text: Author's note: This is one part of the Melted collection. These stories can be read individually or in any order. "Got everything?" asked Tucker yet again. "And then some!" Christina had been prepared for years. Like any sane person (and there would be very few of them left now) she was upset that the Doomsday Clock had struck midnight. Despite herself, Christina was almost excited. For years, she had carefully stocked the bunker with canned goods, food, water, entertainment, and first aid kits. A triple-layered zero particulate air filter system kept pathogens at bay. Daylight-simulating bulbs cheerfully lit the radiation-proof bunker. She spent a small fortune installing a self-contained plumbing system and a backup generator for the backup generator. A small arsenal was tucked behind a trapdoor in the main bedroom. Just in case. They would be ready to live underground for years if they had to. She and Tucker had only started dating in December. They met at a joint Christmas party in the atrium of their office building. The building housed a wide variety of boring-sounding businesses and offices, the heads of which decided a holiday mixer would liven things up. The weather on Christmas Eve was warm enough that she was able to wear a red velvet Santa skirt to the party. She pulled the tiny skirt down in the front while simultaneously trying to keep it high enough in the back. Christina regretted her costume choice. Her form-fitting green and red striped top rose up to expose her belly as she refilled her punch glass. She wasn't sure how many refills she had had, no thanks to Carolyn. Carolyn continually refilled everyone's glass in a desperate attempt to keep the party alive, but Christina suspected she was just trying to cover up her alcoholism. The punch was much stronger than it let on. A lanky man who she vaguely recognized as a paralegal from upstairs walked up to the punch table. Christina knew it was cliche, so she was glad she didn’t say what she was thinking out loud. Her immediate impression was that he defined tall, dark, and handsome. She could not help but stare at the jarring contrast between his striking face and his horrible clothing. He wore the ugliest Christmas sweater she had ever seen in her life. Jingle bells, glitter, and pompoms announced his every movement. Puff paint ran up and down the sleeves and a rainbow of sequins caught the light like a disco ball. Christmas lights strung around the applique pine tree blinked irregularly. “How do you wash a sweater like that?” Christina heard herself wonder aloud. The paralegal stopped filling his punch glass and looked down. “You know, I’m not exactly sure? I just bought this thing and I hadn’t really considered what I’d do with it after today.” Christina could not tear her eyes away from the Santa peeking out from behind the tree on his sweater. Santa's expression was slightly menacing. Tucker bent down to get in her line of sight and caught her attention. He stuck out a slender ringless hand. “I’m Tucker. Anthony Tucker.” Christina rolled her eyes. “Okay, Bond James Bond," she muttered. Tucker’s cheeks turned maroon. “Sorry, that was awkward. It’s just that everyone calls me Tucker,” he said as he moved to step away from the punch table. “No, no,” Christina began. “Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Idris Elba? I guess that’s why it made me think of James Bond, I don't know.” He snorted in self-deprecation and turned to leave. She grabbed the paralegal’s wrist and he flushed even deeper. She looked down at her strong knuckled grasp, unaware that she was clutching with all her might. Cheeks already reddened from the punch, she could not blush. She blinked up at the handsome face in front of her and tried to focus. She felt herself swaying, but wasn’t sure if it was because of the punch or the paralegal. “If you want, I can call an uber for you,” Tucker offered delicately. He gently loosened her fingers. “That’s okay. Can you just... bring me some sugar cookies?” He gently steered her towards a table and made sure she had her purse tucked safely at her side before he left. Tucker returned with a bottle of water and a plate piled high with sprinkled reindeer-shaped cookies. They sat on folding chairs and people-watched. They ranked Christmas sweaters by ugliness. Tucker won by a landslide. When he wasn't pushing pencils on the sixth floor, Tucker said he was an amateur painter. He focused on cubism, but was thinking about moving into postmodernism. Christina did not mention her hobby and munched cookies, listening with genuine interest. "Feeling better?" "Much," Christina said truthfully. They sat in comfortable silence, staring out at their coworkers milling around awkwardly. "So why 'Tucker'? Anthony isn't such a bad name." "It's not, I agree. It's just that I'm the third one. I think Tucker has a little more flavor anyway." He paused. "Do you go by Tina? Chrissy?" "Absolutely not! It's Christina or Miss Watterson. I'm the CFO, after all. No nicknames allowed." She glanced at her companion and felt a familiar wave of pleasure at his flash of surprise. Very few people expected her to have a corner office and she relished revealing her title. To his credit, Anthony Tucker needed only a moment to process the information. "Well then, Miss Watterson, do you have plans for New Year's?" Christina remembered that night with wistful clarity. It felt like ages ago, so much had happened since. Before Tucker, Christina dated casually and rarely stayed with anyone very long. When she finally admitted to her dates that she was a doomsday prepper and had an underground bunker larger than her house, most men stopped calling. She was fine with that because that just meant that they were risk takers in a way she wasn’t. She enjoyed living dangerously - she had tried skydiving, thank you very much - but only by choice. No outside forces were going to take her down without a fight. So when Christina heard the news of the Thwaites Glacier discovery, she had to inform Tucker about her obsession far earlier than she would have liked. Four days passed before she heard from him again. But when Dr. Eleanor Lee - a member of the team in Antarctica that discovered the algae in the glacier - died from Melting after her plane landed in Argentina, Tucker texted her. There were rumors of a case of Melting in New York City, but none where she lived. Yet. Christina offered Tucker an ultimatum. On January 31st, six days after the discovery in the glacier and thirty-eight days into their relationship, Christina and Tucker took the plunge into the bunker. Their footsteps echoed on the tin stairs as they descended into their new steel and concrete home. "Last chance," said Christina. Tucker squeezed her wrist. They walked through a second steel door, closed it, and turned the heavy lock. Tucker exhaled a long-held breath. Christina turned and took both his hands in hers. "It's gonna be okay." "They're dying out there. There are more Melting every day. The temperature keeps rising. They're going mad and they're... My sisters are going to..." Tucker crumpled. Christina held him up. "It's gonna be okay," she repeated. Tucker felt cold sweat prickle his neck. "Did you remember my paints? If I can't paint--" "Don't worry. I even made a little studio for you." She led the way into a smaller room set up with easels, palettes, and a huge crate of oil paints, watercolors, and acrylics. A tall shelf housed boxes of paintbrushes, scrapers, cans of paint thinner, tools, and aprons. A mountain of canvases was neatly stacked against the wall. "It looks like you got enough for about ten years of painting. I'll be a regular Picasso by the time we get out." "Okay, rule number one. We never talk about how long we're in the bunker. We will drive ourselves crazy if we circle a date on the calendar and wait. We have no idea how long this will be, so let's just take it one day at a time." "Fair. Rule number two?" "Not so much a rule as a request. Can you try impressionism someday? I'm more of a Renoir kinda gal." "We'll see," Tucker laughed. He folded her into his arms and buried his face in her hair. They stood like that for a long time or maybe just a moment. Christina kept no clocks in the bunker. “If this is the end, I’m glad I’m spending it with you.” Tucker squeezed Christina’s wrist tightly.