Dead World

The year is 2033. You haven't been outside in 20 years. The very thought of it makes your legs unsteady. A fluttering feeling builds behind your rib cage. Your hands shake as you hand the bullets over to the guard. The only things your father left you, other than the gas mask you clasp in your other hand. The guard takes your bribe and nods for you to pass.

You walk down the vast subway tunnel, but stop ten feet from the escalator that ascends to the old world above. Time to put the mask on. You pull it over your face and tighten the straps, checking to make sure there are no gaps for the poisoned air to get through. When you’re done, you climb the broken-down escalator one steep step at a time.

As you reach the top, the harsh white sunlight pouring through the dust covered windows of the station stings your eyes. You don’t want to avert your eyes - you've heard every story about what could be lurking in the dead city - so you squint instead until your eyes adjust.

It takes a few minutes after the dark of the metro whre you've been living since the incident. But you don't want to think about that. Today is your birthday and your only wish is to see the old world once again. Even if it is only for the brief thirty minutes your air filter will last.

You walk through the station to the doors that lead outside. Footsteps echo differently there. In the tunnels, the echo is dull but loud, with varying effects from the rocky base floor, the metal rails, the narrow stone footpaths that lined the sides of the tunnels. Up here, though, the echo is clear with a crisper ring despite the dust and sandbag barricades and the tiled floor resounds in just one note. It feels emptier somehow.

Looking through the glass panes on the door and the windows either side, you see no danger and push the door open. Although it sticks a little, it does not make any noise. Sweat creeps through the straps of your mask onto your forehead and the sides of your cheeks. Condensation droplets cloud the edges of your visor. Your body shivers. The four layers that keep you warm enough in the tunnels are not enough out here and, for a moment, you are glad you won't have long outside. You shove your gloved hands deep into your coat pockets. With your right hand, you search by touch for the pocketknife you keep just in case. You find it and clasp it tight.

Listen to the world around you. The silence is a deep contrast to the amplified noise of the metro stations and the markets at the heart of them. All you hear now is the wind as it whips around crumbling and battered buildings, rusted and abandoned cars, and old road signs. It roars down alleyways, through paneless windows, and empty doorways. There is talking nearby and you see a small group of stalkers - those who scavenge the old world for items that will help those underground - three houses over from where you are walking. You relax and take a deep breath in ... then out. You wonder how much longer your air filter has.

To your left is a bench. You walk over and sit on the cold wooden seat. So much has changed, but how could it not?

The wind grabs at your boots, your legs, your arms, your hair. You reach for the hood on your coat, then lower your hand. Thinking of the stories you've heard, you don't want to restrict your vision just in case you found yourself hunted by some hideous creature.

Just in case. That's all your life had been for the past 20 years and that's all it will be. A series of 'what ifs' and 'better-safe-than-sorry’. Even more so than before the bombs fell.

You realise the sun has lowered in the sky since you first climbed the escalator. Or, at least you think it has. The pale light and endless white sky makes it hard to tell. Your legs are almost numb with the cold's touch and frost has formed on the casing of your filter.

You look around for what you fear will be the last time in a long while. You are not sure when you will find a way out of your station again. There is both too much to see and yet not enough. You remember when the area was covered in grass, not snow and ice. The face of your best friend forms in your mind. The last time you saw them was that fateful day in 2013. You hope they are alive somewhere. Although you want to cry, no tears come.

As you stand up, you notice something underneath the bench. You bend down to see what it is. Using your left hand, you uncover a delicate gold bracelet half buried in the snow. As you clasp your fingers around the cold chain link design, you wonder how something so fragile could have survived in such harsh conditions after all this time. You stand back up and place your hand, still gripping the bracelet, back into your pocket. A birthday present to yourself.

Your breath becomes shallow and your visor fogs more with every breath you exhale. Your thirty minutes are coming to an end. Time to return to the station.