A Picture for Gran

The sky is on fire, deep reds and oranges slashing across the western horizon. The wind whips tall grasses in swirls, ebbing and flowing like a body of water. Waves crashing over the barren fields that surround what once was a great city.

If you look closely, you can still see plumes of smoke from where the bombs fell, they're cores still burning. The inner city looks like a dragon, the carnage of its foe splayed out before it, while the dragon sleeps deep within its layer, protecting the most precious of its treasures. Smoke billowing from its nostrils, a warning for anyone stupid enough to enter its den.

I pull a ragged bandana up over my mouth. The red and black squares so worn and faded it was practically see through. I knew it wouldn't protect me, but it gave me comfort nonetheless. No one went past the red ruins. They were the bones of old houses, suburbs, I think my Gran called them. We called them the red ruins, because on each door of the houses successfully evacuated there was a red x. Some had blistered in the heat of the after shock, some were painted so heavy the runs of paint still looked as if they were dripping down the door fronts. All of them had turned a deeper shade of red, time marring the paint to look like blood.

The further you went toward the city, the less stable the world was. Buildings would suddenly sigh and collapse, they're bones too tired and weary to continue fighting gravity. Deeper into the city the earth was known to open in wide gaping holes, swallowing anything that once stood on solid ground. There were underground routes of travel, but with an ever changing landscape, those were just as unpredictable and dangerous. No, the best way through was to brave the topside.

2240 56th Ave Apt 241B was approximately three miles Northeast of the red ruins. It's supposed to be a tall, blue building, with a little square playground next door. A dog park across the street and little round bushes in the front of the building. I think I can picture it in my head, but I've never seen a building like that, I grew up in an underground bunker. My generation is the first to leave the bunker since the incident occurred. My great gran is the only reason I know what to search for.

It's a fools errand, a suicide mission, the building is likely not even standing; but I have to try. I cinch the weathered straps of my carry all tighter around my shoulders, the webbing they're made from is almost entirely thread now. Stitched back together over and over again. It was my one trusted companion, that, and the bow slung over my shoulder.

There were only a handful of kids under the age of eighteen. Most people had opted not to have children, doing whatever they could to prevent it. They worried about the state of the world, the unrest their children would have to deal with. Personally, I didn't mind. I don't know what the world used to be like, in fact, neither do my parents, or their parents. This wasn't something foreign or scary for me, it was just my reality.

We keep a library in the bunker, there aren't many books, per se, not the kind you would read for pleasure in the old days. Instead, our library consists of journals; hundreds of journals written by the first occupants of the bunker. They wrote down everything they wanted to remember, describing life before. Some were hard to read, some drew pictures with their words, drawing you in so fiercely, it was as if you could see the images they painted. Taste the food they described.

I learned the most from these journals. My favorites were that of Irene Clements, she tells of her many sordid escapades as a teenager and her one true love, a man named Paul. It's not clear, in the journals, if he returned that love, but I like to fantasize that he did. My other favorite is written by Jethro Hartman, he details everything he can remember about survival. It's from his writings that I learned how to make a bow. His words taught me how to start a fire, track, skin, and cook a rabbit. My mother didn't approve, but many nights my father had slipped the journal to me for late night reading. I think he knew I'd end up on the surface.

I shake off my wandering thoughts, suddenly aware of how far I've traveled. I kept a fast pace, putting space between myself and the red ruins quickly, winding my way through war torn streets, dodging my way around long forgotten vehicles and hoping beyond hope that the crunch beneath my boots was glass and debris and not bones. I had made my way to the inner city's edge, paying little attention to what was around me. It was a terrifying realization, but I had made it, so I couldn't dwell on my lack of focus, I could only correct it.

I find what I believe to be a street sign. It's hard to tell, a round metal pole is bent in half, sun worn rectangles face different directions. I can't read what they say, the letters are the same color as their background, but they're raised up off the metal. I sling my carry all off one shoulder and bring it around to the front, carefully I extricate a piece of paper and charcoal. The paper has been used before, but the ink has faded to almost nothing and as I run the charcoal over the letters of the street sign, the previous words disappear and I can make out the word Broadway.

