The Camp

Chapter 1

I, Enola Jane, was named after both my grandmother and an infamous plane. Both of which were as vile and inhumane as the rotting corpses that litter our street. As you can see from the use of my past tense verb, both are now dead and buried. The plane perhaps more so than my Grandmother. I now use my time to sit and write this story, with the earth still fresh over my grandmother's twisted bones and implore you my reader (if there ever is one) to carry my tale with you and remember the courage of brave Enola Jane as I recount the dysfunctional society of my generation.

Beep...Beep...I opened my eyes, half expecting the cockerel to be stood over my pallid face again as he had done so many times before this but to my surprise not only was he missing but the dreary drone of my pre-war alarm clock was winding down from its frenzy. Outstretching an arm that felt heavy with slumber I managed to grapple for the off button and swiftly depressed it before sitting up to an eye full of the blazing sun. Though my curtains were closed upon further inspection there was a large gaping hole separating what used to be two shabby curtains into three useless strips of cloth. I turned to the side and glanced down at the cat who had curled himself neatly amongst a pile of my schoolwork. "You little bugger." I mumbled as he lifted a vibrant green eye and let the tiniest meow slip from his lips.

Slinging my legs round to the side of the bed like some strange cowboy dismounting his horse, I scowled at him, deep and harsh. Yet as if he hadn't even registered my presence, he closed his crusty eye and went back to sleep, purring gently as he did. He's rubbing it in again...I thought as I slipped my cool feet into my ragged slippers. As I lifted my foot the rubber sole flopped annoyingly against the floor and I groaned. Here it was, the post-war melancholy of back-to-work Mondays. Days where all the life and joy were sucked right out of people and where I, especially, found myself racked with boredom.

I lifted my foot, a feeble attempt to silence its aggravating flapping, however in some sort of protest the sole ripped even further from the shoe and slapped the floor with twice the vengeance and double the speed. I threw my head back in despair, first the ripped curtains that they could never afford to fix and now the dilapidated slippers and that was only the beginning really since it was only 5:15 and I'd been up for a mere 6 minutes.

Shuffling down the hall I reached the banister and took a weary step downwards, as the stairs were old and crumbling there was no telling when they'd finally give way and send me crashing down to my death. With various dubious creaks I found my way to the bottom, unharmed and alive. The smell of eggs drifted into the hall from the kitchen and my mood picked up a little as I found my way towards the shabby kitchen door, already feeling the grease from the eggs dripping onto my tongue. Food was scarce now, ever since the war found most of our supplies depleted. Eggs were standard issue from the government and all citizens were advised to keep a chicken in case of an unprecedented blackout which would prevent us from leaving our rundown houses for an unknown length of time. It was in one of these blackouts that I had learned the truth behind my names. Ma always kept chickens, even before the war so for her it was as if life was continuing as normal although every now and then a neighbour would come to our yard and attempt to steal our flock or at least one of the bigger hens. That's why we ended up with the fabled cockerel, firstly to replenish our stock of hens when the looters managed to take one and secondly to protect our flock although he didn't do much protecting these days as his legs were old and his eyesight fading.

Pushing the door open with the palm of my hand I entered the kitchen to find Ma in her cooking apron, standing up to the stove. Her thick, brown hair was tied back into an intricate plait with no hair tie to hold it in. "Good morning Ma." I said as I stood in the door frame watching her cook. I was glad when she didn't turn around to look at me because I was grimacing over having to describe a Monday morning as good. With a slight flick of her wrist she flipped the eggs over onto their yolky, yellow faces. Another thing that we lacked after the war was instruments for cooking, having run out of them a long time ago the government decided that it was a 'waste of precious resources' to manufacture more although I call BS on that.