese creme melted on my tongue. The best taste in the world.
My eyes were closed as I listened to the sounds around me.
Click. Click. Grandma’s knitting.
Swoosh and the occasional click of a button. Dad trying to communicate via his radio receiver.
A long sigh. Mom losing her patience.
No chirping birds, no wind rustling the trees. No diversion. Never.
I opened my eyes and stared at the white ceiling. There was a tiny spot just above my head where Dad had swatted a fly a few days after we locked the door. Often I’d spent hours just staring at it. I rolled onto my side, facing the room. Dad sat at his desk with the radio receiver. Microphone in hand, he turned knobs and pressed buttons with a look of despair. I’d seen that look so often recently. It was carved into his face – ever since we’d run out of food. My stomach clenched and unclenched, but the hollow feeling remained.
“George. Richard here. George, are you there?” Dad asked.
Mia snuggled closer to me. Her eyes were closed and her red hair was all over the place, her curls twisted and knotted. She’d gotten used to sleeping next to me since we’d started sharing a bed 1,141 days ago.
A long time.
We didn’t even have to share a bed any more – not since Grandpa had died and Grandma had decided to sleep sitting on the sofa – but Mia refused to sleep on her own. She’d wake as soon as I did, her warm body pressed against mine, easing the crushing feeling of hunger. Her warmth seemed to fill the void. Mia was tough, much tougher than most kids her age. Not a single word of complaint had left her mouth over the last few days. She’d lost a lot of weight – whenever I lifted her or she sat on my lap it was unmistakable. It worried me more than my own weight loss and stomach ache did. She was the baby of this family and I wanted to protect her.
“What time is it?” I asked into the silence, stroking Mia’s hair. From my spot on the bed, I couldn’t see our sole functioning clock.
“What does it matter?” Bobby’s voice was muffled by his pillow, only his dishevelled blond hair peeking out.
“I want to know.”
“Why?” Bobby lifted his head and glared at me. “It’s not as if you’ve got a date. It’s not as if we could do anything! And we don’t even have food. We’re all going to die.” He buried his face in the pillow once more. I chose to stay silent.
Bobby was in one of his depressive moods. Since he’d turned thirteen a few weeks ago, his mood swings had gotten worse.
Two days ago we’d run out of food. How much longer until we’d be too weak to move? Or until we’d start gnawing on each other? The thought nearly made me laugh. Maybe I was going crazy.
Food. I’d have given anything for a bite of apple. A steak. A s’more. I could almost taste it – the smoky crust and creamy belly of the marshmallow. The crunch of the cracker, the chocolate melting on my tongue. A taste of everything that once was, everything I missed. So sweet.
I pushed the images out of my head. The pain in my stomach was getting too much. My tongue felt as if it was covered with fuzz.
“George, please answer.” Dad held the mic in a tight grip. George Smith had been his best friend since high school.
“He won’t answer,” Mom said from her spot on the sofa. “Nobody will.” Her blonde hair was a mess and her cotton nightgown was full of holes. Nobody would see her anyway, so why bother dressing up?
Grandma sat next to her, knitting.
Click. Click.
I remembered times when Grandma had read books to us, sung with us and baked Bavarian apple pies.
“George? Christine?” Dad’s voice got quieter.
Still no answer.
George and Christine Smith were our next-door neighbours, or had been. Their daughter Isabel was my best friend.
1,141 days since I’d seen Izzy. Though her chatty nature sometimes drove me crazy, I’d have given anything to hear one of her excited rambles about her favourite band or the new cute boy. I missed her so much.
“George? Christine? Anyone? Please answer.” Dad buried his face in his palms.
2 months since our last contact with George, Christine and Izzy. Or anyone else, come to that.
63 long days.
“I can’t do this any more!” Dad dropped the mic and jumped up. His chair toppled over, and we all stared at him. It was a shock to see him suddenly so animated.
“I won’t sit here and wait for us to starve to death.”
I sat up, ignoring Mia’s mumbles of protest and her small hand clutching at my top. Even Grandma had stopped knitting to stare at Dad.
Mom rose from the sofa. “What are you talking about?”
Dad didn’t reply. He walked towards the pantry and emerged after a moment with a shotgun and his police pistol. He stuffed the smaller weapon into a holster that he’d put on his hip.
“Richard?” Mom’s voice shook as she walked towards him. I got out of bed. Even Bobby sat up.
“I’m going to leave this damn bunker and find food. I won’t watch my family starve.”
Bobby glanced at me, his eyebrows arched in a silent question mark. I shrugged – I didn’t know what had gotten into Dad. Mom’s chin began to tremble. Any moment now, tears would flow. “You know what they said when the rabies broke out. We should hide in a shelter and not come out until they’d gotten the mutation under control. They said we should wait until the military told us it was safe to come out. Have you forgotten about the warnings?”
