Tom in the Wasteland

The top of Tom’s rusty can of cocoa mix relented without noise or grandeur. Its stay-fresh seal was broken long ago. The familiar crunch of the scoop dragging through the dehydrated mix signaled the start of his morning routine.

​

As its contents fell into his chipped white ceramic mug, he reflected on how much he used to despise cocoa mix. The dull flavor that vaguely tasted of chocolate had always been a tease. While it had been years since he had savored real chocolate, a seventy percent dark cocoa blend was his guilty pleasure.

​

Now, a dull, rehydrated sludge was his only indulgence. Each day began the same way, blending into a blank calendar of monotony since entering the fallout shelter. He warmed a cup of water from the rain collector, added one scoop of chocolate powder, and used a sterno to heat it just enough to kill whatever bacteria lingered in the distillation.

​

The tinny taste still made his teeth clench, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he was slowly poisoning himself to death. While there was ample time to ponder such scenarios, the result was always the same.

​

What did it really matter?

​

Peering into the bottom of the tin, he swirled the contents, revealing the bottom. Tom surmised he had enough for twelve or thirteen more drinks. This was a fine number. He dared not plan any further than the current day–any thoughts of enduring another week of isolation would be his undoing.

​

Returning the tin to its home, he moved to the lone window of his shelter. It was only a few square inches, but provided a small reminder of the life he once knew. Peering between the dusty metal slats of the Venetian-style grating, he squinted at the intense light of the morning sun.

 

Tom took a draw from his mug and choked down another swallow of the questionable liquid.

Beyond the window, he could see little more than swirling dust and decaying plants devoid of any foliage. Letting out a deep breath, he closed the blinds.

​

A slight shift of his weight moved him from the window to his resting spot–the corner of the shelter. There he kept his only distraction from the timeless containment: a puzzle book and pencil.

​

Tom was dreadful at solving puzzles but found they helped pass the time and keep his mind active. He leafed through the yellow-tinted book and stopped on page twenty-three. A mix of pencil smudges and discarded rubber shavings marked his progress.

​

The pencil gripped between his teeth; Tom continued where he had left off: eight down–a six-letter word for a light meal after dinner. Instinctively, his teeth gnawed at the pencil. He barely remembered what dinner was, let alone if another meal would follow it. He tried to recall the type and variety of meals that could fit the six-letter space.

​

A low grumble in his stomach reminded him he had not eaten; after all, one would never allow oneself to call a lukewarm cocoa drink a meal.

​

His eyes listlessly drifted back to the far end of the shelter. The pangs of hunger provided just enough motivation to order his weary feet to move six feet–back to his former spot.

​

Relenting to his stomach’s request, he stood. A black star field filled his vision. Sparkles of white against black gnawed at the edges of his vision before consuming the room in full. His legs protested, and he stumbled sideways before catching himself.

​

Tom waited for his vision to return, then crossed the room to a sealed container. The sleek black box had rounded corners and featured a series of four latches. When closed in full, the latches secured the lid to create an air-tight seal.

​

Opening the first latch required the most effort and had become more cumbersome as his separation from the outside world lengthened. Tom gripped the underside of the latch closest to him, tugging with his remaining strength.

​

A series of grunts and snorts filled the air–in the early days, he would already have a half-eaten snack in hand. Now, he could feel the thinning skin of his fingers pulling away from the sinew beneath from the applied pressure. After one final exertion of effort, he conceded his efforts.

​

Tom breathed heavily from the spent effort and formulated a new plan. He flexed his fingers, willing the blood to flow into his aching joints. Once he was ready, he slipped his fingers beneath the latch, pinned the container to the wall with his knees, and leaned backward with all his might. Finally, the latch popped, and he flailed wildly to maintain his balance.

​

With the pressure of the first latch loosened, the three remaining closures opened easily. He gingerly removed the lid and placed it on the ground.

