A Town Called America by Andrew Alexander

he had left, Rick crawled over to where the man’s body now lay and pulled his knife from the man’s boot. He looked at his hand and the blood-soaked knife he held. The handle had an inscription that read, THE KING . Gazing at the man’s body, Rick struggled to stand. Once he was on his feet, he looked down at the corpse and with a slight grin said, “In the end the king always wins, baby.”
    Rick then ripped his shirt apart in order to apply pressure on his side and arm in an attempt to stop the bleeding. Again he scanned the area. This time he saw the others had no interest in him, as they were preoccupied with the contents of the RV.
    He turned and staggered through the smoke and past the fire that was engulfing his cabin. Using his shotgun as a makeshift cane, he made his way slowly up the hill. Every step was like walking on the surface of the sun. Hardly able to move, Rick kept going like a machine; he wasn’t going to stop until he reached Chris.

    Chris entered the first house she came upon. It was two stories and at least three or four times the size of the home she had lived in as a child. It was a huge house with light-blue vinyl siding. Chris looked at it for a moment, wondering what kind of people once lived there.
    Stopping at the back door, she turned and looked down the street before she entered the home. These homes, all of them, were once the pride of their owners; now they were all in shambles. Lawns that once had been manicured were now overgrown, and nearly all the windows had been shattered. The glass that once provided protection from the elements now lay in tiny pieces on the ground.
    Every home she saw on the street told the same story. All the homeowners who had survived either had killed themselves, starved, or died trying to hold on to their precious belongings while invaders looted everything in sight.
    Chris made her way to what appeared to once have been a family room. She sat on the dirty couch next to a giant hole that once had been a bay window; it overlooked the backyard and the iron gate she had come through. She sat and waited for Rick to come walking through, but he never did.
    As she waited she felt truly alone and as far away from any place she called home as she possibly could be.

ELEVEN
    E very day Chris searched the homes within a three-block radius. She scavenged for food, medical supplies, or anything else that could help her. She foraged through the stench of rotting human and animal flesh; dead remains lay in nearly all the homes. Trash had been left in nearly every home, scattered throughout, making it almost impossible to find anything of value.
    Nevertheless Chris continued to search, and as before, water wasn’t an issue, as it had been raining for the last few days. Food, however, was becoming a greater problem than ever. All she was able to find were a couple of cans of peas and three bottles of Jim Beam. As hungry as she was, the bottles of Jim were more of a prize than the peas.
    Chris sat down on a bed and threw her backpack on the floor next to her. She pulled out a bottle of liquor and began to drink. It didn’t take long before she was intoxicated. The more she drank, the more emotional she became, until she wondered whether she’d ever be sober again. About a third of the way through her first bottle, lying on her back, she drifted off to sleep, thinking about Rick.
    The next morning she awoke to find herself with a headache and a queasy stomach. She had eaten the pees the night before and realized that if she didn’t find more food soon, her situation would go from bad to worse.

    Unknown to Chris, Rick had made it all the way to the lake with no assistance, but that was all he could manage, as he had lost far too much blood. He lay on the ground, gripping his side. With his head canted slightly to the right, he could just barely see the water in the lake.
    How calming he thought it was, wishing he could float off into the sunset until he went wherever