Behind the Last Window

The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse of it through the window in his room.

The world had changed immeasurably in the last six years, and Cathy could no longer recognise it.

What had once been a thriving street, filled with kind and friendly neighbours, was now just a row of crumbling abandoned houses.

Few cars were left. Most had been used to escape the town within the first few hours of the emergency. But there were still one or two out there for Cathy to see.

The house across the street from her had an old beat-up Ford Pick Up from the 70s parked outside it.

As far as Cathy could remember, that truck hadn't been moved since the late 90s, and now that spot would be its final resting place. Just as this house would be hers.

He had told her that their supplies were running low, and they had, at best, three more weeks.

For the first time in six years, Cathy had a decision to make. Would she stay in this house, this tomb, or would she escape?

Jay had been the first person she had run to when the alarm was raised. He had always seemed friendly, but it was his competence that she had sought out when the first bodies began to fall.

His house was built like a small fortress and a lifetime of prepping had meant that they were well stocked with food and water.

But the enforced lockdown had broken Jay. He had built his identity around conspiracy theories and survivalist fantasies.

When they became reality a large part of what had made Jay “Jay” had been stripped away.

There is a difference between preparing for an emergency and experiencing that emergency.

The first few weeks had seen Jay at his best, but as time had passed and the danger had subsided, Jay had become sullen and withdrawn.

Without any government left to blame, or left-wing radicals to carp at, Jay was left with just Cathy and his thoughts.

To his credit, Jay had not turned on Cathy, but had turned on himself. Depression had set in deep and coloured his every action.

Cathy had almost hoped that the ever-diminishing rations would spark Jay back to life, but it seems that after six years there was nothing left of that cheerful, competent man who had been so prepared for disaster and so unprepared for survival.

Cathy felt guilty about plotting her escape. Even the term “escape” felt like a betrayal. Jay had not imprisoned her, he had sacrificed half his rations to save her life.

But it was becoming increasingly clear that Jay had given up on life and nothing Cathy could say could help him.

Outside was dangerous, America had finally fallen, but Cathy had decided that a quick, possibly violent death was infinitely preferable to a long drawn out death from starvation.

She could not watch her saviour slowly weaken and then die, nor did she wish for Jay to see her suffer that same fate.

So she began to collect items that she could use on the road. A good pair of walking boots (unused in six years) with brand new laces attached. A water bottle, warm clothes, a survival knife, and a handgun.

Jay wouldn’t miss it, his house was full of guns, though he had only fired five shots since the emergency, three of them warning shots.

Jay was a good man.

Cathy took enough food to last her three days. She wanted to keep her pack light, and also didn’t feel comfortable depriving Jay of his own food. With any luck she should find more than enough canned food among the other houses.

The doors had been boarded up so Cathy quietly opened the window in his bedroom, climbed out and dropped down to the leaf covered earth.

For the first time in six years Cathy felt free.