Isabel Rose

   The cold hit me first; a coldness that seemed to shred the skin and seep into the bones. It was like a slap in the face as soon as I stepped outside, knocking me back towards the bunker. I almost chickened out, then. Almost. I've been cold before – everyone has – but this was something entirely different. My fingers and toes actually hurt, like I'd gone over each and every one of them with a sledgehammer... No, that's not right. It was a deep ache, almost like a toothache... but it burned, seared. After a while, it went numb.

   I did retreat inside, then. The image of snapped blackened finger and toe nubs scattering the ground wouldn't leave my mind. Like a completely unprepared moron, I'd been wearing my own trainers. I went for George's boots; they're several sizes too big, but thankfully that left plenty of room for the seven pairs of thick woolly socks. I couldn't find any gloves, so I had to make do with more socks on my hands. Thick, cumbersome and makes me even clumsier, but I reckon they'll save my hands for now. I found some tape and – after a lot of swearing and biting – managed to stick the socks around my wrists to stop them falling off so easily.

   Scavenging List (In Order):

1. Gloves

2. Boots

3. Anything Warm.

   Back outside and the pain was much less. I actually made it out of the tunnel and into old George's garden this time. You would think, after feeling that cold, I would have expected to see the snow. I hadn't. I’m not sure it can actually be called snow; it’s freezing cold and soft, like regular snow, but it looks more like ash and it feels heavier, somehow.

   It’s dark. Back in the shelter, George’s clocks say its noon, but out here it’s more like a cold winter evening. The gas mask feels heavy and despite the freezing temperature, I’m wondering if I could actually drown in my own sweat if I wore it long enough. Vision is severely restricted even without the help of the black snow and the torch light slices through the darkness with an almost sluggish, inky feel.

   The sky looked … angry. There’s no other word to describe it. Two years after the bombs and the sky still looks furious. I can’t imagine how it was hours, even days, after the war. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever been as scared as I was when I first stepped outside; not even the night I got locked in. I wanted nothing more than to dive back into the bunker and forget that ‘outside’ even existed. I could do it. I’d done it before.

   At the beginning of my two-year hibernation, I found it extremely difficult to stay put. There had been instructions for the door and locking mechanism; I probably could have opened it up at any time… but I burned them before I could give in to temptation. I had to train myself to look past the door, to be completely blind to it, until all I saw was a smooth wall.

   Of course I wanted to be out there. I wanted my damn mother! I argued with myself for days and days; just open the door, let in mum, dad and Jess. So what if the food doesn’t last as long? We’d just have to leave earlier … but we’d have to leave eventually anyway. Like with the door, I had to convince myself that my family was gone. It wasn’t a hard thing to imagine from what I’d seen on the news before it went offline. In fact, I hoped with everything I had that they died in the blast.

   Instantly.

   No pain.

   No radiation.

   I know that’s a horrible thing to hope for. Still, denial is a powerful thing, and it would do me no good in the long run. Not this time. So, I went on.

   I think the most surprising thing was to find the houses still standing. I know we’re quite a distance from any major city, but I was still expecting to find a wasteland. George’s house loomed before me in the darkness, cold and obscure. As I got closer, I saw the door in one piece.

   It’s quite difficult to use a crowbar while wearing sock-gloves and trying to keep a steady light with the torch. In the end I held the torch between my knees and smashed at the door as hard as I could. It looks a lot easier than it actually is; it seemed to take an age to break a big enough hole in the door to fit through. It wasn’t just locked; the wood had swollen and expanded until it seemed to have almost merged with the wall itself.

   Inside was a mess. Furniture had been overturned, what wasn’t already broken was rotten, shelves had fallen and what appeared to be books littered the floor, soaking wet and mouldy. The glass in all the windows had been shattered (mental note, try the windows before bashing down a door next time). The carpet was a wet soggy mess, I nearly lost my boot numerous times simply crossing the living room. Some of the ceiling had fallen through, leaving gaping maws in the darkness. I took the stairs carefully, but they seemed to be the sturdiest thing in the whole building.

   There was moss growing on the walls in places and in others the plaster had cracked and fallen away revealing chipped bricks. The door to the master bedroom was hanging off its hinges and inside I saw a large double bed.

   I found George.

   At least, I think it was George. It was mostly a skeleton, nothing remained of his clothes but for bits and pieces of rags clinging to the bones. He lay on the right side of the bed, as if he was still leaving space for his wife who had died years before the bombs. His hands were clasped over his chest, almost peaceful, bony fingers wrapped around a book. On the bedside cabinet were several scattered tablet boxes and a dirty old glass.

   I took the book and was nearly sick inside the mask as I had to wrestle it from his hands. It seemed to be in good shape, unlike those downstairs, and I was curious to see what he had been reading before he died. It’s clear how he died, and I didn’t – still don’t – know how to feel about that. He saved my life, there’s no denying that.

   I returned to the bunker. I couldn’t face anything else; I definitely didn’t have the heart – or the stomach – to see what remained inside my own house. Is it possible my family had survived, somehow? Had there been time to find shelter? Those are answers I’ll have to find another day.

   I can’t have been outside for more than twenty minutes, and yet I feel utterly drained. Bone weary.

   God, but what a horrible world.