The Air is Running Out
The power has been out for two days.
The only sense of time we have down here is contained in the digital readout of Tom’s wristwatch. The green light of those numbers in the darkness leaves an after-image on my eyes.
Nobody knows whether or not it’s night or day. Or if there’s even a difference between the two any more.
Everyone is afraid to go up the stairs to ground level. We all have a memory of the massive structure which once stood above us. Secretly, everyone knows that everything has been flattened, leveled, reduced to nothing but cinder and ash. But no one can admit that.
No one can admit that we are lost.
It’s getting hard to breathe in here, to think clearly. I can feel the weight of the world’s remains weighing on top of us. Sleeping and waking become almost the same. There is little conversation.
What is there left to say?
I can’t bear to think that we are already buried in our grave. My mind feels numb.
The power went out two days ago. And the air is running out.