The metro bathroom was dark and damp with a solitary bulb above the sink flickering sporadically by the entrance, lighting up the grimy trashed tile walls, the torn up floor. With each flick of the luminous bulb, shards of mirror twinkled, scattered across the floor, reflecting the lone light haphazardly around the dark room. Perhaps back when the bombs had dropped it had been shaken from the wall, or more recently some pissed off traveler had taken out his frustrations on it. Maybe one of the local creatures had caught a glimpse of its own reflection and smashed it to pieces.

The sinks stopped at the supports, snapped like twigs, leaving the basins to lie on their sides, lining out grooved craters from their fall. Beyond the stalls the light was blocked, casting shadow into the back of the room. One stall door still stood in the dark, stains of some forgotten mess splattered and dried all over; the other had collapsed in on itself. Snapped hinges, it had probably been kicked down. There in the dark, propped up against the wall perpendicular to the stalls slumped the sorry sight of a man, taking in deep labored breaths, head tilted up just enough to keep an eye on the entrance.

With one shaky hand, he held a small metallic square up to the cigarette in his mouth and flicked. Each spark bounced off the metal before going black again. His lighter. His good luck charm. The only source of fire he'd found in months. Almost empty.

The sparks gave enough light to draw his attention to the large stain of red halfway down his shin. He tried not to look at it, the funny angle of the half connected to his foot made him feel sick. He could still feel the wetness flowing, sticking to his pant leg; the pain wasn't ready to let up, either. The cigarette dropped out of his mouth as he shook more violently, trying to keep vomit down as the convulsion passed. Another low hiss from somewhere beyond the bathroom door. He had to stay quite. His life depended on it.

The man was still as the sound gurgled and died off before feeling around the dark floor, pulling another shape up with the lighter. The syringe gleamed dully, light bouncing off the little gauge fitted on top to show just how much "fix-you" juice was left in there.

Stimpak… Stimulation delivery package…

Ads had been all over Television for them during the war, the Liberation of Anchorage, back when they'd still had TV's, before the days of nuclear fallout. One injection of the miracle drug would sterilize a wound and start sealing it in hours. But he'd been burned. The merchant he'd bought them off of must have used them himself then filled the empties with Saline or some shit. Whatever he'd injected himself with wasn't doing the trick. It'd been twenty minutes; he'd have seen signs of progress by now.

That's how it is out here in the wastes… Every man for himself and a "fuck you" for every man…

He looked down at the shiny, wet mess; he could see a bit of white glow protruding through the red. The noise, that awful crunch, then the pain.

Christ… the pain…

The creature had caught him off guard, a cobble of black glittery eyes on a giant grey carapace. The radiation had had all kinds of effects no one could have anticipated, but he'd never have bet on the day he saw scorpions outgrow the hounds. It was already attacking, he'd manage to sink two shotgun blasts into it, but by then it was too close, he'd felt the pressure as one of those massive pincers clamped around his leg, then, crunch.

The pain was blinding, but a lucky shot on the way down took care of the beast. As he lay there trying to remain conscious, he caught sight of two more scuttling towards him in the distance. He pried the claw open with the gun's stock and forced himself to his feet in a hurry, pale and sweaty, limping fast as he could to the metro, already in sight. Now he sat in the dark trying and failing to ignore the pain, think out a plan, and focus on what he needed to do.

What you need to do is stop wasting time…

Soon, he'd need to chance a scavenge run on his bad leg, once the metro monstrosities settled down and stopped roaming. There was light pouring out a room down the hall, he'd seen in when he came crashing in. Had to be staff facilities, they were never too far from the public washrooms. Staff bathrooms, maybe an office, and god willing, a med-kit with some real fucking stims. Or maybe he'd stagger over to find it ransacked, his salvation stolen from him a long time ago by someone who'd been less careless during their lifespan. Even worse, he could stumble into one of those ghouls in the dark and they'd tear him apart. Regardless, he had to try. As for now, he'd sit tight; do what he could with what he had.

A quick rummage in his front jacket pocket brought out a bag of chips, a box of instant oatmeal and what he could only conclude was at one point an apple. He held the fruit up with a shaky hand, eying it with disgust, trying to psych himself up for what he was about to do. It was leathery to the touch, as if it'd gone wild with everything else and grown a hide.

The first bite was somewhere between biting into a football and the taste of sugar mixed with turpentine. At least it had some juice left in it; the dry mouth had been killing him, the bitter aftertaste mellowed after a few more bites. He finished it off and moved onto the chips, scarfing them down in handfuls. They all but crumbled to ash against his tongue. He didn't think about the radiation anymore, just about how hungry he was. He tried not to get caught up in memories of bright red strawberries spurting in his mouth, or a juicy steak sizzling on the barbeque.

Long gone…

Those days were long gone.

Now came the tough part, he'd avoided thinking about it as long as he could, but the chips had cinched it. He turned his head over to the busted in stall and sized up the toilet tank. He needed water, it'd been almost two days and there was no way in hell that fruit had been enough. The sinks were bust and he didn't feel like licking the floor.

