The Wasteland #1

The heavy lead hatch swung open for the first time in many years allowing light from the outside to fill the dark void of the fallout shelter. It flowed into the room, revealing the eaten cans of food strewn across the floor, indicating that something had survived in the depths of the Shelter. The light glistened off the steel support beams; making intricate patterns on the melancholy concrete walls while continuing its quest to illuminate the room with its first true light in many years. It went on to reveal the numerous articles that decorated the gray walls, revealing events that had lost meaning to many. The cordial look of the neat white papers stood in stark contrast to the words they spoke

The oldest article proudly declared “Nuclear Nations Form to Discuss Nuclear Nonproliferation and Disarmament” It stood alone as the only hopeful article on the concrete wall in a sea foreboding titles.  “Is The Nuclear Nations’ Disarmament Strategy Fruitful?” one heading speculated while another article only few days older replied “Nuclear Nations Disband.” one shamefully declared “President Chooses War to Eliminate Looming Nuclear Threat.” The last one proclaimed “Rumors of Nuclear Launches in Iran”

The man opening the lead hatch couldn’t help but grimly chuckle at the last article. He knew the truth behind the rumor all too well. He had spent too many days and nights feeling the earthshaking explosions vibrate throughout the safety of the Shelter. The countless hours he had spent listening to the archaic radio from the Shelter. How he listened in fear about the unseen destruction reigning down upon his homeland like the wrath of an angry god, how he shared the grief of his fellow man and the anger that he couldn’t help from the isolation of the Shelter. He remembered the silence that took perch in the Shelter when the broadcasts stop coming in, and that feeling of being alone, that terrifying feeling of being alone in the world. The Shelter soon changed from a safe haven into a concrete prison where the only solace was counting down the days until the man could go out of the Shelter.

The words of the final broadcast still rung in the man’s head

“…Fear not my friends.” The voice said, “Stay in your shelters and in three years we shall reclaim our once great nation back from the clutches of our captors!”

“Three years” The man thought on his cot while stroking the gold cross he always wore around his neck. The light exposed the deep lines on the man’s face that faded into the whiskers of his mud-colored beard.

“Three years until I go home” He whispered solemnly as he stared at the ground of his prison.

Day after day he sat in the Shelter sitting on the army cot in the corner while tapping out the beat to songs he remembered with his feet. He played solitaire with The Cardinal’s playing cards he got from a family trip a couple years before. He read books about distant worlds, hopeful futures, and the triumph of man until the explosions started- and before the lighting gave out. Then, those books just read like a cruel joke made at the expense of his sanity. After a while he just laid around and thought about what the world of his past; of his friends, family, and home until he dozed off and nightmares of destruction and vengeance replaced his fleeting memories.

Finally the three years passed and the day had come.

“And on the third year I shall return to the land of the living.” Daniel mused to himself as he forced the lead hatch open and emerged from the Shelter into the New World.