ENIFLA (2/4)

After Professor Moldor had run out in a fit of hysteria, Ivan had no choice but to slam the office door shut (he didn’t have a key, of course) and head downstairs. He walked through the empty hall, stepped outside, took a drag, and made his way to the cafeteria. It was closed, with a note pinned to the door: “B2-07” – no further details.

“That’s where we were testing those things,” Ivan remembered.

When he returned home, he found another hastily taped-up notice on the door to his dorm room – all students living in the dormitory were instructed to report to shelter B2-07 with their personal belongings until further notice.

“Uh-huh, of course…” Ivan thought.

He went inside and assessed the home situation. The large gas cylinder would last for… two days at most, maybe three – if he really rationed. Home was definitely more comfortable, but in the shelter – he’d heard enough about it – there were enough supplies for everyone. Cramped, but no one’s complaining, as they say…

Ivan quickly cooked up all the meat and vegetables he had left, ate what he could, packed the rest into containers, stuffed everything into a bag, grabbed his things, locked the door, and headed for the shelter.

He pushed open the wide doors and stepped once more into the B2-07 hall. Déjà vu. Only this time, no one was asking to collect and test pulse oximeters. The long tables were lined up along the walls, and the rest of the space was filled with mattresses laid side by side. Inside, it looked like there were about three hundred people – men and women, tall and short. Some were lying on the mattresses, either asleep or staring silently at the ceiling. Others sat and murmured to each other, while a few got up from time to time and went to the tables stacked with boxes of instant noodles, tea, coffee, water bottles, and oxygen tanks to eat, drink, or stretch out.

Ivan suddenly remembered that old dream of his about Mars and the convention center. Only there were no tuxedos or evening gowns this time – everyone was dressed however they could manage, and their faces were full of worry.

He decided to find a spot somewhere more private, like in a corner, and carefully made his way between mattresses, trying not to bump anyone with the heavy bag slung over his shoulder, until he reached the far end of the room – there were still a few free mattresses, it seemed.

In the far corner – right on the floor without a mattress – a dark, frail figure was rocking back and forth, hugging their knees. Ivan walked closer – it was Professor Moldor. He was about to say something when a hand tugged at his shoulder. Ivan spun around – out of nowhere, Rodrigo was standing there.

“Leave her,” he said quietly.

“What’s wrong with her?” Ivan glanced toward the corner.

“Hell if I know – maybe a nervous breakdown – she’s been like that for two hours, not reacting to anything.”

“Damn…” Ivan shook his head. “So you decided to move in too?”

“I’m nearby,” Rodrigo nodded toward his mattress. “There are a couple of free ones here, join us if you want.”

Ivan nodded, dragged over the nearest mattress, and dropped his bag.

“If you need linens, they’re handing them out over there,” Rodrigo pointed to the opposite corner.

“I brought my own.”

“Whoa, prepared!”

Ivan nodded and pulled a blanket out of his bag.

“Better to use theirs – no sense dirtying yours unnecessarily.”

“It´s fine.” He spread the blanket over the mattress and pulled out a couple of packs of noodles. “Want a bite?”

“Sure do – thanks!” Rodrigo clapped his hands. “I’ll go grab some hot water.”

While Rodrigo was gone, Ivan looked around. At the moment, there were at least two hundred people here – mostly students, but he’d already spotted a few lecturers and professors too – not counting Moldor. He glanced back – she was still sitting in the corner, rocking slowly, not reacting to anything.

“Wait,” Ivan said when Rodrigo returned with two bowls of cooked noodles. “Professor –” He walked over carefully. “Do you want something to eat?”

No response.

“At least let me set up a mattress for you – before they’re all taken.”

Moldor seemed to nod.

“All right, I’ll be quick.”

Ivan darted into a small supply room, grabbed a bedding set, came back, and laid it out on a mattress.

“Professor, I brought this for you – it’s here when you’re ready.”

She nodded again without turning around.

Ivan returned to Rodrigo and started eating the noodles. Rodrigo shook his head reproachfully.

“What was I supposed to do?” Ivan hissed. “She’s obviously not well – am I just supposed to walk past?”

“What a damn altruist,” Ivan thought. “‘I want to breathe, and I want others to as well,’” he remembered him saying in the smoking area. “But when it comes down to it, even bringing a pillow and blanket is too much trouble. It’s not like it’s his own stuff he’s giving up – if he were sharing his own, I’d get it…”

He realized Rodrigo was starting to irritate him more and more, but shook the thought off – now was definitely not the time or place for conflict. They ate their noodles in silence.

Rodrigo was surprisingly quiet. If you looked closely, you could practically see it – the confident, smiling mask of the “easygoing guy” was peeling off before your eyes, flaking away like a shedding snake’s skin.

They finished eating. Ivan checked his watch – half past seven in the evening. What now? In theory, he could go outside, but didn’t want to waste oxygen.

“W-want to play cards?” Rodrigo suddenly asked.

“You got a deck?”

Rodrigo nodded and reached into his backpack. His hands were visibly trembling as he dealt.

They played a few rounds. Ivan was starting to get bored when suddenly, from the corner, came a long sigh, turning into a muffled moan. Professor Moldor stood up and swayed. Pale, her eyes red and puffy, hair disheveled, she looked like a ghost. She swayed and looked around with a vacant stare. Ivan nudged a mattress with his foot.

