It's early morning, and all of us get up from the restless sleep on the cave floor. It's dark and we hear the usual drip-drip of water that we try to catch in the bottle we share so we don't parish. One of our sleeping neighbors, the old and scrawny kind man Geoffery, hands us the water bottle we pass around every morning. One sip is all we get; maybe two if you are at the end of the circle. But then again, circles have no ending... I peer inside the bottle, seeing only a thimblefull off water left.
"This is all Thatcher gives us? Really?" I throw the bottle across the cave floor. Only a few faces glance up.
"Honey, please don't throw things," my tired mother says slowly. Her head is leaning back on the rocky wall.
"I'm sorry mom, I know better...we all know that there is a place better than-"
"Jada! Stop it, your mother needs to rest," my father whispers.
I crawl over to my back pack which I've carried with me ever since that one day after school when this started, and somehow ended at the same time. But, memories aren't always a gift, because right now it's a curse. I reach my hand down and feel around for the flashlight. I click it on and light up the whole cave. It doesn't disturb anyone, it's a routine.
I walk over to Sam, my best friend, who had lost his little sister in the final bomb blasts when terror struck our city, and the world. He's been caring for his younger brother, Timothy, and helping his dad heal his mother's wounds. It has not been easy for all of us, but Sam has carried on the best. He is the strongest, through mind and body.
I guess you can call us the leader of our, our "clan". The survivors. We are the oldest of the children and we are the healthiest. We take care of the few young and the elderly. We grab food when Thatcher cannot see us, and of course we try to find as much water as we can that hasn't yet been evaporated. So every morning it is our job, our mandatory routine, to take a head count.
We gather every one in a close circle and go around. 1, 2, 3, 4... on and on until we have reached 33, including Sam and myself. Leaving out our traitor and abuser, of course, Thatcher.
"31, 32..." Only the sound of breathing fills the cave. "That can't be right," I tell Sam.
"Count again," he tells me, jaw clenched.
"But, I-I swea-"
"Count again," Sam cuts me off.
I go around the room again, and finally I notice the missing piece.
"Timothy," I breathe slowly. Sam's brother is no where to be seen. I turn to Sam, muscles tense.
"Everyone stay here!" Sam calls. " You know what to do," he orders me.
I grab my backpack and stuff rocks in my pockets for protection. Who knows, Thatcher could be out this early, wandering... As I grab handkerchiefs, I toss one to Sam and wrap the other around my mouth and nose. Such harsh smoke can cause suffication.
The two of us, as a team like always, walk out of the cave scouting the vacinity. Burnt houses are left in heaps, and the sand dunes are black with ash. The air is bleached with smoke. And then there is the bridge. Yes, the Golden Gate Bridge, the middle of it torn from its bearings and smashed into the ground. There is still a little water from the bay, slightly glistening in the scorching heat.
"Timothy!" we both call. I keep an eye out for Thatcher. We only hear the slight breeze that moves the grains of sand into little swirls that wash over our feet. Dead animal bones and rotting flesh are scattered upon the seashells that line what once was the shore. I try to keep my nerve, not thinking of how one of these bodies, upon thousands, could easily be Timothy.
"Timothy-othy-thy-y!" our voices echo off the cave. Only silence fills the sulphur air.
"Sam!" We hear a distant call. "Jada!" There it is again. We track the voice towards the bottom of a nearby highway connecting the bridge. A small figure waves its arms.
We run towards Timothy as fast as possible. As we get closer we notice something in his hand. It's silhouette a rectangle. Then we realize what it is.
"A book? Tim you have time to read in the cave, let's go!" Sam says trying to pull his ten year old brother along.
"No! It's not a book," Timothy protests.
"Let me see that, Tim," I grab the 'book' from his grip. I brush off the dirt and trace the letters with my thumb. "It's a journal."
"So what J? Let's go!" Sam yells again. I can hear the rising fear in his voice. Even though he seems tough, he still is worried about Thatcher catching us. "It's just something that got destroyed, something someone was probably carrying that day." I flip the pages until I come to the last entry date.
"I can't believe this," I gasp.
"What?" they both look at me.
"Sam, you have been keeping track fo the date, right?" He nods. "Tell me, what day is it today?"
"The thirteenth of February, 2017."
"This was written on the tenth... someone is still out there," I say with a slight smile on my face.
"One of us maybe?" Sam suggests. I close the cover and look on the spine of the journal. Engraved in black ink is a name. A familiar name.
"Peter.. Johnson.. Cole."