He pushed himself up with great difficulty, waited until he was positive there was nothing crawling around outside, then with great care he limped a few steps to rest on the leaning door. The tank cover took a few yanks; whatever it was caked in had formed a crusty seal. Yet there was a tiny silver lining duck taped to the bottom of the tank cover, he'd felt the handle; a ten millimeter handgun, ripe for the plucking. It felt old as he tore it from the tape and checked it for bullets. None, plus it was in terrible condition, he rubbed his fingers against the rust then pocketed it. Still, there were plenty of people with out there with the knowledge to get it shiny and functional again. Something to trade was something to trade in the wastes.

The gun had been a welcome distraction, but now he was leaning over the tank again, employing the same prep tactic he'd used to get the fruit down, only this was much worse. Thank god he couldn't see it, just a few ripples in the darkness, but he could most certainly smell it. He stuck his hand into the cool liquid and felt around to make sure nothing had died in there. Nothing. He brought a handful of the stuff up to his mouth, plugged his nose and slurped it down. He almost wretched. It was worse than the rusty, metallic stuff he was used to, much worse.

He drank his fill, then splashed a good amount on his face, licking away the salt and dirt at his lips. He couldn't remember the last time he'd taken a proper shower. Maybe when he finally got out of this mess, he'd find a stream to travel by, dunk in it every now and-

A loud clattering just outside the door, something must have knocked over a waste bin. He stood, stalk still, praying it was just a rad-roach or one of those wretched mole rats. A soft moan, then a gurgling hiss. His heart picked up the pace. He poked his head out of the stall, watching the door, simultaneously feeling around for his shotgun. Silence again, and then he heard groping around the frame. The doorknob rattled, sporadic at first, then it calmed to slow, jerky turns. The door slid open.

A human shaped shadow lurched into the room.

Ghoul…

It looked like one of those zombies from the old horror flicks he used to watch on late nights with the lights out. Under the ragged clothing it had greenish moldy looking skin that had fallen away in large chunks revealing dried brown flesh underneath. Most of the skin had been seared off its head from the radiation exposure; the gaunt face hugged the skull close. The nose had either been ripped or fallen off, leaving behind two slits of nostril under a set of milky, absent eyes. A wet growl bubbled and escaped its throat as it felt the stump of the sink, apparently enthralled by the cool damp feel against its fingertips. What the fuck was he going to do? Ghouls were dumb as bricks, but their sense of hearing was phenomenal and the second they sensed weakness, they'd swarm. The situation got worse as the monstrosity began tracing a wet finger against the wall tile, closer and closer till it disappeared behind the stall.

Fuck!

He listened to it rasp and shuffle, not moving a muscle, keeping his head half poked out the stall. The soft scratching noises pressing at him from every angle.

Then the face appeared at the edge of the stalls, those milky whites staring directly at him, through him.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

He could feel its hot, rank breath against his face. It did not appear to see him, continuing its finger tracing down the stall edge, no more than an arms length away. Then it tripped.

His foot had been sticking out of the stall door just enough for the creature to fall down on it. He cried out, fresh pain bringing him to his knees. Instantly, the creature's demeanor changed. Its eyes narrowed and its head twisted towards the source of the sound, letting out a loud angry howl.

There was a loud bang and the face exploded into shards of meat and bone, splattering the dark corner of the bathroom.

The silence was short lived for when the ringing in his ears ceased a choir of hissing echoed from somewhere down the tunnel. He sighed, then raised himself onto his good leg with a grimace and hobbled past the headless body and made for the door.

He threw it open and took a look into the darkness. No shadows charged through the light his distant sanctuary emitted. But they would.

He started pulling small, heavy disks from his side pouch, pressing them in the center to activate them, tossing each one in a different direction, a safe distance apart. He'd been saving them, but this was starting to feel like the end of the line.

Might as well go out with a bang…

The metro floor glowed with a dozen little red dots, fireflies hovering low, kissing the dirt.

He closed himself back into the bathroom and hopped back to his gore splattered spot, seating himself against the wall once more. He felt for his lighter and pulled out another cigarette. A few sparks later a tiny flame danced long enough to light it and he sucked in a big drag. He blew it out and quickly took a few more.

He checked the cylindrical ammo reserve of the shotgun, sighed and took another drag. Six shots. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had as many as he'd wanted. It didn't look good, from the sounds of the sprinting echoing through the tunnel, there were a lot of them and he wasn't a great shot on the best of days. He dragged a finger along the blade sheath attached to his belt. He'd have to make due.

Or, you know… Die.

He didn't like the thought of it, but he liked the idea of bitching about it even less. The way he saw it, his carelessness had gotten himself into this mess, now he had one last chance to show himself what he was really made of.

A deafening explosion shook the bathroom, the creatures shrieked, but the sprinting persisted. Another explosion. And another. It was like the bombs were dropping all over again. Hell, he'd survived that, maybe he'd survive this.

"Come on, you bastards." He whispered.

Come on…