The Departure

The elderly gentleman woke for the fifteenth time that night, or so it felt that way.

He had not slept well for years, the cold grey walls seemed to press around him more and more with each passing day, the chill seeping into his soul. He stared up at the ceiling momentarily before leaving the warm stretcher bed behind, forcing his tired body to get dressed. His knees cracking in malcontent, the man staggered to the bedroom door. Staring at the dull silver doorknob that led out of the bedroom, the man took a shaky breath. He gazed solemnly at his hands for a moment, the arthritis that crept into his joints seemed to be the only thriving thing in this bunker.

He placed his gnarled right hand against the knob, the cool metal biting into his skin. He welcomed the shock, the handle turning swiftly under his grip. He imagined opening to a beautiful kitchen area with a hot pot of coffee and outdoor seating amongst giant green trees, as he usually did. It made it easier to get up every day, that hopeful vision fleeting. The familiar dull living area and kitchen spread before him, and he sighed. He wedged the bedroom door open with an old piece of wood lying on the floor, and shuffled over to the kitchen, selecting the next ration pack from the pull-out shelving. The cupboards and kitchen top were grey metal, the walls made of hard brown rock, with a small table to one wall, and a faded orange couch against the other. Nothing within this room seemed to contain any warmth, the stretcher bed the only thing he looked forward to at the end of the day.

Death did not come from above, as suspected with most end-of-the-world scenarios. The poison bled from the earth herself. Cracks appeared over time, rock and metal alike opened, releasing a toxin that killed humanity quickly and humanely. A cruel joke, the man thought, humanity destroyed the world and all they received for it was a quick painless death. The only reason he had survived was because of his once-deemed foolish grandfather, and his mindless obsession with prepping for the end of the world.

Emptying the contents of the sachet into a bowl, he added water and watched as the protein soaked up the fluid, his mouth dry. The man sat at the two-person table, grunting as his hips took his weight. A photo frame sat at the other end of the table, the picture facing towards him. He ran a gentle finger over the woman that stood there, a wide smile on her face. The photo was faded, but you could still make out a hand lovingly placed over the large bump at her belly, and the other grasping a chain at her neck. The only reason he was alive was because of her. When his grandfather died, she took ownership of the bunker and lived here alone, raising him until she died. The man quickly redirected his thoughts before his emotions overwhelmed him. He had been alone for years, the same daily routine wearing thin.

He hadn’t touched his oatmeal; he didn’t even know why he had bothered to make it at all. Habit, perhaps, and the same tedious routine. His attention was focused on the brown rock wall beside him. He traced a worn finger down the fresh crack that formed overnight, some of the brown dust settling onto the metal table. New fissures had been appearing for the last few months throughout the bunker. Anyone else would have been concerned that the earth had finally found the last living being and was doing everything in her power to eradicate them. But the elderly man was unconcerned, if not slightly hopeful.

After his breakfast, the man picked up the photo frame and approached a third doorway next to the bedroom. This was his favourite room. Shelves of books lined the walls, with a record player in one corner, and a comfortable looking chaise lounge in the centre. The lounge was old and well-used, the seams breaking in various places with foam spilling from the openings. Shuffling over to the farthest bookshelf, the man reached up and grasped a small picture book. He ran a tender hand over the faded cover. His mother read this to him every night when he was a boy, the last being over eighty years ago. She had died young, from loneliness or heartbreak or something completely different, he wasn’t sure. He’d read every book in here, the fictional characters keeping him company, and the various medical and mathematical books keeping his mind stimulated. There were board games in here also, but they hadn’t been touched for years. You could only use so many ploys on yourself.

The man held the small book to his chest briefly, before placing it and the photo on the shelf, and walking out of the room. He took a second to survey the warmth before he closed the door behind him. He felt the cold envelop him once more, the socks he wore did nothing to prevent the chill from the concrete floor.

