January 2nd, 2045
The bunker was small but sturdy, built into the side of a hill and camouflaged with layers of dirt and foliage. Inside, the three boys had made it their home. It wasn't too far away from their real homes, in the same town they'd grown up in their whole lives, but it was still much different than how it had been six months prior.
A few battery-powered lanterns lit the space, casting a warm glow over the walls lined with canned food, tools, and weapons. It was almost peaceful, almost.
James took a deep breath, letting it out as slowly and quietly as he could so as to not annoy his friends. He felt the place to be anything but peaceful. Surely, he'd been the one to do most of the heavy lifting in the building process, he'd been the one to add posters of their favorite football and hockey players, he'd been the one to put curtains between all of their beds to make it seem like a real house. But he hated every minute he stayed underground.
At the small table in the center of the room, he was sharpening a knife. His thick dark brown hair was pushed back with the round glasses on his head, his expression focused. Though he was most definitely not the one who used the knife, he was still caring for it as if he'd ever really kill someone. On the cold concrete floor across from him, his best friend Sirius was leafing through his bin of records, his prized possessions.
James had to stop himself from saying something about how he was prepping their supplies to go hunting and maybe eventually get out of this place while Sirius was picking out a song to listen to like they had all the time in the world. Though, they technically did. They didn't have anywhere to go, even if James wanted to go everywhere.
The curtains dividing out each of their beds, being nothing more than a mattress and a quilt, had been pulled to the side to open up the space during the daytime. Peter was sprawled out, tossing a tennis ball against the ceiling and catching it lazily. His blond hair was messy, and his shirt had a tear in the sleeve.
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thu-
James couldn't take the repeated banging any longer. He needed to do something about it. But Peter would probably start crying again if someone yelled at him after Sirius lashed out yesterday over how he refused to leave the bunker just to get more water from just outside the den. Instead, the quiet was broken when Sirius spoke, his voice having a touch of humor but nonetheless impatient.
“Think the knife is sharp enough,” he said, forcing a laugh into his words, “Say we go out and hunt for dinner?”
James glanced up from his work, it was much sharper than needed, losing a significant amount of the size of the blade. “Yeah, think we should. I also just really want some fresh air. Pete, you coming?”
"I'll clean up the kitchen for when you guys get back and I can cook whatever you find." Peter said quickly. James nodded to keep Sirius from commenting on how he never leaves anymore, never does any of the hunting. But, he really didn't need to stay. The 'kitchen' in question were three hotplates, a basin with a hose attached, one stovetop, a mini fridge, and a stack of dishes and cutlery on the cardboard boxes they called a counter.
James and Sirius walked in silence for the fifteen minutes it takes to get into the part of the woods that holds potential animals. Sirius tries not to think about what will happen once the animals nearby start to go extinct, it's unlikely there are many more reproducing. After all, he is the one doing the actual killing, James at least tries to, sometimes killing the small birds or occasional fish. But he freaks out when deer run by and he is the one carrying the weapon and flinches at each gunshot.
“You know,” James started once they'd picked their placement behind a bush and begun to wait, “I’ve been thinking. We can’t stay here forever.”
Sirius glanced up from his line of vision over the gun, raising an eyebrow. “Why not? It’s been six months, and we’re still alive, aren’t we?”
“Yeah, but surviving isn’t the same as living,” James said, leaning forward. “We could do more than just hide out here. We could find other people. Fight back. Maybe even wipe out the zombies for good.”
Sirius snorted, judgmental in a way only close friends could be. “You want to go out there and fight a whole apocalypse? Good luck with that.”
James frowned. “I’m serious. There have to be other people like us. If we band together, we could actually make a difference. Start taking the world back.”
Sirius set his gun down and sat back with his hands holding him up behind him. “Jamie, I get it. You want to be the hero. But what if there’s no one left but zombies? What if we’re just running out there for nothing?”
“There’s someone left,” James insisted. “And besides, you're convinced that your brother is close by, how is this any different?”
