My name is Iris May. If you can’t tell, my parents were big into spring. Just ask my brother, March, or sister, Lily. Except I don’t know where they are anymore. Any of them.

I remember learning about the Cold War in history before this whole thing happened. It was history, over, complete. Yet somehow I ended up living in a bunker in God knows where. The last Americans shipped out across the world to whoever would take us.

I remember the months and weeks leading up to the drop. News headlines I didn’t care about. Our family vacation to Moscow canceled. Eastern Europe once again being invaded, with America, as always, butting in. Maybe if we’d just stepped back I would still be at home eating Froot Loops and ignoring the drone of the TV.

I remember the day. I was sitting in English class when the teacher’s face went white. A few students noticed and asked for an explanation. Most, like me, thought he’d just clicked on a bad link. He stood up and coolly told the class to grab our things: we were having an evacuation. “Why?” one of the pushier kids demanded. Our teacher just solemnly shook his head and led us out the door.

I remember getting into an intimidating steel van, packed tightly with students. Some were yelling, asking about our situation. Some were sobbing, convinced we were condemned. Some, including me, simply put in our earbuds and tuned the world out. Who cared where we were going as long as there was an iPhone charger?

I remember boarding a monster of a plane painted with splotches of tan and chocolate. It was not like flying Delta. The seats were dingy metal planks or battered cargo crates, cinching you in with bits of frayed rope. Another vehicle joined us, a simple commuter bus occupied by unknown adults. I searched through the crowd for my kin, at this point wanting someone to hold my hand, to explain. I cried when my search was fruitless.

I was pushed into a seat, told to tie myself in so we could fly. I simply stared at the young soldier, the rebel in me not understanding the real danger we were in. After a minute the middle-aged woman next to me forced the belt around my waist. The trooper nodded and trotted off to other pockets of defiance.

I remember the eerie quiet of the flight. Nobody quite knew what to do with themselves, what to make of our predicament. I have no idea how long we soared. My phone died about halfway through, causing tears. That little rectangle was my last shred of normalcy, and perhaps my escape.

I remember being shaken awake by the woman next to me. Apparently I’d fallen asleep on her shoulder and had been asleep for a while. She shook her head when I apologized for any discomfort I’d caused her. She thanked me. I guess not wanting to wake me had kept her from sobbing her heart out. It had kept her sane. I understood and wished for a second I was a squid. Just so I wouldn’t be forced to dwell on what was going on in the world. We disembarked, me clinging to the woman. Honestly, she was the only thing keeping me from falling off the deep end.

I remember being sorted into bunkers, my screams ringing out as my new friend was shoved onto a different platform from mine. A platoon of soldiers led my group into the ground. I had no idea I’d be stranded in this cold, foreboding coffin for months.

I remember that lonely winter buried alive. The weeks passed with not a soul doing anything but waiting, waiting for fresh air, sunlight, family. Our ragtag group wasn’t very social, so these desires were never voiced. But you could see it in the sheet-white arms, the gaping mouths, and the hollow, colorless eyes. After a month they tried to school the children. They failed miserably. We had received chargers for our phones, our last pieces of home, and we clung to the screens for dear life – hoping in vain for a text, post, call, to break the laws of science and come through. Communications between the bunkers were few and far between.

I remember hearing that our beautiful country had been leveled. There had been direct hits on Washington, D.C., Sacramento, St. Paul, and Austin, Texas, and everything was decimated. People wouldn’t inhabit the United States again for hundreds of years; at least a million people were dead.

I tried not to think of my vaporized countrymen. I tried not to consider the possibility that my family might be part of the death toll.

After five and a half months, a young soldier dressed in a forest green uniform stampeded into the bunker. Her heavy boots made the metal sing. “The threat is over! A peace treaty has been signed! We can come out of hiding!” she said.

A collective gasp escaped the crowd. “You can go outside! You can go above ground! You can find your families!”

Cheers erupted. Of course I was exhilarated, but all I could think was, what next? Our homes were gone, our government and economy collapsed; not having heard anything from the outside in weeks was not a good sign. For all I knew, America was simply a smoldering Canadian territory now.

I remember my stomach twisting grotesquely as I stepped into the freight elevator. What would we find above? A young boy about half my height and age looked at me with eyes like plates. Obviously I wasn’t the only one worrying. The lift glided up. The thick doors slid open, the few seconds seeming to take eons.

My eyes closed as a temperate wind blew in. The air was fresh and clean, smelling sweetly of flowers. I inhaled deeply, enjoying the loveliness of something as simple as unprocessed oxygen in my lungs.

And when I open my eyes again, the first thing my gaze caught was a lone iris, swaying genially in the breeze.