[ WP ] A nuclear war has swept the Earth , and you 've stumbled upon a used shelter . Inside , there 's a journal and remains .

There ’ s more dust than anything else in the bunker. Doing a quick check, Jen makes sure that the door ’ s pulled completely closed and begins to scan the entryway. The flashlight shakes in her hand, held tightly in one hand through the plastic outfit, pistol in the other. She draws far enough away from the entrance to peer into the dim surroundings through her mask. There ’ s a light switch just within the frame of light. 
 
 Flicking it on, there ’ s a quiet, barely noticeable hum from below before dim lights turn on. One flickers wildly, warning her that it was on the verge of giving out. Jen checks her Geiger counter again as she continues to move. The shelter seemed safe, it was well within the limits, even with her coming in. The other meter states that the air should be all right to breathe. 
 
 Jen pulls her mask upward, pausing in anticipation as she flicks her flashlight back and forth over the small area. Seeing much better, she can barely make out the shape of another door in the dim light and searches for a way further in. If she could barely see it, they most definitely wouldn ’ t. She finds a dusty, unused switch to one side of the door, not even lit up, and presses the button. 
 
 The door eases open with a low hiss and Jen immediately slips inside, hearing rattling and banging on the outside door. The door closes behind her almost immediately and she hears it lock tightly into place. The room is pristine and white on this side. At least it appears that way in the light of her flashlight. She searches quickly for another switch and finds it just beside the door. 
 
 That ’ s about when the smell hits her. It ’ s a smell of decay and rot and she slips her mask back on while her stomach heaves. The mask narrows her vision back down again but she can breathe easier, the smell lessened. Jen knew that smell far, far too well and it terrified her to smell it on the inside of somewhere. She looks around suspiciously for anything disturbed or out of place. 
 
 Everything is white and pristine. There is food storage set up along one wall. Jen can hear the gentle, quiet hum of a working refrigerator or freezer. Stacks of cans line up along shelves like little soldiers ready to do battle. The sight of bottled water makes her lick her dry, chapped lips. And still the smell persists. 
 
 She takes a few careful steps forward, flicking her flashlight off to conserve its battery but keeps her pistol out in front of her. There ’ s a set of beds. One large, one small. Jen hadn ’ t seen full, fluffy blankets like those in years, even if they were dusty. She continues forward. 
 
 Another ‘ room ’ sectioned off by curtains holds more things that she hasn ’ t seen in years, televisions, gaming systems, the works, everything a kid and family might need to entertain themselves. Another room gives her a cooktop, the fridge and freezer set up beside it, their quiet hum only slightly louder now, still barely noticeable. 
 
 In the last area, there are journals scattered across the desks and floor. It looks akin to a study or an office. Long dried blood creates a trail to follow to the corner of the room where what looks like human remains are. Jen counts three human skulls. Two large, one small. There ’ s a gun nearby, lying in the caked on blood, rusted and damaged, but she can ’ t force herself closer to see if there are still bullets just yet. 
 Instead, Jen turns her attention to the journal on the desk, clumsily pushing it open with her gloved hands. Dust rises up into the air, but the majority sticks to the surface like mold. Her eyes skim over the yellowed pages until she finds the last entry, pausing to read it. The handwriting is elegant, even if it appears messy. 
 
 She gives a small chuckle at the conclusion but trembles as if she ’ s going to collapse and turns her attention back to the remains. Moving closer, she can make out the shapes of what used to be three separate people, the child pressed between two parents. This many years after their deaths, they ’ ve become a nasty, rotting, congealed mess of blood and bone, rotting away in the dark corner of what had been a shelter but was now a tomb. 
 
 “ Apocalypse ain ’ t for everyone… ” She murmurs quietly, eyes moving down to the gun, not wanting to look at the hollow faces any more. If they didn ’ t find her, this could be a good place to stay for a while. If she cleaned the bodies out.