"Because, I saw him before we built this. I saw him with our friends. They aren't far from here, but you won't let us look for them even though you want to be chasing clickers based on your theory as if you can suddenly kill someone, even though you haven't even killed one animal." Sirius shot the gun at the end of his statement, partially to keep James from being able to snap back and partially just to add dramatic effect to his point. Oh, and maybe because a deer ran by. He lifted himself up and ran over the animal, which was collapsed on its side a couple hundred feet away. Dead.
They walked back in silence again, James dragging the animal to make up for the fact that he didn't kill it. That he hasn't killed any of their dinners. He wonders if Sirius even knows that he doesn't know how to shoot a gun.
When they entered the bunker again, Peter took over the meat and Sirius returned to his position on the floor, placing a record into the player to ease some of the recent tension that had been accumulating. Sirius and James had never fought, not really, but they were starting to see how different their views were on the situation.
The trio begun to dig into the meal without a topic to distract themselves with until James set his fork down beside his plate and cleared his throat.
"Look, it's not secret that we're getting a little stir-crazy living the same mediocre day over and over. I think it's time to go out there. We've been here for five and a half months, we aren't going to get any more out of staying here."
Peter shook his head and swallowed. “Leave the bunker? This place is safe. We’ve got food, water, and we’re miles away from where most of the zombies are. Why risk all of that for some pipe dream?”
“It’s not a pipe dream,” James said firmly. “We can’t keep living like this, hiding and hoping the world fixes itself.”
Sirius hesitated before speaking, his voice softer now. “If I go out there, it’s not to fight. It’s to find my brother. He could still be alive, James. Our old friends might be, too. If I leave, it’s to see them. Not to take on an army of the dead four hundred miles from here.”
James' expression faltered for a moment, but he quickly shook his head. “We could find your brother. Our friends. All of them. And then we fight together.” He placed a napkin over the barely eaten dish, this conversation always made him lose his appetite even though he was the one proposing it.
Peter laughed bitterly, something neither of them had ever heard him do in all of their years as friends. “There’s no together, James. Not anymore. People are either hiding like us, or they’re dead. Going out there won’t change that.”
“And what happens when this place isn’t safe anymore? When a horde finds us, or we run out of supplies? What then, Peter?” Sirius turned to him, his voice growing sharper as he started to back his best friend up now that they were somewhat matching each other's points.
“We cross that bridge when we come to it,” Peter shot back. “But I’m not leaving just because you’ve got some savior complex.”
The tension in the room was thick now. James opened his mouth to reply, but Sirius cut him off.
“Enough, both of you,” Sirius said, standing up. “We’ve been through too much to start fighting each other now. Let’s just... sleep on it, okay? No one’s going anywhere today.”
James sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fine. But we can’t stay hidden forever. You both know that.” With that, he grabbed his plate and brought it to the sink, tossing the remainder of his dinner away. Eating deer made him feel sick, it always had.
Peter didn’t respond, flopping back onto his cot and tossing the tennis ball into the air again. Sirius sat back down, flipping the vinyl over before grabbing an old and withered comic from the bin next to it, though his eyes didn’t seem to focus on the pages.
Within the next thirty minutes they were all in bed in an uncomforting pitch black. Sirius laying flat on his back staring at the stone ceiling. James sat upright in the bed beside it, head in his hands. And Peter was still throwing the goddamn tennis ball.
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thu-
James stood suddenly, walk-running to the makeshift bathroom and promptly vomiting.
The bunker fell silent once more as he got back into his bed, but the unspoken tension lingered, heavier than the air underground of half-eaten murdered deer.
-
The following morning the bunker was quiet, the only sounds the faint hum of the battery-powered lanterns and the soft patter of rain aboveground. Sirius sat alone at the small table, the shortwave radio in front of him glowing dimly. His hand hovered over the dial as he slowly turned it, listening to the static shift and crackle.
