Weller retreated from the bathroom in some fresh Navcom overalls and rolled his chair back down the hall, with his soiled clothes tied to his chair in a clear sealed bag. He dumped the bag into a disposal unit that he pulled down from the wall, then closed the unit, pressed a button, and watched the bag through a window being torched with white hot flames.

The dome shaped roof shone a fading halogen light onto his head as he rolled towards his work-bench in the bunker’s center and came to a well-practiced stop. 

He placed the tube of toothpaste and red paint pot onto the bench, then squeezed out an inch of white paste from the tube and mixed it with a few drops of enamel red. Hot pink was the color on the paint chart that he imagined in his mind. And as he stirred them together with his finger, he decided he’d call this pale red color “close enough”.

He wiped his finger on a rag, then turned his attention across the bench, to a well-used collection of paintbrushes in a glass, ranging in sizes from a quarter-inch-wide to a half-inch flat. Weller picked up the quarter-inch brush, and noticed the concave handle was looking worn. The heavy imprint of his fingers had taken its toll on the handle’s wood. Functional and nothing more.

Everything inside the bunker had a job. And today the brushes job was simple:… it was needed to paint a dress.

He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a wooden figurine of a teenage girl, then placed it on the bench, and admired his most recent work. But something wasn’t right. A knife appeared inside his hand, and whittled away at her mane of hair until he finally got it right. He blew away the dust, paused and checked his work, then ran his finger over the ball gown that he had carved for her to wear.

Functional and nothing more.

But the figurine broke that rule. And as he painted her gown his version of pink, he knew the figurine’s function was to make him smile.

A half hour later he was finished and set the figurine down to dry. Her dress was painted hot pink, her hair was black and long, creating a striking combination that was only missing her face and eyes. One day he knew he’d paint them on, but for now that day could wait. His skill with the brush had its limitations, unlike the control he felt when he held a knife.

Weller turned and looked at Casey fast asleep across the bunker. Her ventilator whirred and buzzed as it pumped air into her lungs. Lungs that had been slowly failing since the day they first arrived.

But Casey was a fighter, and he was determined to keep her alive. His best friend that he fell in love with, in that opening moment when they first locked eyes. Eyes that never doubted him. Eyes that loved him no matter what. And if there was ever a hurdle to test that bond, then life in a Navcom bunker was surely it.

“Rrrh…”

Weller thought he heard a noise. But it wasn’t possible. Nine years underground had taken its toll. But he was confident his mind was holding. It had to be.

‘Rrrh…’”

He heard it again. He stared at Casey. She hadn’t moved from her bed in years. Her coma had come on quickly, taking him by surprise. But when he realized what was happened, all he could hope was that he’d had done his best.

‘“Rrrh…’”

This time he knew what he had heard. Casey’s leg twitched. Her Alsatian eyes slowly opened, then looked across at her disheveled master and… let out a muffled bark.