​

Looking inside the container, he eyed the remaining nutrient bars–the last vanguard between him and total starvation.

​

He reached into the container and extracted a peanut butter protein bar. Despite his hunger, the thought of peanut butter turned his mouth downward. The gritty bars tasted of sawdust, and of all the possible flavors; peanut butter was his least favorite.

​

It was a fitting reminder of his short-sightedness. In the beginning, there was an assortment of flavors: chocolate, cookies and cream, and even a delightful berry mix. He cursed himself for not mixing the peanut butter bars among the more flavorful options. But in those days, there had been a spark of hope that he would not spend his remaining days in the shelter.

​

But hope had evaporated long ago, like fresh dew touched by the morning sun.

​

A deep exhale filled the air, and he reluctantly reached for a bar. As he gripped it, an unfamiliar texture grazed his middle finger. It was cool and metallic, unlike the interior of the container–a rich black felt.

​

Tom paused.

​

A feeling came over him he had not felt in months. Was it fear, curiosity, or worst of all… hope?

​

Tom found hope was in vain. Shadows and mirages were neither people nor miracles; nothing good would ever happen again.

​

His grumbling stomach snapped his attention back to retrieving his bar from the containment. He elevated the bar, holding his breath. His eyes widened as the glint of a metal tab twinkled below.

​

Memories of the early days flashed through his mind. Had he not searched every square inch of his new home? Fueled by the adrenaline of desperation, had he really left this one stone unturned?

​

His puzzle book beckoned from his favorite corner. It insisted there was no time left for hope, that only desolation and the sweet embrace of death were his future. The plan for the day was a bar, a drink, and a few puzzles. He should not veer off course.

​

However, the wellspring of hope could not be contained; it burst forth like a dam, focusing his small reserve of energy upon the metallic tab.

​

Beads of sweat pooled on his forehead as he cautiously reached for it. He dared not fully extend his finger as the cautious crook inched closer to the mysterious presence. The cool surface of the tab made an indent into Tom’s fingertip as he finally contacted it. He traced the curvature, feeling how it contrasted with the felt base.

​

There was no telling what was beneath this panel. It could be anything or nothing. Tom reluctantly engaged the tab–click. The base of the container shifted. Tom hesitated as his mind reeled with possibilities.

​

Fear gripped him as he fiddled with the tab, contemplating what lay just beyond. To delay the inevitable, he removed his bars from the inner container.

​

Hope became a more actualized option. This scared him more than anything. He had allowed himself to become so comfortable in his absolution that he didn’t feel he could endure falling off another high cliff of elation.

​

Steeling himself with a deep breath, he extracted the inner panel.

​

Darkness spread out before him.

​

At the last moment, Tom had tightly clasped his eyes. He felt foolish as he sat in front of the container, hiding from the contents of this secret compartment.

​

Tom opened his eyes; the newly revealed space was a few inches deep and contained three items: a folded piece of paper, an octagonal electronic device, and a handgun.

​

After weighing his options, the piece of paper seemed like a logical place to start. Perhaps it contained directions or meaning relating to the other two items. Or, like a children’s book, perhaps it contained a secret word or phrase to escape this prolonged nightmare.

​

The paper remained pure and white, unlike his crossword. He held the bleached scrap of neatly folded stationery. Tom ran his finger across the hard crease of the paper and followed the edge around to the opening.

​

A sudden sting caused Tom to drop the paper.

​

A paper cut.

​

He quickly turned his hand over to inspect his index finger.  It had been so long since Tom felt anything; the cut was like a burst of color in a cloudy sky. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, attempting to soothe the pain. His finger found its way to his mouth, where he suckled at the wound like a nursing infant.

​

Despite the cut, his finger did not bleed. His eyes drifted around the shelter. He saw his container, the stack of bars, the pair of container lids, and the piece of paper.

