Leo Cormac woke up sharply, as if someone had abruptly switched on a light in his mind. The early gray dawn of July 2030 penetrated the bunker through the sensors, having slightly recharged the solar panels while he slept. The faint hum of the inverter converting solar rays into electricity was the only sound of life.
Dim LEDs blinked on the ceiling, casting cold, uncertain shadows.
Leo ran his fingers over his chin, feeling the coarse, unpleasant stubble. He sighed heavily—he didn't feel like shaving. Why bother? In the dead city, there was no one to notice his unkemptness. His solitude was absolute. Or almost.
The cold in the bunker chilled him to the bone; its icy fingers gripped his body. Hunger tightened his stomach like a taut knot.
Leo struggled to get up, his legs trembling from fatigue. He pulled on the leather jacket that still smelled of rain and Anna—its aroma a faint hint of life—and approached the refrigerator. The shelves were stocked with canned goods, their lids with bright labels gleaming in the semi-darkness. In the door stood several bottles of whiskey, their amber color alluring. Without thinking, he chose a can of stewed chicken, opened it, and swallowed half in one gulp; its greasy, cold taste spread over his tongue. Instead of water, he took the whiskey, pulled the cork out with his teeth, and drank straight from the bottle. The alcohol burned his throat but provided some warmth, adding strength; its heat spread through his veins.
Leo returned to the table, turned on the speaker, and music filled the silence. Its notes thundered like an attempt to drown out the void, reflecting off the concrete walls. He sat at the work desk, its plastic surface as cold as everything else in the bunker. More out of habit than necessity, he turned on the monitor connected to the surveillance cameras. This time the screen blinked a few times and finally came to life.
The rain had almost stopped, but the morning fog still shrouded the city, blurring the outlines of houses. Their silhouettes dissolved into grayness. Leo aimed the cameras at the neighboring houses along his street and, adjusting the focus, began methodically inspecting them, house by house. His fingers trembled slightly from the cold on the camera control touch panel.
Everything looked the same: smashed windows, broken doors, overturned cars, and a silence that pressed on the ears.
But then, in the window of house No. 14, across the road not far from his own house, a curtain on a tightly boarded-up window stirred. Its movement was barely noticeable, like a breath.
Leo froze, his breath catching. His heart beat faster, like a drum. A face appeared in the crack of the window—pale, strange, almost ghostly; its features trembled in the fog like a mirage. Another flickered nearby; their silhouettes merged with the shadow. A man and a woman. Their features were indistinct due to distance and the veil, but there was no madness in their movements. A second later, they vanished; the curtain fell like a veil of secrecy.
Leo hastily wrote the house number in his notebook, ignoring the ink drops staining the paper in his rush. He felt only his heart pounding from a mixture of hope and frantic joy.
These were not mad ones—they didn't hide behind curtains or fear the light; their world was different—a world of chaos and destruction. These were survivors, rational people. Hope, fragile as glass, flickered in his chest; its warmth instantly warmed his soul faster than any whiskey. But it was immediately replaced by fear, cold as the concrete walls of his bunker. If he had noticed them, the military could have too; their all-seeing drone shadows lurked on every corner.
In the distance, the now-familiar rumble of an engine was heard; its low roar cut through the silence. Leo aimed the camera at the highway; the screen trembled under his fingers. A cargo truck emerged from the fog, followed by two sand-colored Humvees with blue and red flashing lights. Their sharp light cut through the gray morning like scissors. The convoy moved slowly, like a predator stalking prey; its shadows slid softly over the asphalt.
Leo saw the truck stop. Evidently, from its cabin, they'd spotted a mad one—a figure in tattered clothing shuffling along the roadside, paying no attention to its surroundings. Its steps were unnatural, its movements, as always, chaotic and unpredictable. A machine gunner in a gas mask, positioned on the roof of the Humvee, fired a short burst. Its roar echoed off the walls, and the mad one collapsed, its body crumpling on the ground. Figures in uniforms and gas masks jumped out of the truck, which Leo had already privately dubbed the "Death Truck." Their movements were fast, like robots; they quickly threw the body into the back, and the convoy moved on, leaving silence behind.
Leo turned away, feeling nausea; bile rose in his throat.
A light on the inverter panel turned red, signaling low battery charge. The fog had weakened the solar panels; their silence was deafening. Leo turned off the monitor to conserve energy; the screen went dark, leaving him in the bunker's semi-darkness.
After a moment's thought, he took out the tablet found in the police SUV; its casing was cold. First thing upon waking that morning, he had tried to connect it to a charger. Now, seeing it had charged a bit, Leo tried to turn it on. The screen lit up and came to life.