Dad laughed bitterly. “The military stopped broadcasting almost three months ago, and even before that they sent us the same warning for over a year. It was just a damn recording telling us the same thing over and over again. Do you really think they are suddenly going to start giving us new information?”
Mom swallowed. She shook her head. Dad was right, of course. We hadn’t gotten any news for over a year. Actually, the only thing the military had ever broadcast was a warning not to leave our bunkers. No updates. And the voice had come from a stupid recording. Maybe there was no one left out there to broadcast live. I forced the thought out of my head.
“The government is the reason that
we’re living like this. We’re on our own. Nobody’s going to come and save us. Either I go out there, see what’s happening and find food, or we’ll starve to death in this bunker.”
Mom shook her head slowly and grabbed his arm. “You don’t know what’s still out there. Don’t you remember what they said in the warnings? Those people with rabies might still be running loose. Crazy people.”
“I’ve got a gun. I’m capable of defending myself.”
Mom looked at him pleadingly, her hands clutching his arm, her knuckles white.
“Honey, we’ll all die if I don’t leave this bunker and find food,” Dad said, his gaze imploring.
Mom closed her eyes and gave a small nod. “I know.”
Dad smiled and gave her a kiss.
1,141 days since I’d seen the sky, since I’d counted clouds.
A jolt of excitement went through me. My decision was made. “I’ll come with you.”
“No.”
I scrambled for my clothes and pulled them on over the shorts and top I’d slept in. Jeans and a long-sleeved shirt would be okay – it was summer outside. At least I hoped it was.
Dad shook his head. “Sherry, I said no.”
No? Did he think he could forbid me this after everything I’d done? I’d spent the last few months being the grown-up in this damn bunker because he and Mom had been too busy fighting.
“Dad, you can’t go alone. If you get injured, there’ll be no one to help you. It’s the basic rule of survival training – don’t go anywhere alone, always go in pairs. That’s what you and Grandpa taught us.”
Grandpa had hammered those rules into Dad, and later into Bobby and me. He’d read dozens of books about people who’d survived in the jungle, desert, snow and God knows where else. Humans cannot survive more than three weeks without food. I could almost hear him say it.
“If someone should go with your dad, it’s me,” Mom said, but her face was fearful. She wouldn’t stop me, it was clear.
“What about your asthma? And someone needs to stay here with Grandma, Mia and Bobby.”
Mom frowned. Her eyes darted around the room. “It’s too dangerous. You’re just a child.” I opened my mouth to protest but she went on, “What if something happened to you? I can’t lose both of you.”
“Mom, we’re just looking for food. Nothing’s going to happen.”
I’d convinced her, it was obvious. Bobby crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I should go with Dad, not you. I can take care of myself; you’re a girl.”
I rolled my eyes at him. “I’m two years older than you, plus Dad took me to the shooting range, and hunting, so I know how to handle a gun.”
Bobby opened his mouth to make a probably not-so-witty comment, but Dad held up a hand. “Enough.”
All eyes were on him.
“Sherry has a point. I shouldn’t go alone and she’s our best choice.”
Bobby’s shoulders slumped. I had to restrain a smile.
1,141 days since I’d seen daylight, smelled fresh air, felt the wind tousle my hair.
Dad grabbed his jacket and put it on. “Take your coat with you.”
I nodded while I slipped into Mom’s old sneakers. Putting a coat on – also Mom’s, it was the only one that fitted me now – I walked towards Dad. He stood in front of the wooden steps that led up to the steel door keeping us safe from whatever was outside. Mom, Bobby and Mia followed behind us. Grandma kept knitting and didn’t look up.
Click. Click.
“Be careful and stay close to your dad, and listen to what he says—”
“Mom, don’t worry. I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”
She didn’t look convinced but she gave me a faint smile and hugged me tightly. Eventually her hold loosened. She turned to Dad and kissed him. “Take good care of her – and come back soon.” There was a quiver in her voice.
“We will,” he promised. He looked eager – he was just as keen as I was to get out.
I hugged Mia and Bobby – despite Bobby’s feeble protests – before following Dad up the steps. We stopped in front of the steel door. My hands felt clammy – this was it. Mom climbed up too and halted behind me. Her presence gave me courage for the first time in months, probably years. Dad opened the three locks and pulled. With an ear-splitting creak, the door opened. I held my breath, expecting something to pounce.
Nothing happened.
Warm air pushed against me and filled my lungs. It was stuffy and stale, and I broke out in a sweat. Dad stepped cautiously through into the hallway of our house. His knuckles white as he gripped the shotgun, he checked the corridor, gesturing for me to wait. Then he disappeared from view. After a moment, he returned. “It’s okay. You can come out.”
Freedom.
