What Lasts in Us

CHAPTER ONE

The fire I'd lit earlier is nothing more than a pit of ash and dying embers. I can make out the tiny bursts of gold, of orange and yellow, trying desperately to erupt into life. But they don't. They remain smothered, tiny, insignificant. Like I feel right now, propped against this tree, my backpack cushioning my spine.

I tip my head to the sky and track the sun, judging it to be late afternoon, close to early evening. I have an hour or two before dark. Not that I've got anywhere to be, or anyone relying on me, but I should probably get moving.

My need to dawdle and take my time is no different now to when I wasn't constantly fighting for my life; I lean to the side and pull a crumpled piece of paper from my pocket. Tampons are a high priority. I'm paranoid and petrified that I'm going to run out. Food, water, ammo. And now to add to this list, either a pen or pencil, since I dropped mine somewhere along the way and can't add to my list of necessities.

I sit for a few more moments, memorising the list that I've already memorised over a hundred times already. They're like a tattoo, a constant like the beating of my heart. I won't forget the list. The items are everyday things that one needs for survival, a no-brainer. I think I do it more out of habit, of making sure I still know how to write.

I climb to my feet, stretch, then search my surroundings. The light that penetrates the trees is mottled and poor, providing me excellent coverage. But despite this, and despite a few hours left before dark, I need to leave before it becomes pitch black in here.

Taking one last look at the space around me, I set out, boots crunching dead leaves as I make for the highway a kilometre or two from here, give or take. I touch my gun which I have hidden under my jacket, safety on, between my belt and jeans, for reassurance.

The ground is uneven and slippery, the trees are too close together; I weave my way through the limbs, through the branches, and I can tell you now, my jacket will be thankful to never see such trees again – I keep getting caught on the spindly branches, as if they're trying to stop me from leaving.

The dead leaves make it dangerous to move too fast, providing little grip and friction for my boots as I walk. It's hazardous, actually, so I take it slow, footsteps heavy and deliberate as I manoeuvre my way forward, towards the growing light.

The trees start to thin as the uneven ground slopes downward. I use the trunks as leverage, swinging, like a kid on a playground. The motion helps propel me forward, and it keeps me from potentially losing my footing and falling over.

Eyes lowered, I keep track of the trees and the ground underfoot, of anything that might hinder my movements. They soon disappear completely, the ground evens out, and before me is the highway, which stretches straight in both directions, disappearing on the horizon far beyond eyesight. Littered with cars, they all sit there, useless, their insides picked clean, nothing more than insect shells. The only use for a car now is for shelter. Gas was siphoned from the wrecks right after the world ended, as were whatever valuables people had taken with them when they'd tried to flee. They sit haphazardly, broken, blocking the road, dead.

I step onto the asphalt, right by a hatchback with broken windows, open doors, and open hood. The battery's missing, the gas cap is hanging, and oil hangs in the air like a thick cloud. If I didn't know any better, this car was siphoned recently – one of the few that must've been missed in the initial chaos.

Cars are everywhere, many abandoned as they'd crashed into one, two, three other cars in one huge pileup. I hate to think of the urgency these people had tried to leave by, only to get this far.

If there's one thing I'm thankful for, it's the fact that school was compulsory before all this shit happened.

Maybe I should've convinced my parents that I wasn't responsible enough, that they shouldn't have tried to get up close and personal with an end-of-the-world scenario. Maybe I should've told them I was going to have a house party and everyone at school was invited. But then, who would've thought the Doomsday Preppers wouldn't be ready for the actual end of the world?