​

The mystery of the unknown called to the dormant part of his mind, the part he had squashed into silence to tolerate his plight. Tom carefully picked up the fallen paper by its corner. The rigid creases of the paper guarded the inner secrets. As he gingerly pulled it apart, a typed message read:

 

“This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper.”

–T.S. Elliot

​

Tom flipped the paper over; the other side was blank. Tom felt at ease as the small glimpse of hope left him. What a peculiar thing to leave on a note in a strongbox, he thought to himself—some glib poetic reference to his impending doom.

​

His puzzle book called to him, reminding him to return to his corner and continue his progress toward oblivion.

​

Before Tom could fully abandon the box, a high-pitched tone pierced his ears and disturbed his sanctuary. Tom let out a grunt of dissatisfaction as he realized he must continue his investigation. He looked down at the device that accompanied the note. A flash came from the underside of the device as the beeping continued.

​

Tom stared down at the obelisk, pondering its origin and purpose. Another beep interrupted his enfeebled thoughts. Long hours of slumber were his only solace in this chamber of solitude; silencing the device was now his top priority.

​

Tom extended his right hand into the container and grasped the mechanism. It was dark black and only a few inches thick. It had two long sides and shorter edges for the top and bottom, which were connected by sharp angles.

​

Its material was less plastic and slightly more resin as it pressed into Tom’s palm. A sudden instinct of fear and caution caused him to drop the device. It bounced off the inner chamber with a dull thud, remaining unchanged–signaling before emitting a light.

​

Tom grasped the gizmo fully, placing his fingers along the sides. He lifted it and let the weight sink into his fingers. It wasn’t cumbersome or dense, but heavier than he expected. Tom continued lifting the device, pulling it closer to his weary eyes.

​

He blinked asynchronously, keeping one eye on the mysterious device. Reluctantly, he turned his wrist so that he could examine the opposing side. It was a mirrored surface with a small pinhole near the center of the top. For the first time since entering the shelter, he saw his unfamiliar reflection gazing back at him–sallow skin clung to his face, sunken eyes, and matted hair.

​

The device blinked and emitted its expected tone, assaulting Tom’s eyes. He reeled backward, clasping his eyes shut. He flung the appliance across the tiny room in self-defense.

​

Thud—the device made a dissatisfying sound as it collided with the wall and fell to the ground. Tom’s withered muscles provided a poor guard to distance himself from the visual onslaught.

​

The world rapidly went from dark to light and back again as Tom’s heavy eyelids fluttered, attempting to clear his vision. He wiped his brow and shook his head.

​

What a pathetic reaction. Of course, the device would blink. A blink accompanied each beep since he discovered it. Tom decided to avoid looking at the light the next time he grasped it. For now, all this extra exertion had expended his energy reserves. A catnap would provide a needed respite before continuing his investigation. As Tom made his way toward his favorite corner, the device beeped again.

​

He attempted to ignore the intruding noise, laying his head against the comfort of his favorite corner. As he nestled in, he pulled his cotton hood over his head and pressed it against his ears. Tom’s hoodie had been a source of comfort and warmth in the desolation of his shelter. However, it served as a poor ally against the mysterious device’s persistent beeping.

​

Tom clamped his eyes shut while pressing firmly on the sides of his head. The waves of sound gnawed at his mind like the glaciers that carved canyons in the primordial earth. With no other thoughts or noises to distract him, he was called back to discover the purpose of the device.

​

Tom wearily turned over to his knees and crawled to the opposite side of the room. His knees twisted and contorted in discomfort as he crawled across the hard floor. His dry lips smacked together as the strenuous activity tapped his reserves. The few paces were agonizingly slow as he made his way to the damnable device. Tom crept forward and stretched for it; his fingertips came within inches of the device as he lunged forward on his knees.

​

He flicked his fingers, attempting to will it move toward him. His fingertips brushed across the polished material of the sides, just barely out of reach. Tom made one last grasp at it and overextended, crashing to the floor. He let out a gasp of pain, his unused vocal cords protesting as the rush of air escaped between them.

