Chapter Three

Nine o'clock sharp.

I pressed the call button.

"Lena, can you hear me? It's me, Arthur."

Static crackled, like someone tearing paper in my ear.

No response.

I called again, my voice more forceful this time: "Lena? Just press the acknowledge button."

Still nothing.

I stared at the indicator light. It remained dark, cold and unresponsive.

I forced myself to stay calm. Maybe the antenna came loose, maybe she was dealing with the rat.

She'd been delayed before, but never more than two minutes.

I watched the second hand pass 9:02.

9:03.

9:05.

My throat began to dry up, like it had been scraped with sandpaper.

"Lena, don't scare me." I lowered my voice. "If you can hear me, just tap the microphone once."

Nothing.

I turned to look at the bunker's heavy door. Mike had gone out in the afternoon to deliver supplies to her.

Before leaving, he had told me in that uncompromising tone: Don't move, guard the door.

At 9:15, I switched the backup power once, recalibrated the frequency, ruling out problems on my end. After completing the operation, I called again.

"Lena, I'm here. Answer me."

In the static, only my breathing.

I started imagining her side: leaking pipes, damp corners, shadows of rats running by. Had she fallen? Was she infected? Was she—

I didn't dare say that word out loud.

At 9:27, the outer door interlock suddenly sounded.

"Click—click—"

I jumped up, almost lunging at the observation window.

Mike was back.

This time he walked even slower, his shoulders tensed, as if enduring pain. The backpack was half its previous weight. He entered the disinfection chamber, and only pushed the door open after the process finished.

I didn't wait for him to speak, confronting him directly: "Lena didn't respond to me. She didn't contact me today."

Mike's footsteps stopped.

For that second, I saw something flicker in his eyes, quickly suppressed. Like someone had rapidly turned off a light, leaving only a trace of afterglow.

"Maybe her equipment malfunctioned," his voice was low. "Don't panic yet."

I stared at him. "She's never not responded before."

Mike put down his backpack. He sat in a chair, elbows on his knees, unusually silent.

"You went to her place," I said word by word. "Tell me, what did you see."

Mike didn't look up.

I stepped forward, my voice trembling but fiercer: "Mike!"

He finally raised his eyes.

In those eyes was exhaustion, suppression, and something I didn't want to acknowledge—something like mourning.

I felt like I was suffocating.

"Say it," I pushed him.

Mike's Adam's apple bobbed.

"Arthur..." When he spoke, his voice was so hoarse it didn't sound like him. "Lena... is dead."

My mind buzzed.

"Impossible." I heard myself say, my voice as light as air. "Say that again."

"I failed to protect her."

I stared at him, my vision beginning to darken. In my ears was Lena's voice, repeating with that laughing lilt—

"When we can get out, I'm going to cry in your arms."

I hadn't even hugged her yet.

How could she just—

"You're lying!" I turned and shouted at Mike. "Are you lying? How could she be dead?!"

I shouted until my throat cracked. "I'm going to see her! I'm going right now!"

I rushed to the protective suit locker, roughly pulling out the gear he had repeatedly warned was "inadequate protection level," clumsily putting it on.

Mike took one step and grabbed my shoulder, his grip frightening, throwing me backward.

I stumbled and hit the wall, a sharp pain in my shoulder blade.

"You can't go out," Mike's voice was like iron. "It's more chaotic outside. You go out, you die."

"She's dead!" I stared at him, my eyes burning. "I at least need to see her one last time!"

"What will seeing her change?" Mike stepped closer, his presence like a wall. "Can you pull her out of the ground? Or do you want to die out there too, making me collect another corpse?"

My chest heaved violently.

Mike grabbed my wrist, snatched the protective suit from my hands, threw it back in the locker, and locked it.

"Listen clearly," he said word by word. "You must live. Only if you live does this have meaning."

I stared hard at that locker door, my breathing chaotic.

Reason was telling me he was right, but emotion was like a beast, tearing at my chest.

I struggled to calm myself.

Time passed bit by bit. Finally, I nodded, my voice hoarse: "Okay... I won't go out."

Mike's shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly.

"I'm going out one more time." Mike looked back at me, his gaze heavy as water. "To check the perimeter. And... handle some things."

I wanted to ask what he meant by "handle," but my throat couldn't make a sound.

He only left one sentence: "Don't do anything stupid."

The heavy door closed. I stood there until my feet went numb.

Everything between Lena and me surged through my mind. I became more certain—I had to see Lena's final appearance with my own eyes.

Otherwise, I'd be bound forever by this phrase "she's dead," forced to accept an ending someone else told me.

I returned to the radio, my fingers white as I pressed the transmit button, as if speaking to the air.

"Lena..." I said quietly. "Wait for me."

The only response was the crackling of static.

I sat there all night.

The next day, Mike prepared his backpack as usual.

His face showed deeper exhaustion, yet his eyes remained resolute.

"I'm going out to find food," he told me. "And confirm the situation again."

Before leaving, he emphasized again, his tone even heavier than the night before:

"Arthur, absolutely don't go out. You hear me? Absolutely."

I looked at him and nodded.

Until the door clicked shut.

I turned and walked to the protective suit locker, placing my hand on the cold metal.

I had to go see Lena one last time.