All this for some Deli Meat?

“Cheers to another year of survival!” the gruff old man with the peppered hair and broad shoulders exclaimed. He tilted his head back and downed a shot. The burn ran down his throat like a trail of acid and the tones of honey and earth stuck to his tongue. Surrounding him was a group of drained but grateful people in worn down clothes who grinned and chattered amongst themselves. Simply happy to be alive.

The war occurred ten years ago. A nuclear fallout had destroyed most of the world. But humans, like ants, are impossible to eradicate completely.There were still a good handful of people around. Sure, life was harder, but with that came reward.

“You know Dave, if we’ve gotten this far, we might just survive. I’ve been out with the scouting group a few times and when you look up at the sky in the early morning you might just catch a beam of sun,” his friend remarked, placing a small shot glass on the table. After the nuclear fallout, the sky had become nothing but dark, angry clouds and debris, like a constant overcast looming over the world. The sky never cleared, the sun never shined, and the temperatures dropped drastically. The earth is full of distorted animals who had somehow managed to survive the radiation. It was mostly rodents, bugs and resilient plant life. The vast majority of humanity now survived underground in makeshift homes like burrowing animals; or ants in an ant hill.

“Might,” Dave remarked uncertainly. He was getting old; he could feel it in his bones. He’d only have a couple more years living in conditions like these. The bare shelves where food once laid, the lack of safe drinking water, and the gray, freezing world was no help in his aged condition. Not like he would be considered old in the world of the past; he was only sixty-seven. Sure, he would like to be lying on a beach somewhere in Florida sipping on a Pina Colada and watching his grandkids play in the lively waves, but what can you do?

“Just gotta have some faith bud. God chose us to survive for a reason,” His friend stated while standing up from the rugged plastic chair. He clubbed Dave on the shoulder before walking away with his hands raised to celebrate the New Year with the others. Dave sunk back in his chair. His eyebrows furrowed and a mournful expression crossed his face. The plastic material rubbing against his back offered him little to no comfort, but it was all they had. If it wasn’t for his friend George, Dave would be in utter desolation.

In the past, his life was perfect. Him and his wife, Debra, had two bright kids with abundant futures ahead of them. Debra was his whole world, his everything, and, in his eyes, the most beautiful being god had ever created. Her soul was as pure as the sun rising on the horizon of a warm summer morning; crisp in colors of pink, orange, and yellow. She smelt like lilies and fresh brewing coffee, with a smile that would make anyone's day. A soul that only those deserving of it had the privilege to see.

She was at the grocery store when it happened. He had wanted a sandwich and sent her for deli meat. She never returned home. To this day, Dave doesn’t know what happened, if she is alive or not. He blames himself of course. If she had stayed home with him, they would not have been separated, and she’d still be alive with him.

During the weeks to come, once the shock had settled and the government collapsed, he promised himself that he’d live for her. That's why he kept going, why he farmed, why he suffered in the cold. For her. It would always be for her.

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Somewhere between twelve-thirty and one o’clock in the morning, Dave had dozed off in his chair. The celebration had cleared; drinks were abandoned by their buzzed owners, and the smell of alcohol, musk, and sweat lingered in the air. He awoke at nine to the echoes of the alarm clock blaring repeatedly throughout the bunker. Everyone wakes up at the same time, and everyone has their job to do. They were all assigned chores; this kept the bunker alive and civil. Humans without a drive or a purpose tend to go insane. Insanity leads to attempted murders, fights, and much worse. All of that could lead to the loose form of order the bunker does have to disintegrate into nothingness.

Dave’s back ached. He was surprised no one had woken him up from the chair and dragged him back to his bunk, or at least thrown a blanket over him. He pushed himself up off the chair and outstretched his arms, taking a good look at the mess around him. Repurposed pieces of paper had been colored into confetti and a New Year’s hat that read “2013” was strewn on the floor. It was not 2013; that was twenty years ago. It was now 2033.

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In the Afternoon, Dave was sowing corn seeds in the bunker's garden. Corn grows quickly and has little room for error, it also feeds plenty of people. It is the perfect crop for his situation. A small huddle of survivors entered the garden with respirator marks still indented on their faces. Their eyes had become weary after a long day's travel. In the group was his friend, George. He was staring distantly at the wall directly behind Dave. That was one of his tells; something was wrong. At a second glance, not only were the expeditioners tired, but they appeared solemn. Their heads were tilted downwards and their shoulders were rolled inward.

