The Days and Months We Were First Born- the Unraveling by Christopher Hunter

after Awareness Day, but as a safety net, automated generators on the ground had kicked in. The generators were supposed to last five months to give people time to get the primary system up and running. Whatever plans we had as a militia, it was dependent upon having that power. Perhaps someone had tampered with it. Perhaps there was no one to maintain it. Regardless, the Tri-State area and who knows where else was now thrust back into the dark ages. Literally.
    ***
    It didn’t take long for the worse to begin. That same night, as we were trying to get some sleep and worry about our troubles in the morning, David tapped me on the shoulder with urgency.
    “Marty! Marty! Wake up! You need to see this!” he whispered.
    I had fallen asleep not too long ago, and wasn’t happy to be bothered.
    “What! What the hell do you wan…”
    I fell silent once I realized I could see. The room was awash in a dull, orange light, flooding through the window like an invading spirit. Confused, I pushed the covers off, stood, and followed David to the window. We had to take careful steps to avoid those sleeping on the mats at our feet. 
    After half a minute, we reached the window together and we both gazed out.
    “Oh my God,” I gasped.
    Harlem was on fire below us. The rooftop gardens, a signature of the neighborhood, burned like torches; and the fire was leaping from building to building with the wind. Plumes of dark smoke highlighted with orange edges escaped upward and blocked out the night sky. There was a low but broad rumbling noise, along with occasional crackles and pops, which traveled all the way to our window. The blaze was vast, engulfing the grid of blocks as far as the eye could see. Even Julie’s old building, four or five kilometers on other side of the island, was on fire.
    “What the fuck are they doing down there?!” said David. His voice was excited. “Why are they burning the place?”
    More people stirred out of their sleep, and in no time, the window was crowded. We had to jostle for position, but eventually we settled into an order to take turns looking. And just as David and I, the rest of our roommates were in awe of what they were seeing.
    ***
    At daybreak, every able-bodied person was gathered in the courtyard, around three hundred in total. You could see the frustration on people’s faces. You could see the fear as well. The air had the smell the smoke and cinder from the burning of Harlem, and the fire still raged into the day. Our complex was safe from the blaze because we were on top of Morningside Hill, but the Last Standers were no less anxious.
    The crowd had been gathered for half an hour before our leader appeared. He emerged from the apartment building, wearing a navy blue, button-down shirt, with jeans that were faded and tight to his legs. He walked swiftly and had a stern look on his almost perfectly round face—the look of a man who meant business in everything he did. He was flanked by seven of his lieutenants. And he had a loudspeaker in his left hand.
    A meter-tall box was to serve as a makeshift platform. Once Eric Wu was there, he was helped on top of it. We all formed a semi-circle in front of him.
    Once we were settled, he began.
    “Morning, Last Standers.”
    Wu paused to gauge our mood, and the mood was shitty. Grunts of disapproval and sneers echoed throughout. One man, a heavyset White guy to my left, spit a big loogie on the ground. Then he said, “That’s my fucking morning for you right there.” Nope. The crowd wasn’t happy at all.
    “I know you are frustrated,” Wu continued. “I’m frustrated as well. My wife and child are in that apartment building behind me, they are bedridden on cots, and they don’t have long. So I understand your anger, because it’s my anger. I understand your fear, because it’s my fear. I didn’t ask for this. None of us asked for this. But this is the hand we are all dealt. Getting upset and panicking will do us no good. SO HOLD YOUR