How to Care About the World Ending When Yours Already Has

The day the bombs are set to fall, the outside air is early-winter warm.

My front lawn, whipping in the harsh winds, shames me for the months of neglect. Down the road, other yards boast the same abandonment, the unofficial timestamp of the day the news dropped. If an agreement of peace had not been reached on the first day of the new year, that would be it. It was merely a matter of who pushed their red button first.

Many chose to ignore it completely with their pristine lawns and late-night fireworks, while others prepared for the months of isolation and survival. I haven’t fallen into either category. Neither ignorant nor prepared. Just waiting.

If the timing weren’t so ill-fated, I might be more open to admitting the depths of my preacceptance for my impending demise. But, no one wants to hear about the suicidal’s take on the apocalypse.

My feet rock on the edge of my creaky porch as the sirens blare. Parents grab their children and whisk them to their prepped bunkers. It was capitalistically convenient, the seamless way bunkers were fabricated and sold in the panicked days following the announcement. Ads guaranteed installation by the first, and before the end of the week, states had instated laws mandating them for anyone with children, or under the age of 30. Several thousand dollars later, and my basement is now radiation-proof.

Unraked leaves rustle my attention to the base of the shallow staircase. A small furry thing I almost mistake for one of the raccoons that have been plaguing the community garden for years steps forward, huddling under the bare cover the bottom step provides. And no, it’s not a raccoon. It’s a cat. Its fur is soft, shiny, as if it’s never spent an hour in the elements. Its neck is wrapped in a yellow collar with a little bell, proving my assumption. The poor thing must have gotten out with all of the commotion.

“Looks like it’s you and me,” I say, moving to sit on the last step. I'm offered a weary glare before the thing hops into my lap, settling into a little ball in the crease between my legs.

I’m not sure if it's terror or purring, but the cat is shaking.

“It’s alright.” I scratch the top of its head, but the shaking only worsens.

In the distance, a sharp whistling sound rises and harmonizes with the alarm. It’s almost time.

A stitch grows in my gut, twisting in encouragement for my last meal to vacate the premises. I hold it down, though. With the announcement also came the run on non-perishables. In the weeks following, gone were the fresh foods, too. I barely managed to scrounge together my meager collection of soy curls and tomato sauce for my last supper. How so many families have continued to feed their children is beyond me. Let alone pets. Cats.

The whistling whines grow louder, and some stupid part in my brain screams at me to move. But I’ve made my peace with death long before the choice was taken from me.

The cat curls deeper into my lap, pressing fully against my stomach. At least the purring calms my nausea.

I don’t know why, but I half-expected a countdown. Maybe some big booming voice from the sky. But my send-off is devoid of anything human.

The street is littered with abandoned cars. A lone tricycle is toppled in the manicured grass in the Watersons’ yard. Their little boy just turned four. I can still taste the artificial blue frosting on my tongue - can still feel the weight of the announcement fresh on everyone's minds as we watched with sharp smiles as Timmy ripped into toys he may not be around to play with.

Over the tops of the foggy downtown buildings, I can make out the first explosion. The cloud covers the entire skyline. I think about the people in their overpriced apartments, their children, their pets, and feel a twinge of jealousy.

The Watersons had a cat. Fluffy. A pudgy gray thing with angry eyes and entirely too much fur. I wonder if they brought it with them, if they wagered the costs of keeping a growing boy alive and a cat. It’d be ridiculous, honestly, to keep the thing. The bunkers came equipped with bathrooms, not litterboxes.

“Who do you belong to?” I ask, resting a shaky hand on the cat's back. The cat mews, heat radiating into my touch, and something overcomes me. It’s instant, the drop in my stomach, the urge through my muscles, the calmness of my mind, and I’m up. Cat pressed to my chest. Legs moving me into my house and down into the bunker.

A second blast hits a minute later, rocking the plastic bunker stairs. The cat leaps out of my hold, claws gripping into the fabric of my shirt and the skin beneath.

I let out a yelp at the pain and dive to the ground as bomb after bomb rattle through me. I feel it in my bones first. Then the tension in my muscles. Until finally, the noises and shaking stop, and all I feel are the tears soaking into my face and the weight of survival pressing onto me from all angles. It’s suffocating. Or maybe the dust and radiation have broken through this crude box, and I am losing oxygen at a rapid rate. The possibility is the only thing to relieve any of the panic coursing through me.

I breathe through it, as my old therapist taught me: in for four seconds, hold for eight, out for seven. I repeat this for what could be hours until my heart slows and I’m able to think rationally again.

It’s only when I uncurl myself that I notice the cat, curled and pressed warmly into the space behind my legs. Again, he’s purring loudly. How long has it been there?

