Preface

I am Peace, a doomer and a fan of post-apocalyptic worlds. This book is born from my thoughts—what if a doomer lived alone in a small town left behind after a disaster? This world I create isn't about harsh survival or endless struggle. Instead, it's a quiet canvas, a place where the radiation slowly takes its toll, minute by minute, but life still goes on with simple rhythms.

For me, this story isn't about heroic battles or dramatic escapes. It’s about solitude, small victories in everyday life, and the strange comfort found in being isolated yet resourceful. Though the radiation kills a little every second, it’s an ever-present companion that blends into the background, shaping a life lived quietly.

I imagine living here with enough to sustain myself, surrounded by emptiness, and the slow echo of the world before. This book reflects that mindset—where the biggest challenge isn’t surviving the apocalypse, but living with the loneliness and the creeping knowable end.

So, welcome to this town and to my thoughts. This is not a tale of despair but of the small, steady moments that mark a life lived on the edge of the void.

— Peace
[Sol-III | Orion Arm | Milky Way] November 2025

Copyright

© 2025 Peace
All rights reserved.

This eBook is provided free of charge. You may share and distribute it for personal, educational, or noncommercial purposes, provided that proper credit is given to the author.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted for commercial gain without prior written permission from the author.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution–NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

Second Edition — November 2025
eBook Version 1.1 Published by Peace / Snugly Cloud
https://snugly.cloud

ISBN:

Prelude: The Last Light in the Valley

The valley stretched wide beneath the fading sun, mountains rising like ancient guardians on either side. Town lights glimmered faintly, hesitant against the encroaching shadows – small flickers in a world that had become uncertain and still.

Elara stood on the edge of the empty street, the air heavy with the scent of pine and dust, the last light painting rivers of gold between the houses and trees. The silence was profound, broken only by the soft rustle of leaves in the cooling breeze.

This was her home now, a quiet enclave carved out in the remnants of a world changed irrevocably by catastrophe. The valley that once bustled with life was now a ghostly haven, where every rusted sign and shuttered window whispered stories of the people who had fled.

In her mind, Elara walked the streets alone, chasing memories and shadows. The distant mountains held secrets, the evening sky a canvas of deep blues bleeding into night. She felt the pulse of her solitude, wrapped in the cool air as the last light lingered with stubborn grace.

The valley was both prison and sanctuary, a place where life had slowed to a fragile rhythm. Here, beneath the watchful eyes of the peaks, Elara faced the quiet challenge of existence — alone, yet unbroken amidst the fading light.

Life Under Pressure

It was Friday evening when I finally clocked out, the usual forced smile fading as I tapped off on the terminal at reception. "Have a nice day," I muttered to everyone, the words as hollow as the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. My scooter waited just outside, helmet on, engine yet to start. "Finally Friday," I thought, the question of "where to?" lingering. I missed the long rides I used to take on my days off, but today, time was tight. Then I remembered a bridge on a quiet road on the other side of town — less crowded, more trees. Perfect.

I flicked the ignition, the engine roared to life, and I spun away from the office, weaving through familiar streets. When I turned onto a smaller, quieter road, I pulled over, leaving the engine running. With practiced fingers, I pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and spoke aloud knowing no one would hear: "So what, I like smoking while riding."

The evergreen trees flanked the road like silent sentinels as I flicked the cigarette’s burnt end aside. At the bridge’s small parking spot, wild grass sprouted through cracks, signaling neglect and solitude — just how I liked it. Helmet off, I leaned against the guardrail and lit another cigarette. Phone in hand, I took a few photos of the river’s quiet flow and started doom scrolling through Reddit. Unlike the shallow noise clogging other platforms, this place felt real — a feed free from desperate attention seekers and fake connections.

Darkness crept in, threading shadows through the trees, and I rode home. My apartment building waited, a modest three stories — the ground floor home to "Susan's Bowl" and "Uncle Ben's," the married couple who owned the restaurant, convenience store, and the apartments above.

Inside, white bedsheets called out, a soothing retreat from the world’s noise. I shed my work clothes for something casual, attempted to focus on my laptop, but the short ride hadn’t fatigued me. Something else churned beneath the surface — a restless ache as if my mind shouted in agony. Nothing seemed wrong on paper, but the void inside whispered differently.

My gaze drifted to the window. Across the street rose another apartment block — four stories tall, unusually big for this town cradled by mountains. Trees lined the roads: left to town, right out of it. "Town" felt like a stretch here, more a crowded village with unkind, uncultured faces.

As dusk deepened, I grabbed essentials — a jacket, takeout, and a bottle of cheap whiskey from Uncle Ben’s. Back in my room, I took off my jacket, fired up the laptop, and played the last viewed episode of Futurama — my modest comfort in a world so quietly out of tune.

I woke up late enough that the worst of the hangover had passed, the dull ache in my head replaced by a lingering thirst I couldn't shake. Slowly, I dragged myself downstairs to the restaurant below the apartment, ordering a bowl of spicy noodles—the kind of food that punches through both headaches and regret.

Finishing the meal, I toyed with the idea of doing something nobody in town seemed to do anymore: just going for a ride. Like in the 80s, a long, aimless spin on my scooter to nowhere in particular. It felt nostalgic, oddly rebellious in a place that barely stirred anymore.

Our town sits in a valley between two ridges—tight and fenced in by mountains, with only one road threading through. I chose to go west, toward the smaller town nearby. The sun was still low enough that its light wouldn’t slam straight into my eyes on the way there, and on the return trip I’d have it at my back again. Planning for my eyes, which are stubborn if nothing else.

The road was quieter than usual. I realized I didn’t once honk or mutter a curse under my breath on the way, which was strange in itself. I stopped at the big gas station on the valley’s edge, surrounded by sturdy green forest, filling the tank and ordering a coffee from the small shop inside. I didn’t want it, really. It was more ritual than anything—watching life move through the little gas station’s small café, people passing in and out. Campers, drivers needing just a quick fill-up, even a group of leather-clad motorcycle riders resting before heading into the mountains.

Back on the road, I noticed how much more traffic there was than normal. "We need a new plaque," I thought, smirking to myself. Even this little town felt more crowded than it seemed a week ago.

About forty minutes in, music filled my ears—Saving Jane’s album on repeat, my go-to soundtrack for the open road, the one that never failed to sharpen the edges of the world. The small town I reached was quiet, definitely quieter than my own, and I stopped at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant that barely met any standard but served decent food and coffee. The few customers were scattered and quiet; the owner greeted me with a nod of recognition and a soft smile, which I returned.

I spent the next hour or so there, eating and sitting in ease, the music still playing, the coffee slowly waking my half-hungover head. Eventually, I decided to head back—cursing at some careless drivers along the way, the usual violence of rural roads.

Back in my room around four, I curled up under the sheets, still eyeing the bottle of whiskey I hadn’t finished from last night and thought, “Soon, my friend. Soon.”

The evening was simple—dinner from downstairs again and an early start on the whiskey. That’s when I noticed the small mark on my calendar hanging by the door—an old-fashioned one, hard to find these days when everyone uses digital calendars. I liked the tactile feel of tearing off a page each month, throwing it away with the satisfaction of doing something real. It was my appointment for a mental health consultation—the second visit. No one pressured me to go, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that the quiet ache beneath my skin signaled something was off. A relentless whisper just below the surface, insisting that something essential was missing. Am I the only one who feels this way?

When the World Changed

I woke up suddenly, the dull morning light seeping through my curtains like a cautious observer. Today I had to prepare myself to face something far scarier than my own reflection—the psychiatrist’s office. To me, that place was like a grim mirror, one that didn't just show the surface but forced me to confront the raw, cracked pieces inside that I usually ignored.

I changed out of my worn tank top and pajama pants into clothes that could pass as socially acceptable—a loose shirt, dark jeans, and my battered boots. It felt like putting on armor for a battle I didn’t want to fight but couldn’t avoid.

Stepping outside, I realized the weight in my chest wasn’t from the morning, but from the task ahead. I climbed onto my scooter, the familiar rumble under me both comforting and restless. The morning air was crisp and a little damp, carrying the quiet sounds of a small town still waking up.

Rolling out onto the empty streets, I pulled out a cigarette and lit it, the smoke swirling around me as I rode. The drag calmed the frantic pulse in my head, the edges of my nervousness softened by the smoky haze.

The ride wasn’t long, but each turn brought me closer to the office—and to the dark reflection waiting inside. To me, the psychiatrist’s office was no different than a mirror that reveals all the frightening, messy parts of your mind. A place where secrets refuse to stay buried.

I exhaled another plume of smoke as I approached the building—plain and uninviting—and told myself to steel against the fear. This wasn’t just about sitting in a chair or talking; it was about facing the deepest, most unsettling truths within me.

Parking the scooter, I dropped the cigarette, crushing the embers beneath my boot. Preparing to face the mirror meant nothing more—and nothing less—than staring into that scary, unforgiving void and trying to find a flicker of hope in the reflection.

I sat quietly in the sparse waiting room of the psychiatrist’s office, the muted ticking of the wall clock marking time alongside my restless thoughts. The session had ended, yet I remained, shuffling through the small pile of magazines on the table as if searching for distraction. My mind, however, kept circling back to the quiet conversation I had just shared with Dr. Harlan.

"You’ve been carrying this weight for nearly a decade," the psychiatrist had said gently, eyes full of understanding. "Isolation, anxiety, and the distance you feel from everyone around you—it’s carved a space inside you."

I nodded slightly, the truth sinking deeper than words. Since her early twenties, a persistent shadow of despair had wrapped around her, hollowing out friendships before they could root and fraying the few ties that linked me to my family. My father remained the closest person to me, though even that bond felt distant at times. He worked long shifts at the nuclear power plant visible through the large window beside my seat, a sprawling complex nestled in the valley just beyond the town’s edge.

The attendant’s voice broke through my reverie as they called for payment. I fumbled in her bag, finding my card. As I reached the counter, a faint bloom of light caught my eye through the window—an unexpected glimmer from the plant's direction. Instinctively, I turned my gaze back to the valley.

A small explosion, distant but unmistakable, ignited near one of the reactor buildings. Smoke rose in a twisted plume, dark and foreboding against the fading afternoon sky. The sterile calm of the office shattered for a moment, the reality of my father’s peril intertwined with the unbearable stillness of my own waiting.

Holding my breath, I felt the crushing solitude settle in again, heavier than before. Yet within it stirred a grim resolve—an unspoken decision born of years of quiet despair and the uncertain hope of survival. Outside, the valley remained vast and silent, marked now not only by the plant’s shadow but by an unfolding threat that would change everything.

I stood in front of the psychiatrist’s building, the lingering echo of the last session fading into the cold air. My phone was clenched tightly in my hand, fingers trembling—not from the chill but from a mixture of worry and numbness. I dialed my father’s number again; the line still showed signal, but the familiar voice never came. It had been six months since I last called him—right after New Year’s. Six months of silence that weighed heavier than any explosion.

The streets behind me were chaos—a cacophony of shouting, running people, sirens splitting the air like a blade. I debated briefly; the power plant was the one place I should keep farthest away from, yet it was the one place I wanted desperately to be.

With headphones wedged in my ears, barely hearing the chaos, I started the engine of my scooter. Twenty minutes north, nestled at the foot of the mountain, the power plant loomed ominously like a wound on the valley. The road ahead was a shattered mirror of the world before—twisted and dangerous, every driver gambling as if the end was already here.

Rare for me, I stayed calm. No curse words fell from my lips, no angry gestures wasted on reckless drivers; I had nothing left to yell at. I had bigger fears occupying my mind.

Arriving at the plant, the scene was grim. Ambulances and firetrucks clustered like vultures, and a police perimeter held firm. I approached a policeman who looked like he hadn’t seen rest in days.

"You can’t go in there," he said, steady but firm.

"My father works there," I told him, voice cracking despite my efforts to stay composed.

"I’m sorry, ma’am, but you have to go back for now."

More people poured in, shouting for answers, demanding their right to know. The police tightened the perimeter, pushing the crowd back with force. The dangerous mix of fear and anger felt worse than the thick smoke rising from the plant itself.

I turned, looking left and right, streets clogged, voices merging into one unbearable roar. The promise of answers hidden behind barricades was more brutal than the silent uncertainty.

I decided to make my way back toward the other side of town—my refuge of solitude—away from the suffocating crowd. Somewhere quieter, where I could try to piece together the fragments of a world unraveling.

Heading home, my eyes caught glimpses of military vehicles thunder past, their heavy wheels stirring dust and dread. Above, helicopters circled with robotic precision, little more than black dots against the grey sky. The air was thick with uncertainty and the sick taste of things lost.

I lit a cigarette as I rode, the smoke twisting away into the uneasy calm of the valley. The road was blocked, the future uncertain, and I was left alone with the silence between the sirens.

I arrived at my place to find a small crowd gathered around the television in the restaurant downstairs. The flickering glow of the screen cast anxious shadows across the faces of strangers, each glued to the escalating headlines, yet still searching for something tangible—some news that might ease the pounding in my chest. I pushed my way in, the noise pressing in as I tried to connect my phone to the network, only to face the cruel irony: no connection.

Phones lay silent, calls unanswered, but a few whispered that some internet trickled through intermittently. Yet, none held any solid news—only fragments, rehearsed lines tireless repeated, talking about the seriousness of the event and how ‘international eyes’ were watching, but offering no real answers about my father or the workers at the plant.

The mountain ranges that sheltered us also seemed to imprison us; limited cell providers and patchy signals kept us in an information blackout. Hour after hour, the tension thickened with no real progress on the screen. My heart pounded wildly, care twisting around every unknown. I ached to hear his voice, to know he was safe.

Eventually, my phone flickered alive. The internet—fragile but present. The decision was clear; I needed silence, solitude. The caring eyes of the restaurant owner followed me as I left, her unspoken concern weighing on me heavier than the cold evening air.

