Steel walls crack open, allowing long-lost light to penetrate the bunker's darkness. People rush out in all directions, filled with urgency. Among them, a solitary man stands at the entrance, holding a small grey cat in his hands. He gazes out at the desolate world, his clothes whipping in the wind.
A worn PMK-2 gas mask covers his face, a stark reminder of his long journey and what lies ahead.
For a moment, the cat purrs, encapsulating the moment and creating a sense of tranquility where none should exist. He murmurs the meaningless word "fuck" as he stands there surveying his surroundings.
Building off in the distance have collapsed or are at the brink of collapsing, trees burned, a wasteland, a place people used to call home now a desolate play place for radiation to play at.
He returns to the bunker to retrieve his possessions, which include a plate carrier, a backpack, and an AK-47. He takes one last glance around the bunker, The rations were running low, and most of the food had already been consumed. He sees that others have taken the first aid kits. Fortunately, he has one in his backpack. The bunker was cramped and dark. It is astounding that 14 individuals, including two children, managed to survive there for five months, not to forget little guy, his small gey cat and his mom, though she didn't make it to see the surface, probably for the better.
The cat meows, looking up at the man as if telling him something. The man looks at little guy, petting him gently, his hands covered by black army gloves—another troubling reminder of a harsh past.
The cold, sluggish wind gently brushes through the little guy's fur as he and the man walk toward the city. With each step, the journey feels heavier. As they get closer to his hometown, he realizes nothing will be the same. Is that necessarily a bad thing? He thinks to himself as they continue their somber walk. The town is steeped in silence—no vehicles are rumbling down the streets, no footsteps echoing on the pavement, and no voices filled with laughter or conversation. The stillness is haunting, a stark contrast to the vibrant chaos that once filled the city, almost as if the silence itself is a loud proclamation of loss.
As they move cautiously through the abandoned streets, the man keeps his weapon held in a low-ready position, eyes sharp for any movement in the shadows. His posture is unwavering, radiating the calm authority of a battle-hardened soldier. His grip on the rifle is firm, unshaken, like a man who has long since become one with his weapon. Every step is measured, reverberating through the stillness, the weight of the silence pressing in as he sweeps the darkened corners, waiting for the slightest hint of danger.
They approach a towering building, one of the few that still stands relatively stable amidst the chaos. With cautious intention, they push through the doors, only to be met with a scene of utter devastation. The interior is a haunting reflection of abandonment: debris strewn across the floor, papers scattered as if caught in a whirlwind, and remnants of lives left behind in haste. It's evident that the people who once called this place home fled in a panic, leaving their world behind and taking only the memories of what once was.
As they ascend the seemingly endless staircase of the building, each step resonates with a rhythmic echo, a reminder of the urgency surrounding them. Suddenly, a loud bang pierces the air, quickly followed by the sharp crackle of gunfire in the distance. Instinctively, the man flinches, his body tensing for a moment before he resumes his steady climb.
Upon reaching the top, they enter a room that feels oddly desolate, yet it is alive with the vibrant embrace of nature. Sunlight filters through dusty windows, casting dappled shadows across the floor, while vines snake their way through cracks in the walls, intertwining with the remnants of a forgotten space. The atmosphere is surreal—a tranquil sanctuary amid the chaos outside, where the green leaves seem to breathe life into the emptiness.
Man rests his stuff on the wall, home, or what will be, for an undetermined amount of time.
With a sigh, he carefully unzips his backpack and retrieves a small mobile cooker, its metal surface gleaming in the fading light. He sets it down on the ground, the soft rustle of leaves around him providing a backdrop to his efforts. As he begins to prepare a meal, he glances at the meager rations spread before him—hardly enough to last even two days. A knot of worry tightens in his stomach as the realization hits him: if he wants to keep himself and the little guy safe and well-fed, he will need to venture into the woods and hunt for food. The weight of the task ahead settles on his shoulders, but determination flickers in his heart.
He places a piece of meat in front of little guy, the cat pouncing at it as if it was alive, he bites down and eats happily. His fingers, steady and deliberate, move with practiced precision as he disassembles the firearm. He starts by removing the magazine, placing it aside with barely a glance as if the weapon no longer holds any significance to him. The metallic click of each part detaching echoes in the silence, a mechanical rhythm that matches the cold, unfeeling stare in his eyes.