I assess the space. It’s small and square, with a bed built into a cove in the wall. There’s a small kitchen area, a cardboard-looking sofa, and a short table. Off to the side of the stairs is a door to the built-in restroom that the bunker company insisted I upgrade to. It’s clearly built for one person. Maybe two, if you were unlucky enough to be entrapped toe-to-toe in 200 square feet.

A radio jutting from the wall whirs to life. “Hello, survivors! The blasts have ceased, but to ensure you and your families’ safety, remain inside your bunkers for the All-Clear. Even if there is an emergency, staying in your bunker for the next 48 hours is crucial for continued survival-”

Rage floods through me, and I’m across the room before the voice can finish, shutting off the noise and taking deeper, calming breaths. It doesn’t work.

I’m not supposed to be in this bunker, or listening to safety alerts, or even breathing. My fists find my eyes, and in the forced darkness, I try to will myself outside. I should be dead already. Outliving your time is a horrible pain; it almost hurts as much as outliving your child.

I’m lucky, though, having to go through this alone. No child, partner, or parents to worry about and plan around. No one to share scarce resources with.

After I build the courage, I check the cabinets, which are bare aside from two jugs of water and a single emergency pack of dehydrated fauxmeat.

I hold up our meager rations, and the cat meows behind me. “I hope you don’t mind Not-Chicken.”

The cat meows again, in what I’m sure is disapproval, but there isn’t much room to be picky.

I break off a small piece of the jerky and feed it to the cat, who sniffs it suspiciously before scarfing it.

“Alright, my turn,” I say, before mimicking the cat's movement. It smells of plastic, and tastes oddly similar too. Whatever, I’m not planning on being around long enough to see the effects of bunker-meat on the human body.

~

It’s a strange sensation, waking up in the apocalypse. I didn’t even make it to bed last night. After hours of moping and pacing, I fell asleep on the floor in front of the miniature sofa. The cat, which I have determined is a boy, curled tightly right against my abdomen.

It’s a specific warmth I haven’t felt in a long time.

My natural inclination is to mope again, but I suppose I only have so many of these days left, so I might as well enjoy them.

Not-Chicken for breakfast then. Yay.

We eat our two-bite portions, soundtracked by the cat’s chewing, and really, the fake meat isn’t so bad if you accept that it will never taste like chicken.

I fashion a drinking bowl out of one of the shallow plastic dishes in the cupboards. The cat seems far more interested in the jug's cap, though, taking to batting it around until it lodges itself underneath the empty refrigerator.

He lies on his side the rest of the day, arms outstretched toward an unreachable target.

When I think night has fallen again, I call for the cat, breaking off his chunk of edible texture. He doesn’t move.

I try again.

Nothing.

“Kappi, come on, it’s time to eat.”

He finally spares me a glance, not impressed, but not offended either. Kappi it is, then.

~

Kappi and I spend the night in our spot on the floor after several failed attempts at convincing him to get in the bed. I don’t blame him for his suspicion. It’s a hole in the wall.

But the floor is less than comfortable. Even with the blankets from the wall-bed to cushion the concrete.

Kappi doesn’t seem jazzed about this arrangement either, but once I lie down, he settles right back into his spot against my stomach, and as if he’d never woken at all, he’s out.

~

After another day of silent protest, the jug cap is fished out from underneath the fridge, and Kappi could not be happier. He probably could be, but given the circumstances, he’s doing pretty well.

Our measly food ration is running low, and a twinge of resentment towards him bubbles inside me. Towards myself for neglecting any type of plan B in my preparation, and towards Kappi, for my inability to watch him die.

I scour the cabinets three times before I accept we’re out of food. Two bites left. One for Kappi this morning, and one for tonight.

The sour feeling in my stomach is a comfort at this point. Hunger means I’m doing my job. Even if I can’t eat, he will.

~

I keep the radio on, despite the annoying static, for the next few days, awaiting the All-Clear, but it never comes. The only thing that does is the intensifying pangs of hunger and the pitiful glances from Kappi.

It’s been over 48 hours, so technically, in the event of an emergency, the air is not considered toxic enough to kill me immediately. But what are the chances anything outside is even still standing?

The damage projections were not considered too worrisome for the suburbs, not like they were in the city, where everyone was advised to flee and convince another family to let you hunker with them. Even so, they couldn’t guarantee there would even be houses to return to once we exited our bunkers.

~

Kappi is an asshole. That is the first thought I am granted upon waking up with a dead mouse placed perfectly on the center of my chest.

“Ew, Kappi!” I grab the tiny thing by its tail.

Kappi meows, bumping into my legs over and over.

Two punctures mark the mouse on both sides of its neck. The poor thing never stood a chance. “Where did you even find this?”

