bunker

When darkness comes, all is quiet. The moon is out and the bunker is locked, sealed tightly under smooth cement. Coldness arrives quickly, sharp nips at the skin as breath condenses, heavy and frigid. Fingernails trace the walls that cave in. The blind lead the blind, down staircases of twisted vine and shattered pottery, wet moss and brick. Steps are tentative, felt around to avoid shards on bare heels. Then comes the smell of grass, an overwhelming aroma that gives headaches and blocks the lungs. It's almost over.