You wake up to filthy darkness. Above you, the corrugated iron roof of your shelter looms over your face. A thin, steady stream of water is trickling from a gap into it, soaking your hair and shirt. This, apparently, is what woke you up. You groan and pull yourself out from under the spout, rubbing your tattered shirt to remove at least some of the water. You try to drag yourself to a standing position, wincing as your head scrapes the rough metal. This place is getting too small for you nowadays.
Outside, the pale, washed-out morning sun merely casts a sickening light on the camp. Looking out over it, you wouldn't think that this was humanity's last hope - a huddle of patched-together shacks, coated with the grime of the post-apocalyptic world. So few, you think. There used to be thousands of people living here - battered up, yes, scared, definitely, but alive. Now, at most? A hundred, maybe less. You miss the noise - constant chatter, clatter, Now everyone is silent, making as little noise as possible. You're all hiding, and you know it. Hiding from them.