“What’s up?” Dave asked, sitting up from the seedbed he had been working on; his brow knotted in mild concern.George stepped out of the group, not making eye contact with Dave and rubbing a hand over his filthy face.

“We…uhm…found…Debra,” he said tenderly.

In that moment, it felt like Dave’s whole world shattered for the second time. He had been holding onto a scrap of hope that she had been alive in another bunker, or with a group somewhere safe, living out a decent life.

“She’s dead?” He murmured, so softly the group could barely hear him.

“She’s dead,” His best friend, his only real friend, confirmed. “I’m sorry.”

George lowered his head so hard his chin practically touched his neck, turned around and left, the group following behind him.

Dave was left with the tapping of boots on the cold hallway floor and complete silence in his mind. She was dead; She had died because of deli meat, deli meat that he had wanted–she didn’t even want to have a sandwich for lunch; his love wasn’t even a big fan of sandwiches.

It was his fault.

Dave slammed his hands into the dirt beneath him, digging his fingers deep into the soil. It condensed beneath his force. He pulled his hands out and slammed down on the soil repeatedly until he was red in the face and out of breath. With his heart racing, he shuffled back from the soil on his knees and curled up into a ball. His knees dug into his forehead and his toes curled. He had done this to her. It was his fault and he deserved to die for it, to repay for his sins. Without a second thought, he stood and rushed toward the door, pushing through and leaving it to slam shut behind him. He weaved through the hallways crowded with people; he needed to get to his bunk, and he needed to find something sharp. The mud made walls, the makeshift support beams, and the people blurred together the further he got. When he finally reached his room, a ten by twelve space shared by four people, he splayed his hands on his dresser, opening it with the force of a madman. He rummaged through it, throwing aside clothes, books, even his bible, till his hands stumbled on it. A stone arrow; similar to the ones used by Native Americans tribes; that he had bought and had custom made for him and his wife on their honeymoon. It had their initials engraved in it. This is what he would use to end it.

He made the long run from the sleeping quarters to the emergency exit. He knew how to get out; he had done it once before when he was invited to see how the world was recovering. It had been so devastating that he never wanted to go out again. The hallways were a blur, time wasn’t real, these people weren’t real, nothing was real but him, this arrowhead, and the deep longing to repay for his wife’s death, and to hopefully meet her in heaven; if god found him deserving. Before he knew it, he was at the hatch, twisting the circular door open with all his might. Once it opened, he stumbled into the smaller chamber in front of him.

“The door is closing in thirty seconds,” a robotic voice informed Dave. He paced back and forth in the small chamber as the computer counted down, his heart beating faster with every second that passed by. His chest grew tighter with each step.

“Door closing,” it beeped. The door closed behind him with an air sucking pop. He slammed the red button beside him, and the exit to the outside world opened.

It was gray; so gray and foggy it was hard to believe. The air hit him immediately; it was worse than freezing. The air was so cold it was painful, like breathing in needles. Dave persevered. He ran through the dead yellow grass that was up to his kneecaps, his hands swatting so he could see where he was going. Once he had dashed far enough, he stumbled into a clearing of short grass, with a nearly frozen river in the distance in this clearing he pressed the cold stone arrowhead against his throat. By this time his hands had long gone numb, and the only thing allowing him to grip it was his passion to be with his wife in heaven and the deep guilt that had set into him. Dave took a deep breath of the prickly cold air, pressed the arrowhead down, and slit his throat.

Immediate regret.

The Arrowhead dropped into the short grass of the clearing and Dave folded to his knees, desperately pawing at his throat where blood now trickled down and flowed down his chest at a steady rhythm while pulsating pain seized his body. As the minutes passed, Daved grew weaker as the flow got stronger. He fell into the rough, dead grass and curled into the fetal position, his eyes locked on a polluted, nearly frozen river in the distance. He heard the crunching of footsteps on dead grass approaching him, but his head was so heavy, he only managed to shift it slightly upwards.

The blurry silhouette of a woman appeared as black speckles invaded his vision. She was getting closer, running now. Who was that? As his eyes grew heavy, he allowed them to relax, letting them hang half open instead of wide and staring at the figure. The last thing he heard before the darkness of death drew him in was a woman's voice, soft and familiar.

“Dave..?”