I leave Derek and Carter to guard the basement while the rest of us go back up top. Doug's house has already been picked clean of everything, leaving only a bunch of empty rooms.

There's nowhere for us to sit, so we go outside on the porch.

“I'd serve you with a coffee and some snacks,” Doug says, gesturing to the barren kitchen, “but…”

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

I'm sure he has the necessary supplies and equipment in that bunker of his to brew a pot of coffee, but whatever. We don't have time anyway.

We spend a few minutes bringing Doug up to speed on everything, giving him an abbreviated version of events so far. The man really doesn't know anything, he locked himself in the bunker as soon as the electricity failed and he hasn't interacted with the system past reading the first notification.

I ask him how he survived without power down there for four days. Doesn't he need electricity for carbon dioxide filters and air circulators?

“Not really,” he says with a shrug. “I have that stuff, but I also have a manual system to air out the bunker. Figured I should prepare for an EMP attack among other things, so most systems have at least one back-up that doesn't need power.”

“Well, good thing you did.”

“I do have a diesel generator and fuel for six months, but it won't start. I kept it in good condition so it should work, but it just doesn't. None of my flashlights work either.”

“Yeah, it looks like all electronics are fried.”

After we're done talking, Doug gives us a short tour of the bunker. He takes the lead with a candle, and I'm right behind him. Emily is behind me, holding onto my shirt to not lose me in the darkness. Pops and William want to go get started on gathering the people, but I stop William and ask him to join the tour.

He does so while Pops leaves.

The bunker is much more impressive than I thought at first. The main door leads to a short airlock of sorts, with a side room that has a shower and a couple of trash bins.

“It's not a proper decontamination room, but it's the best I could do,” Doug says.

There's a second door that's just as thick and sturdy as the first one. It opens up into a circular central chamber that's about ten feet tall and furnished like a living room.

There are couches, tables, chairs, even a flat-screen TV with some consoles, games, and movies.

“Figured I'd need entertainment if I'd be down here for months,” Doug says when he notices me giving the set-up a long side glance.

“Should've brought some books, too.”

“I did, they're in the bedroom.”

Various other rooms sprout from the central one. There's a bathroom with a septic tank, a kitchen, a store room for food items. A couple of bedrooms where his books are stored neatly on a shelf, a small gym room with some basic equipment. And best of all, an armory filled to the brim with guns and ammo.

The structure isn't just some random hole in the ground, either. It's all smooth concrete and looks quite sturdy.

“How'd you get the money to build this?” I ask, perplexed.

“I dug most of it out myself,” Doug says. “Had plenty time on my hands over the years and a few friends from a prepper group to help. Also bank loans. Lots and lots of bank loans. I was about to lose the house in a few months.”

“Lucky you that an apocalypse did start, huh?”

Doug shakes his head as his expression turns grim. “Son, I would've preferred going homeless to this.”

We finish the tour, but he doesn't show me what's behind one of the doors. I figure it might be something personal that I shouldn't stick my nose in, but I have to. Every bit of available space counts.

“What's behind that one?” I say, pointing at it.

“Emergency exit,” Doug answers. “It's just a long dirt tunnel, I haven't finished it yet.”

He opens it to show me. There’s another short decontamination room here as well, but it’s unfinished. The shower is missing, the walls have rebar poking out of them, and the second door isn’t in its frame yet. Beyond it, a dirt tunnel with wooden supports extends out of sight. The candle’s weak, wavering light only pierces about twenty feet deep before the darkness eats it up.

“Dead end?” I ask, looking at the floor.

Since this section isn’t isolated like the rest of the bunker, knee deep murky water has gathered in the tunnel.

“No,” Doug says. “It goes for about three hundred feet to a trap door hidden in a small patch of trees and bushes.”

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“Is it secure?”

“The trap door? Not yet, I was working on it. But it’s hard to spot.”

“Okay.”

I let the man in on my plans to stuff his bunker full of people, and he seems reluctant at first. Until I remind him once again that we’re up against literal monsters and we have a bunch of children, which makes him change his tune. The supplies from his armory would be mighty useful as well, but he won’t just give it all up. We end up haggling, and I promise that someone will write down everything we take so we can pay it back later.

Doug is satisfied, so I get William on that right away.

“Start making an inventory of everything here, I want to know about every last bullet.”

William nods and gets to work. I watch him for a bit as he searches the armory, pulling out boxes of various ammo and guns ranging from Glock pistols to a few M2 Browning machine guns. He tenses seeing those, but I place a hand on his shoulder.

“Not a word,” I whisper. “Just be thankful.”

“Right.”

While William finishes sorting out that mess, Emily and I return up top. People are already gathering outside of Doug’s house by the dozens, with more coming in. I measure up the crowd and realize I’ll have to make the hardest decision yet.