The rifle's components are laid out in front of him—dust cover, receiver, bolt carrier group...—all familiar, all worn. He runs a cloth over each piece, methodically wiping away any dirt or residue. His hands move with familiarity, a man who's seen the insides of conflict too many times. But today, there's no rush, no urgency—just a hollow routine.
After reassembling the firearm, he chambers a round and puts the weapon on safety.
As he descended the seemingly infinite staircase, each step echoing softly in the dim light, he carefully placed a few empty glass bottles and crumpled cans along the way. This simple yet effective trick had been etched into his memory from a time when life felt devoid of purpose. In those days, he and countless others were mere pieces on a vast chessboard, manipulated by unseen forces in a game where their very lives were expendable, leaving a scar on the earth's beautiful soil.
The voices of the past echo in the man's head: "GO! GO! ONWARDS! BREAK THEIR LINES!"
The scattered cans and bottles served a purpose; they were not just trash but vigilant sentinels, meant to alert him if danger lurked too close. Their fragile bodies were ready to shatter at the slightest disturbance.
After a refreshing sip of water, he concluded the day's activities.
He lay in bed, covering his cold body while his little companion cuddled close by, purring gently. Strangely, the man didn't remove his mask, only the filter, which he placed down next to his bed—worn like its owner.
As the days pass, time blurs into a monotonous cycle. The man follows a rigid routine: he wakes at dawn to hunt in the shadowy woods, finely tuned to every rustle of leaves. After securing his food, he enjoys a simple meal with his little furry friend.
Sleep comes easily, yet he remains alert, listening for dangers beyond the firelight. In moments of respite, he finds joy in playing with little guy, their fun breaking the solitude. Each day blends into the next, marked by the rhythm of survival and the warmth of companionship.
When the man returns home one day, he notices that little guy isn't waiting for him, sitting on the front desk in the building's waiting area.
He looks around the ravaged place trying to get the slightest glimpse of his little furry friend but in vain, he isn't there, he thinks he might have fallen asleep upstairs in their room. The man climbs upstairs with a severed deer leg on his back, their food for today. He called his name "Little guy? Buddy? Where are you?", was no response.
He creeps up the stairs, placing down the deer leg. Hands steady as he presses his gun against the door, cautiously peering through the crack. What he sees hits him like a freight train—an abomination, a grotesque figure, burned beyond recognition, its body mutilated and twisted in ways that shouldn't be possible. Its teeth sink deep into once was his furry little friend the room filled with the sickening sounds of gnashing. The man's breath catches in his throat, a wave of terror crashing over him.
"WHAT THE FUCK!" he screams, the words ragged, raw. His hands start to tremble as he pulls the trigger, but the gun clicks uselessly—jammed. His eyes widen in horror as the monster, its face somehow familiar amid the horror locks eyes with him. The thing lurches forward, and-
The man wakes up...
"fuck it," he murmurs, feeling a cold sweat wash over him. Another nightmare. They've been coming more frequently—too frequently.
As he scans the dimly lit room, a knot tightens in his stomach—where is little guy? A sense of fear creeps in, a reminder of nightmarish images that linger in his mind.
The atmosphere feels heavier as if the walls are closing in. Silence envelops him, amplifying the everlasting dread. Dust motes float in the thin light from the cracked window, but his instincts scream that something is wrong. A sense of dread whispers that whatever peace once existed will soon vanish, leaving him in an increasingly alien place. Something isn't right—it's a thought that intensifies his unease.
*CRACK*, one of the bottles he placed breaks. The man swiftly grabs a firm, yet relaxed hold of his weapon, taking it off safely and aiming it at the door as he stands up, "Fuck, go, go! Move faster!" can be heard echoing from the staircase. Someone is here, and they've got a friend.
As the heavy, echoing footsteps grew louder, the man adjusted his stance, moving with eerie calm to a shadowed corner of the room. His breathing was steady. The cold steel of his weapon gripped tightly in his hands. The light from the window casting shadows of the gun barrel on the wall.
The door burst open with a deafening crash, two bandits storming in like rabid animals, their eyes wild with adrenaline and desperation. One clutched a rusted pistol, shaking slightly in his unsteady grip, while the other wielded a crude, homemade weapon—more a jagged metal club than a gun. Their heavy boots pounded against the floor as they moved without caution, their attention darting frantically across the room.
The man didn't flinch. With the precision of a predator, he shot, a deafening crack shattered the air as the first shot tore through the silence.
The bullet slammed into the chest of the first bandit, ripping through flesh and shattering bone. The man staggered back, a guttural cry of pain escaping his lips as crimson bloomed across his shirt like a grotesque flower.
