So here we are: the End Days. I’ve spent my entire adult life prepping for this, and now my hard work has paid off.
I’m buttoned up safely in a radiation and disease resistant bunker that I built from scratch and stocked with 10 years’ worth of supplies. I’m intensely proud of my work and prouder still to know that I will be the survivor who carries on humanity’s legacy.
But, honestly, this fallout shelter would be a lot cooler if I wasn’t stuck down here with my wife and kids.
I guess I just always assumed they would be killed in the initial phases of Armageddon and I would be spending the rest of my days with a hardened band of military veterans and smoking hot huntresses. But it turns out I’m doing the same things I always did, like changing diapers and listening to my 6-year-old drone on about when she can see her friend Jimmy from school again.
I keep telling her, “Jimmy is dead, honey. The virus got him, and his face melted into a puddle of liquid DNA.” But she won’t have it. God, she is so annoying.
And if you thought household chores stopped with civilization, then guess again. Barely an hour goes by when my wife doesn’t nag me about washing our sole set of dishes or sweeping the floor. Like, come on, woman! We’re stuck in a bunker sealed with fifteen feet of gamma ray resistant steel, concrete, and earth, there’s nowhere else for the dust to go!
I’ll tell you right now, the Apocalypse isn’t as cool as it’s cracked up to be. If I could go back and do it differently, I probably would. Family and responsibility just ruin the whole experience.