A familiar, hollow silence greeted him, as it did every day.
He leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand, his other hand tapping idly on the table. Next to the radio, a small notepad lay open, the edges of the pages smudged with fingerprints. The lines were filled with scribbled frequency numbers and the occasional half-written note. As well as the code he'd made with his brother, over half a year ago.
He sighed, flipping to a clean page. He glanced at the small clock hanging on the wall- 10:37 AM. He picked up the pen and jotted the date in the corner.
“Come on, Reggie,” he muttered under his breath, turning the dial a fraction. “Give me something.”
He adjusted the frequency again and then leaned back, drumming his fingers on the table. After a moment, he grabbed the small portable speaker connected to the radio. He pressed play on a familiar track, Starman, his favorite Bowie song. He ran his thumb over the writing. Bowie is safety, classical is danger. Bowie was his comfort music, he always had a strange comfort in the things his family despised. Classical was the music his family liked, the kind Sirius and his brother needed to learn on piano and violin. Just doing what his parents wanted was dangerous enough.
The chorus filled the bunker slowly, a tune that came bittersweet, making his chest ache with the memories. The regret.
Sirius could still remember the first time his cousin brought the song to him, recorded on the radio, you could hear her parents arguing in the background. But it didn't stop the two young boys from listening to it as many times as they could get away with before their mother would barge in demanding to know what she was hearing. The sound was weirdly comforting to him.
“Stupid song,” Sirius muttered as it faded out with a final la-la-la-la-la, but his voice lacked conviction. He let it play over again, staring at the static-filled screen of the radio. The song finished a second time, fading into silence, and Sirius waited, heart thudding as the seconds stretched on.
Nothing.
He let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “Figures,” he whispered. “Not like he’s out there waiting for me, anyway.” The words hung in the air, bitter and hollow. He didn't know if considered it true or not, but some things are better left undeciphered. He leaned forward again, staring at the radio like he could will it to respond.
“We weren’t even close, not really,” Sirius said to no one, his voice quiet. James finally lifted his head from the mattress, he hadn't bothered to get up today, quite frankly he just felt like shit. But he caught the waver in Sirius' voice and knew he had to do something. He pushed himself off the ground and stood over the other boy who continued to speak. “We fought all the time. Stupid stuff, who was playing the fucking piano instead of the violin at those-those shows my father made us do for our guests, who got the last listen on the stereo for the night. And then... the not so stupid stuff.” He trailed off, his fingers tightening around the pen. “We just stopped. Stopped talking, stopped... everything. I think I hated him for a while. Or maybe I just told myself I did because it was easier.”
He sat back, his gaze unfocused. James put a hand on his shoulder. “But I can’t-I can’t leave it like that. Not now. Not when he’s out there. He has to be out there. Right?”
James knew he wasn't the one being asked, Sirius was asking the box in front of them. The radio, as always, offered no reply. Sirius scrubbed a hand over his face, his shoulders slumping. He grabbed the notepad, jotted down the frequency and time, and then closed it with a light snap. Before standing, he reached out and tapped the radio off. The silence was deafening now, but it felt more familiar than the static.
His fist curled, thankfully James caught it before he punched out the only way he could potentially communicate with his brother. The touch was light enough for Sirius to turn around and collapse in on James.
“Tomorrow,” he said through his sudden tears. “I’ll try again tomorrow.”
"Yeah, yeah. Tomorrow. But for now, we can listen to Bowie, because we are safe." James entangled his arms between the firm ones grabbing at his shoulders and held him up for half of the record. Until even James was too tired and they sat on the cold floor together with nothing more than the rain, Blackstar, and Sirius' partially muffled sobs.
-
It had been three days since he'd last tried the radio. It was killing him to go this long without dialing in, but Sirius knew it would be better in the long run to start spacing out the dates a little more. Better for his sanity at least. It had been James' idea, forever ago. But he always needed to do it, so Regulus would never think he was giving up on them, Sirius finally decided that all that mattered was that he wasn't giving up. It's not like Regulus was listening after all.