​

Tom lay on the floor. The device beeped near his head, mocking his efforts. Tom took stock of his injuries while he lay prone on the ground. Like a wave of molten lava finally reaching the surface of Krakatoa, his repressed emotions exploded.

​

He had to silence the device!

​

Tom took a few deep breaths, ensuring his ribs had not fractured. Completing his self-diagnostic, Tom rolled to his side to face his adversary. The persistent white light bounced off the shelter floor as the device beeped again. Tom grabbed the device, and he turned it more hastily. This time, he slid his thumb over the LED, his haggard face once again greeting him.

​

A sudden beep jarred Tom. A thin smile cracked his otherwise expressionless face. Despite winning the battle to gain possession of the device, Tom was still unsure what he was looking at. There were no apparent buttons on the surface or sides. He squeezed it gently and confirmed it was solid and not pliable.

​

Tom propped himself onto his elbow, elevated his head, and slowly raised himself off the floor. Even while transitioning his position, Tom stared down the device like a newborn eyeing its parents. Tom twisted and turned at the device, hoping to reveal some unseen clue.

​

As the ambient light glinted off its polished surface, Tom noticed some smudges on its surface from their previous tussle. He swiped the side of his hand across the device. His dirty palm merely created fresh smudges.

​

The device reacted to Tom’s cold touch, causing him to startle. The newly exposed touchscreen prodded at Tom’s distant memories. Icons and figures on the screen pulled at the deepest recesses of Tom’s subconscious. His memory was finally dragged to the surface; Tom recalled there had been devices like this outside of the shelter. They had been used like alcohol to numb the senses and distract the mind.

​

The newly illuminated screen displayed only two words: no service, accompanied by a few other glyphs and symbols that played like vapor across his failing memory. It appeared the original intent of the device was made moot by the isolation of this earthen tomb.

​

Tom placed the device face down to mull over its purpose. The device beeped and flashed again as it searched for a signal, renewing Tom’s focus to silence it. He attempted to retreat again in the comfort of his hoodie. His face pulled into a scowl as he pulled the drawstrings, attempting to turtle away from his problems.

​

Just as the hoodie’s closure had fully swallowed his face, he had a rare flash of insight. If he returned the device to its container, maybe the audio assault would stop!

​

At the very least, he wouldn’t be able to hear it.

​

A spark of energy surged from Tom’s heart across his nervous system to his fingertips. Tom moved with renewed energy. He grabbed the device and turned to the container before it could beep twice in protest. He plunged the device into the shallow compartment and then grabbed the protective covering of the false bottom. As he lowered the interior lid onto the container, the edges of the panel clanged against the sides.

​

Tom pressed down with force, hoping to push the lid into its former resting spot. The lid resisted. Tom regretted not paying more attention as he had extracted the lid.

​

His weary eyes roamed the surface of the plate, confirming its position and alignment. He made another attempt to slide the panel into its original position. Despite his best efforts, he could not recreate the angle to replace it. He twisted and turned at the panel several times before giving up.

​

Overcome by mental exhaustion, Tom relented and let the lid rest loosely atop his container. The steady beep of the electronic device was barely dulled as it echoed off the four walls now surrounding it.

​

Tom reached for the capsule’s lid. He could only hope that the closure would muffle the infernal noise enough for him to get some respite. Tom set aside the false bottom and reached for the capsule’s lid. He clumsily lifted it from the ground and aligned it before folding down the four securing clasps.

​

Tom allowed himself a fleeting moment of satisfaction, having bested his digital foe. He arched his back and stretched his neck, then took a deep breath of the stale air around him. He closed his eyes, attempting to return himself to his usual routine.

​

Tom recalled he had always enjoyed routines. While most of his life before the shelter was a mix of headaches and blurred visions, the thought of a daily routine was compelling. Perhaps he had commuted to a place to do a thing, day after day, week after week, year after year.

