The room was dark. Very dark. So dark that all other senses became hypertuned, so everything became louder, your skin became sensitive and your nose could pick up the slightest musty smell. It was almost every hour of his life. He couldn't dare to spend electricity and oil here frivolously, since the nearest electricity store was miles away. The only light came from the ghostly handles of a slowly fading clock. The handles chimed 7:00, causing the alarm to ring to signal its target to wake up. He was already awake, but he still liked to use the clock, to feel more at home. He got up from his bed and walked through the dark corridors. He didn't need the light, he knew these corridors so well. He put on his suit and walked to the door, turned the handle and stepped out into the cold, lifeless world. He tightened his gas mask and began walking across the barren desert, spanning icy, deadly land. The year was 1970, exactly eight years after the Cuban missile disaster plunged the world into nuclear war. The man walked slowly, as he had to limp with the rifle he carried with him. Those long walks to the market gave him time to think, but he often thought about the events that had happened earlier, with his wife and loving family. The images came back from their beautiful little house. He remembered coming home after work to find his two adorable little children, running to hug and kiss him. He remembers lowering the newspaper to answer his son's request, asking if he could watch television. He remembered sitting down to a delicious dinner of roast chicken, cooked by his lovely wife. Finally he pushed those thoughts away when he saw the store....... middle of paper...... it was only a few weeks later. He had seen worse. As he walked, he remembered reality. He always tried to hide the truth. He now remembered his drunken and violent wife, who never appreciated what he did. Her grandchildren, always whining and complaining about everything. He remembers sitting down to dinner and eating toast and butter for dinner that his “loving” wife had prepared for him. They never respected him while building the bunker, they called him paranoid. Then, when the sirens sounded, his family begged him to let them inside. He had a hard time deciding, but in the end, the bombshell made the decision for him. He finally arrived home, hung up his suit and put the cans down. He lit a torch, after all, it had been exactly eight years since all this happened, it deserved a little celebration.