Mac and Cheese

tw// implied abuse, implied suicidal consideration

Mac and Cheese

Spam pairs quite nicely with mac and cheese. I savor the combination while I still can. I'm short on supplies, so I only get a meal every other day now. Soon I won't even be able to afford that much.

It doesn't bother me really. I don't move around, so it's not like I need the energy. I make sure to stretch every couple of days, but I don't force myself to do any more than that. I used to walk laps back and forth, but I stopped bothering about a month ago. I suppose chasing down Pluto counts as exercise. He doesn't take too kindly to me, so catching him in my arms can be an hour-long endeavor. You would think after losing a leg he would have slowed down a bit, but he adjusted fast. Thankfully, the bunker isn't big enough to hide in for long. I feel cruel grabbing him, not relenting even when he tries to claw his way out, but when you go months without any sort of connection, it gets a little lonely. After a few minutes, he tends to go limp anyway, surrendering to me. His warm body is the only physical satisfaction I'm left with now.

As I eat, Pluto sits across from me and waves his tail. I can go a day or so without seeing him when he's trying to avoid me, but he tends to make appearances when I eat, always hoping for scraps. When I get up slowly and reach my arms out he immediately scrambles and leaps onto the highest shelf. I sigh, debating if I feel like starting a chase right now. The poor thing sticks his head out slowly to check if I'm pursuing him or not. I'm right under him, but he doesn't move, aware that he's high enough up that I would need a stool. He tilts his head to the side, considering me. His left eye blinks slowly and solitarily; his right eye no longer present due to an accident when I was a kid. It's a miracle he's still alive. Even seeing just his face, it's clear that he's so much skinnier than before. His black fur is matted and sticky in certain areas because he hasn't bothered to clean himself. A better person would have gone out ages ago to find cat food, or at least set him free so he could spend his last days roaming. Unfortunately for him, he’s stuck with me.

I think about what might happen if I did let him out. He can be charming when he wants to be, so I'm sure he could find a better owner, given he isn't eaten by something. There are others out there, I'm sure of it. A couple of times near the beginning, I even heard shuffling near the entrance ladder. Whoever it was must not have seen the trapdoor under the rug and left, but that didn't stop me from spending the next two days leaning on the ladder with the shotgun pointed at the entrance. For the first month, I was worried one of the contractors that built this place might try and get in. After all, there isn't usually more than one doomsday bunker in any given suburban community. I'm sure they would remember where it is. But they never came. They were likely part of the unlucky 92%. That's roughly how much of the population we lost. I know because I keep a battery-powered radio turned on. It was more useful near the beginning, but there's still the occasional broadcast. Last I heard, there were people gathered at a church just 10 miles south of me. Maybe in a few more months, when I have no more water and mac and cheese, Pluto and I will head there. I can't quite picture that. I like it down here. I don't want to have to see what it's like up there. I know it will be different and overwhelming. Someone will find this place eventually, I'm sure. It wouldn't take a genius. I have it locked from the inside, but it would be easy to break. I hope whoever finds me shows me the mercy I can't seem to give myself and takes me out quickly.

The bunker was my mother's. So was the cat. I wish I had talked to her more before everything went to shit. I wish she were down here with me; she would have had a better idea of what to do. I wish I could have told her to buy more Spam and mac and cheese. It's a fluke that I'm even down here. Any other time of the year, I would be off at university. I think often about how that would have gone. Maybe if I were with a group of friends when it happened, I would have the courage to learn how to survive above ground. Or maybe I would have ended up back here anyway. Most likely I would be dead.

I break my eye contact with Pluto and remember the food. There isn't much left, but even the few noodles at the bottom are precious. I finish eating and decide to lie down. I sleep for most of the day now. There isn't much else to do.

—

I wake up slowly, hoping that sleep will return to me. When it becomes apparent that it will not, I rise and decide to grab some water. My course changes in an instant when I hear the sound of tin scraping on the pavement of the bunker. I run towards the sound, scaring Pluto away, but it's already too late. My last two cans of Spam are on the floor, chewed open and licked clean. The tin is thin, but even so, it's clear he must have been working on these for weeks behind my back in order to get them open this much. How he managed to do so without me noticing, I'll never know. Pluto sits proudly on his shelf. I swear he's grinning at me. I chuck the cans at him between shouts of profanity, but he still manages to look smug.

I take a deep breath and bring my attention to my reserves. I still have some beans and some canned fruit, and I still have some mac and cheese. I have plenty of water. It will be difficult, but a month of survival is definitely doable. And I still have Pluto.

Pluto waves his tail teasingly. He needs to be taken down a peg. I clearly can't give him free rein of the bunker anymore. I wonder if he could still get around with just two legs. After all, the first one paired quite nicely with mac and cheese.