Scrolling through the icons, he found and opened the electronic log of the military patrol. Lines flashed quickly before his eyes. The pages were filled with brief entries describing actions before the catastrophe; their dryness contrasted with the chaos outside. Leo scrolled through them until he reached June 16.
"10:25. Dispatched to Main Street. Unauthorized rally, demands for war against 'undesirable countries.' Five arrested, delivered to station. Order restored by 13:00."
Leo frowned. A rally? That was strange; the police should have handled that themselves. The log indicated a National Guard patrol had been called. Noting this oddity, he continued scrolling.
June 17—two more dispatches to similar rallies. Then the entries became more frequent, mentioning "mass disturbances," "unruly citizens," "police shortage." By June 18, a laconic entry appeared: "Many crazies. Gunfire. Police requested State of Emergency."
A chill ran through him; the words echoed in his mind.
The entries changed to brief mentions of patrol dispatches to the "Crematorium," "psychiatric hospital," "main National Guard base." The last pages, dated June 20-22, were particularly alarming:
"Monday. Central Crematorium. Carter and Blair failed to report for duty.
Tuesday. Anders went mad right in the vehicle, had to be neutralized. Delivered to crematorium. Government, at police request, declared State of Emergency. Orders to patrol streets.
Wednesday. Order for units to block airport and railway station. Do not accept flights, block trains. Our squad blocked the runway.
Friday. No communications. Police units evacuated.
Saturday. Orders to report to main base. Abandon streets."
The log ended there. Leo turned off the tablet; his hands trembled slightly from the sudden realization. The military knew about the gas, knew about the mad ones, but their actions weren't to save these people. They were cleaning up.
Rummaging through his things, he found yesterday's laptop, one of those from the cars; its case was covered in grime and dust. The hard drive was almost empty, but Leo found a folder with video files—family recordings, apparently taken by someone on a phone back in the old world, before the catastrophe.
Children laughing at a picnic, their voices ringing. A woman preparing a holiday dinner, her silhouette warm. A man fixing a child's bicycle, his hands moving calmly and confidently.
Leo watched, feeling a spasm tighten his throat. This could have been his and Anna's life. It could have been Anna preparing a holiday meal for children, and he, with the happy feeling of paternal duty, fixing that damned bicycle! A terrible understanding cut his soul like a knife. He abruptly turned off the laptop, barely restraining himself from smashing it against the wall. He couldn't continue. Tears burned his eyes.
After resting and calming down a bit, he took out another laptop. Here, luck smiled on him—on it were saved copies of government messages to the population for June, precisely from the period he was in self-isolation.
The first, dated June 16, read:
"A serious epidemic has broken out in the city. All gatherings are canceled. Groups of more than three people are prohibited. Stay home, stock up on food and water for three days. No grounds for panic. Awaiting arrival of Red Cross teams. If you notice symptoms of the epidemic: unmotivated joy, euphoria, followed by sudden dizziness, red haze before the eyes. Seek medical attention immediately. Leaving the city is prohibited. DO NOT PANIC!"
The second electronic message, from June 17, stated that the epidemic was "stabilized" but urged people to report to the National Guard base for "safe evacuation."
The third message, sent via email, was undated and announced a state of emergency prohibiting the population from leaving their homes.
The last message, signed by General R. R. Thompson, read:
"The epidemic danger has been eliminated, but the state of emergency remains in effect. The population is prohibited from leaving their homes until evacuation forces arrive. If there are sick individuals in residences, they must be urgently isolated. Violators will be punished to the fullest extent of the law."
Leo set the laptop aside. The messages confirmed his suspicions: the military were involved, and their lies were obvious.
Outside, the siren wailed again. Leo quickly turned on the monitor, aiming the camera at the highway. Three military trucks emerged from the fog, their engines roaring laboriously, as if their canvas-covered beds were overloaded with cargo. Leo noticed how bloodied limbs dangled from the back of one truck. Blood streamed onto the asphalt, quickly washed away by the rain; it seemed its smell even penetrated the bunker through the filters. The convoy was moving north, from the city center toward the city exit where, as Leo recalled, the city crematorium was located. The convoy's rumble slowly faded as it moved away.
Quickly shifting the camera focus back to house No. 14, Leo managed to catch a movement—the curtain stirred slightly, as if someone was watching the road. Its shadow trembled.
He returned to the desk, took out his backpack, and began preparing. He shortened the 12-gauge pump-action shotgun, sawing off the stock and part of the barrel at the work desk. The metal screeched under the saw. He wanted it lighter, to fit in the backpack. Its weight distributed across his shoulders. He stuffed shells into the backpack's pockets; their cold metal was calming. The revolver—a Smith & Wesson 9mm found in Tom's car—he tucked into his belt. Its grip was a reliable argument; its heaviness gave him confidence.