Up in my room, tears traced silent paths down my cheeks as I scrolled relentlessly through social media feeds and news sites, desperate for any clue, any mention of him or of hope. The weight of waiting settled deep, but I clung to the small flickers of connection, even if they offered only shadows. Tonight, the news brought no comfort—only the vast, empty space between hope and despair.

In the Quiet Aftermath

I woke again in the dead of night, the familiar ache in my chest twisting tighter with every tick of the clock. My thumb compulsively refreshed social media and news sites, each reload bringing the same stale updates. Hours slipped by—two, three—and the weight of silence crushed me in the dark. Frustration boiled over. I poured the remainder of that cheap whiskey down the sink and let the sharp burn chase me into a restless sleep.

Morning came with a fragile light. My phone buzzed with notifications; the internet had returned fully. But when I tried my father’s number, it didn’t even ring. I dialed the work line, realizing after the first attempt it belonged to a colleague now unreachable. The social feeds only held generic jokes and meaningless updates—some mocking the endless drama, calling it a “cat-ass-trophy.” I ran downstairs to the restaurant, craving the flickering glow of the TV.

The screen still churned news, but now with commercials slipping underneath—cereal ads rolling past as if no crisis hung in the air. Disgust welled inside me. I asked the owner, her eyes darkened with worry, “Any news?” She sighed, voice low. “It’s bad. They’re talking evacuation. Families up north already leaving.” I glanced at the clock—just before eight. “Will you leave too?” I asked. She hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Soon.”

She looked over at me, concern softening her gaze. “What about you, Elera? Any news from your father?” I shook my head, feeling the tears well up again. The pills I had gotten from the psychiatrist yesterday wouldn’t stop the rising storm inside, but maybe they’d hold back the flood for a little while.

I sank into a chair, eyes fixed on the TV. How could they run ads during this? This world—these people—felt unbearable. I hated everything more with each passing second.

My phone rang, the sudden sound making my heart pound unevenly. I glanced at the screen—my boss. For a moment, I forgot it was Monday. With everything happening, I had already decided today wouldn't be a workday for me, even before answering.

"Hi Elle, are you okay?" her voice came, calm but concerned.

"Yes, I'm safe. Um, look, sorry, but I don't think I can make it to the office today," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Oh no, I didn’t call about that," she replied quickly. "I just wanted to tell you not to come in. I heard they may ask us to evacuate soon. I’ll call the others too."

"Oh..." I faltered, unsure how to respond. If evacuation was coming, what about Dad? Would the rescue continue?

"Also, Elle," she added after a pause. "Can you call Camille? She lives close to you, right?" That middle-aged woman from the design department.

"Okay, I’ll call her." After hanging up, I dialed Camille’s number.

The call went unanswered. I checked her social media—no updates. I even tried her Facebook messenger, but no luck there either.

I paused, thoughts swirling. Then, I turned to the restaurant owner downstairs and asked, "Can I have something to go? I’m heading to the power plant."

The owner looked surprised. "Sure, I'll make you some sandwiches. Is that okay?"

I nodded, forcing a smile.

Five minutes later, she returned with a pack of sandwiches. Her worry was palpable. "If by the time you come back I’m not here," she said softly, "take care of yourself."

I nodded again, masking my own unease, grabbed my bike, and set off toward Camille’s place.

I arrived at the five-story apartment building, which was considered tall around here, especially in a small town like this. The scene was chaotic—a mess of people running back and forth, dragging suitcases and bags. Traffic was already snarling as cars and motorcycles clogged the narrow roads. I was grateful in that moment for my scooter, nimble enough to weave through the growing jam.

I tried calling Camille again, hoping she would answer this time. No luck. The building lacked an intercom system, but in the reception area—now empty without a security guard—there was a phone that could ring individual apartments. I picked it up and dialed Camille’s unit.

After a few rings, a man’s voice answered. “Hello?”

“Hi, Camille? This is Elera.” I cleared my throat awkwardly. “From the office.”

“Okay, one moment,” he replied, his voice rising as he shouted across the hallway for Camille to get the phone.

Ten seconds later, Camille came on the line. “Camille speaking.” Her voice carried a trace of tiredness.

“Hey, it’s me—Elle. The boss called this morning, told me not to come into the office, and asked me to call you. The phone didn’t seem to work earlier.” I imagined her rolling her eyes.

“Oh, right,” she sighed. “I wasn’t planning to be at the office anyway. Me and my husband are heading out of town for a few days—like, right now.” There was the clamor of hurried packing in the background.

“What about you, Elera? You leaving soon?”

I hesitated and swallowed hard. “Um... yeah, I think so.”

“Well, good luck then. Send me some updates.”

I hung up, feeling the knot in my throat tighten. I stepped back out into the crush of activity, mounting my scooter once more. With the traffic thickening, I had no choice but to fight my way through the jam, heading toward the power plant. The day felt heavier now, shadowed with worry and uncertain futures.

In front of the power plant, I parked the scooter next to the barrier. The area was almost empty now—fire trucks were still stationed, but the police had vanished, replaced by military vehicles. One of the soldiers approached me.

"Ma'am, what can I help you with?"

"My father works here. I’ve tried contacting him since yesterday, but no one answers!" I tried to control my voice, but I could hear myself verge on screaming.

The soldier glanced toward the firefighters working nearby and back at me. "Well, sorry about that... umm... I don’t really know what to say. If your father was working inside when it went off," he paused, "don’t hold out much hope."

I felt tears begin to fall, but I didn’t sob or make a sound. I tried wiping them with the back of my hands. "Who can I talk to?" My voice almost disappeared.

The soldier didn’t answer but looked at his companion, who started walking toward me. The other soldier said softly, "Sorry you have to hear this from me, but from what I’ve heard, there are no survivors."

It was as though thick, black fog surrounded me. I couldn’t hear or see anything until I felt someone shaking my arms.

"Ma'am, can you hear me? Do you want to sit down?" It was the soldier again. I nodded, and together they helped me sit on an empty crate one of them brought over.

Sitting beneath the shade of a tree, I stared blankly upward. The two soldiers stood a little apart, giving me space. Time slipped by, blurred by the fog in my eyes and the endless coming and going of military vehicles.

Eventually, I stood up. The soldiers turned toward me, and I asked, "What’s next?"

"Well," one answered, "from what we know, there's going to be an evacuation order soon. The rescue team will have to leave as well."

The other soldier added quietly, "So will we."

"Do you have anyone else you can call?" they asked.

I nodded reflexively, then chastised myself silently. I don’t have anybody.

I turned away, hands shoved deep into my jacket pockets, eyes drifting over the ruins. The building to the right had collapsed, and twisted metal lay heaps behind it. Firefighters with heavy machinery still labored. There were no news vans, no reporters—no civilians at all. Above me, a lone helicopter hovered high, probably a news station with deep pockets.

A military truck drove off-site, carrying 10 to 20 soldiers. Their eyes locked on me as I turned from the wreckage, mounted my scooter, and left.

No Place to Belong

I stopped at the side of the road, my scooter idling softly beneath me. The thought lingered in my mind, haunting and hollow: "I don’t think I have anywhere else to go." The morning stretched on, sirens blaring and horns honking echoing through the valley, a chaotic soundtrack to a world unraveling. I veered onto a smaller side road, seeking refuge from that relentless noise.

I settled onto the scooter’s seat, facing a dense spread of evergreen trees, their dark silhouettes unmoved by the chaos around. A few cars passed, oblivious or unwilling to pause. I lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply, then exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl upward toward a pale sky.

The forest remained unchanged, a stubborn island of life in a crumbling world—even now, after everything. But for me... tears slipped silently down my cheeks, uncontrolled this time, the sorrow rushing in like a tide too fierce to hold back. It was a grief I’d never known before—the loss too vast for the heart to grasp immediately, needing time to stretch, to tear, to make room for the emptiness.

I didn’t know how long I sat there, tears drying naturally on my skin. “It will be less swollen that way,” I whispered to myself. Lighting another cigarette, I breathed in and out, the steady rhythm a small anchor in the storm inside.

With no other place to be, I finally started the engine and headed toward the apartment.

I parked the scooter in front of my apartment; it looked empty now, the usual bustle replaced by an eerie silence. On my way here, I caught a faint announcement crackling through the city’s speaker—something about an evacuation order, maybe.

Pushing open the door to the convenience store downstairs, I noticed the darkness inside almost immediately. Uncle Bob, the male owner, gave me a wary look. He seemed ready to close up and leave.

"Elle, why are you still here? They ordered an evacuation," he said softly, then paused. Realization flickered in his eyes—my father used to work at the power plant. A tense, uneasy silence hung between us, thick and almost unbearable.

I broke it, my voice barely above a whisper, "Can I have a bottle of the usual, and a pack of cigarettes?"

The words felt foreign, like I’d forgotten how to make a sound of my own. Uncle Bob glanced left and right before nodding and disappearing inside. Moments later, he reemerged carrying a bag with my items.

"On the house," he said. "Take care of yourself. It's messy in town—better leave soon."

There was something in his gaze—more than concern, but less than hope. Like someone with a million things trapped behind their eyes, none allowed to show as a smile. I nodded silently and headed up to my room.

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I checked my phone. Notifications popped up—evacuation orders, snippets of urgent news. I hadn’t even realized they could do that, not without a government app at least.

"3 PM already?" I mused, lighting a cigarette even though I never smoked inside my room before. Taking a few drags, I nestled my headphones in and opened my usual distraction—the NewPipe app.

"Well..." I sighed, pressing play on the next episode of Futurama. As the familiar intro played, afternoon light filtered through the window and caught the bottle of whiskey on my desk, casting strange and beautiful reflections.

"Another small thing I never noticed before," I thought, then opened the bottle and took a sip straight from it—no glass needed.

The next few days passed in a blur, leaving me grasping at fragments of memory like shards of something better. Sometimes I found myself staring out the window, seething with a quiet rage—not against anyone specifically, but at groups, crowds, society itself. The way people gathered, pretending with forced smiles and hollow laughter—it made my skin crawl. That illusion of happiness, that desperate display of being better... it sickened me.

It felt like slipping into a blackout from drink, except I wasn’t entirely unconscious. I "think" I broke into the convenience store one night, taking what I needed—food, whiskey. The thought seemed impossible, yet there they were: four bottles lined neatly by my bed, silent witnesses to nights I barely recalled.

I kept my room dark, nourished by the shadows. Light was a nuisance anyway, and when I was watching something on my laptop or phone, I preferred the blackness around me, like a cinema where I could focus solely on the story. It forced silence, a kind of passive coercion to shut out the world. And it worked.

I blinked slowly, the pounding in my head a dull throb beneath the brightness outside. I yawned, careless of the pain that flared as I stretched my mouth too wide, then narrowed my eyes to search for water. Thirst clawed at me, but the bottle was nowhere to be found. I pushed myself up—the need to pee stronger than any resistance.

The mirror never lied. Yup. I was an ugly zombie, caught in the slow decay.

Swearing quietly, I dressed out of habit in socially acceptable clothes and crept downstairs. The hallway was swallowed by darkness... and silence.

Evacuation. I had imagined the military pounding on doors, dragging everyone out to camps beyond the mountains. But here I was—still here. The town was empty save for me.

Outside, I shielded my eyes from the sun and checked my phone. Noon. No one was around; the streets were empty, the air stubbornly still. It looked like people had fled.

Today was the twenty-first, if my calendar was right. Five days since the incident. Disbelief lingered.

I walked towards the convenience store. The metal shutter was half closed; pushing it up revealed the broken glass door. A rush of memories assaulted me—bricks thrown in drunken fury, mistakes clawing their way back.

Inside, darkness devoured the space, save for the faint blinking of a display fridge. I pulled one open, grabbed a bottle of water, drained most of it, then rested my forehead against the cold glass. The cold numbed some of the throbbing pain.

I glanced around and muttered, "I’ll pay back when I can, but for now..." Then I moved behind the counter, rifling through the drawer for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

Sitting on the curb in front of the shop, cigarette between fingers, water bottle pressed to my throbbing head, the pain pulsed with every heartbeat. I opened my eyes, seeing my motorcycle still parked where I left it. The road and buildings remained, mere shells without life.

No humans. No signs beyond the chirp of birds and the buzz of insects I’d hardly noticed before. Piles of leaves gathered at the curb’s edge, reminders of the long winds that swept the empty streets.

I took the last drag from my cigarette, extinguished it silently, and twisted off the water bottle’s cap to drink more.

"This is... nice," I thought, part comfort, part surrender.

I swung my leg over the motorcycle, the familiar rumble growing beneath me, a faint comfort against the eerie silence blanketing the town. I started riding through the streets that were once alive but now sat empty and hollow. The turn where I used to stop at a traffic light was desolate; nothing stirred. The narrow road that was always clogged with cars flowed freely, devoid of the usual congestion and chaos.

Along the roadside, some cars remained parked as if someone had merely stepped away briefly. Partial reminders of lives abruptly paused. A few windows still glowed with unmanned light. Curious, I slowed down and peeked through one. No one was there—only a bareness that felt colder than the night. They must have left in such a hurry that turning off a light was forgotten.

I guided my bike toward the city’s roundabouts—not a large one but notable. A fountain once graced its center, a splash of life in the midst of the asphalt. Usually, I only glimpsed it fleetingly as I rode past. Now, with the roads empty, I pulled up alongside the curb and dismounted.

I wandered toward the basin where the fountain’s cascade had once danced. Now, it was little more than a still pool of water. Yet, amidst abandonment, it retained a quiet beauty, serenity perhaps deeper than ever before.

Perched at the basin’s edge, I stared back down the road I'd traveled. Habit beckoned, and I lit another cigarette, drawing in the familiar burn.

Subconsciously, my finger dipped into the fountain water—cold, refreshing, calming. The persistent headache I’d carried all day dulled as clarity began to seep back into my mind.

"Hmm," I murmured aloud, "now, what’s next?"

I considered the military checkpoint that marked the city’s limit—a graceless attempt to keep people out, but never quite effective. They’d question where I came from. The simple truth surfaced first: "I was blackout drunk—yeah, and my father died in the power plant."

