The First Tribute

Division

    I walked down the streets of a once-thriving village, now stripped bare, except for the remains of the people who weren't fast enough to escape the terror that cascaded this area just days ago. The remaining foundations of some storefronts and houses were covered in a thick layer of ash, probably settling after the last bomb had hit. I could still hear the screams coming from around me as if i was covered in a blanket of fear.

I remember trying to register what was happening, as I had just woken up, while watching my brother run around stupidly, trying to grab anything possibly valuable and make a run for it. Once I had gotten past the fogginess in my brain, I realized something was wrong. As I always knew this day would come, I had a prepared backpack full of all the supplies I should ever need in case of an emergency, tucked under my bed. I grabbed it, slung the leather pack over my shoulder, then grabbed my jacket and wrapped it around my mouth and nose like a scarf so I wouldn't breath in any of the possible poisons.

I then ran across the field in which plenty of shacks laid, serving as a makeshift neighborhood, for the less wealthier people in the village. I tried my best to ignore the screaming across the streets along with the foul stench of burnt flesh as I ran as far in one direction as I possibly could, sweat running down my face. Twenty minutes later, I found myself in a forest where the air was moderately clear and didn't smell as much like rotten eggs. I slid down the trunk of a thick, oak tree, and took my jacket off of my face. At least, what remained of it. As soon as I pulled part of it off my neck, I felt the crisp fabric turn to dust in my hand. I soon learned it must have been burned by something while I was making a run for it. Sighing frustratingly, I laid the rest of the jacket down on the dirt, seeing how much of it remained. It turned out, only about half of the left sleeve had burned off, along with the hood. I still had a decent piece of cloth to keep me warm and insulated. I pulled out the metal canister of water and took a sip. Somehow it tasted stale, which made sense as it had been sitting in that bag for six months, only a couple weeks after the war started.

Life had been basically normal then. I was getting good marks in school, I had friends, I played on the soccer team. I was even named Head Girl of my class. I was happy. That was, until the first bomb hit.

I was in my fourth hour, excited for the midday meal. I was talking to my good friend, Nova. We were working on a project for our theatre class, when all of a sudden we heard unexpected sirens. Everyone ducked under their desks, as we had been taught to. Nova had her hand around my arm with an iron grip, as she was a severely anxious person, and got frightened quite easily. I was already accustomed to having finger-shaped bruises on my forearms nearly all the time.

The ground had started to shake, and everyone became very confused. What would ever cause the ground to just start vibrating? Then, came the loudest boom anyone had ever heard in their lives. The bomb had stuck just ten miles away from the school. It was dropped by an airplane onto the market, probably the most populated area in the village. Everyone knew at least one person who had been in the market at that time. For some, it was an aunt or cousin, while for others, it was their mother or sibling. For me, it was my cousin, Dax. Dax was a very positive boy, only seven years old. He had not yet experienced something to take away any of his youthful innocence. he stayed in the market while his mother worked at their house. As everyone in our village is part of a very tight-knit community, he was able to walk from stall to stall, talking to all the other people selling and trading their goods. I had never gotten to see Dax again. As it had also been for many others, that day was the worst in my life.

After reassessing everything i had, and finally catching my breath, I decided I should see what was left of the town. As I expected, there was basically nothing left to see. There were mangled corpses of certain citizens dotted about every ten feet. It smelled like smoke and burning meat, as if I were in a very large outdoor butcher shop. This thought then made me want to puke, as I realized the burning smell was coming from the people.
   
I ended up pacing around the dirt paths for a good thirty minutes or so, as I had no idea what to do. I tried to find my old house to see if there was anything salvageable, but the entire village was beyond recognition. I ended up collapsing in a heap in the middle of the path, and, for the first time in years, I burst into tears. I was so used to blocking my feelings and having to act okay for others that I had no idea what it felt like to be this distraught. At first, I thought there might be something in the air making me act weird. At that moment, I felt hopeless and lost. I began looking around wildly for any other form of life, but it seemed as if I were the last person on Earth.
   
But I then I realized, that couldn't be possible. If I had been able to escape, surely, there had to be other survivors...
  
"Hello!" I called out in a cracking voice, as my lungs had been filled with ash, dust, and a lack of air since the last time I had spoken. As no one had answered, I thought maybe I hadn't called loud enough, and tried again.
   
"Hello? Is anyone here?" I then stood up, walking toward the edge of the village. "Hello? I don't want to be alone!" As soon as I said it, I realized I sounded like I sounded like a desperate idiot. There was no answer this time, either. I sighed, then walked down the path to retrieve my bag that I had left back where I had had my little meltdown.
   
As I bent down and had laced my fingers around the strap of the bag, I felt the ground start to vibrate, and heard a distant rumbling sound. I quickly stood straight up, the backpack dangling limply from my arm.