The Days After

One locket in the shape of a heart, some clothing, and tennis shoes is all I had left of my family. Everything they had given me was long gone by now. Probably taken by the looters in the days after the attack. The looters didn’t care what they took, as long as they thought it valuable. I suppose everyone has to earn their way to the top of the food chain somehow these days. I heard that after the first bomb in D.C. dropped, people were out in the streets just waiting for some kind of god to come take them away. Many committed suicide in those first days after, my brother included. My parents, both long gone before this, had taught me how to survive no matter the circumstances. I guess you could say they were conspiracy theorists, but they were not far off of their “theories”. After the next few bombings of Austin, New York, Houston, and several other key cities, the survivors finally realized nobody was coming for them. This was a new age, not of millennials or gen X, but of survivors. Let us not forget about those who hurt anyone and everyone they can TO survive, however. We’ve just had those types since the beginning of time I suppose. In this age, you don’t trust anyone. Ever. Trusting someone will get raped and murdered, everything on your person taken for gain. I used to have a backpack, you see, and it was full of family heirlooms. I trusted the wrong person one day, hoping and praying they would help me find food. They didn’t; they helped me find my true purpose, which is getting to Canada and finding the last of a broken society. I don’t know if I have any hope of making it there. I have to try, though. Between bombings, I had heard that most Americann survivors went to Canada, to seek sanctuary from whoever was dropping the bombs. I don’t even think the government knows who razed the US to the ground. It all happened so quickly. Living in this new world is terrifying. Friends have turned into monsters, and the normal every day monsters are worse than my worst nightmares. I crave being around people again. I crave feeling loved and whole, oblivious of everything going on around me. I don’t think that is how this new age works, though. Anytime I think I hear people, I hide. It has become instinct now. Yesterday though, I found a boy in the street scavenging for food. His name is Michael. He is a young boy, 10 years old or so. Not that age matters right now either. He asked if I would help him, and against my better judgement, I allowed him to tag along. His family has all died as well and he has nobody else to take care of him. I suppose that is my job now. We haven’t eaten in days, so today I went to the abandoned convenience store several blocks away. Michael is with me still and his visibly shaking from lack of nutrition. I give most of my food, but it usually isn’t enough for his weak body. We grab some cans of potatoes off of the ground and start heading back to the place we are sleeping. We try not to stay too long in one place, for fear of being heard or discovered and the unimaginable happening. It is night by this time, but we are still just trying to get to our shelter. We are a block away when we hear a group of people talking. We weren’t close enough to hear what they were talking about, but I decided to make a run for it. I told Michael to stay hidden until I had given him the signal. This time, he was shaking with fear. I give him my locket to hold until he could get to shelter, and take off. The people were closer than I thought, because they heard me start running. They were much faster, and now, Michael is alone. All he has is some clothes, shoes, and a heart shaped locket.