A strange surge bubbled up inside, a feeling I hadn’t realized I bottled away, now pushing to the surface. I stood, stretched, pacing in a small circle around the fountain basin.

"Or," I pondered, "I could just stay here. The radiation will kill me eventually, won’t it? Five, maybe ten years?"

A faint smile tugged at my lips—probably the psychiatrist was right about those suicidal thoughts he mentioned.

"Don’t be ridiculous," my internal voice snapped back. "They’ll cut the power and electricity. What about food? It’s not like you can stay and starve."

I stopped, eyes locking on a familiar store across the street. Its windows were still faintly illuminated by a solar charger, the kind that could keep phones and laptops running for a while.

"What am I thinking? Planning to kill myself over ten years of radiation exposure?" I rubbed my temple, exhaling slowly as I turned back toward my motorcycle, weighing my shallow lie to the militia against the brutal truth.

Movement flickered in the corner of my eye. I looked, and there—a cat.

I froze. The cat froze.

Long fur, white but tinged with dust, it meowed loudly, breaking the stillness.

"Are you hungry?" I asked gently. The cat inched closer, wearing a collar. My mind raced, furious. "Someone left their cats behind?! Inhuman!"

I stretched out my hand. The cat sniffed, then licked my fingers. Carefully, I scooped her up, despite the lack of any food to offer.

No injuries, just hunger. I settled the cat on my shoulder with a sigh. Alone, once again—but not quite.

Unlikely Companions

I took off my jacket and gently wrapped the white cat in its warmth. Leaving her there alone wasn't an option—I just hoped she would stay put and not leap out while I rode. Luckily, my motorcycle was a scooter, quiet and unobtrusive.

I drove carefully through the empty streets. There was none of the chaos you'd expect from a disaster movie—no burnt-out cars, no screaming crowds—only fallen branches scattered across the road. It was strange to realize how quickly everything had shut down; I guessed the Parks and Recreation department had been quite efficient before it all went dark.

Reaching a nearby grocery store, I parked right in front. To my surprise, the front doors were unlocked—I nudged one open with my shoulder while cradling the cat. Making my way straight to the pet supplies aisle, I grabbed several cans of cat food and headed back out.

Setting the cat down, I popped open a can, and she immediately began eating, the hunger evident in every eager bite. I stroked her fur softly, feeling a small flicker of something—maybe hope, or simply companionship—in the emptiness surrounding me.

I wondered if it was possible to take her with me for good. To have her by my side, not just now but in the uncertain days ahead. I pulled out my phone, only to see the screen blinking "No signal." Of course.

Resigned but amused, I snapped a quick selfie of the cat happily munching away. Sometimes, these small moments were all I had to hold onto.

I grabbed ten more cans of cat food from the store, the weight of them clinking softly in my bag as I slung it over my shoulder. Wrapping the white cat snugly in my jacket, I carefully climbed onto my scooter. The gas tank was still half full, a small mercy in this empty town. Driving with one hand used to feel dangerous, especially with other cars around, but now, with no one on the roads, it was a different kind of quiet — almost peaceful.

Pulling up to my apartment, I realized something strange: I hadn’t muttered a single curse under my breath during the ride. It was unnervingly silent, like hearing my own breath for the first time.

Carrying the cat upstairs to my room, the darkness hit me hard. My room was darker than usual — the entire town must have lost electricity while I was out. I looked down at the cat and said softly, “Just you and me in the dark, huh?”

Setting her down, I opened another can of food and poured water into a dish. Glancing at my watch, it was 3 PM. My mind drifted to another cat I used to see around the apartment.

“Hey, white... you are Snow now. Stay here while I’m out, okay?” I murmured.

The cat paused her water drinking, looked at me, and licked her lips—an almost dismissive gesture as if to say, “Go, I'll be fine here,” or maybe, “Okay, fuck off.” I couldn’t really tell. Either way, I grabbed another can of food, stepped downstairs, and began meowing softly to call the cat.

Within ten minutes, I spotted her across the street behind the apartment building. She seemed happy to see me, trotting half-run half-walk towards me. For those who’ve never experienced it, that kind of greeting is an unexpected joy.

I opened the cat food can and set it down. The cat devoured it hungrily, and I stood with my hands on my hips, watching her eat.

“Great. Now I’m hungry too,” I muttered, checking the time again—it was just 3:30.

“Well, it’s almost evening. Staying here one more day wouldn’t hurt, I hope.”

I walked back to my scooter and started riding into town again, the fading daylight drawing long shadows on the empty streets.

I drove my scooter toward the local store I'd frequented before the incident. I remembered seeing solar chargers in the window, maybe a power bank too. It was nearly half the town away, but thankfully, the town was small enough to make the trip manageable.

When I arrived, the metal shutter was down, pulled tight to the bottom. But the lock? It wasn’t locked. The owner either left in a hurry or just said 'fuck it' as they left.

I pulled the shutter up and stepped inside. It was dark, so I flicked on my phone’s flashlight and called out, 'Anybody?'

No answer. Well, common courtesy being what it is, I shrugged and began what felt suspiciously like looting. Am I a looter? I tried convincing myself this was just shopping — it’s not like the owner would be coming back anytime soon.

I grabbed a basket and started gathering everything I thought I might need. It felt a bit like a disaster movie scene — the protagonist rushing through a dark grocery store when shit hits the fan, fighting off hordes of zombies and crazed survivors. Me? It was just a little dark.

Outside, with my basket full, I took a photo of what I’d gathered: a few power banks, two solar chargers, two rechargeable flashlights, bread and water, a few packs of cigarettes.

I rode back to my place, and the road felt different now in the darkness with no street lamps. The town seemed liminal — strange and unsettling.

Parking my motorcycle, I climbed the stairs and turned on my flashlight. Then back downstairs to the convenience store for a bottle of whiskey and some water before retreating to my room. (Go ahead, judge me — I talk to myself in my head.)

Opening my door, Snow lifted her head from the bed. She was already there. I smiled. 'Hey there,' I said. She slow blinked at me.

I dropped my loot on the floor, plugged in my phone; it charged fine. The laptop was another story. It needed a wall outlet to charge — probably something I’d have to figure out later. I worried a bit that I couldn’t just google solutions, plus I hadn’t finished the latest season of Futurama. Thankfully, I had a few videos saved on my phone.

Night came with the soft glow of the rechargeable lamp I’d grabbed. Bread, water, whiskey, an old movie playing on my phone. A cat sat on the windowsill, staring out.

I paused the movie, refilled my glass, looked around, and said, 'This is not bad.'

The cat turned her head. I smiled. 'What? You wanna dance?'

Then I realized — I hadn’t talked to anyone today. Almost a week now, including my blackout-drunk period.

I poured some water into my glass, decided to explore the town more tomorrow, and maybe not get completely drunk.

Snow’s cold tongue on my eyelid forced me awake; what a way to start the day. Squinting against the light, I checked my phone—it was nearly noon already. Snow must be hungry, so I peeled off the covers and opened another can of cat food for her. I drank a long gulp of water, then poured the rest into her dish.

Stretching near the window, I noted with a faint smile that I hadn't needed to close the blinds last night—not that there was anyone left around to peek in. "Well, where should I go today?" I muttered to myself with a small chuckle, knowing full well I usually stayed put in my room.

I glanced at my phone again, fully charged but still no signal. Hmm. I gathered all my solar chargers, climbed to the roof—only three stories up—opened the hatch, and laid them out under the sun, promising myself I’d collect them tonight. I checked for signal up there, but nothing yet. Not surprising, given the town nestled in these mountains.

Suddenly hunger nudged me firmly. With every restaurant around here closed within a 20-kilometer radius, and no place nearby to get something spicy, my options were limited.

I rode over to a store I’d been to a couple of times before, hoping to pick up an LPG stove. But the door was locked tight—I wasn’t about to break in again. So I headed to another shop nearby—and found the door wide open.

I parked and called out, "Anybody!?" followed by the sarcastic "common courtesy!" Luckily, nobody answered. Inside, I spotted a camping stove with gas cans. "This will do," I thought, grabbing some water, instant ramen, a backpack, a knife (just in case), a lighter, plastic dishes, paper towels... quite a haul. Thanks to the store owner, whoever they were. Sorry for the shameless shopping spree.

And yes, I also picked up a considerable amount of cat food.

Back at my apartment, I found Appy, the apartment cat I’d started calling him—a lazy name because he lives around the apartment—waiting at the front door. I cracked open a can for him, then lugged all my loot up in two trips. Snow looked on, neither judging nor excited—more like silently questioning, "What the hell are you doing?"

I made my way back to the rooftop to collect my solar chargers, now fully soaked in sunlight. Once again, I checked my phone for signal across all edges of the roof—still nothing. "I might have to climb a telephone pole one of these days," I mused.

Returning to my room, I slurped ramen while Snow ate hers. I scrolled through my photo gallery, thinking how I should have downloaded entire movie catalogs back when I had the chance.

Reclining on my bed, I filmed Snow playing with a roll of toilet paper. Not for social media—just my diary on my phone. It felt like something to hold onto.

There was one downside now that Snow was here: I had to smoke in the hallway. It was quite dark, usually just me and my phone. My imagination ran wild in the shadows, envisioning monsters lurking anywhere, especially down the stairs to the exit. I locked the front door tight every time, comforted by the click.

Shadows of Tomorrow

I woke up early the next morning, surprised when I realized I hadn’t drunk much whiskey the night before. No pounding headache greeted me—no hangover, just a clear, bright start. Snow was still curled up, sleeping peacefully. I reached over and scratched her ears softly before going to change my clothes. I paused though; for a moment, I hesitated. There was no one else around anymore, no one to impress or hide from. So I settled on just my tank top and pajama pants, letting the chill prick my skin.

I grabbed a few unexpired food items, took them outside, and sat on the curb to eat. As I chewed, my eyes lifted to the sky, spotting a distant black dot—probably a faraway helicopter. I almost jumped when something soft brushed my ankle—Appy. I shared some of my food with him and looked around, glad there were no other dogs nearby. Abby was safe here.

Standing up, I mused aloud, "Where should I go today?"

A voice in my head teased, "Aren’t you the one who never wanted to leave your room?"

I smiled and replied, "People change. Well, maybe not me, but that’s okay."

I bent down to scratch Appy behind the ears, absentmindedly asking, "Aren’t we supposed to be leaving town?" No answer came, just the gentle scratching keeping rhythm.

"Let’s get the laptop booted," I said to myself, the small spark of routine comforting.

Climbing onto my scooter, dressed lighter than usual, I braced against the chill. Glancing at the gas gauge, I saw the tank was nearly empty. Better make my way to the small, family-owned gas station on the edge of town.

I rolled up to the modest gas kiosk. The door was closed. "Anybody?" I called out hesitantly, then added, "Common courtesy," out of habit. The place seemed deserted, the gas pumps lifeless without power.

My gaze drifted to a pipe emerging from the kiosk’s side. "Where does that come from?" I murmured, moving cautiously toward the back of the building.

There it was—a large gas tank lying horizontally, rusted but intact. I examined the nozzle, unfamiliar in shape. "How do I open this?" I tried turning the valve, but it held fast.

I straightened up, eyes scanning the building for clues. The back door was padlocked with a rusty lock.

I looked around, spotting a long pipe nearby. I grabbed it, eyes gleaming with a sudden, cinematic determination. Imagining myself as the hero of a dystopian movie, I swung the pipe against the lock.

Five minutes later, sweat soaking my tank top and pajama pants, the lock stubbornly resisted. I slumped onto the ground, frustrated. "It should be easy," I muttered, standing again with renewed fury, now aiming the pipe at the hinge side.

Several minutes passed before the lock finally gave way, snapping free. I tossed the pipe aside and pushed open the door.

Inside was dim, but my eyes adjusted quickly. The shelves held snacks—mostly untouched. Behind the counter, I found a small, oddly-shaped metal piece. Holding it up, eyebrows raised, I whispered, "Could this be it?"

Steadying my breath, I returned outside to the gas tank. The metal piece fit perfectly onto the valve. Pulling hard, I opened it, releasing a rush of gas. I closed it again, retrieved a gallon container, and filled it, tucking it safely onboard my scooter.

Problem solved.

Riding away from the station, I placed a cigarette between my lips, exhaling slowly. For a moment, despite the desolation, I felt free.

I stopped in the middle of town at the fountain roundabout, unwrapping some bread and opening a juice from the gas station. Having lunch here wasn’t something I usually did—I wasn’t the kind to care much about animals, nor did I go looking for stray cats. But today, it was good not to see any. Otherwise, Snow might have a new friend.

Finishing the last bite, I laid back on the edge of the fountain basin. The sun was shining bright, warming my skin despite the lingering cold. A sudden thought swept through my mind: “I could just get naked and sunbathe here.” I chuckled softly to myself. “Great, and on top of the cancers from radiation, skin cancer now. Wonderful.” Riding my scooter every day had already tanned me enough to not be the pale girl I once was.

"It would be nice to have some beer in this weather," I mused aloud.

"Why not?" another voice inside replied. I shrugged and decided to make a little trip to the other side of town. That old store I used to visit a few times—maybe they had some supplies and perhaps some beer.

The roads were surprisingly clean, scattered with piles of leaves here and there. The air felt cooler, or maybe I just imagined it without a single soul around. The trees lining the roads created an almost ethereal canopy over the empty town. Every window and door whispered stories of the people who had once lived here.

Reaching the store, I stopped my scooter a little way off. From my vantage point, I saw the front glass door was already broken. “Anyone?” I muttered, switching off the engine and scanning the surroundings.

I edged closer and shouted, “Anybody here?” clutching my scooter key tightly, ready to bolt if anyone appeared.

Silence.

After several minutes, I tiptoed nearer to peek through the windows. Not a single movement or sound.

"Probably looters who hit this place before the evacuation," I reasoned, then pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Still nothing.

