Alone

On a cold, snowy morning in the city, a 26-year-old man walks down the quiet street. His name is Michael—short brown hair, blue eyes, tall, wearing a gray sweater and a face mask, hands tucked into his pockets. He stops by a café, buys a cup of coffee, and heads home.

Michael isn't your average guy. For months, he's been building a bunker for what he believes is an inevitable apocalypse. People call him paranoid—he calls it being prepared.

A knock sounds at his door. "Be with you in a minute!" Michael shouts.

It's his friend Daniel. "Dude," Daniel says through the door, "you seriously still working on that bunker of yours?"

Michael smirks as he opens the door. "Of course. You never know what could happen."

Daniel steps inside, shaking his head. "You gotta be realistic, bro. Nothing's going to happen."

Michael shrugs. "You do your thing, I'll do mine." He sits down. "So, what brings you over this morning?"

Daniel grins. "Some of the guys are throwing a party tonight. Wondering if you'd come."

Michael shakes his head immediately. "You know I don't like crowded places."

"They'll be gaming after—probably some Elden Ring," Daniel adds.

Michael still refuses.

"Too bad," Daniel says, pretending to think. "Sarah would've loved to see you."

Michael pauses. "Wait—Sarah? She'll be there?"

Daniel gives him a smug look. "Oh, I thought you weren't going."

"I'm going," Michael blurts out.

Daniel smirks, heading for the door. "Now we're talking. Nine o'clock. Jason's place."

Michael nods as Daniel leaves.

By 8:30 p.m., Michael's debating what to wear. Casual or formal? After a moment, he decides to just look decent—plain white shirt, black slim-fit trousers, and sneakers. He grabs a rack of beer and drives to Jason's house.

Daniel opens the door. Michael steps inside, already nervous. Then he spots Sarah—and immediately starts stuttering out a "hi."

Daniel pats his shoulder, smirking. "I can feel your nervousness, dude."

"Shut up," Michael mutters.

Two hours later, the party's in full swing—drinks, laughter, dumb games. Daniel glances over to see Michael and Sarah talking and laughing together. He walks over, puts an arm around Michael, and says to Sarah, "You know, Michael's been meaning to ask you out for a while now.”

Sarah laughs awkwardly. “Sorry… I have a boyfriend—well, fiancé.”

Michael’s smile drops. He laughs nervously and says, “No big deal,” before excusing himself for some air.

Daniel tries to say something, but nothing comes out. Michael grabs a bottle of wine and heads upstairs to the balcony.

He stands there, taking a swig. “Didn’t expect it to be fruit wine,” he mutters. “Honestly… anything works.” He stares down at the glowing city, sighs, and takes another drink.

Daniel steps onto the balcony. “Hey, man, you okay?”

Michael shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry about what happened,” Daniel says. “I really didn’t know she was engaged.”

“It’s fine,” Michael says quietly. “Shit happens. Guess I just kept burying my feelings, thinking things would work out someday. They didn’t.”

Before Daniel can respond, a massive explosion rips through the distance. Both men freeze, watching as a skyscraper tilts and collapses. The shockwave hits seconds later.

“What the fuck?” Daniel mutters, eyes wide.

Military helicopters roar overhead, racing toward the burning building.

Someone from inside the house yells, “Guys! You need to see this!”

Michael shouts back, “A building just blew up! We don’t have time for—”

“No, seriously! It’s worse than that!”

They rush back inside. Everyone’s gathered around the TV. The screen shows a caution symbol, repeating a low droning alarm.

“What’s happening?” Daniel asks.

“No idea,” someone says. “We heard the explosion, then this came on.”

The screen flickers, then a robotic voice reads out a message over white text:

Caution: This is a Presidential Alert. This is not a test. A national state of emergency has been declared. A viral outbreak has been confirmed in multiple regions. All citizens are instructed to remain indoors and await further instructions. Do not approach infected individuals. Stay tuned for official updates.

Everyone stares in silence, trying to make sense of it. Sarah panics and calls her fiancé. He answers—it’s happening on his side too. Definitely not a joke.

People start grabbing their things. “We need to get home,” someone says. “Our families—”

Michael speaks up. “I have a bunker. You can all come with me.”

They hesitate. Most refuse.

“We can’t. We need to get to our families,” one of them says.

Everyone rushes out to their cars.

Daniel turns to Michael. “Go home and get ready. I’ll catch up. I need to get my mom.”

Michael nods. “I’ll be waiting. Don’t take too long.”

They split up.

On his way back, Michael sees chaos spreading—people looting a supermarket, raiding shelves. He decides to grab more supplies, thinking that even a 12- to 13-year stash might not be enough. He fills a cart with essentials, grabs some firearms and ammo from a nearby abandoned vehicle, and drives off.

The streets are pure madness—people attacking each other, someone biting another’s arm, fires breaking out, cars exploding. Michael’s face hardens. This is really bad.

Minutes later, he reaches home. He locks the gate behind him, packs up everything he gathered, loads the firearms and ammo, and sits by the window, waiting for Daniel.

Three hours pass. No sign of him.

He tries calling—no answer. After several attempts, Daniel finally picks up.

“There’s chaos everywhere, man,” Daniel shouts over the noise. “They miscalculated everything. Shit’s happening too fast!”

“Calm down,” Michael says, but Daniel’s panicking, incoherent.

A distant rumble makes Michael step outside. He looks up—fighter jets streak across the sky toward the burning city. His face goes pale as explosions light up the skyline.

“Where are you?” he shouts into the phone.

“I don’t know—there’s fire everywhere! Looks like… some kind of bar—”

“I’m coming your way. Find somewhere to hide, I’ll be there soon—”

A boom cuts him off. The line goes dead.

Michael stares toward the city as more bombs go off, shockwaves rumbling under his feet. He tries calling again—number not available. He calls others. All lines dead.

Then, a massive explosion erupts in the distance. The shockwave is heading his way.

Panic hits. Michael rushes inside, opens the hatch to his bunker, throws everything he grabbed—food, guns, ammo—inside.

He climbs down, looks outside one last time, and says quietly:

“I’m sorry.”

Then he closes the hatch.