Hunter Oak

I walk down the street previously known as Hunter Oak. No one remains in the emptied-out houses. One of them has burned down, whether from an electrical fire before the power grid failed or looters or just plain arson for giggles, I don't know.

My house is on the corner. I grew up here but haven't been back in three years. I left during the pandemic, when we lost 80% of the population, including my parents who choked to death on their own mucus in the bed that I presume is still in this house. I only hope that the collectors have come to take the bodies away. If not, my task will be that much more upsetting.

I figured out that I needed it six months ago. After a year of searching, I found the safe deposit box my mom had stored in the Carolina Community Bank. Banking had ceased to exist and all electronic funds had completely dissipated. Money had no meaning anymore, so it wasn't cash I was after.

Inside the box, I hope, is my future.

I'm seventeen. It's a miracle I've survived this long without my family. But I'm tired. I'm tired of just surviving. I had to leave eastern North Carolina after my parents died because of the war. For more than a year I wandered west, raiding defunct grocery stores for canned goods and Twinkies. If you ever wondered whether Twinkies would survive the apocalypse, wonder no more. I stole, if you can call it that, camping supplies from Wal-Mart and made it to the Appalachian Mountains, where I lived for another year.

Now, I’m back.

I enter the little dollhouse-like home through the back door and set my backpack down. There is no smell of decay, but that could simply be because so much time has passed. I reluctantly climb the stairs to my parents’ room and, practically peeking through my fingers, I peer into the master bedroom.

Thankfully, the collectors have been by. There are no bodies on the bed where I left them. Relieved, I momentarily panic. What if my mother was wearing it when she died? What if it’s now around the neck of her skeleton in some mass grave somewhere or burned to ashes in a crematorium? What if it isn’t even here?

My heart skips along rapidly while I stand in the doorway. I take three deep breaths to calm myself. If it’s gone, it’s gone and there’s nothing I can do about it. I begin searching the nightstand beside her side of the bed. Pushing past old prescription pills and bottles of nail polish, I rifle through the drawer. Nothing in the top drawer. I check the bottom drawer but the only thing in there is a few paperback books.

I head over to my dad’s side of the bed. In his top drawer, I find Chapstick, a bible and a Dan Brown novel, none of which can help me. In his bottom drawer, I find a handgun. That could be useful, so I make sure it isn’t loaded and put it in my pocket. If I can’t find ammunition for it in the house, I bet I could get some somewhere.

I systematically check all of the drawers in their room, the tall dresser and long one, as well as the armoire. I’m starting to lose hope, but on top of the armoire, pushed back against the wall, I spy a jewelry box. I’d forgotten it was there. A lip around the top of the armoire prevented anyone below 6’3” from easily seeing the jewelry box stored there. My mom didn’t have expensive jewelry, but she did have sentimental pieces that she didn’t want to lose.

Using the ottoman, I grab the box and flip open the lid. Among the emerald ring from my grandmother and a handful of necklaces and rings from my great aunt, I find what I am looking for.

It’s a heart-shaped locket, the kind you can wear on a necklace. It’s larger than a typical locket because of what it holds inside.

Thumbing the little latch, I pry open the locket. Inside is a small key that fits, I hope, into the lock of the safe deposit box in my backpack downstairs. I remember playing with it when I was a kid and my mother scolding me and telling me not to lose it, as what it opens is precious to her.

I take the key and the locket and race back downstairs. I unzip my pack and pull out the safe deposit box. Hands nearly trembling, I insert the key into the lock and the lid squeals open.

Inside I find an address book. The address book has only one name and one address in it.

Rob Granger

3325 E. HWY 6

Pineview, Georgia 22356

My uncle. My mother’s brother. The one who disappeared. He was a former Army Ranger who, upon returning from war suffered so badly from PTSD that he withdrew from his life and his family. He disappeared and no one knew where he’d gone. Except my mother.

If anyone could’ve survived the pandemic and subsequent collapse of society, it would be him. If I could find him, I could have a family again. If he wants me.

It looks like my journey is only beginning.