I took a deep breath, lit a cigarette, and started scanning the aisles for what I needed—supplies and, of course, beer. I grabbed a bag and filled it with essentials.

Heading back to my scooter—then I froze.

Someone was already there. Not human. A brown, chubby cat.

I approached slowly, careful not to scare it. The cat sniffed around my scooter’s wheel, completely unfazed by my presence. Honestly, I had never wanted to pet a cat as much as I wanted to pet this one—another abandoned soul in a deserted town. And chubby, too.

I stopped a few feet away, trying not to threaten it. “Heyyy, how are you? You alone?” I whispered, crouching down.

Still occupied with the wheel, the cat paid me no mind. I rummaged into my bag and pulled out a can of tuna beneath the beer cans. Opening it, the noise caught the cat’s attention, and it stepped two hesitant paces toward me.

“You must be hungry,” I murmured, pouring tuna onto the floor. “Even with that belly, you must be hungry.”

I shifted away from the pile, giving the cat room. Inhaling the enticing aroma, it trotted over and began eating.

A small smile tugged at my lips. “What would you do if I weren’t here today?” I asked softly, noticing the swirl pattern on his side. Definitely a male.

After a while, I reached out my hand slowly. The cat glanced at it but kept munching. Gently, I stroked his head; he seemed to enjoy it, not pausing his meal.

I waited beside him until he finished, licking his paws but reluctant to leave. With both hands, I lifted him up. “This one is heavy,” I thought, not wanting to bully such an innocent soul.

I examined him—no scratches, no wounds. Good.

He stayed still in my arms. “Next time I ride, I might need a pet bag,” I mused.

Cradling the cat, I walked back toward my scooter. I wished I’d brought my jacket to wrap him in, but surprisingly, he stayed calm. “I wish I could bring you home easily,” I whispered.

Starting the engine, he looked back over my shoulder but didn’t move as I drove off.

“You must be the most behaved cat in the world,” I told him on the ride home. It seemed like this wasn’t his first moto ride.

Arriving at my place without incident, I walked inside with the cat in my arms. Abby, my other cat, appeared at the front door, meowing.

"One moment, Abby. I’ll be right back," I said, stepping upstairs and opening my room door.

I set the newcomer down; he sniffed the air cautiously. Snow perched quietly on the nightstand beside my bed.

"Snow, our new roommate," I introduced softly.

Opening another can of cat food, I poured some down. Grabbing another can, I headed downstairs for Abby and to collect the groceries still on my scooter.

I gave Abby her food and opened a can of beer for myself. Sitting on the curb next to her, I took a slow sip, set the can down, and lit a cigarette.

Across the empty street, I was about to think, “This is nice,” when I stopped myself and corrected it to “So serene.”

Automatically, I pulled out my phone and snapped a photo of Abby eating. Then, a notification startled me.

“You’ve got a new message—Facebook Messenger.”

"WHATT!!" I exclaimed, hand shaking as I tapped the notification to launch the app.

But it said, “No network.”

Standing up, I muttered, “No network here, but the message came in.”

My heart pounded as realization dawned: somewhere along my ride today, in the town, there must still be a signal.

I glanced up at the window of my room. The sky was still bright at 4 PM. I resolved to ride back into town and search for the spot with coverage.

I grabbed my scooter, leaving the grocery bags on the curb (with another can of beer stashed under the seat), and took off, cautious to avoid any stupid accidents.

Injuring myself alone in this abandoned town would not be fun, I reminded myself.

One eye watched the road, the other flicked to the phone, searching for that elusive signal bar.

I traced my way back to downtown, the glare of a dying sun casting long shadows over empty streets. At the small gas station, I checked my phone—no signal. My heart sank a little but I pressed on.

Reaching the fountain roundabout, I stopped again. Still no signal. The silence around me felt deafening, weighed down by dust and memories. Deciding not to waste the fading light, I continued toward the grocery store—the one where I’d found that chubby cat. I slowed my pace, eyes scanning the quiet houses, their walls whispering stories of those who had fled.

As I passed an empty house with a “For Sale” sign—right next to Harper’s Hardware, a local store I’d ridden past a million times—a flicker sparked on my phone’s signal bar. One single bar. My heart pounded in my chest.

“There it is,” I thought, disbelief softening into cautious hope. I stopped the scooter, pulled out my phone, and unlocked it in a jittery breath. It was almost dark now, shadows merging with the coming night. I looked around nervously; the streets remained empty and eerily still.

Opening the messenger app, I saw a few unread messages dating back over the entire week I’d been in town. Better than nothing. Not surprising, really—I’d spent years carefully sabotaging every friendship I’d had.

The first message was from Camille, my colleague. It was from the day of evacuation. She’d gotten out of town and asked if I was okay. I typed back, "Yup."

Then came a longer, formal message from my former boss, explaining the business couldn’t continue and that my salary would be calculated up to the incident date. The usual corporate blah, blah, blah.

Next, a message from Susan, the landlady, checking on me and assuring me not to worry about rent for the month—her insurance had covered it.

Several days later, another message from Susan: "Elle?? You’re still at the apartment? We saw you on the camera online. Please leave soon. It’s a very dangerous area now. The military has a strict policy not allowing anyone in."

And then, a message that warmed and embarrassed me in equal measure—Uncle Ben here: "Are you holding up okay, hunny? You don’t look so well in the camera feed, but to be honest, I’m glad to see you."

I flushed, picturing myself caught on camera, breaking into the shop and stealing whiskey. I typed out a reply: "Elle here. Sorry about the mess. I’m still at the apartment, sorry for the mess. I was finding something to eat." Yeah, Elera, whiskey is your necessity, I thought bitterly.

I added, "I’ll take care of the apartment. I have to go now; the phone signal is fading."

I looked around again. Darkness was settling too fast. I started the scooter and turned around, intending to come back tomorrow for internet access. Then another notification popped up—from Uncle Ben again: "Take care of yourself. Are you leaving town?"

I paused. Then sent a reply: "No, I’m staying here."

And I rode back to my place, the night swallowing the empty town around me.

I entered my room to find the chubby one and Snow both sprawled on my bed, seemingly getting along okay. I lit the rechargeable lamp and turned off my flashlight, then sat down on my bed between the two cats. My eyes traced the swirly pattern on the chubby one’s fur. "I'll call you Stormy," I murmured, gently stroking his back. Stormy looked up at me and gave a slow blink.

Turning my gaze upward, I stared at the ceiling bathed in the soft glow of the lamp. My mind wandered back to the messages from Uncle Ben and Aunt Susan. It was reassuring that insurance would cover the apartment—probably some government incentive given the forced evacuation. I still felt embarrassed thinking about what they might have seen on the camera feed, but at least that could stop now since the electricity was out. Covering my face with my palms, I pictured a clip of myself throwing a brick to break into the local store for whiskey. It had to be my most embarrassing drunken escapade.

I stood up and looked at the grocery bags I’d gathered today. Opening a snack for myself, I tried not to picture myself, half-conscious, wandering with a bottle of whiskey in hand on the camera feed.

Playing the only album on my phone speaker – Saving Jane – I opened a can of beer and took a long sip, settling back on my bed with the cats close by. Tonight, at least, the quiet felt a little less oppressive.

Communication Lost and Found

I got up early with a dull head; beer hits differently than whiskey when it comes to hangovers, I decided today I'd head to the spot with the best signal to check the news about the incident one more time. I also bought a solar charger, just in case.

After feeding all the cats, I mounted my scooter and drove straight to the location: an empty house for sale next to Harper’s Hardware parking area. It was surrounded by open fields where no buildings had yet crept in—probably why nothing was blocking the signal, apart from the mountains in the distance.

I looked around; it was still quiet—no animals, no people, only the gentle chirps of the forest. Pulling out my phone from my jacket, I checked the news.

Breaking news flashed across the screen:

"Nuclear Plant Malfunction Sparks Emergency Response" "Radiation Levels Rising Near Valley Town – Evacuation Possible" "Residents Advised to Stay Indoors as Authorities Assess Situation"

Scrolling further, more updates appeared:

"Valley Ridge Nuclear Plant Incident: Containment Efforts Continue" "Evacuation Zone Expands as Officials Monitor Radiation Spread" "Displaced Residents Grapple with Uncertainty and Loss"

Anchors reported: "Containment teams have been working around the clock to secure the damaged reactor at Valley Ridge. Radiation levels remain above normal within the exclusion zone, and authorities have extended evacuation orders to nearby areas as a precaution."

I wondered, "Is there anything I don't know?" and kept reading.

The valley was officially declared a hazardous zone: strict evacuation and containment enforced. Military control was in place, with checkpoints barring entry to prevent radiation exposure.

Officials warned that contamination would require a prolonged containment period—estimates ranged from 20 to 50 years for decontamination efforts, depending on environmental factors and technology.

... 20 to 50 years? My mind raced as the flood of postponed, incomplete information hit me.

Then, a more somber update:

"No Survivors Among Nuclear Plant Staff; Ongoing Health Monitoring in Town"

Officials confirmed that all personnel on-site had perished despite exhaustive rescue efforts.

Even though I already knew, it still hit hard. I lowered my phone and looked at the nearby treeline. Trees always calmed me.

I lit a cigarette and took a long, slow drag, not knowing how I felt—if I felt anything at all. It was as though the air in my lungs had turned solid.

"Or it could be early onset symptoms of your lung cancer," another voice in my head murmured.

"Shut up," I snapped and turned toward the house with the "For Sale" sign, needing to distract myself from myself.

Without fully realizing it, my feet drifted away from my scooter, carrying me toward the pale blue house with the faded 'For Sale' sign planted stubbornly in the overgrown yard. The news I'd just seen on my phone replayed relentlessly in my mind—apocalyptic headlines about the nuclear plant incident, radiation leaks, looming evacuations. Yet here I was, ceasing to fight the swirl of anxiety and instead, lured by the house’s quiet neglect.

I stood at the front, brushing a stray twig from my jacket, eyes tracing the cracked paint and the weathered siding. No cars, no voices—just the stillness of something abandoned yet waiting. I didn’t think about what should come next; instinct had taken hold.

The house wore that empty, lifeless look of abandonment, The front door was locked, the windows dusty and dull. But I wasn’t the kind to ask nicely. Channeling every wild movie trope I’d ever loved, I found a loose windowpane and smashed it cleanly, glass shards falling like tiny stars onto the floor inside. I reached through, unlocked the front door from the inside, careful not to cut myself, and stepped in.

The house was barren—nothing but a gray sofa sat solemnly in the dim living room, shadows clinging to its edges. I wandered through the rooms: an unmade bed with a mattress, a kitchen with only a sink and a few empty surfaces, and a bathroom with a bathtub that looked unused, unnervingly pristine amid the decay.

At the back door, I pushed it open to find a tree line stretching beyond—surely that was the small stream I remembered from before, its gentle murmur a quiet promise of life outside this desolation.

Leaning against the freshly painted door frame, I traced my fingers along the wood, feeling the bumps and dips beneath. There were faded height marks, drawn up from a child’s years, immortalized by loving parents as they tracked growth and time. A small smile tugged at my lips.

I slipped onto the back balcony’s cold floorboards and lit another cigarette. Smoke twisted up and hung in the air like a fragile thread.

"What if I moved here?" I wondered aloud, the phrase lingering, more a question to the universe than a declaration.

The smoke curled, scented with memories and possibilities. "This place isn’t bad at all. Plenty of rooms for the cats."

I coughed, a dry rasp breaking the silence. "I still might outlive the cats... but they’ll take care of the place until the end."

My eyes drifted past the ceiling, settling on an intricate web, delicate yet stubborn, in the corner of the balcony roof.

"If I moved in, you’re welcome here too," I said softly, nodding toward the spider.

Taking another slow drag, I exhaled, letting the smoke mingle with the breeze, and closed my eyes. For a moment, time folded in on itself; the past and future faded, leaving only this quiet new chapter unfolding in the silence of an empty house.

I sat on the balcony for a while, the silence folding around me. There was no rush—no project manager nagging about deadlines, no boss pressing me to put on a polite face, no coworkers forcing uncomfortable smiles. I let out a big sigh and muttered, "Isn't this the dream?"

But I didn’t even smile. Instead, an empty hollow settled inside. My fingers traced over the balcony floor—a sturdy wood, though I couldn't recall the technical term. To me, it just felt solid, dependable.

Rising, I made my way around the house to my scooter, deciding to take a quick look at the hardware store just next door.

Even though it was only a short walk, I opted to use the scooter—just in case something happened and I needed a quick escape. Like a bear attack or something, even though I knew there were no bears in this valley.

I parked right at the front door; the shutter was only halfway closed. I called out, "Anybody...?" Then muttered to myself, "Common courtesy."

Inside, sunlight streamed in through solar panels, casting a warm glow over the shelves. Everything was still there; if I were a home builder, I’d be excited at the sight.

I wandered the aisles, overwhelmed by how many things I didn’t recognize. There was a water pump—which was useless without electricity—a lawn mower (should I ever feel the urge to mow), an entire aisle of lamps that now seemed like relics of society.

Continuing on, I spotted a corner stocked with beverages. I opened the fridge—which no longer worked—and popped open a soda can. Leaning against the cold frame, my eyes caught the display of solar panel sets nearby.

"Huh, this is interesting," I murmured, stepping closer to inspect.

One read "100,000 watts—enough for a small house—never pay for electricity again." My eyes widened as I flipped through a brochure advertising "free installation."

"Impossible now, huh?" I questioned aloud. "Or maybe I can YouTube it? I have the internet now."

I continued walking, grabbing a rechargeable lamp that gave off a soft white light. It was easier on the eyes than the camping lamp I’d been using.

Lighting another cigarette, I took in the store. Honestly, there were a lot of useful items—even some tools that looked heavy and hard to move with just a scooter.

Stepping back outside, I stubbed out my cigarette on the ground. "Sorry for the bad habit, but... sue me?"