A second shot followed immediately, ripping his already broken body even more. Blood erupted from the wound in a crimson spray, rhythmic to the beat of the heart, wouldn't last long.
The third shot was merciless. It tore through his head with a sickening crunch, the impact flinging him to the ground like a lifeless marionette. He collapsed in a heap, blood pooling beneath him in dark, viscous rivers. His yelps turned to guttural gurgles as his heartbeat stopped.
DECEASED.
The man didn't waste even a millisecond homing in on the other bandit's head.
*click click*
Jammed.
The bandit didn't hesitate. His pistol roared, and a bullet tore through the man's upper shoulder, ripping through flesh and muscle, leaving a ragged, gaping wound. Blood spurted from the injury, painting his side.
The man staggered back, gritting his teeth against the searing pain, but he refused to falter.
Before the bandit could line up another shot, the man hurled his weapon with all his strength. The gun struck the bandit square in the face, eliciting a sharp crack as it broke his nose. Blood gushed from the wound, and the bandit stumbled back, momentarily dazed. The man seized the opportunity, charging forward with unrelenting fury.
Fists flew, each strike landing with bone-crushing force. The man's punches pounded into the bandit's face and torso, each blow accompanied by a sickening thud. Blood splattered from split lips and broken skin, but the bandit wasn't easy prey. With a snarl, he fought back, swinging wildly, his blows landing against the man's ribs and already wounded shoulder. The man winced but pressed on, gritting his teeth as adrenaline overpowered the pain.
The struggle was savage and unrelenting, each combatant desperate to gain the upper hand. As the man lunged for another blow, his foot caught on the lifeless body of the other bandit sprawled on the floor. He tripped, stumbling forward, and the bandit seized his chance.
With spite, the bandit slammed his fist into the man's side, sending him sprawling to the ground. The bandit towered over him, kicking viciously at his ribs, each strike drawing a grunt of pain. But the man's strength was not so easily broken.
As the bandit went to pick up his gun to finish off this pathetic show. The man managed to place his hand down through all the pain, he stood up.
With a surge of strength, the man shoved the bandit backward, driving him toward the window. The bandit stumbled.
Seizing the moment, the man grabbed him by the head and, with brutal force, smashed his skull through the windowpane. The glass shattered, embedding itself in the bandit's scalp and face. Blood started to flow, a grisly shower of crimson streaks running down the walls and pooling on the floor.
The bandit screamed, thrashing wildly, but the man wasn't finished. He wrenched the bandit's head back and, with one final, merciless motion, slammed his neck down onto the jagged glass at the edge of the frame. The shard plunged deep into his throat, tearing through flesh, arteries, and windpipe with a sickening squelch.
The bandit's body convulsed violently as blood erupted in thick, pulsating streams, spraying across the man's face and chest. A guttural gurgle escaped the bandit's lips, his eyes bulging in terror as his life drained away. Within moments, his thrashing stopped, his body going limp.
The man stepped back, his breathing ragged, blood dripping from his shoulder and staining his hands. He stood over the lifeless body, the bandit's wide, glassy eyes staring into oblivion. Another enemy reduced to nothing more than a grotesque heap of flesh and gore.
The man was furious, he started to punch and brutalize, even more, the already dead bandit. In a moment his humanity kicked in, he stepped back from the body, sitting, leaning against the wall, he stared into the bandit's lifeless eyes, now red from all the vessels popping.
The air became increasingly thick and oppressive, laden with an unsettling stillness that hung over everything. It felt as though a weight pressing down on his chest made it hard to breathe as if the very atmosphere surrounding him was infused with melancholy. He longed to release the emotions swirling within him, to let tears flow freely, but he found himself trapped in a silence that rendered him unable to express the sorrow he felt.
These bandits just wanted to survive, and now what?
DECEASED.
Little guy, appeared again, seemingly out of nowhere. Clutched firmly in its jaws was a freshly caught mouse, its fur still seeming to shimmer with life. With effortless grace, the little fellow leaped over the lifeless bodies, landing lightly on the ground. It then gently walked under one of the man's legs. As he sat, waving his tail, a soft, contented purr rumbled, a delightful sound that spoke of satisfaction and triumph in capturing its meal.
"Hey, there little guy... it is not safe place here anymore. We need to move..."
The man said worried, as the cat looked up at him, careless bliss in little guy's eyes.