As expected, most of the food is gone or eaten by the rats. I’m lucky enough to find a tin of tuna packaged in spring water and a half-full canister of pasta in an upper cupboard. I add them to my pack. Placing a canteen beneath the sink faucet, I try to turn the water on. Pipes rumble for a moment, then go quiet. A few drops of muddy brown water drip from the dusty silver mouth, but hardly enough for a sip. I slam the handle.
I continue to search the house for other items to add to my stash: a kitchen knife, a colander, and an umbrella, a necessity for England regardless of the time of year. The master bedroom is empty aside from a metal bed frame and a broken kerosene lantern. A black frock with decorative silver knob buttons on the lapel hangs in the back of the closet. It’s big, but it will suffice. I slip my arms through the sleeves and sling my pack over my shoulders.
Lying in the center of a bedroom painted flamingo pink is a tattered brown bear peering at me with a single black button eye. I pick it up and hold it to my chest, remembering my own room filled with too many stuffed animals. My nose tingles with the faint smell of chocolate, and I recall the strawberry-scented bunny that sat at the head of my bed. I add the bear to my stash. If nothing else, it will be good kindling for a fire.
A shrill scream shatters the silence. I extinguish my lantern and race back to the sitting room. Leaning up against a wall, I hide from the window’s view. The lantern rattles in my trembling grip. I sneak a glance through the single-pane glass. Footsteps hammer on the wet cobblestone street, soaked from the late evening’s shower. A dozen Marauders in dark military attire halt in front of the sitting room window. Bronze chest and shoulder plates cover their uniforms. Full leather and metal helmets complete with night-vision goggles and gas masks obscure their faces. They scan the street, their geared and cogged metal rifles reflecting the full moon. My heart races at the terrifying sight of them as sweat prickles at my neck. One soldier gives an order, his voice almost mechanical through his helmet. The group splits into teams, smashing down the doors of the adjacent homes. I duck below the windowsill but keep my attention fixed on the soldiers storming through the houses.
Something shifts across the street, catching my attention. A girl with long blond hair peeks from a shrub. She looks to be about Joanna’s age, just a child really. The girl scans her surroundings before dashing down the street. I bolt upright, watching her stop several houses down and jump onto a rubbish bin. On her back is a leather and metal rocket pack. She pulls a lever and a large brass cog, not unlike those found inside a clock, spins on the outside of the pack. Two delicate copper wings spring open. Steam spills from the bottom of the rockets and her feet leave the ground. Her petite frame flies over a wooden fence.
Something in me wants to follow her, a longing for human connection other than my own family. But I remind myself that Joanna and Mikey are waiting for me at home. They are my responsibility. Still, I haven’t seen anyone else in months. Like me, they must hide in the shadows if they haven’t already succumbed to the virus or been caught by the Marauders. I stare into the dark alley that the girl disappeared into, when suddenly two green eyes lined with black powder peer at me, separated from me only by glass. Alarmed, I fall back, catching myself with my hands. A teenage boy gazes through the window, unblinking. His wide eyes look me up and down, as if he is as shocked to see me as I am him. He looks back at his pursuers, then at me.
“Let me in,” he pleads, the glass muffling his words as he pounds on the windowpane with his fists.
Immobilized by fear, I shake my head as my pulse quickens. My quaking hand reaches for my dagger. I unsheathe the blade and point it at him. He slaps both of his palms on the window, making the glass vibrate. Startled, I inch back farther from the window. He stares with such intensity my breath catches. The gruff voices in the street grow louder, drawing his attention. His clenched, stubbled jaw twitches and he turns his jade gaze back to me one last time. His face expresses something akin to frustration or disappointment—which, I am not sure. It ignites the sickening feeling of guilt I’ve become so accustomed to. He is not the first I have turned away, sacrificed for the good of my own family. Nor will he be the last, of this I am sure.