I slid onto the scooter and headed back to my apartment. Thoughts of moving swirled in my mind. I didn’t have many belongings, but I’d definitely need some kind of cages to safely transport the cats.

I parked my scooter in front of my apartment, then walked down to Uncle Ben's to grab a bottle of cheap whiskey and some water. The small store was quiet, with the familiar smell of fried snacks lingering in the air. I took my purchases and headed back to my room. As I opened the door, both Snow and Stormy looked up at me, their eyes bright and expectant. They paced toward me with soft, eager steps.

"You two get along well, huh?" I said, reaching down to give them both a good scratch behind the ears. They purred contentedly as I joined them on the floor.

I opened a can of cat food and offered it to them. Snow immediately began eating, licking her lips with satisfaction, while Stormy settled beside me. I gently stroked his fur, careful not to disturb him.

"How about we move to a new place, huh?" I asked them, watching as they ate. "It’s a bit bigger, with a few rooms for you to run around."

I opened the bottle of whiskey and took a small sip myself. "But no outside," I added with a sigh. "You guys will be indoor cats from now on."

Out of habit, I pulled my phone from my pocket and fiddled with it, remembering there was still no internet connection here. "No internet yet, Elera," I reminded myself softly, then opened a saved movie to watch again.

"If we move there, I’ll get the electricity working," I promised the cats. Snow licked her lips again, while Stormy sat quietly beside me. I petted him gently, as if to reassure him.

"We might even have a cooker," I smiled, feeling a little daunted by the thought. I’d never cooked anything in my life before.

Frowning thoughtfully, I added, "And I might have to learn fishing," recalling the fishing gear section in the hardware store I barely paid attention to.

I took another sip of whiskey and laid back on the floor, feeling its familiar burn ripple through my body. If I was going to be here for the rest of my life, well, it didn’t have to be too bad.

Crossing Thresholds

The next late morning, after feeding the cats and grabbing some cereal, I sat down to plan the move. The new place needed preparation first; only when it was ready would I move the cats, possibly Abby as well. I didn't want to drive across town every day just to feed him.

Once the plan was settled, I hopped on my scooter and headed out toward Harper’s Hardware. Inside, I dragged their largest cart through the aisles like I was gearing up for a doomsday marathon. I filled it with everything I thought I might need—even items with the slightest chance of use: an LPG tank and stove, plenty of toilet paper, lamps, water pumps, and the best solar power system they had.

Dragging the cart back to the house was a workout in itself. I made three trips in total, starting with absolute necessities and ending with increasingly nonsensical items, like a decorative Christmas tree and a snow globe.

"What? It reminds me of Snow," I murmured to myself, smiling briefly.

By afternoon, I thought I had everything lined up. I collapsed outside the house—my house now—lit a cigarette, cracked open a can of beer, and pulled out my phone. A few messages awaited me, mostly from Uncle Ben and Aunt Susan.

"Dear Elle, Susan here. We’re worried about you. What do you mean you’re not leaving?" I read, the concern sharp in her words. Another message warned, "They say the radiation is bad; that’s why they don’t let anyone in. You HAVE TO leave soon. Let us know if you need anything."

Having lived with them for a few years, I considered us close. They weren’t just worried neighbors—they were family. More messages flooded in, all echoing the same plea to get out safely.

The last was Uncle Ben: "Listen here, kid, nobody can tell you what to do, but you’re grown up and you know the consequences. Just tell us if you want anything. God bless you."

His words gave me courage, a quiet strength to face whatever came next.

I finished my cigarette, taking in the surrounding treeline and the birdsong mingling with the insects’ chirping.

"The cats must enjoy the bird watching," I thought, glancing at the pile of stuff I'd gathered.

"Shoop," I whispered, referring to the hardware store haul, and mused, "Some more food, and we’re ready to move here."

With that, I rode back to my apartment for the night.

One thing I took back to my apartment with me was a camping bag. It was too big for any good reason, but it would definitely help moving food from Uncle Ben's to my new place. Possibly it would also come in handy for moving the cats—the distance wasn’t too far, and they should be okay in the camping bag.

Before retreating to my room upstairs, I grabbed some bottles of water. At the entrance, I stopped to feed Abby. "You’ll come with me too, alright?" I said softly, petting him before heading back upstairs.

Snow and Stormy were immediately intrigued by the camping bag I placed beside the door. "Good, get used to it. You'll be traveling in there soon," I said, settling onto the bed as the sun started to set.

That night, the muscles ached from all the shopping. I glanced at my phone and glad that I downloaded a few episodes of Futurama earlier. Grinning, I pressed play. Surrounded by snacks, whiskey, cigarettes, and my cats nearby, it felt like exactly what I needed.

Stormy climbed onto me and lay across my body. To my surprise, I found myself petting him gently. He slow-blinked at me and tucked his paws beneath his head like a pillow. I couldn’t resist snapping a photo of the moment.

Nothing much happened that night—just me, drinking myself to sleep with Futurama playing quietly in the background, two cats running around the room. The closest other human was over 30 kilometers away. What more could I ask for?

The next morning I started late; by almost mid-day I was on my scooter, the camping bag stuffed full with everything from Uncle Ben’s store. I figured they wouldn’t mind—it was just a bit guilty, considering that nearly half of it was whiskey. "Hey, essentials are essentials," I told myself.

I made a few trips around town to gather more canned food, both for the cats and for me. The new stash grew steadily, enough to keep us going a while.

Riding near the new house, I circled the area to check it out. Not far from the place, I spotted a family of cats perched on the front porch of a house. They refused to let me approach, so instead, I opened a few cans of cat food on the porch. I called them "The Rainbow Family" because they had nearly every color a cat could have.

Once back at the house, I unpacked all the stuff, including the items I’d picked up from the hardware store the day before. Lighting a cigarette, I wandered toward the treeline in the backyard, intending to check for the small stream I believed was nearby.

Soon, I could hear the sound of water flowing.

But it was bigger than I had expected. I’d imagined a narrow stream where I might dip a water pump and supply the house, but this was larger—not quite a river, yet substantial enough that I could even fish there. Although, whether it held any fish, I still didn’t know.

Walking back to the house and then to my scooter, I paused for a smoke and pulled out my phone. Scrolling through social feeds, I realized I didn’t miss them as much as I thought I would. There were no new updates on the town or the nuclear power plant—just random internet stuff.

The sun was lowering toward the horizon, putting on quite a show. The sky changed hues; the treeline, the clouds hovering just above the hardware store sign—it was stunning. I snapped a photo.

"I’ll just share it," I said, opening up the Facebook app. My last post dated back over a year—a simple query about where to get a laptop in the city. I ignored it and created a new post, choosing the sunset photo with the caption: "The sun is setting, even here, in a god-cursed town."

I uploaded it and thought, "Hmm, it might be my last upload on this app." Then, switching the post’s visibility to "public," I shrugged; I don’t really care anymore.

Pocketing my phone, I lit another cigarette and rode back to the apartment—perhaps for the last time. Tomorrow, I’d be moving the cats.

Carrying Home

The next morning, I woke up a bit earlier than usual—around 9 a.m. Not bad for me. I guess I was just too tired and ended up falling asleep before I got too drunk. After feeding the cats and grabbing a quick bite myself, I decided to take another walk around Uncle Ben's to see if there was anything else I’d need. I might not be coming back here for a while.

Without much thought, I kind of ended up taking all the cigarettes they had, which filled about half my camping bag. The rest of the bag’s space would be used to bring one cat at a time.

I carried the backpack to my room, saying softly, "You first, Stormy." I picked him up, gently placed him inside the backpack, and zipped it tightly, leaving just enough holes for air—I didn’t want any accidents on the way.

The first trip went smoothly. Stormy and I arrived at the new place. I brought the backpack inside, checked the doors and windows to make sure everything was locked, then unzipped the backpack and let Stormy out.

"Welcome to our new home," I whispered, placing him on the floor. He sniffed around curiously as if deciding how different this place was. I opened a can of cat food for him. Then I emptied the backpack, pouring out all the cigarettes onto the floor. They made such a beautiful mess spread out like that—I’d never really seen a big pile of my own cigarette packets before. Have you? Yeah, suck it.

Leaving the cigarettes on the floor, I headed back out for the second trip—this time for Snow.

Snow was a bit more troublesome. She meowed the entire way to the backpack and again on the way here. When I arrived at the new place, I spotted Stormy by the door, seemingly waiting and asking where I’d been. I could tell he must have thought he was abandoned again.

I used my leg to block him from coming out and carefully poked my way inside with the backpack containing Snow. Once I unzipped it and set Snow free, the relief in the cats’ eyes was palpable—they seemed comforted to see familiar faces.

"One more to go," I told myself and set off back to the apartment for Abby.

When I got there, I couldn’t find Abby at first. Maybe it was because it was afternoon—the time I rarely saw him. But with some patience and meowing nonstop, Abby finally revealed himself from a corner of a building.

I called him, and he wandered over with a questioning look—as if to ask, "What’s with all this noise, human?" I played with him for a minute, telling him it was time to say goodbye to this place. We were moving.

Putting him in the backpack was no problem; the real challenge came when he tried to escape. But I’d tied the knot tight, and eventually we arrived safely at the new place.

I decided to let him out in the bedroom first—putting him face-to-face with the other two cats immediately upon release might startle him. He meowed softly, sniffing the room and all around.

I let him explore, opened a can of his usual cat food, but Abby seemed more interested in investigating than eating. So, I closed the door to the bedroom and let him get used to it.

Stepping back out, I greeted the other two cats, who seemed much more relaxed in our new home. I smiled, feeling a quiet satisfaction that, at least for now, everyone was here—and safe.

I sat down on the sofa, feeling the weight of a day well spent settling into this new space. Snow and Stormy, curious as ever, explored every corner of the house—the bedroom door stood open, but Abby was still hiding inside. The last time I saw him, he was curled up sleeping on the pillow.

For the first time in a long while, I just sat back and relaxed. Through the window beside the front door, I watched the trees sway gently, not even turning on the music. This simple rustling of leaves was all I wanted to hear.

Late afternoon stretched around me now. I thought I had everything—and everyone—I cared about safely under one roof. "Priceless," I thought, feeling a rare flash of contentment.

The pile of cigarettes I’d scattered earlier was gone. I moved them back into the camping backpack and placed it neatly in the corner of the living room. In the center of the room lay a giant pile of stuff from the hardware store, none of which was yet installed.

I stood and grabbed some lamps from the pile, turning each on and placing them in the room’s corners. Their soft, cozy light was a comforting contrast to the old camping lamp, which gave off a more adventurous vibe.

With the house lit softly, I grabbed a flashlight and walked around, checking every room. Just to be sure. I’d never been here at night before. What if there were a lion or something lurking out back? (Of course, there were no lions.) But everything looked okay. Evening birds sang louder here than at the apartment, probably because of the thicker tree cover.

I looked out at the house in the quiet dusk—a one-story structure bathed in warm light, the only house glowing in the whole town.

Back inside, I decided to open a beer instead of whiskey. "Just in case something happens tonight," I reasoned.

"What if something actually does? What will you do, throw up on them?" a sarcastic voice in my head jibed.

I only smiled and emptied the can.

It was late when I realized I had almost forgotten to bring the rechargeable batteries. But it was dark now, so I told myself I’d recharge all of them and figure out a way to install the solar setup tomorrow. I collapsed onto the bed, Abby curling up next to me.

But then, something jolted me awake. Wide-eyed in this unfamiliar place, I realized what it was—it was my bladder, absolutely full to bursting. But I couldn’t use the bathroom here yet; there was no running water, and I didn’t want the new house to smell like a beer-pee from day one.

Stormy stirred, yawning and blinking as he looked at me pacing around, searching for a flashlight. None could be found—not easy when you’re still a bit drunk and disoriented. Instead, I grabbed one of the rechargeable lamps and opened the back door.

"I’ll pee in the woods like our ancestors," I muttered to myself.

As I stepped into the night, my drunken eyes filled the trees at the edge of the forest with strange and eerie shapes born entirely from my imagination.

"Or…" I gulped nervously, "I could just pee next to the house."

And god forbid, I peed so hard it must have carved a hole halfway to the earth’s core with my radioactive, drunken stream.

Suddenly, I hurried back inside, heart pounding as if something invisible was chasing me. I panted, "Our ancestors wouldn’t be proud."

I collapsed back onto the bed and drifted into sleep, letting daylight wash over this most horrifying night.

For some reason, I woke up very early—much earlier than usual—even though the cats were still curled up, fast asleep. I lay there for a moment, stretched my arms above my head, and then swung my legs over the side of the bed. The chill in the air hugged me instantly; it was still morning, and I was still in my usual tank top.

I grabbed a glass, poured some cold water, and took a few focused sips before wandering around the house. Everything seemed perfectly still, peaceful even, like a perfect morning in this new place.

Stepping outside for a morning smoke, I lit a cigarette and started pacing the perimeter of the house. The sun was just beginning to rise, painting the sky in shifting hues I hadn't seen here before—the scene unfamiliar but strangely comforting. Birds chirped all around, a lively natural symphony that felt like a sign of life. "Good to live in the middle of nature," I muttered to myself, though my other voice mocked, "Apart from having to pee outside at night."

Just then, as I rounded to the back of the house, I spotted my 'pee hole of shame'—the small patch of trampled earth that had become my nighttime bathroom. I hugged my arms to my chest, shivering in the morning cold. I stretched again, slower this time, and tilted my head up to watch the sky change color.

A small dot caught my eye far above, barely visible. "They still monitor the area with a helicopter?" I wondered aloud. It didn’t move like an airplane, nor did it come closer—just hovered almost too still. I shrugged it off and headed back inside.

Breakfast was simple: some milk and fried dough. Setting up the camping stove with LPG took only a few minutes, though I had to steel my nerve when lighting it with a lighter. "I should have bought one with an easier ignition," I thought. But the new non-stick pan did the job perfectly—nothing burnt. The dough went surprisingly well with the milk, almost like cookies for breakfast.

