The rats are what scares me the most.

Every scuffle in the dark, every movement beyond what my phone's torch can reach is terrifying. I tell myself they're rats, because who's to say they aren't?

I try to toughen myself up by comparing myself to my fictional heroes and heroines, but I haven't got superpowers, I haven't got courage, I haven't got muscle, and I haven't got a green-screen to tell me that everything around me is man's digital construct and not real life.

I've got too much to worry about right now; my family, other people being a threat, myself... And the battery on my phone. I know there's no more wifi or service in the underground tunnels where the trains pass, but surely the satellite discs haven't all been destroyed. Surely there's still running water and electricity. I convince myself that once I get out of the tunnels, I'll be able to call my family, and we'll be reunited and we'll all be safe. But I'm spinning myself a fairytale, and nobody except for Disney ever got far with those.

The only convenience the darkness brings me is that I can pee without the risk of anyone seeing.

The walk through the tunnel is long, arduous. I stumble over the tracks several times, and so far I've been lucky that none of the tracks I've touched have been live. The world down here seems dead, and now only the scavengers remain, only the rats, the cockroaches, people like me.

Twice, I find myself going in circles, passing the same wet, mossy plant I saw but five minutes ago. If only google maps worked, I think to myself, but it doesn't. I have no service, no wifi, no pre-loaded map of this place on my phone, no way to contact anybody, no way to call for help. I am, quite literally, disconnected.

Shit, did I pack water?

Only someone as idiotic as I am would have left an entire tube compartment without searching it for a possible water bottle. I was in shock, I packed my bag ankle-deep in brains, blood, and gore, and yet I forgot the ultimate H₂O. Oh, god.

I wasn't ready for the end of the world.

▿

Three hours of walking leaves me with a headache and dizziness that makes me trip over my own feet. In an attempt to save myself, I drag my fingertips along the tunnel walls as I go, eagerly and desperately searching for a hint of moisture, anything I can lick from the stone to help me gain some strength.

At last, I stop as my fingers detect just the slightest amount of moisture on the walls, and after determining that it is indeed water, I lick it without hesitation from the damp stone. It tastes like rainwater, which is what I assume it is, given that I rained a couple nights ago. I'm in luck, this time, but I won't be for much longer.

Once I've gotten as much as the wall has to offer, I pick myself up and force myself to continue. All I have to find is the nearest platform. Just the nearest platform.

That's all I have to do, because then I can get out of here, out onto the surface of the earth, and I can breathe.

Why bother? Why are you doing this? Such thoughts cross my mind several times as my exhaustion continues to persist, but I have to get out of these tunnels. There's nothing as reassuring and as dangerous as the darkness, where the danger is unseen, and therefore, to me, non-existent. That's a stupid mentality that I'm going to have to get rid of if I want to continue.

I take out my sachet of electrolytes, clumsily tear it open, and stick a finger into the powder, coating it well before I lick the energy off. I feel only slightly more replenished, and now it tastes like someone's sweated into my mouth. Gross.

But what's the point of it, really? What if my family's dead? The angel on my shoulder tells me to shut up and continue walking. They're not dead. They can't be. Get it together, Saskia.

Even so, the reason as to why I'm allowing myself to stumble through the darkness in an aim to get to the light as soon as possible is because of this animal, this feral will－ need－ for survival.

I keep one hand pressed up against the wall of the tunnel for support.

My phone's running on 50% power. I opt for shutting it down completely; I'm going to need that power... possibly. Possibly not.

An infinite amount of hours later, I find a platform, and I laugh out of relief. Oh, thank god. If there's a kiosk somewhere up there near the subway station, I've got some cash, I'll be able to buy water, finally...

What I don't realise is that the world above me no longer requires honesty, philanthropy, love, because those are all things that will get you killed.

As I emerge from the station, I'm greeted by a wave of air so foul that it stings my eyes, makes them water. The city from here looks intact, but something feels so, so wrong. The videos I saw earlier resurface. I feel sick.

There's a little kiosk there, but it's not full of food or drinks. I enter cautiously, pulling out the pocket knife I'd taken from the dead man in the underground, and I flip the blade out with a flick of my finger, suddenly realising how pathetically small it is. God, it's practically microscopic. There are cells bigger than this thing. It looks like the only thing it'd be good at is cutting up picnic-sized salami sticks, and this is no time for a picnic.

Hopefully they sell better knives in here, but I doubt it.

I hold my petit knife out as I step over the threshold. Three of the floor-to ceiling glass windows lie in fragments on the ground. the fourth is cracked, and the door's been half-pulled off its hinges. Someone's been here, and I don't think that whoever it was was in a good mood.

Water. Water, water- one bottle's rolled underneath a shelf, and without hesitation, I take it, twist the cap open, and gulp a mouthful down before restraining myself. I'm going to need that. I get back up, take a look around. A packet of coke-flavoured Haribo gummies lies on the floor. Two unopened cans. The third has spilled onto the floor, creating puke-like art on the tiled floor. Wonderful. I take the two cans and try to find something else. I stuff everything there is to eat into my backpack, but there isn't much left.

Oddly enough, I wander over to the counter, as if to pay for whatever it is I've packed, before I stop, find myself staring down.

The cashier lady lies flat on the floor, what looks like claw- or nail marks cascading along her body. Every wound oozes red blood and black pus. The face is near-intact, save for a split lip and a shard from the lenses of her glasses in one eye, but her head lies cushioned on a pillow of blood, laced with little white bits. Is that brain matter? I can still feel the heat radiating from the crimson liquid.

The corpse isn't old, there are no flies around it, the body's still warm, face still flushed, but she's obviously dead. I can't linger, so I stagger back from the counter after grabbing a map and back outside into the concrete city.

I'd never felt so alone in my life as when I wander the streets of this empty, corpse-riddle city, trying to find the nearest way out that doesn't take me back through the train tunnels. I'm going home.

I'm going home, and I'm going to make it, no matter how many phantoms come after me.

And the devil on my shoulder says: I seriously wonder how long that 'brave' confidence is going to last.