I'm a chef for the apocalypse bunker these billionaires built.

A few months ago, I got a job as a line cook at a restaurant that was, quite honestly, way out of my league. The first time our Sous chef yelled at me for not having my station set up in time, I knew I quit. That was when a man approached me. He said he saw me fighting back tears from where he was sitting, and he was curious to know what was going on. One thing lead to another, and he offered me a job. He said it was for a very wealthy person, and the pay would be substantial. I was skeptical, but desperate. I took it. After all, how much worse could it be than working in a world-class restaurant, right? It couldn't possibly be worse. <br><br>****<br>The first thing they did was have me sign a non-disclosure agreement. Then they had me sign a two year contract. I barely even had time to read it. They took me on a plane, then a car, then another plane, then another car, and finally a helicopter that took me to a small cliff overlooking the ocean. That's where they brought me, and that's where I am now.<br><br>It's been 486 days. <br><br>I have no idea where I am, other than it's in Central or South America. I know that much from the view. The air is always thick and warm, and god forbid I have to walk outside without my sunglasses. They didn't let me bring anything with me. They took my phone, and they told me I'd get it back when my contract was up. I don't even know what city I was in when they recruited me. <br><br>The facility is state of the art, at least as far as a chef is concerned. The kitchen is huge. There's walk-in fridges and freezers, each the size of my old apartment. I have a Garland stove with eight burners as well as two brick ovens for bread and roasting. They even had a fucking molecular gastronomy kit that I was never allowed to use, even when the owners were around. I have no idea why they bought it. <br><br>I live here. There's a room set aside for me. It's small, but I had less space in some of the apartments I'd rented in my old life. There's a twin-sized bed and a computer with some basic software on it. They gave me a few books too. I've read them all at least thrice. I've been here for 486 days and I have only seen four people. <br><br>Not residents. I've seen a lot of other people. <br><br>There's the owners, who I'll call Dorothea and Melvin. Then there's Jack and Connie. Jack has been kind of friendly, if only because he's the one that was here when I arrived. He showed me around, told me where everything was, and then he got me set up in the kitchen. Connie was an issue from day one. I don't know what her deal is, other than she's some kind of personal assistant. <br><br>The other people are guests, I guess. This place is some kind of apocalypse bunker, and they're all rich people who bought their way in. I have no idea how many there are. Most of them keep their doors shut, so I only see them when they wander into the shared spaces. We have a pool, a gym, a theater, a library, a bar, and more. There's a huge atrium in the middle of the place, and that's where most of them spend their time. <br><br>It's been 486 days. I think it's been longer than that in the real world. I have reason to believe that much. <br><br>The guests started getting antsy around day 200 or so. They'd ask me when we were going to go outside, or when we'd be allowed to call the real world. I'd tell them what I'd been told; we're not allowed out until the owners tell us we can. If they complain loudly or for too long enough, security will come and take them away for a while, and they won't be happy when they come back. <br><br>I started getting food deliveries on day 251. Or at least, that's when I noticed them. A elevator hidden behind a secret door in the storage room would open up, and a few people wearing hazmat suits would bring in pallets of food. They'd spend a few minutes looking around, and then they'd leave without saying anything. They had voice modulators in their suits, so they just sounded like a robot. <br><br>I started leaving notes. I'd write them on pieces of paper and leave them on the pallets, but they'd always be gone when I came in the next day, and I'd never find out if anyone had read them. <br><br>I'd see the guests less and less as time went on. The atrium would be empty most days, and the only time I'd see people was when I was out grocery shopping. <br><br>Grocery shopping is what they called it when I went out to the elevator and took in the deliveries. The guests were told to stay in their rooms during that time. <br><br>I started going out on day 320. It was an accident. I had gone out to grab a crate, and the elevator door opened part way and then stopped. I walked out into the rain to get another crate, and one of the hazmat workers grabbed my arm. I didn't have a mask on, and we both freaked out for a second before they realized that I didn't have a suit on. <br><br>"Are you okay?" He asked. <br><br>I nodded. I was afraid they'd think I was infected or something. <br><br>"Are you okay?" He repeated. <br><br>I nodded again. The elevator started beeping behind me, but I ignored it. I had to know. <br><br>"Is it over?" I asked. <br><br>The worker looked at me strangely. "Uh, no. It got *worse*." Is all they said before the elevator stopped beeping and they rushed inside. <br><br>I think that might have been the last time a delivery was made. They might have stopped before that, and that just happened to be the last time, but I think it was the last. <br><br>Connie caught me trying to open the elevator door on day 400. <br><br>"You can't do that!" She said. <br><br>"I think I can." I told her. "I'm going to go look around." I said. <br><br>"Don't." She said. She sounded terrified. <br><br>"I have to." I told her. <br><br>She called for security, and they took me to a room and kept me there for a while. Eventually, they let me go, and I went back to my room. <br><br>A day or two later, Dorothea called me into her office. <br><br>"Don't ever try that again." She said. <br><br>I told her I wouldn't, and I didn't for a while. <br><br>It's been 486 days. <br><br>Not a single person has come to the elevator door in weeks. I haven't seen a guest in weeks either. I don't know what happened to them. I keep looking, but I'm starting to give up hope. <br><br>I haven't seen Jack and Connie in almost a month. I haven't see Dorothea or Melvin in almost three months. <br><br>I think I might be the last person here. <br><br>I think I might be the last person left. <br><br>Last week, I went to the elevator door. I opened it, and stepped outside. <br><br>I only stayed out for a few minutes, but nothing happened. I didn't feel any different, and when I came back in, they didn't come after me like I thought they would. <br><br>Today, I did it again. This time I stayed outside for a long while. I walked down the cliff and along the beach. The sand was scalding hot, and the sun hurt my eyes, but the breeze was cool and it felt like I was finally able to relax. I stayed out for almost two hours, and when I came back in, the elevator didn't stop, and nobody came after me. <br><br>As far as I know, I'm currently the only person on earth. <br><br>I'm going out again tomorrow. Maybe I'll stay out longer. Maybe I'll walk forever. <br><br>Not that it matters, because whoever is reading this is certainly dead.<br><br>Not that it matters, because I'm probably not even typing this. <br><br>Not that it matters, because who knows what day it is in the real world. <br><br>But as of today, February 27, 2024, I am likely the last person on earth.