I checked my phone but saw the battery dead—I’d forgotten to recharge it last night. I rummaged through my pile of solar chargers and plugged it in.

Snow brushed against my hand as the phone booted up. Even for an antisocial person like me, seeing that the phone connected to the network brought a small smile to my face.

"Look at that," I said, sitting outside with breakfast at just 7:58 in the wasteland. Smirking, I scrolled lazily when the notifications started flooding in.

Facebook: "Your post got 250+ comments, tap to reply."

"The fuck?" I muttered, tapping the notification.

Though I had only about 200 connections on Facebook, most were town folk. The photo I'd posted of the sunset behind the 'Harper’s Hardware' sign had produced some strange effects.

There were over 2,000 likes. "I shouldn't have set it to public," I murmured, scrolling through comments.

There was a full spectrum of reactions—some thought it was an old photo, some believed I was long dead inside town. Further down, I spotted a comment from Uncle Ben, pleading with others to leave me alone, saying everyone has their own problems and to please let the little girl—me—be.

The sheer volume caught me off guard. Half thought I was some Mad Max-type wanderer, raving in a deserted wasteland. The other half accused me of posting an old photo for attention. Well, fuck you too.

I wasn’t angry—just a bit annoyed. I stepped outside to the front of Harper’s Hardware and took another photo, this time with me in the foreground, the store behind. I threw my hands in the air, flipping the proverbial bird, making sure everyone saw it clearly.

I posted with the caption, "Guess who's still in town, b*tches."

Closing the app, the notifications kept pouring in. I set the phone to silent and lazily scrolled through Reddit as usual, sitting on the steps in front of the house. Lighting another cigarette, I mulled over today's plan in my head.

"First," I thought, "I have to set up the water supply."

The thought of night peeing outside still haunted me—"Even just pumping water to a bucket in the bathroom is better than nothing."

"But to do that, I’ll need electricity, so..." I sighed, closing Reddit and opening YouTube to search for solar panel installation guides.

The more I scrolled and watched, the more I realized this was a job for an actual electrician. "Fuck," I muttered, overwhelmed by the dozens of tangled electrical lines and complex diagrams.

I put the phone down, looking out toward the treeline. The sun was beginning to shine through the edges of the forest.

"While I’m figuring out the solar thing," I said aloud, "using a diesel generator doesn’t seem so bad."

I started walking toward the hardware store to pick up the diesel generator I'd refused earlier because I’d thought, "It’s not sustainable."

Within less than half an hour, I was back at my new house, lugging a gallon of gas—the only one the store had. Just enough to test the engine, not enough to run it all day.

I pushed the generator cart to the side of the house, then to the back. It was too heavy to carry, so I left it on the cart itself.

Pouring in the gas, I tried to start it a few times until it roared to life. A few drops of sweat dotted my forehead, but a smile spread across my face. I’d done almost nothing, but it felt like a major accomplishment.

Looking at the backdoor, Snow tapped one paw on the glass, staring up at me. I snapped a photo of her with the generator in the foreground.

"Next: install the pump!" I said excitedly, heading inside to find the pump among my piles of gear.

But I froze again, realizing I hadn’t brought any extension cords.

"Another trip to the store!" I groaned, heading back to pick up some cables.

Back home, I was relieved to find they had very long extension cords—long enough to reach the stream without needing to plug into another.

Watching the setup, I stood next to the pump now dipped in the stream, but realized I’d missed something else.

"Off for more pipe!" I laughed to myself. "I’ll take the scooter this time."

The day turned into a series of trips. I got a long hose to connect from the pump to the bathroom, a bucket to store the water, and plastic boxes to keep the extension plugs dry.

By afternoon, the first drop of water started filling the bucket in the bathroom. I raised both hands into the air and let out an exuberant "Yahoo!" while I enjoyed a shower in the bathtub inside my new home.

Bringing Flow

I finished the bath feeling refreshed, though I wasn’t quite sure if it was the bathwater or the beer I’d cracked open while soaking that did the trick. Wrapped in a towel, I started getting dressed, thinking maybe I should have brought more clothes with me after all.

A bit hungry, I decided to make some ramen. But first, I boiled some water for safety’s sake. "Common sense," I muttered to myself. After cooking, I sat beside my cats as they ate, Futurama playing quietly from my phone.

Once I finished eating, I packed up to head back to my old apartment for more clothes—and, importantly, a gallon of gas. The sun was dipping low when I arrived at the place that now felt strange and distant, despite having slept there just the night before.

I gathered my clothes into my backpack along with my laptop, which I had thought unnecessary the day before. Before stepping out, I glanced around one last time to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. "Goodbye, room," I whispered, then left.

On the way down, I made a quick decision to grab some more water bottles from Uncle Ben’s. "Thank you Uncle Ben’s," I said quietly, then muttered, "and goodbye."

Almost forgot—I stopped at the small gas station for more fuel and some snacks.

I arrived at the new house just as darkness was taking over the sky. Getting off my scooter, I looked at it with all the stuff I'd hauled, thinking it was starting to look like those adventurous campers who take motorcycles to the wilds.

Moving everything into the house took several trips—not as easy as it sounded, especially since the three cats tried to dart outside each time the door opened.

I fired up the generator again and plugged in my laptop. "Futurama on the big screen, woohoo!" I cheered silently. The cats probably thought I was crazy to talk to myself so much.

Settling into the bedroom, I found a frozen pizza that, while no longer frozen, was still good. Futurama played in the background. I couldn’t say why, but as long as I was here, I could say I was happy in this wasteland that seemed to be killing me a little bit with every passing minute.

I shook that terrifying thought out of my head. Abby and Stormy sat beside me, eyeing the pepperoni on my pizza. "You can have some," I said, breaking a few pieces off for each of them.

"Pepperoni," I said, "hmm" "did you made it all by yourself?" mocking the intro to a music video I loved. I smiled softly, let the whiskey slide down my throat, and allowed it to guide me gently into sleep.

Morning came gently, but I was still in bed; my laptop had finally run out of juice, and my phone was still blinking with notifications. "Huh, it is blinking," I murmured, forcing my eyes open. I tried not to disturb Abby who was resting peacefully in my arms. Even in silent mode, the phone still received messages from social media.

Unlocking the phone, I saw a handful of new messages on Facebook—twelve in total, more than I’d ever had at once. I scanned them quickly.

The first was from Uncle Ben, asking if I was alright. I typed back, "I am fine and healthy, thank you."

Several messages came from coworkers; I sent a quick reply: "I'm fine and healthy, thanks."

There was also a message from my ex-boss saying the salary would be deducted since the office closed before the end of the month, but a reference letter was available upon request. I replied, "Thank you, I was worrying about this month's rent."

The remaining messages were from new contacts I'd never met before, all titled "Hello, can you help me?". My brows furrowed in confusion. Out of curiosity, I opened one—a long message from a retired couple living south of town. They’d evacuated like everyone else but left behind a valuable photo album. They offered any form of payment. I was still frowning as I typed, "Sorry for your loss of valuable belongings, but I don't have a way to send it out of town."

The other messages bored me—strangers asking if I was really still in town, calling my situation "so inspiring," "living the dream," or calling me names like "bitch." I ignored those.

I checked notifications and gasped. Apparently, I was tagged in two photos with lots of reactions. I tapped, and the images were from the "Amateur Drone Pilot Club." There was a photo of me holding Snow up at the fountain roundabout—it was the exact moment I had met Snow for the first time. I saved the image to my phone, not because it was a picture of me, but because it captured a moment that finally made me smile because of social media.

Hesitating, I typed, "Thank you for the photo."

Then, I attached an image I had taken when I first fed Snow before bringing her to my apartment. "Yeah, see? Same clothes and everything," I said softly to the phone while showing the image to Snow, who was now curled up back to sleep.

"Look who it is," I whispered to her before she closing her eyes again.

I scrolled through the app a little more, watching as everyone's lives continued—same old drama, same old social noise—before I was about to close it, a message popped in from the elderly couple I’d message earlier. I tapped on it, and the message read: "I can meet you at the blockage point on the edge of town to get the photo album, and can pay you for your time."

"My time?" I muttered, then typed, "There is nothing here money can buy."

Just then, I noticed Snow waking, moving closer to me, about to lick my face again. An idea struck me. I erased what I had just typed and sent, "3 packs of canned cat food," followed by an image of the one they love. I paused and then typed, "And a hamburger," and hit send.

The reply came almost instantly. They agreed with my terms and asked when I would be available. I told them I wasn’t busy and estimated the retrieval and delivery would take a maximum of two hours. They requested to meet at the west blockage. From that, I learned the military had set up three "permanent blockages"—some kind of stronghold preventing any vehicles from entering or leaving. I thought that was overkill but figured it was good for me. Three blockages for each town entrance seemed excessive.

I got up, put on my jacket, and headed to the address they had given me. When I arrived at the house, a small place painted white (luckily they’d also sent me a photo of the house), I recalled their message: "A spare key under the plant pot."

Retrieving the key from memory, I entered the house and found the photo album in their bedroom, just as they had said. I left the house quietly and headed to the west blockage.

I was the first to arrive, and we agreed to meet at the first blockage—the one closest to town. Each blockage was about a kilometer apart, so the couple would take some time to get there.

I walked around, lit a cigarette, and strolled along the blockage. This one was just three rows of concrete blocks on the road, with some empty military crates lying around.

Then a thought struck me: "Wait, what if this is a trap? To arrest me for refusing to leave town?" Uncertain and doubting, I moved away towards the nearby tree line and decided to hide behind it until I was sure the military didn’t show up.

Twenty minutes and four cigarettes later, I saw three people walking in—two of them appeared to be the elderly couple, and the third was dragging a cart loaded with crates. I waited a bit longer until they reached the blockage. They checked their phone, though there was no signal. I decided to reveal myself.

"Hi," I said. They all turned to face me.

"Oh dear," the old lady said, walking toward me first. The long walk seemed to have taken a toll on her body, but the smile on her face hadn’t faded.

The transaction was quick. I handed the photo album to the old lady, who now had tears streaming down her cheeks, supported by her husband’s arm. They said their son was coming to help with the crates.

They thanked me, and I asked what things were like outside.

They told me there were still military checkpoints at the furthest blockage from town, but they knew one of the soldiers and could pass with a little bribe.

The outermost blockage was quite an operation—like a concrete wall set up overnight with warning signs, mostly for show.

I chewed on my hamburger while listening to them, resting on a block of concrete. Their son watched me from afar, as if trying to see if I’d start glowing green at any second. But all in all, it wasn’t that bad. Perhaps because I hadn’t had to talk to people for a while, this meeting felt rather bearable.

After a while, we said our goodbyes, and they started walking back. I found some metal wires around the place, which I used to tie the cart handle to the end of my scooter before starting a very slow ride home.

On the way back home, I opened a few cans of food for the growing ‘rainbow family’ of cats scattered around. The soft sound of tin lids popping open was oddly soothing in this quiet town. When I reached home, I called out with a grin, "Look who's back!"

One by one, familiar figures appeared at the front door—Snow, Stormy, Abby—all gathered as if waiting for me. I threw my head back and let out a laugh, relieved by the simple, heartwarming sight.

Hauling the crates I’d brought back from the blockade into the house, I set the cans down and watched as the cats eagerly dove into their meals. The room filled with the comforting sounds of soft crunching and purring.

Outside, I lit a cigarette and leaned against the porch railing to relax. I exhaled slowly, muttering, "That wasn’t that bad."

The vivid image of the old lady clutching the photo album tightly, resting in her husband’s arms, kept replaying in my mind. "At least they’re not militia in disguise," I thought gratefully.

Before I could stub out the cigarette, my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a message from the couple, thanking me with photos showing themselves and the blockade they’d crossed.

I studied the images—impressive constructions of massive concrete barriers that didn’t just block the road but extended along the sides, leaving absolutely no way for any car to sneak around.

"Thanks for my privacy," I murmured quietly, eyes flicking up to scan the sky.

Trying to spot any tiny black dots that might indicate a helicopter, I remembered it was likely a drone from that amateur drone club instead. I scanned carefully but saw none.

Feeling exhausted, I stepped inside, hung my jacket, and threw myself onto the sofa. Out of habit, I grabbed a beer from the cluttered table, popped the top, and took a long sip.

"Enough activity for today," I thought, sinking deeper into the cushions.

A peaceful afternoon nap finally claimed me.

Shelters and Small Victories

The next few days passed without any significant events. I ventured back into town a few times and spotted two more stray cats. I fed them some canned food, thankful that they were close to my house—probably because this part of town was quiet. Cats love quiet places, and there were plenty of pests for them to chew on around here.

Oh yes, and the gas trips. The generator was working very well, but the risk of running out of gas at the station loomed.

I was a bit hesitant, but with nothing to lose and nothing to fear, I posted a photo of the solar setup kit on Facebook, captioned, "Who can help guide me to set up this thing?"

A few hours later, I checked back. There were many comments, but the most promising response came from the Facebook page of the store itself, offering to guide me through the setup. They also messaged me directly in my inbox.

I replied, "First of all, sorry for looting."

They responded quickly, saying it was okay—they couldn't make use of anything there, and the damages were already scheduled to be paid for by the government. They asked if they could call instead of text, as it would be easier to explain the process.

Not a fan of phone calls, I hesitated, but when I looked at the complicated manual, I agreed.

The entire afternoon was swallowed by the endless phone call with the store owner, guiding me through the tangled process of setting up the solar panels. At first, I had imagined it would be easy peasy lemon squeezy—panels neatly mounted on the roof, wires tucked away, control panel humming quietly inside the house. But reality was a stubborn foe.

Instead, the four solar panels lay scattered unevenly across the front yard, their black glass faces catching the weak sunlight as cables snaked from each one to a bulky control box housed in a plastic container, awkwardly positioned not on the porch as I expected, but tucked near a clump of shrubs by the driveway.

"Okay, last cables connected," the store owner’s voice crackled over the line, "ready to turn it on?"