Kappi meows again, and it dawns on me I have absolutely nowhere to put a dead mouse.

“I hope you’re hungry,” I say, swinging the mouse by the tail in front of his face. Kappi doesn’t react, blinking at me, like I’m the weird one. “Well, I’m not going to eat it.”

Kappi and I enter a stare-off. He wins, and I drop the mouse beside his water bowl, hoping that if he gets hungry enough, he’ll eat it.

~

Kappi doesn’t eat the mouse. Not that day, or the next. Instead, I find it placed on my chest or beside my jug of water every morning without fail, like Kappi is trying to feed me.

~

There is a sick irony in this that is not lost on me. I used to listen to the news on the way into work, and laugh, albeit bitterly, at all of the survival tips. Not once did I think I would be desperately clinging to each fraction of the sentences I overheard.

Now, I am a walking embodiment of those fractions, hoping that I understood at least some of them. My nose and face are covered by the thin bed-blanket, wrapped firmly around my head.

Kappi wails at me from the bottom of the steps.

“I know, Buddy. I’ll be right back.”

The door into the bunker is a hatch built into the floor. I don’t sense any immediate change when I push it open and take that as a promising sign. The windows on the east wall are blown out, leaving millions of tiny sparkly shards of glass littered across the carpet.

My worn sneakers crunch over them all the way to the front door, and I’m kicking myself for not even attempting to prep.

No matter, it’s too late now.

I pull the door open and am taken aback by the sharp metallic smell and the sight. The houses on my block are still standing, for the most part. Missing glass. Fallen trees. It doesn’t look much worse than the aftermath of a hurricane. But the center of town is smoldering and flat.

A gasp escapes my lungs, but I’m quick to recover. If I can avoid inhaling any of this acrid air, I’m sure my body will be grateful.

I’m cautious on the now-cracked steps to my front yard and the brittle grass.

The other difference, so stark it’s chilling, is the silence.

No noises from the busy street one block over, no children playing games outside, raccoons in the trash cans, or people fussing about.

The sound of my footsteps is deafening across the sidewalk to the Watersons ’ house. The front door has been blasted open, shards of wood splintering around the frame in sharp points I try to avoid with each step inside. If I thought it was quiet outside, in their house, it is as if all of the noise has been swallowed up. Vacuum sealed like one of those old bags my mother used to store her coats in.

The smell reaches my nose, rancid and sweet, before I see its unfortunate source. Fluffy. I suppose the Watersons decided after all.

Fluffy is lying flat on the pearl-white tile beside the plastic bowl labeled with her name.

The smell and the sight swirl together in my stomach, making what little remaining acid threaten my esophagus. I step around her tiny body and go for the cabinets, throwing them open one by one in search of anything missed.

Lucky for me, the Watersons’ lack of preparation has left their cupboards full. I skip over the human stuff until I find the cat food.

It’s the overpriced, healthy stuff I never would have picked out in a million years, but I grab it all anyway, holding it tight to my chest as I search further into the house.

The smell intensifies the deeper I go.

A door I have only ever seen closed is cracked, the smell the most intense in its line of airflow.

It’s a terrible idea. I know it is, and accept this fact as I push the door all the way. It hits the wall with an echoing thud. I regret this choice immediately as the smell becomes too intense, even with the layers of fabric protection.

The Watersons, in their disbelief towards the bomb, have somehow defied the law. There is no bunker. Only stairs. And at the bottom, the stiff, lifeless bodies of Daniel, Jamie, and little Timmy Waterson.

I shove the makeshift mask down, lunging for the nearest basin-like surface as the remnants of bile and Not-Chicken hurl themselves from my mouth. The taste and smell only add to the horribleness of it all.

Idiots. Why couldn’t they have listened and followed the damn law!

My eyes betray me, chancing another glance. Jamie and Daniel have their arms around their boy, and with their protection, you could almost miss him. His light curls and peaceful, dream-like expression. Just like Sam.

I hurl again, but this time it’s dry and aching, coming from a place much deeper than my stomach.

Sam. My son. Who died, not from a bomb or fallout, but something we sought radiation for. He’d told me he would keep fighting, and he did, right until the very end with his little hand weak in mine, his head heavy against my chest. He fought. And I know, because of him, because of the little dead boy downstairs, and all of the children, and people, and pets scattered around, I will have to.

Back in the kitchen, I hold my breath as I revisit the yawning cabinets. Cans and jars of preserved foods that I shove into the pocket I’ve concocted from the blanket. It’s heavy and loud, but I grab everything I can.

I will fight. For Sam. And ultimately, for Kappi, who will need someone with thumbs to open his cans.