Ten paces forward.

Silence.

Another six.

More silence.

Four more paces, and my foot connects with an object half buried in the dirt. Vaguely round in shape, closer inspection reveals it to be a statue’s head. Or at least, what’s left of it. Time has not been kind to it, and the head has been split roughly down the center and eroded any features. For all purposes, it is simply a marker, one of many I search for in my daily trek through this area. I pick it up and, dusting it off, place it back on the ground.

Straightening up, I survey my surroundings. A bleak wasteland stretches on into the horizon, punctuated by the occasional crumbled wall or wrecked car. The sky is stormy grey, but there is no promise of rain in those clouds. My suit beeps softly, telling me a half-hour has elapsed since my departure, while my breath gently mists the inside of my visor. The Geiger Counter clicks quickly in the background. Shaking myself out of my reverie, I continue on my route. Half a mile to the east, a rusted pole marks the third of my waypoints. I pause at it, as I have done countless times, and gaze around. Movement to my right catches my eye. I whirl about, hope leaping to my breast. But it leaves as soon as it comes. A plastic bag, caught by the wind, swirls off into the dismal sky. A chime in my ear alerts me that it is time to go. Turning on my heel, I head home. It is an uneventful journey.

Nothing surrounds the area in which I reside. Nothing living anyway. Any animals died within the first week, and the plants withered away by the end of the month. Only I survived, by virtue of chance alone. Ahead of me is the reason my survival continues. The reinforced bulkhead of my shelter cheers me up marginally, in the same way your least favorite food generally looks better than poison. I heave on the door handle, and the portal to my sanctuary grinds open. A step into the airlock, and a fine mist of decontaminants cleans my suit off. I strip off its protective layers and return them to their respective storage containers, leaving me in a simple, black, one piece bodysuit. Finally, I open the inner door, and step into the living area.

It’s a large space, with cold grey concrete making up the walls. A large screen occupies the far wall, with a table and couch directly across the room from it. I pass by all of it, moving directly to the rear of the shelter, where my room is. Technically, there are five bedrooms, but I choose one to give my life some normalcy. Once in my room, I strip down completely and take a shower. The running water feels good on my skin. After a while, I step out of the shower and dry myself off. Before I dress, however, I take a look at myself in the full length mirror on the back of my door. My tanned skin prickles in the slight chill. I look myself up and down. Straight black hair falls down the curve of my shoulders, which makes its way down to my slightly muscled arms, ending at my hands, still soft from a lack of hard labor. I gaze at my toned thighs, turned lean and muscular from years of walking. The gentle curve of my hips rises to the bulge of my breasts, creating a noticeable “hourglass” shape. I shudder, and cover myself, looking away from my reflection. As I dress, I realize that without anyone else, there is no real reason to maintain my figure. And yet I do, as if waiting for something just out of reach. I shake the thought from my mind, and proceed to the kitchen.

It’s not much of a kitchen. In reality, it’s more of an antechamber off of the main living room. As I enter, the lights flicker on, revealing pristine white walls. One panel lights up, a menu showing the remaining supplies and possible meals to be made from them. The numbers look fine, so I select a pasta dish. A few minutes later, a second panel opens. Inside, a plate piled with steaming pasta al forno. I retrieve my dinner, and the numbers on the first panel adjust accordingly. Food isn’t a problem for me. The shelter is stocked for several medium sized families, around twenty to thirty people for thirty years. I retire to the living room and sit on the couch. My presence triggers sensors in the screen, and it activates as I recline. Picking up a keyboard stored in the table before me, I quickly open the scanning program I created. It’s crude, cobbled together from several basic programming guides, but it should do the job, provided there’s something out there to find. As usual, the scans all come up blank. I shut down the screen, and finish my meal in silence.

As I chew, I think of how I got to this point. Exploring the expansive woods behind my house, I came across an old, abandoned bomb shelter. At first glance, it was a dark, musty hiding place, full of forbidden secrets and history. But after a while, some of those secrets became things straight out of a science fiction book. It was the ultimate clubhouse, and it was all mine. Little did I know, it would soon remain that way forever. No one knows who launched first, nor who was first hit. The only thing that was known for sure was that it couldn’t be stopped once started. One by one, countries dropped off the map as they were leveled to little more than radioactive dust pans, like the United States. Others self-destructed, falling apart into anarchy and infighting, like my own home of Europe.

And yet, still I survive. I struggle day in and day out to continue my existence. It’s been said that all living things are born with an innate sense of survival, a will to live through all odds. Normally, to survive means to be able to reproduce, or to continue contributing to the local biosphere. But when one is alone, is there truly any reason to survive? With no one else to share life with, life almost loses all meaning. But I persevere. I fight to live despite no knowing what I live for. These thoughts rattle around in my head until I drift off into an uneventful sleep.

At 1300 hours the alarm goes off, waking me from my slumber. I don my orange Environmental Protection Suit and exit my sanctuary.

Ten paces forward.

Silence.