I hesitated, eyeing the wiry mess with a mixture of hope and dread. If this worked, it meant lights, power for her devices, maybe even the promise of a little normalcy. With a deep breath, I flipped the switch on the control box. Lights flickered. The hum of electricity whispered through the wires. My phone screen lit up, charging steadily.

A small smile broke through my tired face. "Well," I murmured, "it’s not perfect... but it’s light work."

After hours of fumbling, connecting cables, and swearing under my breath, I finally heard the faint hum of electricity flowing through the system. Sweat dripped down my temple as I wiped my brow with the back of my hand.

I held up my phone to the sky, eager for the small bar of battery life to climb higher. It slowly inched upwards as the sunlight fed the fragile setup’s hungry cells. The voice of the store owner crackled once more in my ear.

"Now it works, huh?"

"Finally," I replied with a weary chuckle, "not the prettiest solar setup you’ll ever see, but it works."

After hanging up, I snapped a photo of the glaringly inelegant array—cables tangled, panels uneven, control box perched precariously on a plastic container—and sent it off with the caption: "The ugliest solar system setup in the world, but it works." I tagged the store’s Facebook page, hoping they'd appreciate my perseverance.

Lighting another cigarette, I sat on the front steps, pulling the smoke deeply into my lungs, letting the familiar burn calm my nerves. The day’s efforts were done, but the store owner’s words echoed in my mind. I’d still have to rely on the generator tonight—the day’s sunlight wasn’t enough to fully recharge the battery. That was okay.

Hope had never looked so awkward, but it was hope nonetheless.

After a few long minutes of quiet, I stood and headed inside. The gentle meowing of my cats greeted me as I crossed the threshold. A warm shower and a simple meal awaited, but for the first time in days, I felt the faintest stirrings of normalcy.

Building a Refuge

I woke up feeling unusually rested, and I credited this to my new rule of always finishing the entire bottle of water—not because I cut back on drinking, but because I've increased my water intake. Throwing off the remnants of a restless night, I glanced at the clock: 10 a.m. Not too shabby. I looked around for the cats, but there was no sign of them. Judging by the noise, however, they were in the midst of their usual rampage time.

"I'm up everybody!" I shouted. The noise ceased for a moment. Feeling bold, I got up, opened three cans of cat food for all the meows, and stepped outside for my morning smoke.

I settled into my newly acquired plastic beach chair from the furniture shop downtown—a surprisingly comfy reclining chair that molded perfectly to my shape. As I inhaled the cigarette, I noticed the soft hum of the solar system lying nearby. Curious, I stood to check it out; it seemed to be working.

I went inside to grab an extension cord from my shopping pile, dragging it from the power converter to the sofa, and plugged in my laptop. Raising both arms in the air, I let out a victorious "Yay!" The laptop was charging and booting up. I shared my phone’s internet via personal hotspot.

The laptop connected, and ironically, I opened social media in this cursed wasteland. Scrolling through Reddit, I landed on r/offthegrid, where people shared progress on living off the grid—some interesting, some boring. A post about basic planting caught my eye.

"What? Not much info here?" I muttered, itching to find a way to grow veggies that required little care. From experience, the more attention I pay to a houseplant, the faster it dies.

I dove deeper into Reddit, clicking into r/vegetablegardening. Not much help; most looked like full-scale farms. Then I stumbled upon r/lowmaintenancegardening—just my speed.

After some digging, I settled on lettuce. "Not because I want to eat healthy," I told myself, "but because constipation’s getting out of control."

Eager to start, I grabbed my scooter keys and drove to the agricultural store south of town. Along the way, I passed a house where I obtained a photo album. Reaching the store was easy; their door wasn’t even closed. I stepped inside, calling out, "Anybody...?" Becoming a habit, I added, "Common courtesy."

Scanning the shelves, I found an entire variety of lettuce seeds, not just a plain bag with lettuce printed on it, but about ten types to choose from. In typical fashion, I selected the color I liked.

Back at my place—fully mine now—I headed toward the treeline with all my tools: a bucket, seeds, and a hand shovel. What else do I need, right? RIGHT???

I started following the planting photos I’d found on Reddit, making a planting plot under the sun. Even starting small with a single row of plots took over an hour.

I poured seeds down and dragged the hose from my bathroom to water the plants. Looking at my handiwork, I laughed; it was literally a pile of dirt I’d deemed a plot.

Now what? "Well, you have to wait a month while keeping this dirt wet daily," I told myself. I wasn’t sure I could stick with it to the end.

After washing up, I dragged the hose back inside and luxuriated in a bath, cigarette in hand.

As evening came, I decided to try something special. From Harper’s, I had procured a barbecue grill, though I had no meat. I just wanted a fire pit to look at.

I lit the charcoal, using plastic bags as tinder. It smelled awful, but finally, I had my own fire. Sitting there, I enjoyed my usual ramen, whiskey bottle beside me.

Lighting another cigarette, the mix of burning charcoal and smoke drifted around me. The sharp burn of whiskey down my throat mingled with the silent night. The stars seemed brighter than usual. I often looked skyward, but tonight, the fire pit seemed to connect me more to nature.

I almost fell asleep outdoors but caught myself, regained balance, and headed inside. Being careful not to accidentally let the cats out, I passed out on the sofa, the quiet firelight lingering in my mind.

I woke up the next morning, eyes immediately searching for my phone, but first things first—the cats. Maniacs all of them, demanding their cat food before anything else. I opened the cans, the familiar clamor filling the room as they devoured their morning meal. Stepping outside, I spotted my phone lying by the fire pit. Surprisingly, it still had some battery left.

Looking back at the house, I decided to post on Facebook, hoping for leads. "Where to find cat toys in Ridge Valley for these maniacs?" I wrote, attaching a photo of Stormy jumping mid-air from the sofa I took recently. Lighting a cigarette, I waited for responses. Not long after, message requests flooded in.

Of course, I wasn’t surprised. People were 'requesting' my favors—retrieving items from the town: important documents, a locket, some jewelry. I glanced back at my well-stocked cat food pile but then my eyes drifted to the green sprouts in my planting plot. Was it lettuce or just weeds? "Hmm, should I take a job for some vegetables?" I mused aloud. Another cynical voice inside me inquired, "How bad is your constipation, really?"

I frowned but figured maybe two requests—one for meat products and vegetables, another for replenishing cat food stock—would be doable. Three jobs, then.

I began replying to each message, asking for details: what exactly they wanted, where to get it, and if supplies instead of money would be acceptable. To my surprise, all responded within an hour, their instructions clear as if they’d prepared for this long ago. I reviewed everything carefully and set up a new system this time. I’d leave their items on the middle concrete block at the first blockage. They could leave supplies there, and I’d pick them up later. No need to meet anyone directly.

I arranged appointments for item pickups at staggered times: the gold locket come this afternoon for sausages and dried meat; the documents and jewelry arriving tomorrow morning and afternoon for vegetables and cat food.

Glancing at the clock, I had a few hours before the first delivery. Pulling up the locations on my map app, I felt a small flicker of purpose as I prepared to dive back into the strange rhythm of this abandoned town's life.

I drive around town, visiting each house where someone had reached out for help. I had the wild idea of taking photos of their homes—something I thought they'd want to see. "I'll give it to them as a bonus," I told myself.

The first house, where the golden locket was kept, belonged to a wealthy family. As expected, no spare keys were hidden under any rocks. Breaking in wasn’t difficult, though. In the main bedroom drawer, I found the locket and took a few photos before leaving quietly.

The next two houses were quite close—on the same street. I broke in again, easily found the requested documents and a box of jewelry in one of the drawers. Once more, I took some photos before slipping away.

The roads were still clear, aside from a pile of leaves here and there, gradually growing larger with time. Some tree branches had fallen on the road; I stopped and pulled them out to keep things safe.

I headed to the first blockade before the time the header for the golden locket appointment mentioned. I placed the locket on the center concrete block of the road; they wouldn’t miss it. I parked my scooter just behind the treeline nearby and waited.

After nearly an hour—which was quite acceptable considering they had to walk three kilometers—I saw two men approaching, each walking with makeshift sticks. They found the locket immediately and looked at each other, their faces lighting up with happiness. After checking their surroundings and seeing no one else, they left two large plastic bags on the concrete block and walked back.

I waited a few minutes before approaching the bags. The contents surprised me: dried sausages, dried meat, and other products completely filling both bags. "Hmm, they gave me more than I asked for," I murmured, hauling the bags back to my scooter and setting off for home.

That evening turned into quite a feast. I roasted some sausages and dried pork, sharing some with the cats. Music played softly from my laptop, filling the empty wasteland with unexpected warmth.

I had to control myself not to drink too much that night; there was another appointment in the morning, and I didn’t want to be the one who missed it.

The morning crept in with the familiar dull ache of a hangover. I reached for my usual morning comforts—first a cigarette, dragging the smoke deep into my lungs, then my phone. I scrolled through messages, confirming exchanges with my clients, double-checking the details of the day’s appointments.

Curious, I flipped through replies to my Facebook post where I’d asked about places to find cat toys. A lot of people had chimed in: some claimed they were drone club, others claimed to be from the ‘minimal living group’ request my attention. I skimmed past those, searching instead for the useful advice.

I found a useful comment: a small pet shop on the north side of town. "Yay," I muttered, marking the location on my map. Not far from it was a pet clinic, just in case. I felt a flicker of hope, a small step towards normalcy, or at least something close to it.

Deciding I had enough time, I headed over to the appointment spot, arriving well before schedule. I left the documents on the concrete block as agreed, parked my scooter behind the familiar tree line, and sat down next to it, trying to shake the last traces of the hangover from my head.

Later, I was startled awake by a high pitch voice, a woman a few meters away gently trying to rouse me.

"Are you okay?" she asked urgently.

"Uh, yeah. I just fell asleep," I replied, gathering myself. As I stood, an older man at a distance looked on, worry creasing his face.

I brushed dry leaves off my clothes, feeling embarrassed, and asked, "Did you get the documents?"

"Yes, yes, we got them," the woman smiled, relieved. "We didn’t see anyone else around, just wandered over and found you here. Are you sick?"

I glanced away and chuckled softly. "No, no. It’s not radiation or anything. Just a bad hangover," I said with a smile. She relaxed visibly, clutching her chest in relief.

"Oh, thank God. Must have been some party then."

The older man turned away, his expression harder to read—was it relief, or irritation? I didn’t ask.

"Here," the woman said, handing me a big grocery bag from the man. I took it gratefully.

Trying to break the awkward silence, I asked, "How’s the outside? Are the soldiers causing trouble?"

To my surprise, she shook her head. "There was a military checkpoint, but we found no one. We just walked in."

That stopped me—had they revoked the checkpoints so soon? The thought was both startling and a little comforting.

The woman was friendly, asking questions as we passed the time. Eventually, she asked for a photo with me before taking her leave.

I glanced at my watch—10:30. Plenty of time to go grab those cat toys before the afternoon appointment.

I was driving to the marked spot of the petshop and arrived sooner than I thought. As I pulled up, it hit me that I hadn’t come this way since the incident (the power plant also locate in this area). The small petshop stood quietly, shelves stocked with an impressive array of pet food—canned and dried varieties lined up in neat rows. My eyes widened when I saw the vast stockpile of canned cat food. I thought to myself, I needed to come back here another time with a cart attached to my scooter.

I wandered around and found some cat toys and plushies, several of which I stuffed into a bag before hopping back on my scooter and heading off to the afternoon appointment.

Arriving early again, I noticed from the far end of the road a few figures—probably three people—walking towards the meeting point. I set down the box of jewelry on the concrete block, then backed my scooter behind the treeline, this time a bit further than before, and waited silently.

I watched as the three shady men arrived at the spot. They conversed quietly, checking the valuables in the box. One slipped the box into his backpack and walked away with the others. I waited longer than necessary to be sure they were gone.

Spotting three crates of cat food as requested, I realized I had to go back and fetch the cart from my house.

Driving back, I only carried grocery bags filled with fresh greens, all wrapped snugly in plastic wrap. They must have come straight from a grocery store. I smiled softly and placed them in the bathtub—Google said it would help keep the greens fresh longer.

After feeding the cats and myself, I noticed they seemed more interested in the pile of plushies than their food. Lunch was a cozy affair with their playful company.

Then, I attached the cart to my scooter again and headed back to pick up the boxes of cat food at the first blockage.

When I arrived, the road was quiet as usual. One good thing about this town now was that I no longer had to worry about randomly bumping into anyone. Lighting a smoke, I took in the view. This used to be the main road straight through town, now blocked off with several tall trees lining the sides. Some parts of the road were covered with leaves, and if it rained soon, grass might cover the road completely before the new year.

Extinguishing my smoke, I loaded the cat food boxes onto the cart, lit another cigarette, and started the engine. "So what? I like to smoke on the ride," I muttered to myself as I took off.

I relaxed on the sofa, my phone in hand, sending photos of the houses I had visited today to my clients. One by one, they replied with thank-yous; the lady who had received the documents even sent me a selfie she took, a small smile on her face despite everything.

My gaze shifted to the three cats sprawled across the room, no longer able to separate themselves from one another as they played energetically with plush toys scattered across the floor.

"There are more guys," I thought, making a mental note. "Tomorrow I'll bring you a cat tower." I could already picture the tower from the pet shop—compact enough to fit into the scooter's cart, a new playground for these furry companions.

The day had left me a bit tired, weight pressing down through every limb. Before I knew it, I had fallen asleep on the sofa, never even making it to my bed.

It was a peaceful, quiet moment in a tumultuous world—the comfort of small successes, simple pleasures, and the soft purrs of my family.

The North

The next morning, I woke up easily, probably because I hadn’t drunk much the previous night. "Well, don’t waste the daylight then," I thought to myself, hearing the usual sarcastic chuckle from my other self.

I quickly fed the cats, freshened up, and refilled my scooter's gas tank. Grabbing a few cans of cat food for the rainbow family, I set off toward the pet shop on the north side of town.