​

Or perhaps he had awoken daily, without alarm, to prepare a warm beverage before reading the morning communications and starting his day. He was certain whatever his previous life had been, there was more order than chaos. He found comfort in the lack of outside interference before the beeping gadget. No friends or family to interrupt his plans…

​

Friends or family–a topic Tom had not allowed himself to dwell upon in some time. Surely, any connections he might have maintained before the shelter were gone.

​

His puzzle book called him back to the corner. As his eyes scanned the room, he saw his ration container, five neatly stacked nutrient bars, the lid to the secret compartment, and the one bar he set aside to eat.

​

Yes, that is where he had left off!

​

It was no wonder all this triviality had exhausted him; he needed his nutrient bar. Tom collected his bar and returned to the comfort of his corner, where his puzzle book awaited with his tepid cocoa drink.

​

As Tom nuzzled his back into its familiar spot, he barely noticed the muffled beep coming from inside the sealed container. Tom tore open his nutrient bar and took a bite. In his small moment of victory, the gritty taste of the peanut butter bar barely phased him. Tom finished his bar and cocoa drink but still felt weary from the skirmish with the gadget.

​

Tom placed his mug into the water collector, pulled up his hood, and nuzzled into a well-deserved slumber. Across the back of Tom’s eyelids, blurry visions and old memories played like an ancient work of cinema.

​

Wisps of smoke and shadow collected into spectral faces, while lights flashed across his face and penetrated his tightly clasped eyelids. Unearthly sounds echoed from beyond—screech, crash! A faint tinkle and chime cascaded around him, a haunting mix of glass and rain.

​

Tom felt a scratch in his throat that grew into a sudden choking feeling. He suddenly felt cold and alone. The world was dark and silent.

​

BEEP!

​

Tom’s eyes popped open; he had cracked the door to feelings he had suppressed since entering the shelter. Ice-cold blood ran through his veins; his heart ached with longing. A distant voice called from the breach, a recalled special connection to someone beyond these walls.

​

His head throbbed as a dark cloud lingered; his cerebral cortex tried to evoke memories of who she could be. His usually empty mind was now filled with loneliness and regret.

​

How could you have been so careless?

​

Tom cursed himself for bringing up these forgotten feelings. His adversary launched a beep at his unwilling ears. Tom thought it must be his imagination, but the beep seemed to gain intensity and volume.

​

His hand clenched into fists, his knuckles white with anguish. How could he possibly concentrate on repressing his feelings with that infernal racquet?

​

He moved toward the container, nearly springing to his feet. He fixed all his frustration on the device. Like a bandit in the night, the intruder had stolen something precious from him–his inner peace. This break in the mental fog had allowed so many other things to follow; like Pandora’s box, all that remained now was hope—the thing he wished for the least.

​

Tom flipped the four latches off the container with ease. He plunged his hand inside and extracted the device. His fingers curled around it as he looked desperately for any way to turn it off.

​

The flash of the LED caught him off guard. Momentarily blinded, he forgot this contraption had multiple ways of assaulting him. Tom quickly blinked away the sting of the light and continued to squeeze, poke, and prod the device.  

​

He explored every square inch of the thing, like ancient explorers who combed the deserts for lost pyramids. He could not perceive buttons, toggles, or switches. Even the shiny glass front displayed nothing more than 'no service.'

​

Tom tried to search his brain for more answers while the beeping and flashing continued. He shook the device in a final effort to coax some sort of response from it.

​

His increased vigor from his frustration was more than his frail grasp could withstand. Tom lost his grasp. It slipped from his hand, bouncing at the bottom of the ration container.

​

Tink—A metallic sound echoed from the base of the container as the device bounced within. Tom cautiously leaned forward over the edge of the container to find the source of this odd noise.

​

His eyes fell upon the gun.