Dad turned to Mom. “Stay in the bunker. If we haven’t returned by tomorrow, grab the other gun in the pantry. Take my mother, Mia and Bobby with you, and try to find other people.”
Mom nodded, tears welling in her eyes as she closed the heavy door. I heard a low clunk – the sound of the deadlock on the other side. Taking a deep breath, I turned away from the bunker.
“Here.” Dad handed me the pistol and holster. “Do you still remember how to fire at a target?”
I hesitated. Did I? I wasn’t sure. Dad and Grandpa had taken me to the shooting range more times than I could count. They’d even let me fire at clay pigeons to improve my aim and it had paid off. I’d been good, very good – but that was long ago. What if I’d forgotten all they’d taught me?
He smiled and grabbed the pistol to show me how to release the safety catch and how to take aim. I hoped we wouldn’t need any weapons – but when he handed the gun back to me, I grasped it tightly.
“Stay behind me,” he instructed in a firm tone. I hadn’t seen him in stern fatherly mode for a while. A few years ago, it would have annoyed me. Now? Not so much. I’d missed this side of him. He held the shotgun in both hands and walked down the hall. My gun hand shook as I followed him. Soft light filtered into the corridor. Daylight – not the artificial glare I was used to. I blinked. My eyes needed to get used to the natural light, but it felt so good. I could feel a smile tugging at my lips.
I peeked into the living room. Nothing had changed since I’d last seen it. Even Muffin’s scratching post was where we’d left it. If I closed my eyes I could see him lounging on the highest platform, meowing to get attention. I wished the soldiers hadn’t scared him off. Had he come back after we’d gone into the bunker and wondered where we were? How long had he waited before he’d given up?
Only the layer of dust on every surface indicated the time that had passed. The photo of Izzy and me in our ridiculous Halloween costumes was covered with it. We were grinning like Cheshire cats, arms wrapped around each other. The last Halloween before we went into the bunker.
1,388 days ago.
The taste of Grandma’s pumpkin pie. The eerie glow of the jack-o’-lanterns we’d carved with Izzy’s mom. The scent of candles and burgers from the grill. Still vivid in my mind.
“Sherry, come on.” Dad was already at the front door.
Sunlight streamed through the windows, though it was dimmed by grime covering the glass. It looked like soot – as if there had been a fire or explosion nearby.
“Sherry.” Dad’s voice was full of impatience – and a hint of anxiety. I hurried to his side.
“Have you seen the windows?”
He nodded, with a grim expression, and took the car key from a hook on the wall.
“What does—”
He interrupted me. “I don’t know. We should hurry. We need to see if the neighbours have left their bunkers, and we need to get something to eat.”
He unlocked and pulled at the front door. The hinges screeched in protest. The wood sounded as though it was going to splinter.
“The door’s warped. Probably the heat,” Dad said. He yanked, and it swung open.
Warm summer air filled my lungs. Despite the soot on the windows, the a
ir didn’t smell of smoke. It smelled fresh, but different to how I remembered it – not as sweet, not as reviving. Maybe my memory was playing tricks on me. After life in the bunker, I’d expected more – a moment of “wow”.
Dad and I stepped out of the house and shut the door. Sun rays warmed my body and I closed my eyes.
“Sherry!”
My eyes shot open.
Dad shook his head, a deep frown on his face. “What were you thinking? Don’t close your eyes. You must stay alert.”
He stepped from the porch. I followed and looked to my right. The houses looked the same as they always had – Izzy’s house was just how I remembered it. Well, almost how I remembered it. The outside was covered with soot and surrounded by high bushes and weeds. The street, once noisy with playing children and busy neighbours, was deserted. We were the only people around, and it was silent. Eerily silent.
Maybe Izzy and her parents were still in their shelter. “Dad, do you—” I turned my head to look at him and my mouth went dry.
Oh my God.
From where we stood, we could look down over parts of Los Angeles – or what was left of it. Like broken stalagmites, the shattered skyscrapers rose into the sky. Burst windows split the light into thousands of fragments.
“Dad?” My voice shook. “What happened?” I swallowed.
He looked at me, his face blank. “There must have been a bombardment.”
“Why didn’t we hear anything?” I couldn’t pull my eyes from the remains of my hometown, from the terrifying beauty of it.
“The bunker is soundproof.” He frowned and shook his head. “Do you remember the earthquake shortly after we went into hiding?”
I nodded. Then it dawned on me. “It wasn’t an earthquake, right?”
Dad ran a hand through his red hair. “God, what have they done?” he muttered.
“Who did this? What do you mean?” I asked in a whisper, panic tightening my throat. Who would drop bombs on a town full of people?
“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I just don’t know.”
“Why didn’t the military tell us? And where is everyone?” I scanned our surroundings. Maybe they were still hiding like us. But hadn’t they run out of food too?