The bunker was quiet again except for the occasional scrape of utensils on tin plates. James stood near the table, not even looking at the deer on his plate. A worn map of the countryside was spread out before him, taking up most of the circular wooden table his friends continued to eat on. He traced a line across it with his finger, muttering to himself, his eyes narrowed in focus.
Peter sat leaning back in his chair, fork dangling on the tip of his teeth, pausing to figure out what exactly James was doing. Sirius was doing similar, though his eyes were flicking from the the map to the radio.
Finally, he broke the silence. “Okay, James. Spill it. What’s the big plan you’ve been cooking up?”
James looked up, his expression serious. “It’s simple. We head toward the center of the outbreak, where it all started. The city will be rough, sure, but that’s where we’ll find people. Fighters. Survivors. We build something bigger than just us. We take back what’s left of the world.”
Peter stopped chewing for good, his brow furrowing. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”
“Dead serious,” James said, his tone unwavering. “We’ve been sitting here, doing nothing but waiting for the end to find us. That’s not living. We can do more. We have to do more.”
Sirius set down his canteen, frowning. “James, I get where you’re coming from, but... heading straight into the middle of all that? It’s suicide. You’ve seen what even a small group of zombies can do. And you’re talking about the epicenter.”
James folded his arms, his jaw tightening. “I know it’s dangerous. But think about it; if we can make it there, we could find a way to stop this. Maybe there’s a cure. Or we could at least clear out some of the hordes. It’s better than hiding in this hole forever.”
Peter stood, tossing his napkin towards the trash bin on the floor. “Hiding? You call staying alive hiding? I've said it before and I'll say it again, there is nothing out there worth the risk of losing one of us-”
“Okay, Pete I may not agree with everything Jamie's got here, but I at least know that there is more to life. I'm going to be honest, I'm fucking terrified to even think about what we could see out there. But I want to find more people. We can at least try because our other option here is sit underground until we rot away. And nobody will find us because everyone else is dead, too. Or, even worse, they do find us and say that we were so boring and afraid we built a life out of the twenty square feet we were given.”
Peter shook his head, his expression dark. “Let’s not do this. We’ve been through too much to fall apart now.”
“I’m not falling apart. I’m trying to put things back together. Don’t you get it? This isn’t about just us. It’s about everyone who’s still out there.” James' shoulders sagged slightly, though the fire in his eyes didn’t dim.
Peter crossed his arms. He finally stood up and looked James in the eyes. “And what if there isn’t anyone left? What if all you find out there is more death?”
James didn’t answer immediately, his gaze dropping to the map. He eyed a few spots that he'd highlighted as a place he was certain had life in it, or at least did for a while. “Then at least we tried,” he said softly.
The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive. Finally, Peter sighed and sat back down on his cot. “Do what you want, Jamie,” he muttered. “But I’m staying here. You can give me all of that shit about wasting my potential for the fiftieth time, but at least I'll be alive to waste it.” He tried to force a friendly smile, but it didn't come out as anything more than a smirk that made James have to clench his fists to keep away from punching him out.
He huffed in frustration but didn’t push further. He folded the map and tucked it into his pocket before heading toward his own cot. The three boys settled into their usual rhythms, James marking off parts of the map with the occasional pause to massage his temples, Sirius flipping through his comic book or his records, and Peter tossing his tennis ball up and down.
And as he fell in front of the toilet once again, James wondered if Peter knew that it was the awful repeated bouncing that made him puke. He hadn't even eaten dinner tonight, but he was still emptying whatever was being made for the other meals that he tried to stomach.
The tension lingered, but as the hours passed, it softened into the familiar, quiet peace that had kept them together for six months, and for the fifteen years they lived around the block from each other. The seven years they shared a dorm at school. But for now, at least, they would stay as they were, three boys in a bunker, waiting for a tomorrow they could live through.