There was one door he had never opened. He dared not stare at it in the past, as if it would sense his fear and swing open of its own volition; his mother had drilled this into him as a child and it had never left him. He did not fear it now however, as he stared at the thick heavy metal from across the room. It seemed to stare back. He could feel the warmth encouraging him back towards the room behind him, but for the first time in his many years, he fought that urge and took a few tentative steps towards the ominous door. It seemed to rise above him, dark and foreboding, daring him to open it but knowing he never would. The man had been contemplating this for a long time; fear and anxiety too rampant through his system, but not today, not on the anniversary of his mother’s death.

His mother had gifted him her beloved locket on the day of her death. That had been the worst day of his life. It had taken him days and days of deep depression and sleepless nights to recover. This piece of her was the only thing that remained. The man ran a finger softly over the metal, the heart-shape cool against the hollow of his throat. This locket was the embodiment of her love, and the seed she’d placed so carefully inside it, an embodiment of her optimism and hope that the earth would breathe life and flourish once again, as she had breathed life into him. But what could he do? He was a grumpy old man, incapable of creation or the capacity for his mothers nurturing love. At times he thought his mother foolish holding onto that seed. It filled him with rage and frustration, the years of being alone was turning him bitter. A pot on the brink of boiling over. That fire burned within him now as he faced down the door, its presence beckoning, whispering in the back of his mind.

This was it; it was time. He felt fulfilled in his life, as fulfilled as one could be, traversing the same tedious day over and over again. He wanted control over how he died, and he did not want to spend his last moments lying in his stretcher bed, slowly fading away. He wanted to see the grey sky and black water as depicted in his story book, even if his survival instincts screamed for him not to. His heart beat so rapidly, he was concerned it would give out before he made it to the door.

He’d found the code hidden in one of the books. The four numbers written by his mother’s hand now stuck next to the keypad; a constant reminder that the only thing holding him back was himself. Before he could talk himself out of it, the man pressed his crooked finger to the corresponding numbers, hovering slightly over the confirmation button before pressing it. A war raged inside him, regret and anxiety and excitement, and many feelings he couldn’t name nor understand thundered through him. The door shuddered as a century old seal was broken. Stale air washed over him. The room before him was unexciting, containing what appeared to be hazmat suits and respirators, but the man ignored them. He walked straight up to a second metal door at the end of the small room, a determined stride to his step that hadn’t been there for a long time.

The man placed his weary hands on the circular handle and turned, him and the metal together groaning with the effort. Pain lashed down his back from his shoulder, but he continued until the lock un-clicked, and the door swung inwards in a cloud of dust. The light was so intense that he had to cover his eyes fully for a few seconds, looking down at the ground as he took a few steps past the threshold of the bunker. The floor turned from cold concrete into a deep brown dirt with strange green matter sprouting out of the ground. He struggled to take a deep breath, the effort burning his lungs. The man slowly took his hands away from his face, blinking against the harsh sunlight, and the warmth that seemed to emanate from it. He’d never felt such a thing on his skin. Nor had he seen such deep earthy soil and giant trees that grew from it. Rolling hills of green reached towards the horizon of red and orange, the blue of the sky endless and wonderful.

The feelings of regret and anxiety disappeared. Instead, the elderly man was filled with the utmost joy, he thought he would surely explode. For the first time in his life, he felt love. Or rather, what he thought love would feel like. Again, he tried to take a deep breathe, to feel and smell and taste the air, but his body would not let him. The man dropped to his knees, digging his hands into the dirt, tears streaming down his face. He wanted to live in this moment forever but knew he could not.

Reaching to the nape of his neck, the man grasped the small heart-shaped locket. He felt no aching from his joints, painless and happy, his body rejoicing as love and emotion burning through him. With deft fingers, he opened the locket, something his mother had never told him to do. A small, rounded seed fell into his palm. How could something as light as a feather hold such purpose and hope? He could feel his throat closing, his eyes becoming blurry and dark. Gently, he lay himself down on his side. He dug a small hole with his forefinger, placing the seed into the rich soil. He gently covered the hole, whispering ‘for Mother,’ as he lay there, a hand placed protectively over the seed. He released the rest of his breath, his smile lingering as he rested his head on the cool earth and closed his eyes.