"The Moores are having a baby."
I glanced up from the table, surprised. "They got the okay?"
My husband nodded. "The paperwork came in today, so I heard." He lowered his eyes in sorrow. "Poor Joanna."
"She's only 53," I breathed.
A bead of sweat dripped down my brow, landing on the cool, concrete floor of the bunker. I tried to remind myself to be thankful for this place, this concrete tomb, but it grew more difficult each day. Perpetuum Technologies, the company that sprung up just in time for the largest nuclear war the world had ever seen, had designed the vault to sustain one thousand people for as long as it took the surface to be inhabitable again.
Exactly one thousand people.
Poor Joanna indeed.
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Short Horror Stories
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