Endling

In the late 21st century, 87 years after the cascade, a small group of survivors cling to existence in a high-altitude refugium, a network of reinforced concrete bunkers and shallow caves carved into a rocky hillside in what was once northern Scandinavia. This is now a cold, windswept plateau with patchy permafrost and stunted vegetation. There are fewer than 80,000 humans left in the world, scattered in similar isolated pockets around 60°N where the deposition from the fallout was lighter, and some sunlight manages to penetrate the thinned atmospheric haze. 

Mara, 34 years old, was born five years after the last engineered pathogen had subsided. They are one of the group's four primary foragers and water processors. Their day begins at first light around 04:30 local time, in the perpetual gray dimness. 

They wake in the communal sleeping chamber on a pallet of salvaged foam and layered hides from the few hardy reindeer that still migrate through the area. The air is cold, and smells of damp stone, wood smoke and unwashed bodies. A low cough echoes from someone in the corner. Chronic respiratory issues are common because of radiation exposure and persistent particulates. Mara checks a Geiger counter clipped to their belt, the background radiation levels are between 0.8–1.2 μSv/h, which is elevated, but within the long-term tolerance threshold of the group. It is safe to venture into the surface. 

The first order of the day is water. Mara joints two others at the melt station. They chip blocks of surface ice, carefully selected from areas tested for low radionuclide contamination, and feed them to a solar-assisted wood-fired smelter. The photovoltaic panels were scavenged from prior to the cascade, and have weak output. The process takes hours. The water has to be filtered through multiple layers of charcoal and ceramic. The daily ration per person is between two and three litres, which is strictly allocated. Occasional hot particles from distant fallout zones still blow in on winds. 

By mid-morning, Mara heads out with a partner for foraging. They wear layered clothing reinforced with duct tape over seams, respirators, and carry dosimeters. The landscape is barren, dead conifer stumps, lichen covered rock, sparse dwarf birch and willow. They target known patches where edible mosses, crowberries and cloudberries persist. Yields are down from even a decade ago due to soil acidification and shortened growing seasons. Mushrooms are gathered cautiously, some species bioaccumulate cesium and strontium. Today's haul is four kg of mixed plant matter and one small hare caught in a snare. Meat is rare. The primary source of protein is grubs and ants, boiled into a paste or from occasional fish. 

Back at the settlement, the group processes the haul by early afternoon. Plants are washed, boiled and portioned. The hare is skinned, gutted and roasted over a small fire in the central chamber to minimise smoke detection. AI-directed drones are rare now, but legends persist of autonomous systems still patrolling old grids. Conversation is sparse, and focused on updates on the sick. One elder has worsening cataracts and skin lesions, which are likely stochastic effects of cumulative exposure. 

In mid-afternoon, some repair the wind-traps for ventilation, while Mara sharpens bone knives. The group's nominal leader, a 58-year-old former engineer reviews the inventory. There are stored grains from before the cascade that are now threatened by mould. The output of the solar panels are dropping. The decisions are pragmatic, reduce adult rations by 10 per cent for two weeks, priorities children under 15, and send another scouting party south for rumored seed caches. 

The communal meal in the evening is lit by LED strips powered by a hand-cranked generator and a small battery bank. Food is a thin stew of boiled greens, insect protein and shreds of hare. The calories are just enough to prevent rapid starvation, but not for growth or full recovery from injury. Stories are told of violent, desperate bands. 

At the fall of night, Mara takes first watch, scanning the horizon using a periscope rigged from salvaged optics. Occasional aroura flicker through the haze. There is no movement, today. This is the life of most humans, procurement, processing, rationing and vigilance. Mara simply endures, one day at a time.