The next thing I do is straighten the pole. It comes off at my half-hearted tug, nearly sending me tumbling to the dirt. I curse and try to realign the broken sign, hoping I am holding it correctly, hoping the street I wander down really is Broadway. Great Gran, named Isabella, wrote the directions down to her home. She didn't want to forget her way back, she had assumed that they would be returning.

From the east side of town, go south down Broadway for four blocks. Take a right and go west for eight blocks on Piccadilly. Then, once you reach 56th, you go North for one block, and there should be the blue building called Azure Apartments. The instructions sound easy enough, but the further away from those sea-like fields I walk, the less sure I become.

It's loud here, for being an abandoned town, much louder than the rushing wind on the prairie. The wind whines and whistles through the broken buildings, causing them to moan and sway precariously. Metal from vehicles and street signs rattles, and scrapes, sending a shiver down my spine. At one point, on Piccadilly, I feel a rumble beneath my feet, I stop and brace my legs, every fiber of me vibrating with fear. I can hear the earth open up behind me, as if a monster had awoken, angry and hungry. I don't take the time to look back, I pump my legs as fast as I can, the ground shaking loose after every step I take. Eventually I just throw myself forward, hoping I land on solid ground and surprisingly, I do. When I look back, the whole street seems to have disappeared in a giant black hole. Only the houses stand on either side of the block. I thought I might see the glint of an underground train below, but it was impossible to be sure.

I reach a tall building on what I hope is 56th Ave. There's nothing but ruins across the street, the playground to the side of the building looks more like a cemetery and there are no round bushes welcoming a stranger. I find my inner peace when I glance up and see the halfword, zure, high above me on the building. My palms grow sweaty with excitement, this is it. This is where Isabella lived. I mount the concrete steps two at a time, then slip through a door frame, their glass doors long since shattered.

Without much thought past my initial goal, I slam my foot into the first step that will lead me to apartment 241, and my boot goes straight through. My leg is jarred to an agonizing stop as wood bites into my calf muscles. It takes several deep breaths and a fair amount of cursing for me to extricate myself. Once I'm back on two feet I study the staircase, it's dilapidated, and really shouldn't be trusted to hold even my small weight. With some luck, I realize the banister to my right is mounted on the wall, the building seems somewhat stable, so I attempt the stairs again, this time supporting as much of my weight as possible on the banister.

It's a slow process, but I do eventually make it to the second floor. Having learned my lesson the hard way last time, I take creeping steps, painstakingly testing every section of floor before putting my full weight on it. When I arrive at what should be apartment 241B, the door is caved in slightly, but still hangs on its hinges, too far closed for me to slip in. I try to assess the ceiling above it, trying to decide if it's worth the risk in opening the door. Will moving this one door cause the entire building to collapse? I decide that I have to chance it. I didn't risk my life not to enter the little dwelling, so I shoulder the door and open it just enough.

The rooms are covered in what must be several feet of dust and dirt. My steps sending little clouds of debris into the air. I cross to the little shelves on the far side of the room, there are no picture frames to be found, but of course, they wouldn't have remained on the shelves. Instead I search through the dust below, on the floor. My fingers find the edges of a rectangle. I pull it up, it's a picture frame, there's no doubt, but just like the photos in the bunker, it's too faded to make out any faces.

I'm so stupid, of course the photos didn't last out here either. They were much less protected and cared for out here. Why had I thought they would survive? I turn and march into one of the smaller rooms. Unsure of what to look for now, but desperate all the same. The Gran I knew had always been so happy, quick to smile and sing me songs. Now, as she lay sick and dying, she cried. She couldn't remember the faces of the people she'd loved. I couldn't do anything about her father, or even my Papa, but I had hoped to find something of her mother, and maybe even her grandparents.

I could feel the tears making mud from the dirt on my face. All I wanted was a picture for Gran, something that would make her smile again. I was about to give up when something caught the light of the red sky. I pulled the shiny thing up from the ground, dusting off a coat of dirt and grime. It was a long gold chain, dainty and beautiful, even in the dirt. Attached to the chain was a beautiful heart shaped locket. Carefully I peeled apart the side of the heart, exposing a mother and father on one side, and on the other, a happy little girl who looked just like my gran. I closed the locket and slipped it inside the zipper pocket on my chest, my confidence and excitement returning.

I turned to leave with my new found treasure, but the dragon awoke and the city swallowed me whole.