chances of running into other people will increase tenfold, and my guess is they won’t be as kind and helpless as the last people I encountered. But if I remain here, eating small game, nuts, and berries and growing thinner everyday, I will lose my pride, my strength, and maybe even my sanity; it’s easy to be driven mad when you’re consumed by your own hunger. That’s it, then—I need to go back toward the remaining neighborhoods and towns if I am going to survive. It’s a risk, sure, but I have done it dozens of times before. I only hope my hunger-weakened body won’t fail me in a fight if I happen to meet anyone along the way.
Two days pass before I find an area worth raiding. It is a small town with only a few dozen buildings, half of which seem to have been destroyed in the bombings. Surely there must be a grocery store or market around here somewhere that might not be completely bare.
I sit crouched behind a pile of rubble, peering over it to read the faded signs on some of the stores, when a shrill cry startles me. A few yards away, a bone-thin young woman clutching several cans against her breast comes sprinting into the street. Four armed men follow. She screams again as one of them catches up to her, grabs her by the arm, and flings her to the ground. The group surrounds her, all of them laughing maniacally as she desperately tries to crawl away, but every time she moves a foot one of them grabs her legs and pulls her back toward the middle of the circle. She cries and yells and kicks wildly, always clutching the cans close to her, but it is no use. Growing tired of this little game, one of the men orders her to shut her mouth and stand up. She struggles to her feet in compliance.
“Just give ‘em here,” says one of the men in a gentle yet commanding voice. “Give ‘em here and we won’t hurt you.”
“P-please. I need ’em. My boyfriend and I—we’re starvin’. He’s sick. He’ll die if I don’t get him somethin’ to eat. Please.”
“We ain’t gonna ask again,” growls another man.
Clutching the cans even tighter now, she looks to each man in turn, as if trying to find one sympathetic person to plead with, but, seeing nothing but bloodthirsty pairs of eyes, her fear seems to multiply and she turns around and around frantically in an attempt to find an escape. Unfortunately for her the wall of men is impassable.
One of the thieves, fed up with her, draws his blade—a black machete—and thrusts it into her abdomen. The cans drop from her hands and clatter to the ground. The other men scramble for them as she falls, sputtering, bleeding, crying.
She should have just given them the damn food; it might have saved her life. I have no sympathy for her. There is no room for imbecility in this world; she is better off dead.
I am about to sneak away before these men can catch sight of me when the feeling of two hands firmly grasping my jacket startles me. I turn to find myself in the iron hold of a man twice my size. He is a terrifying specimen of a man; ugly scars decorate his face and arms—too many to count—and his thick muscles bulge beneath his clothes. He snarls at me with a mouth full of blackened, decaying teeth and the foul stench of his breath sends a shiver down my spine. He stinks of death. Suddenly I realize it is very possible that this monster of a man might be my demise. With hands the size of meat cleavers, he lifts me up as if I am weightless, and I do everything I can to struggle against him in an attempt to free myself, but it is futile. In my surprise I didn’t have time to draw a weapon, leaving me defenseless with no way of reaching my katanas or guns. This creature can crush the life out of me if he so desires; I am at his complete mercy.
“Well lookie what we got here, boys,” he grunts, baring those rotting black teeth of his in a mischievous smile. “Lookie here what I found.”
Chapter 11
The other
Two days pass before I find an area worth raiding. It is a small town with only a few dozen buildings, half of which seem to have been destroyed in the bombings. Surely there must be a grocery store or market around here somewhere that might not be completely bare.
I sit crouched behind a pile of rubble, peering over it to read the faded signs on some of the stores, when a shrill cry startles me. A few yards away, a bone-thin young woman clutching several cans against her breast comes sprinting into the street. Four armed men follow. She screams again as one of them catches up to her, grabs her by the arm, and flings her to the ground. The group surrounds her, all of them laughing maniacally as she desperately tries to crawl away, but every time she moves a foot one of them grabs her legs and pulls her back toward the middle of the circle. She cries and yells and kicks wildly, always clutching the cans close to her, but it is no use. Growing tired of this little game, one of the men orders her to shut her mouth and stand up. She struggles to her feet in compliance.
“Just give ‘em here,” says one of the men in a gentle yet commanding voice. “Give ‘em here and we won’t hurt you.”
“P-please. I need ’em. My boyfriend and I—we’re starvin’. He’s sick. He’ll die if I don’t get him somethin’ to eat. Please.”
“We ain’t gonna ask again,” growls another man.
Clutching the cans even tighter now, she looks to each man in turn, as if trying to find one sympathetic person to plead with, but, seeing nothing but bloodthirsty pairs of eyes, her fear seems to multiply and she turns around and around frantically in an attempt to find an escape. Unfortunately for her the wall of men is impassable.
One of the thieves, fed up with her, draws his blade—a black machete—and thrusts it into her abdomen. The cans drop from her hands and clatter to the ground. The other men scramble for them as she falls, sputtering, bleeding, crying.
She should have just given them the damn food; it might have saved her life. I have no sympathy for her. There is no room for imbecility in this world; she is better off dead.
I am about to sneak away before these men can catch sight of me when the feeling of two hands firmly grasping my jacket startles me. I turn to find myself in the iron hold of a man twice my size. He is a terrifying specimen of a man; ugly scars decorate his face and arms—too many to count—and his thick muscles bulge beneath his clothes. He snarls at me with a mouth full of blackened, decaying teeth and the foul stench of his breath sends a shiver down my spine. He stinks of death. Suddenly I realize it is very possible that this monster of a man might be my demise. With hands the size of meat cleavers, he lifts me up as if I am weightless, and I do everything I can to struggle against him in an attempt to free myself, but it is futile. In my surprise I didn’t have time to draw a weapon, leaving me defenseless with no way of reaching my katanas or guns. This creature can crush the life out of me if he so desires; I am at his complete mercy.
“Well lookie what we got here, boys,” he grunts, baring those rotting black teeth of his in a mischievous smile. “Lookie here what I found.”
Chapter 11
The other
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