Aftermath

Chapter 8

Duringmy sleep, For some reason I kept thinking about my Dad. Now that Ithink about it, he loved me much more than I had thought. He wasalways at work, and I never got to see him. I guess I used it as anexcuse to hide my emotions. I don't know. Now that he's dead, Ithought that I never said what I really felt about him. Now thatchance is gone.

Isnapped out of it quickly to the shake of my Mothers hand. "Anne..Anne! Wake up." she said softly in my ear. I rolled over, and sawDerek packed up to leave. "Guess I should start packing things."I said while yawning. "Hurry. We leave in 20 minutes." My momsaid as she and Derek left the room. I put my torn shoes on, and Iwalked out of the building. "Anne!" Sam called out. "Take thisjug. Could you please fill it with water for the trip?" he askedpleasantly. "Yeah, of course." I replied happily. He smiled andcontinued packing. I took a look around the place, and the other 15 –20 people were ready to go.

Iwalked over to the well and began filling the large jug with the restof the water that it supplied. I left it running for a few minuteswhile I packed rashins from the shelter building into my mothers bag."You almost done, Anne?" Derek came up to me to ask. "Yeah, I'mfilling the water jug for the trip." I remarked. "Awesome. Whenit's done, come and get me, and I will carry it." he proclaimed."Noted!" I said with a smile.

Theonly one with a gun now was Sam. He had the RPG on his back eversince he launched it in the White House. Personally, I felt that hebecame obsessed with that thing. I'm not too bothered by it though,because he uses it for our own safety. Like I said. Big heart.

Thewater jug was full of water. I tuned the cogwheel on the well, andput the cap on the jug. "Derek! The water jug is full!" I shoutedin the crowed. He jogged over and thanked me. Now that we were ready,we started our journey, beginning in the destroyed streets ofArlington.

Themorning sun cast a muted glow over the desolation that lay before usas we embarked on the 15-mile trek to Dale City. The remnants ofArlington whispered tales of a once-vibrant city now reduced to aneerie silence, punctuated only by the occasional creaking of askeletal structure or the distant echoes of our footsteps on thebroken pavement. The air hung heavy with the scent of ash and decay,a haunting reminder of the cataclysmic events that had reshaped ourworld.

As we navigated through the destroyed streets ofArlington, the skeletal remains of buildings loomed like mournfulsentinels, their jagged edges reaching toward the desolate sky.Patches of gray, ashen dust covered the ground, obscuring any traceof the vibrant life that once thrived here. A solemn silenceenveloped our group, each footfall echoing like a somber hymn in thiscity of echoes.

Amidst the eerie silence, the occasional rustleof tattered leaves and the distant creaking of a loose door betrayedthe subtle signs of a world still clinging to fragments of its formerself. It was in this eerie quietude that I walked around, making myway towards new faces that had joined our journey.

Approaching a group ofcivilians, I extended a tentative greeting. "Hey there, I'mAnne. We're heading to Dale City, hoping to find some means oftransportation. What brings you all here?" I asked, obviouslyknowing that they were here because they all ran from D.C. Before theexplosions. The response was a mixture of weariness and resilience."We heard there might be safety in numbers. Figured we'd betterstick together," one of them explained. The camaraderie amongsurvivors blossomed in the face of adversity, threading through theair like an unspoken pact of solidarity.

Further along ourroute, Sam's voice cut through the quiet. "Keep an eye out foranything useful, guys. We're gonna need all the help we can get."The remnants of shops and homes held a melancholic charm, theirdilapidated structures bearing witness to the passage of time and therelentless march of decay. Sara struck up a conversation with afellow survivor, exchanging stories of survival and sharing theburden of collective trauma.