Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition
Chapter 1352 - 1352: Story 1352: The Bunker with a View

They said the safest place was underground.

But no one warned us how dangerous silence can be.

The bunker was hidden beneath the shell of an old art museum.

A rusted elevator took us thirty feet below the Earth, into a space lined with steel, stocked with rations, and sealed shut from the world above.

There were five of us at first.

Then four.

Then three.

And finally—just me and Claire.

She was the last person I thought I'd fall for.

Smart-mouthed.

Paranoid.

Brilliant with tools, terrible with people.

She rebuilt the ventilation system with nothing but duct tape and a power drill.

She called the infected "biters," like they were insects.

She never cried—not when we heard the scratching at the steel door, not when the emergency radio went dead.

But one night, I found her staring at the old monitor screen.

Someone had wired a camera up above.

And the feed still worked.

It was our "view."

A broken city skyline.

Crumbling buildings.

A street overtaken by ivy and silence.

And, every so often, the twitch of something dead walking by.

We'd watch it for hours.

It reminded us the world still existed—even if we couldn't be part of it anymore.

That's when she let me touch her.

Not out of lust.

Out of loneliness.

Out of the terrifying, beautiful feeling that maybe this cold steel world could still hold something soft.

We kissed beneath humming fluorescent lights.

We made love on a floor padded with old museum brochures.

We built a home out of rations and routine and whispers in the dark.

But I always knew something was wrong.

She'd flinch when I brushed her shoulder.

Sometimes she'd cough—softly, into a rag.

And once, I found a deep gash on her rib she hadn't told me about.

It wasn't healing.

"You need to tell me," I said one night, as she stared at the city feed again.

She didn't turn around.

"You'll hate me."

"I'd rather hate you alive than mourn you in silence."

She showed me the bite.

Small.

Old.

A scab, but pulsing beneath.

She'd been bitten weeks ago.

Had slowed the infection with alcohol, antibiotics, and—she swore—sheer rage.

"I just… I didn't want to lose this," she said. "Not yet."

I kissed her.

Not out of forgiveness.

Not out of denial.

But because love in a bunker is all the more fragile.

And all the more sacred.

We watched the screen again that night.

She leaned on me, her breath uneven, her hand shaking in mine.

On the surface, the wind stirred the ivy.

A figure stumbled past the camera—jaw slack, eyes hollow.

But down here, in the quiet, Claire exhaled one last time.

She died with a view.

And I stayed beneath it.

Still watching.

Still remembering.

Still waiting.