The Choice

Chapter 1

Dust drifts through the beams of light let in by the broken, dirty windows in the ancient building left to be deteriorated by the weather. The floor creaks as my worn boots shift gently above the rotting wood. A bead of sweat collects at the edge of my hairline as the sun's rays heat the room. I pull my thick, wavy hair I got from my mother, over my shoulder and tug the rebellious strands into a side braid. Shoving the braid back over my shoulder, I move into a sun lit window. The light breeze that barely reaches me through the window, ruffles the small strands around my face. My calloused fingers push the wispy strands behind my freckle ridden ears while I pick up the old leather bag my Dad gave to me many years ago.

My boots make hollow thunking sounds on the wood on my way to the dark doorway. The brass hinges still hang where they used to hold a door. My eyes drift cautiously over the dark corners of the hallway before I move towards the staircase. I step over the missing spaces in the stairs on my way down, floor by floor, to the last step that opens into, what used to be, a large foyer of a motel. My footsteps echo off of the walls and around the empty room. My hand settles on the cold brass door knob, with a gentle push the room slowly fills with sunlight from outside. I poke my head through the narrow crack in the door for a quick look outside at the abandoned streets. Knowing that no one is directly out in the open, I push the door ajar and move silently along the sides of buildings.

Once I reach the familiar main street I turn away from the sun. I quickly get used the heat that grazes my bare shoulders as I walk down the center of the overgrown and cracked  road, comfortably.  The short walk toward my small home, closer to the center of the city of Section 8, is pleasant and filled with the sounds of nature that lives in the trees beside the road. The closer I get to the city, the more people I see peering out at me through cracked shades. Not many people walk the streets anymore; not after the war.

Things have gotten better since the third World War. They called it the worst and most destructive war. "The Great End" is what the civilians called it. Before it ended, many thought that it was going to be the end of the world. All things "normal" had stopped and everyone went into panic. All the streets were left barren. The stores that weren't broken into still had their doors bolted and windows boarded.

The government tried its hardest to rebuild, but it never quite worked out as planned. Over 80 years later, even while the government has a better hold, you can still see the after effects of the destruction. I wasn't alive during the war; no one of the last 3 generations were. We hear about the war though. In places like history class. Or from the whispers heard in the halls of homes for the elderly.

The government has created a whole new United States. In fact, that's not even what we are called anymore. We are known as West Republic. Although, I'm not sure what happened to the other countries, I'm sure it can't be much better than how life is here. 

I turn down my street. Each side is filled with small houses. The color drained out of them from too many years in the sun without a new coat of paint. I used to live on a vibrant street, filled with bright colored houses and greenery to match. My house is one of the nicer looking ones. Nicer being a general term. Before my mom passed away, she was able to bring some green back into the front of the house. Her happiness alone made the home seem so much brighter. When she died all the happiness seemed to leave with her. All the plants died. All except for one, a tulip, her favorite flower. It never leaves. It's the only thing I have left of her; aside from my necklace.