The bunker can only fit about a hundred people, maybe a hundred and fifty if they pack in tight. It won’t be comfortable, but it’ll be safer than the surface. Problem is that we have ten times as many.

Who goes in, who stays out? Who lives, who dies?

It’s a simple thing in theory, just not an easy one. Follow the Titanic rules, where women and children go first. But then, the system comes in to complicate things. A lot of the women — a lot of the mothers — already have classes and levels. They’re valuable fighters. Lots of the kids do as well, hell about half of our ranged fighters are teens that picked mage classes.

Where do I draw the line? How do I handle priorities?

As if sensing my dilemma, Pops appears next to me.

“Figure anything out yet?” He asks.

I shake my head but don’t speak.

“I think this is why William didn’t want to do it. Be the leader, I mean,” he continues. “It’s why I didn’t want to, anyway. But if it’s too much, I can—”

“No,” I cut him off. “I’ll do it. I’m just thinking.”

“Okay.”

He doesn’t reassure me that my decision will be right or that I can do it. We both know it would be a lie, there are no right courses of action here. Only wrong ones, and the best I can do is pick the flavor of wrong I can swallow.

In the end, I mix pragmatism with emotion to the best of my abilities.

“Alright! Listen up, everyone!” I address the amassing crowd of people.

They’re scared. Worried murmurs travel up and down, but they fall quiet as all eyes turn to me. I stand at the entrance of the house, feeling the full weight of their fear and hope. There’s so much of it, more than I know what to do with. More than I’m prepared to handle. But I have to, at least for a little while longer.

“I have a plan!” I continue. “It’s not a nice plan! Most of you probably won’t like it, but it’s the best we can do under the circumstances!”

I explain how Doug’s bunker plays into things now that we have access to it, then I give the entering order. Children and teens first, all of them. With or without classes, it doesn’t matter. The ones with classes will be their final line of defense. Next up are the classless mothers who can’t fight with us up on the surface. And lastly, about twenty of the adult fighters that have children, regardless of gender.

Predictably enough, my decision causes quite a stir. People whisper, then talk, then shout. Everyone wants to go in. Lots of families would be torn apart. What about the weak and the elderly?

The situation descends into a screaming match, most of it sharp words aimed my way. I let them vent for a bit, they all need to get some frustration out of their systems. But despite my best efforts, some of the abuse does get under my skin.

People do have their points. And yet, no matter how right they might be, no matter how much I wish we could do better, this is the best we can manage. The best I can manage.

“I’m not trying to get everyone out alive!” I yell. “A lot of us will die! Even if we win, we’ll lose people!”

That gives pause to some of the loudest voices. One by one they fall silent, until the incoherent screaming simmers back down to a chorus of murmurs.

“I’ll be staying up here to fight,” I continue. “My entire family will. We can’t just blindly chase our own interests right now, we have to do what’s right for the next generation. So yes, a lot of us will stay up here. A lot of us will fight, and a lot of us will die. But we’re doing it to make sure at least some survive to rebuild if and when we’re gone. That means the children, and enough parents to guide them.”

There’s some more complaining, but at least they don’t start screaming again. People are shell shocked by the revelation that’s finally starting to sink in for some of them. They held out hope that the nightmare could end, that things might just return to normal somehow.

“If it’s worth anything, I’m sorry,” I say. “I wish it wasn’t like this, but it is. Whether or not we like it, we’re all fighters now. We have to be brave enough to do the hard things that need to be done because no one else will do them for us.”

Some people stare ahead in blank resignation. Others start crying, hugging their families and friends. One man rushes to the forefront, dragging a woman and three kids along.

“Fuck you!” He yells. “Who the hell even put you in charge?!”

He’s in his early forties, and the woman is in her late thirties. The kids look to be between seven and twelve years old. I analyze them one by one, finding they’re all classless.

“No one did,” I answer, taking the not so subtle bait.

“Exactly!” He says and points a finger at me. The woman pulls his arm, trying to get him to disengage, and the kids huddle up behind her. “So why should we take orders from you?!”

“No one’s forcing you to,” I say calmly. Then I wave at the spot next to me and add, “if you don’t like how I’m doing things, feel free to come up here and take charge yourself. That, or leave.”

“I’m not leaving, I live here,” he says, expertly dodging the offer I put forth.

“Then come up here and take charge,” I repeat, keeping the pressure on him.

He, of course, doesn’t. Who in their right mind would? Not even I want to be in this position. The man grumbles some more, but this time, he lets himself get pulled away by his wife. He shoots me one last glare over his shoulder as they shuffle to the back of the crowd.

“Start preparing!” I tell the others. “Decide who goes in and who doesn’t. I can’t force any of you to stay and fight, but I’d appreciate it. We need every last capable man and woman we can get.”