​

A quick whoosh of air escaped Tom’s lips. He was thankful the gun had not discharged when the device impacted it. Tom had no affinity for guns, but he was very excited to see this one. There was little chance that this device was bulletproof. Perhaps he could use the weapon to silence it! The ice in Tom’s veins thawed as clarity settled in.

​

He needed to kill the device!

​

Tom reached for the gun; it was bulky. This was a gun designed for protection. Tom felt the cold metal against his skin as he grabbed the handle. The pistol felt awkward and foreign to him. Tom looked at the device lying in his storage container. He considered the options.

​

What if he missed, or what if the bullet ricocheted in this tiny room? The gadget beeped again, almost daring him to attack. Tom concluded the worst that could happen was that the bullet would take a stray trajectory and kill him.

​

In either case, he would be rid of the beeping.

​

Tom gripped the gun in his hand, getting comfortable with its size and weight. He placed the muzzle directly against the back of the device, ensuring he wouldn’t miss in his wearied state. Tom clinched his eyes tightly and turned his head away. He flexed his finger to squeeze the trigger. The firing pin resisted, as it had become frozen with disuse. Tom exhaled and gripped tighter at the trigger; the firing pin activated with a click.

​

Tom opened his eyes to confirm his fear; the gun had no munitions. He looked again inside the container. Perhaps the gun and bullets had been separated for storage. His investigation was futile, continuing his string of bad luck. The device beeped again, mocking his attempt to kill it.

​

His frustration boiled over. The device had mocked him for the final time. He grabbed the muzzle of the gun and used it as a blunt instrument to assault his foe.

​

He hammered away at the shiny surface of the device, his wild eyes staring back at him.

​

The butt of the gun bounced with each impact. The mirrored surface remained.

​

No scratches, no lines, no signs of imperfection.

​

Tom’s ragged breaths filled the air. He could not defeat the device. He hung his head, laying the gun to rest inside the container. Tom could think of no more ways to defuse the device. His only solace was that whatever internal power source it contained would soon expire.

​

A slight twinkle came to Tom’s eyes as he planned out a new routine.

​

Perhaps he could survive a little longer on only half a nutrient bar to accompany his morning drink. Yes, perhaps this was the way. Tom returned to his corner and pulled his hoodie snuggly over his head. A smile parted his lips as he dreamt of his new mission: outlive the device.

​

BEEP!

​

A sudden beep jarred Diane awake. She opened her eyes and slowly focused on the surrounding room. After spending weeks inside, she had become accustomed to this room. Most of the time, she could ignore the persistent beep in the background.

​

She had almost forgotten about the world outside.

​

Diane stood from her uncomfortable green chair; it was a hybrid chair that was more bed than a recliner. She found no comfort in it, even when fully prone. As her eyes adjusted to the early morning light, she walked a few paces to arrive at a bedside. Diane’s eyes looked over a man lying flat with tubes coming from his nose and mouth. His shallow breathing was barely perceptible. Diane leaned over him.

​

A doctor burst in suddenly, interrupting her intimate moment. He said, “Mrs. Stewart?”

​

“Yes.” She gave a weary nod.

​

“Did you get any rest?” the doctor replied, attempting some bedside manner.

​

“No.”

​

“You really should go home and get some rest. We can call you if his status changes.” The doctor returned his eyes to his charts.

​

A spark flashed through Diane’s heart. “No, thank you. I want to be here the moment he wakes up.”

​

“Tom has been stable since the accident, but we need to be realistic. I don’t know if he’ll ever wake up.”

​

                Diane held back her tears. “I can’t give up hope,” she said, “I just know Tom hasn’t. He’s a fighter.”

​

                “I’ll send in the nurse for his daily vitals. I don’t mean to upset you,” he said. “It’s really up to Tom now.”

​

                Diane grabbed her husband’s hand, her eyes welling with tears. She had nothing more she could say to the doctor. The silence was only broken by the beep of Tom’s heart monitor.