The news anchors will sign off one by one. Some will politely excuse themselves and then
wander off lens, presumably to find their loved ones or die with some measure
of privacy. Some will sit in front of
the camera, describing their experience, moment to moment. Some will stammer and sit, waiting for
something, anything, to happen, to overrun the studio and eliminate the
necessity of making a choice in their life.
Some will succumb to the disease, doing their best to, with their last
moments, present some sort of lasting image to the world. One man will shout his goodbyes to his loved
ones as a rabid mob tears his studio apart.
You’ll flip through the channels quickly before turning the television
off and walking over to the young woman you escaped to the bunker with.
She’ll be taking stock of the supplies, making marks on a
clipboard, no doubt thinking about shelf lives, rationing, how long the two of
you will be able to survive in your high school’s conspicuously well funded
fallout shelter. She’ll be muttering to
herself when you interrupt with your obvious “It doesn’t look good.”
She won’t look up when she flatly retorts with “You don’t
say.” You’ll nod.
“Supplies look good?” you’ll ask, voice cracking as you
remember to frame it as a question. She’ll
shrug.
“For two people it should be enough for a long while.” You’ll smile and nod. She won’t even turn her head to acknowledge
the gesture. Her eyes will be fixed on
boxes and boxes of food, medicine, and the pistols and rifles which will sit,
unloaded, in their open gun cases, well oiled and free of moisture. You’ll take the opportunity to take in her
beauty.
It won’t be the obvious, jaw dropping kind. She’ll have tiny hairs at the back of her
neck that will curl up into the bundle of her ponytail. Her shoulders will square oddly, one slightly
lower than the other, and her face, heart shaped, will have a tendency to
frown. As she works she’ll purse her lips,
making them seem less full and juicy than they really are, though it will make
her look like she’s expecting a kiss.
Wisps of hair will scatter out of her ponytail and on to her shoulders,
filling you with the urge to brush them off, tighten them up and replace them
in her secure single braid. You’ll
resist the compulsion, but the urge will make you tense up, shifting your
breathing and drawing her attention.
She’ll know what’s going on immediately. She’ll roll her eyes in response.
“Jesus Christ,” she’ll mumble. “It’s not gonna happen, nerd.”
You’ll nod at her.
“Sorry,” you’ll murmur.
She’ll raise one hand and give you the middle finger before she goes
back to her checklist. In response, you’ll
begin exploring the confines of the shelter.
It’ll be spacious, but you know that it won’t feel that way for long. But part of you hopes that she’ll get over
her rule about sleeping with guys who do close-up magic before the six month
stay in the shelter is up. It’d really
suck to spend the entire end of the world with the girl you’ve had a crush on
for the past three years and not even kiss her.
Congratulations on Surviving the World Ending Plague with
that Girl You Like!
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