“Last directive today,” I say.


“Yeah.” He shoves a blob of oatmeal in the testing machine, even though both of us already know what the screen will say, unsafe, unsafe.

“Planning anything special?” I ask after the alarm grumbles, Unsafe. Name something that isn’t unsafe, shut up, that’s why we have protocols.

“Naw. Maybe. I dunno.” He scratches at his beard, so long now, what, a year since he quit shaving? I specifically pay zero attention to the swarm of bugs wriggling in it. Who am I to judge?

“OK,” I say. “Let me know if you need anything.”

He flips a look at me on his way out of the kitchen, which I ignore like always, oatmeal crusting over stovetop, also like always.

I scrape the unsafe oatmeal, tastes normal, into my bowl and eat it all, then wipe the bowl clean with my fingers, I guess sanitation doesn’t mean anything to you anymore, and stick it back on the shelf before licking my fingers. There was a time I can barely remember, somewhere lost in the fog with fairy godmothers and grocery stores, when there was water for more than just eating. You could stand in a cubicle with a non-recycling drain and let gallons of water flow over you for the feeling on your skin; what a waste. Let’s keep our thoughts centered on the future not the past, this isn’t healthy thinking, you still have your whole life ahead of you.

Last directive.

Our perpetual calendar says it’s Tuesday, which means a double workout’s on the schedule, haven’t done that in months either. Not like either of us needs to fight weight gain on our dwindling pantry diet, and what do we need to build up extra strength or endurance for? We have enough labor assigned every day anyway, greasing axles, manually rotating gears, and once a week clambering up all fifty floors to check levels. The chore list keeps us moving so much, it seems superfluous to exercise too, no matter what the experts advised, you’re in no position to second guess experts. He is probably doing a double workout now, triple if I know him, because that’s what they’d said to do, and that’s how we’re going to get through this, dammit, why can’t you get that through your spaghetti brain, if the experts were here you could ask them, but they’re not, but I am, so just focus already and follow the rules, quit apologizing all you do is apologize.

“What are you doing?” he says.

I jump. Has the morning gone already? That was fast, and me still here in the kitchen licking my fingers, why do you do that. If I start now, maybe I can still finish most of the day’s load?

“Thinking,” I say. Not likely; I’ve seen how your brain works. “How was your workout?”

He is drenched in sweat but doesn’t answer right off. In his hand he clutches something, the directive no doubt, are you even going to let me see it, don’t be so insecure.

Still watching me, you’ve gotten uglier how is that possible, he finally says, “Good, thanks.”

“Is that the directive?” I ask, what else would it be, why do you waste our moldy oxygen with your dumb questions.

“Yeah.”

The metal chair shrieks softly as I scoot back, don’t look at me like that, remember guns don’t work in here you idiot. “Feels like we should do something special. I’ve been saving a chocolate cake mix if you’re interested.”

“If the levels come back clean again today, and the directive says what it should, it’s time to go out. What could be more special than that?”

“Levels have been clean for six months, so it’s promising,” I say, why are you stating the obvious. “I wonder what it’s like out there.”

“Less toxic than down here,” he says. He stands there awkwardly, no, you’re awkward, fumbling with the plastic envelope, still dripping wet from storage. “Imagine eating safe oatmeal for breakfast for once. You won’t know what to do with yourself.”

“Maybe I’ll upgrade to scrambled reconstituted eggs. Spose those will be okay?”

His eyes crinkle, like your face. “Hard to say. Which of us is cooking in this scenario?”

“Very funny.”

“So, shall I open it?”

“Yes, open it!” I say brightly, don’t tell me what to do.

“Fine, I’m opening it.” He isn’t. Why is he hesitating don’t hesitate you should have pulled the trigger if you didn’t believe me.

I put on my most encouraging tone. “We just have to read the final directive, which is undoubtedly going to say go out with our seed packets and get to work rebuilding the world. It’s just a new chore list, that’s all. No sweat.” You didn’t do today’s chores or yesterday’s or yesterday’s or yesterday’s. Well you don’t sweat even when you work out, freak, wish I’d known that earlier, be glad guns don’t work here.

“No sweat,” he says.

“Then open it.”

“I just—you’re going to be okay, right? Going back out after so long? You know I worry about you.”

“You’re too kind. But I’m just peachy.” I eye the envelope, get your eyes off this it’s mine, and the gun is mine you’ll never find it again. “How about you?”

“Same. Peachy, as long as I’ve got you with me.” His fingers tighten on the envelope, be grateful it’s not your neck. “Do you even remember what weather is like?”

“We’ve had weather down here.”

“I don’t mean our digital windows. Real weather, the kind that does whatever it wants. Thunder and lightning powerful enough to leave your bones trembling. An angry sky that pounds its rage on the world equally, that can’t be weaponized by corrupt politicians and their back room deals that force one’s hand.”

“I like storms,” I say. Am I agreeing? You’d better agree with me. “It’s good to know there’s something stronger than a man.”

“Humans.”

“What?”

“It’s good to know storms are stronger than humans, you meant to say. You crack me up.”

“Oh. Yes. I’m funny.” Keep your eyes on the floor where they belong and maybe you won’t get hurt this time.

“Anyway,” he says, drawing a deep breath, be thankful I still let you breathe, “I guess we can always come back here if the world’s overrun with mutants, eh?”

I laugh, I hate the way you laugh. “Great plan.”

He looks around fondly, I hate you. “Weird, but I’m kind of going to miss this place. You sure I should open this thing?”

“You’re the one always saying we need to follow the guidelines.”

“True enough. Top professionals in the world. They gave us their expert opinions for a reason.”

“Just like you chose me for a reason, right?” It is my turn to watch him, the glint in his eye dancing across darkness.

A pause. “Yes. Just like that.”

He finally unfastens the envelope, skims through the message inside, then crumples and tosses the paper on the table, what a piece of trash you turned out to be, looks back at me.

“Well?” I say.

“Freedom!” he says, his eyes shining, I’ll give you a shiner. “Our long great sacrifice has led up to this very moment, at last. You’ll see that what we did was not done in vain.”

“At last,” I repeat. “All the hopes of the dead rest on us.”

He holds out a hand to me, more symbolic than anything, you can’t climb fifty flights of stairs holding hands, even he knows that, not when you’ve also got bags of gear and rations and meds and the hopes of the dead strapped to your back.

So after we pack I take his hand, I take it, I’ve always taken it, I took it when he locked us in here and pushed the red button I didn’t get to say goodbye, he said it would be him and me forever, and he’d grow an Eden that would be for us alone, alone, alone I am alone, he squeezes my hand.

The gear and rations and meds and hopes of the dead as together we climb back into life, him and gear and rations and meds and the hopes of the dead, those five years gone and me, gear and rations and meds and the seeds to plant and the gun I found, the hopes of the living dead.