I descend the fire escape to the rain-soaked streets below. Leaving my sister and brother to their fairy tales, I travel east on foot for an hour outside of our hideout before reaching a dilapidated suburban community.
A full moon casts its eerie glow through a break in the gloomy clouds, chasing away dark shadows in the alleys. The stench of death and rotting corpses still lingers in the muggy air, evidence of diseased bodies discarded into the sewage system by survivors and soldiers alike. Rumors of crocodiles let loose within the sewers to devour the dead circulated among the survivors in the days following the bombs. Even after all this time, the smell makes me want to retch. Crouching behind the rubble of bomb-shelled buildings, I watch for movement. Other than scavenging rodents, the night is silent. Most of the houses lie in ruins, casualties of the war. Those buildings still standing loom with windowless gapes and graffiti-painted walls, an indication that they have already been looted. Weeds grow tall in the front lawns and through the thick cracks of the buckling streets as nature reclaims what once was hers.
My hopes rise as I stumble upon a single-story house that appears untouched. Other than a pile of bricks and mortar from what was a chimney, the structure seems undamaged. Thankfully, the windows remain intact, a sure sign that no one has scavenged the place. Still, I know I must be cautious. Assumptions will get me killed.
I step out of the shadows and into the milky moonlight. Glass crushes beneath my black leather boots. I cringe, cursing my careless mistake. The stillness of the night air remains unbroken, at least this time. I make my way to the side of the house, slipping through a broken board in the backyard fence.
With the palm of my hand, I wipe dirt from a dingy window on the garage door. It’s too dark inside to see anything. Placing my rucksack on the ground, I pull out a small kerosene lantern and a book of matches. The cover flips open, revealing a single match.
Afraid of accidentally blowing it out, I hold my breath, run the match along the strike strip, and light the lamp. It sparks and the warmth chases away the chill from my fingers.
Once more, I survey my surroundings to be sure no one is watching, even though I know I’d hear the hiss of the military’s steam tanks from a mile away. Searching the ground, I select a loose brick from the crumbled chimney and hurl it at the window. The glass shatters, breaking into a thousand tiny shards, littering the stone walkway in a puddle of fragmented tears and leaving jagged teeth in the frame. I reach inside to unlock the door, careful not to cut myself. As I let myself into the garage, rusty hinges wail in protest.
Like most of the homes I have searched, empty boxes and plastic containers lay strewn about the dusty floor, evidence of a family fleeing for their lives from the bombs, the deadly virus, and the Marauders. More than likely, there will be nothing left to salvage, but I rummage through the shelves and drawers anyway. Other than a rusted torque ratchet and spool of copper wire, everything else is useless. I slip the treasures into my pack before trying the door into the house. Fortunately, it gives way with little resistance, allowing me to enter the living room.
Photos of a family hang on a pale yellow wall above a sofa. Na?ve smiles greet me from the frames: a man with a square chin; a doe-eyed woman; and two kids, a boy and a girl. I trace my finger over the faces. Where are they now? Did they make it? Did they get out of the city in time? Questions I often ask about my own parents, but like the silent, ghostly images staring at me through these family photos, I’m left with more uncertainties than answers.
Stepping away from the pictures, I catch a glimpse of my own reflection in the glass. Blue eyes stare back at me, hollow and distant with dark circles beneath them. Loose tendrils of light brown, curly hair, having fallen out of my plait, frame my dirt-streaked cheeks. I pull out the hair ribbon and rake my fingers through my kinky waves, but it doesn’t help. Rubbing my fingertips over the smudges on my face, I notice the dirt under my fingernails. My breath catches as I remember that only a year ago I obsessed about perfect manicures. Now those worries seem frivolous as I inspect my calloused, filthy palms covered in cuts and scars. Another glance at my reflection and I notice that although I am just shy of my sixteenth birthday, I look as if I am twice my age.
A noise to my right startles me. Two yellow eyes peer at me before disappearing beneath a broken china hutch: a rat. Figures, I think. Along with cockroaches and children, rodents are among the last survivors of the war.