“There.”

“Ah… thanks…” she murmured without looking at him. She tried to make the bed with shaking hands but quickly gave up, collapsed onto the mattress, pulled the blanket over herself, curled into a fetal position, and started sobbing again.

“Screw this,” Ivan dropped the cards, lay down on his mattress, pulled the blanket over himself, and turned away. “I’m going to sleep.”

“Well, suit yourself,” Rodrigo shrugged.

“Night.” Ivan stuffed the blanket edges into his ears, trying to muffle the professor’s sobs.

He dreamed of his father. Back in Dubrovnik, in the old garden, they were tying up grapevines together. The heat was brutal. Ivan was sweating, and his father had gone somewhere – only to return a few minutes later with a big glass of pulpy juice.

“Apples, lemons, oranges, grapes, bananas – whatever I found in the kitchen. Vitamins. Refresh yourself.”

Ivan nodded gratefully and took a big gulp. The acidity pleasantly tingled his lips. He thought to himself that right now, he’d give anything just to see his father’s face again. He lifted his head to look him in the eyes — but didn’t make it. Something jabbed him in the side, and he woke up.

Rodrigo loomed over him.

"Jesus," Ivan rubbed his eyes, "you can’t go by yourself?"

He was increasingly tempted to punch that tanned, mustached face.

He threw off the blanket and looked around. It was half past ten; the lights in the room had been dimmed. Many were already asleep, but some still chatted quietly in pairs or small groups, having pushed their mattresses together. They laughed, drank, ate, played games, or watched something on their phones or tablets.

"Just like kids on a summer trip," Ivan thought, and aloud he said:

"Alright, screw it, let’s go, since you woke me up."

Rodrigo nodded, and they carefully made their way toward the smoking area, trying not to make any noise. The convenience was that they didn’t even need to leave B2-07 — just step through an inconspicuous door in the corner that led to utility spaces and go up a narrow staircase to a platform with pneumatic ventilation.

"You got enough smokes?" Ivan smirked. "Who knows how long we’ll be stuck here."

"Took two cartons," Rodrigo replied, exhaling smoke and trying to sound casual again. "How about you? Did you pass with your Derrida report?"

"I guess I passed," Ivan sighed. "I was actually at Moldor’s office, and she just snapped right in front of me and apparently ran straight here afterward — well, you saw her, completely unhinged…"

Rodrigo nodded.

"And honestly — do you think we’ll even have anything next semester?"

"Maybe they’ll switch us back to remote again," he shrugged and finished his cigarette.

"I don’t know about you, but I’d rather stock up on oxygen than cigarettes."

"There’s plenty of it here," Rodrigo waved him off and tried to open the ventilation cover — it wouldn’t budge.

"What the hell — shine a light!"

Ivan pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight. The pneumatic vent cover had been completely welded shut.

"This is messed up… I came out here to smoke just two hours ago — it was open!" He yanked the panel again. "What the hell?" He took a drag from the hyperventilation hose hanging nearby, but instantly coughed it out violently.

"What’s wrong?" Ivan jerked forward and grabbed the hose.

Rodrigo convulsed and collapsed to the floor.

"You serious right now?" Ivan took a drag himself and immediately spat it out — his vision darkened like he was suffocating, like he’d just latched onto an exhaust pipe.

Screams erupted from below.

"What the fuck?!" He spun toward the door, then looked back at Rodrigo — who was slowly getting up, coughing hard.

They ran downstairs. B2-07 was brightly lit again. Those who had been asleep were rubbing their eyes in confusion, while others who had tried to breathe through the wall-mounted hoses were collapsing, choking — just like Rodrigo had moments earlier.

"Let’s get back — I still have some oxygen!"

Rodrigo nodded. They weaved between mattresses, when suddenly the lights went out and the space plunged into darkness. Someone screamed. Harsh coughing came from every direction. A loud hum rose — it sounded like the ventilation system had kicked in — but the cheers were quickly replaced with screams of despair. It wasn’t oxygen, it was…

Choking clouds poured into the room from all sides. Stumbling over people, belongings, and mattresses, Ivan fell, got up, and fell again, trying by feel and memory to reach his corner, where he had stashed an oxygen supply. People running the other way knocked him down— toward the entrance to B2-07. He heard frantic pounding on the door, but it had been completely sealed.

"Bastards, what the hell are you doing?!" someone choked out.

Ivan leapt up, but someone shoved him aside and trampled past. He fell, hit his head on a table, and likely split his forehead. Blood poured into his eyes.

By touch alone, under the drone of the gas, he somehow crawled to his mattress, trying not to inhale. He reached into his backpack. It was empty — someone had already ransacked all his stuff, searching for canisters.
That was it.

The screams, groans, and pounding on the door were fading. Ivan collapsed on his side, desperate for even a sliver of air.

"Don’t kill! Please, just don’t kill!" he pleaded, slipping into unconsciousness.

Nearby, someone had accidentally switched on a flashlight. Its beam lit up Professor Moldor’s face. She lay opposite him, eyes glassy, foam at her mouth — just like his mother, who had once embraced him in her deathbed in Dubrovnik years ago.

Ivan let out a wheeze, a muffled squeak escaped his throat — and then he saw nothing more.