The weather was surprisingly pleasant—no clouds marred the blue sky, and the cold wasn’t biting. I stopped casually at a familiar curve to snap a few photos and to light a cigarette, taking in the stillness.

Continuing on, I arrived at the pet shop and tried to park as close to the door as possible. To my surprise, the cat tower I intended to buy was lighter than I imagined. Feeling emboldened, I grabbed a few more bags of dry cat food and a cat food dispenser—things I thought would be perfect for the rainbow family and the other cats roaming around the house.

Carefully loading the almost two-meter-tall cat tower onto the scooter, I set off slowly back toward the house. The main road was quiet, and I maintained a cautious pace, mindful of the precious cargo but also feeling a bit lighter inside.

This small act—fetching a cat tower for my feline companions—felt like a tiny victory in a world where victories were few and far between.

"Good news, everyone," I announced loudly as I parked my scooter in front of the house. One by one, the cats appeared at the door—drawn by the promise of something new. I detached the cart from my scooter, moved it closer to the house, and began hauling the cat tower inside, placing it carefully in the living room. Each cat, curious and cautious, came to sniff the tower. Snow didn’t hesitate, beginning to climb it right away.

Settling onto the sofa, I cracked open a can of warm beer. "Hmm," I mused, "I wonder if the solar setup can support a small fridge."

Without waiting for myself to second-guess the plan, I got up, can in hand, and headed out towards the hardware store. Entering like I owned the place, I made my way to the electronics section. Tucked away in a corner was a mini bar fridge. It wasn’t heavy, which was a relief, so I grabbed a cart, loaded it up, and headed back to the house.

Once home, I first plugged it in at the front porch. The compressor kicked on with a reassuring hum, putting a smile on my face. I unplugged it and moved it next to the sofa where I usually sat. Plugging it in again, I opened it up and transferred some vegetables from the bath tub inside. There was still room for a few cans of beer.

"This could change everything," I said quietly to myself, watching the cats happily engage with their new plushies and the cat tower. It felt like a small, tangible step toward building a life here—a tiny victory in a place becoming home.

I walked back to the hardware store again, this time grabbing another water pump and an extra hose. It was becoming a bit messy having to use the bathroom hose every time to water the plants, so I decided to set up a dedicated system just for the plant plots. It took me only half an hour to get everything ready—or well, to plug it into the existing extension cord. It wasn’t exactly a complicated setup, but it felt like a small win. Before I could water the plant plots—which were now sprouting about an inch tall—I took a moment to admire the tiny green shoots peeping from the soil.

Feeling inspired, I decided to expand and create another row of planting plots right next to the first. The hand shovel was still buried in the dirt nearby, so I used it to shape the new row. Not long after, a second row of plot took form. I scattered some lettuce seeds into the fresh dirt and gave it a generous watering.

Cleaning up, I washed my hands and settled onto my plastic beach chair. Lighting a cigarette, I started doomscrolling on my phone as usual. Suddenly, a notification popped up warning about my monthly phone payment. Surprising myself, I checked the bank app, which was still working fine despite being in this odd, deserted wasteland. (I imagined a scene from Mad Max for a moment, although it was nowhere near as grim—around me, birds chirped.) I decided to pay for an entire year of phone service—an expense that felt substantial but manageable at the moment. "Just imagine if I had to pay rent in this city," I joked to myself, only to be scoffed at by the other voice in my head.

I opened Facebook instead of Google or Reddit for a change since I finally had a network. There were a few messages from strangers, asking what it was like to live out here. "Probably they just want to know if I’m dead yet," I thought.

Another message was a service request: an urn and a jewelry box from a house in the north. I checked the map and promptly replied, "Checking my schedule, will update soon." Then I grabbed a cold beer from the minibar fridge and returned to the beach chair.

Soon after, Aunt Susan messaged to check on me. She missed the town and had opened a new restaurant in the next town. She also requested my service to get everything from the safe in the back of her restaurant. That caught me off guard—I hadn’t even known there was a safe there after four years. I replied, "Can you wait a few days? I’m a bit busy at the moment," took a sip of beer, and hit send.

Then came a message from a guy named Dude Daemon. I was about to ignore it but noticed the preview began with: "This is the link to the group where we talk about you..." I opened it, and it led me to a Facebook group called “Elera the Wasteland Girl.” Raising my brows, I couldn’t help but laugh. The cover photo was one of my pictures from Facebook, photoshopped into a wasteland scavenger—with a cloth wrapped around my head and a samurai sword in my hands.

"This deserves a bigger screen," I laughed, walking back into the house to fire up my laptop.

On the laptop, I browsed the group. Besides the cover and an icon of a badass version of myself, there were plenty of posts and even a map showing drone sightings of me. "Jeeze, they were stalkers," I thought, still smiling. There were aerial images of me on my motorcycle in the city with timestamps.

I clicked to join the group and posted: "Dude, I’m not living in this wasteland to get stalked." The post quickly turned into a lively chat. I grabbed another can of beer, took a sip, and responded to the messages. It was kind of fun—or maybe the beer was just helping.

They asked about the cats, knowing I’d requested cat food as payment a few times. I took a photo of Snow on the cat tower and used it as a reply.

When asked what I ate, I posted a picture of a pile of empty whiskey bottles.

Some asked where I lived now. I didn’t say directly, replying only, "Tell me when your drones find me."

Others offered help; one was a prepper. I sent him a photo of my plant plot and said, "I think I’m killing it, literally."

When asked what living here was like, I replied with a photo of my fridge stocked with greens and a few cans of beer, captioned: "Heaven."

I responded to messages until my eyes blurred (thanks to the beer), then commented, "I’m off now, thanks for making my day," and closed the tab.

I caught myself still smiling. It was strange to realize how many people imagined me living in some kind of post-apocalyptic movie.

"Post-apocalypse movies, you say?" I muttered, pulling up an old film I’d saved on my laptop ages ago—Mad Max: Fury Road—and letting it play as I slowly drifted off.

Wasteland Photographer

A few days had passed without much happening, but the house now boasted three cat towers scattered across various corners, each one a fortress for the feline residents. I found myself frequently returning to the Facebook group, where more people joined daily, sharing helpful advice—not just about house management but life in general. One member sent me a link to a detailed map of the town with marked locations. It seemed someone had created it for a potential SHTF scenario here. I appreciated the gesture, even if I already felt familiar with the lay of the land.

But today boredom gnawed at me, and with no clear plans, I decided to accept a job request from Facebook inbox. I messaged Aunt Susan for more details and told her I'd come pick up her things today. Before I could even open another message, a reply came, providing the precise location and the safe code. I didn’t bother asking what was inside; the thought made me curious but cautious. Without hesitation, I hopped on my scooter and headed straight to my old apartment.

It had been around a month since I'd last been there, but everything looked unchanged. I walked through the familiar restaurant, quickly locating the safe. Opening it, I found a pile of documents, some money, and a box of old jewelry. I didn’t pry open the box, just carefully bagged everything and slid it under my seat.

Next, I went back to Uncle Ben’s one last time, collecting the remaining cigarettes and a bit more whiskey. Not all—if I took everything, I’d need a much bigger vehicle.

Then I headed straight to the first blockage, leaving Aunt Susan’s items there as agreed. I took a photo for proof and rode back home. Upon arrival, I sent the picture to Aunt Susan, letting her know I’d completed the job without asking for payment. She thanked me repeatedly, promising to claim the stuff as soon as possible.

Settling back into my smoking chair—the battered plastic beach chair I’d claimed as mine—I scrolled through Reddit as usual. I appreciated this kind of feed where I curated my interests and turned the platform into a place I could truly enjoy.

As I planned dinner in my head, a soft rhythmic beep caught my attention, followed by a gentle whirring sound. I stepped outside and looked up. A drone hovered above my house. Impressed that they’d found me, before I could react, it dropped something on the road.

I walked over and picked up a small plastic bag containing a few KitKats and a note that read, “Found you ;)”. A slow smile spread across my face. I looked up at the drone and gestured a mock salute—or maybe a cheeky middle finger. It seemed to respond with a wave before rising high and flying westward.

Taking a photo of the note and candy, I posted it in the Facebook group with the simple caption, "Thanks, guys."

That evening, in a good mood, I decided to light another fire—not using the LPG stove this time, just for the fun of it. I had some sausages to grill and a bottle of whiskey on the rocks—I’d managed to make some ice recently—which made the drink smoother and easier to swallow. I even shared some sausages with the cats, watching them devour the warm treats eagerly.

Oh, and an update about the cats: more strays had started to come and go around my house. They probably smelled the food when I cooked. I’d set up a dispenser and a water dish nearby, imagining the day when this house might be entirely surrounded by cats. If I ever died here, I joked to myself, they could eat my body—the days of cremation unnecessary.

Back to the barbecue party. After the meal, there were still a few sausages left, which I thought I could finish off in the morning. After a few whiskeys on the rocks, I admitted the dizziness creeping in. The ice made it feel much easier, but when I found myself still sitting by the fire, I lit a smoke, putting my phone in my backpack on the other side of the fire pit.

Then, I started a video call with the Facebook group. In just a few seconds, people began joining the call. Lots of chatter filled the screen quickly—a flood of messages. I just smiled and waved, continuing my smoke. "Thanks for the snacks!" I shouted—sorry, I was drunk.

The video call continued, and finally, the group seemed to settle. I could hear one person speaking while the others quieted down. "Hello, Elera, can you hear me?" he asked.

I nodded and shouted, "Yeah, loud and clear!" Not sure why I was still yelling.

We just conversed then. They said the drone group had uploaded a video showing me accepting the package—I hadn’t seen it yet but would check it later. I thanked everyone who had joined and showed interest in my story. Living here was different from the movies, I told them—I mainly drink, smoke, and loot. (Laugh.)

Questions poured in from the chat, and the person speaking passed them to me. He could be a good talk show host, to be honest.

It was quite a while until my phone battery died. I picked up my things and headed back into the house. The last trip was a dish of sausages. Outside, I saw a few cats sitting on the street; I had no idea how long they had been there. I threw all the remaining sausages to them, then walked inside and fell asleep in my bed.

I woke up naked in my bed, the cold sheets pulled loose around me. Stormy, the chubby one, sat peacefully on the pile of clothes I’d dropped yesterday. I hadn’t showered last night—must have been too drunk or too uneasy about not having one. The uncomfortable feeling nudged me out of bed.

I trudged straight to the bathroom, then back to grab a cigarette before returning to the shower. The water hit me like a shock. "Damn, it's cold," I thought, but I pushed through, taking a quick rinse and deciding the smoke could wait.

Minutes later, dressed in layers, I wrapped a blanket around myself and settled into my usual smoking chair outside. "It can’t be winter yet," I muttered, drawing in a slow drag. The day was overcast, the thick clouds knitting a gray blanket above, making the chill bite deeper.

I wandered the empty streets, no stray cats in sight. They were probably stuck to the shadows, safer under cover of darkness. Back inside, I opened cans of cat food and cooked some sausages for myself. Stormy sat nearby, eyes fixed on me, silently demanding cat tax. Snow was not far off and seemed to be gaining weight too.

Charging my phone, I set on soft music, letting the hum of the cloudy sky envelope me more than the screen’s glow. Settling onto the sofa, exhaustion curled around me. I hadn’t even checked the time, but the weight of the silent day pressed heavy. Closing my eyes, I let the overcast sky cover me, and sleep claimed me again.

I woke up again, roused by Abby licking my eyelids. Still wrapped in the blanket, I sat up groggily. "It’s too cold in here," I muttered. My other voice instantly replied, "Yeah, that’s probably why it’s still been on sale for so long."

I got out of bed and checked the time—3 p.m. After opening cat food for my poor, starving cats, I walked to the front of the house. The sky was still overcast. "At night, it’ll be even colder," I thought, already planning a trip to get an LPG heater to warm the house.

Lighting a cigarette, I started walking towards the hardware store. Upon entering, I spotted a cat inside. "Oh, so here you are," I said softly. They’d started living in the hardware store now. That was good—they didn’t have to fight the weather outside in the open.

I walked to the heater aisle, picked up two units, and headed back home. "Why did I get two?" I asked myself aloud. "One as a spare," came the quick answer.

At the house, I connected one of the heaters to the LPG tank. It started working within seconds. The house should be warm soon. I couldn’t risk these cats getting sick, not in this empty town.

Then I let out a sneeze. My nose was starting to feel blocked. "Hmm, what about me?" I asked quietly.

"Yeah, dead," the other voice replied cheekily.

"Thanks," I muttered with a weak grin, pulling the blanket tighter around me.

Chill of Solitude

The next few days passed with a lingering chill in the air. I still couldn't see the sun behind the thick overcast sky, and the cold seemed to seep into the bones, subtle but unrelenting. Most of the time, we stayed inside where the warmth was bearable. I ventured out frequently to smoke, cigarettes becoming a small but constant comfort amid the quiet solitude.

Thankfully, our food stockpile was holding strong. No need to ride around the town for supplies—you come to appreciate having a stash of essentials in times like these. "Especially whiskey", I correct myself.

It was afternoon now, the soft strains of music playing from my phone as I lay on the bed, the three cats curled close beside me, sharing the warmth.

I thought about the strays at Harper's Hardware. I’d given them plenty of food and water to last, so I wouldn’t have to make frequent trips, especially as the cold deepened. I’d set up the LPG heater for them—it was running steadily, with another one now humming quietly at the foot of my bed.

We had just finished lunch, and I had a bottle of whiskey, a bottle of water, and some snacks beside me.

"Comfy day," I muttered.

"Rotting away," another voice chimed in.

"You know I’ll die one day, right? Likely in this town and possibly in this bed," I said.

"Yeah, just don’t forget to open the door. I don’t want to trap the cats inside with my corpse," I shrugged, tossing a rat plushie at Appy. "What’s the best way to feed cats long-term if I die first?" I wondered.

"Don’t worry about it," the other voice soothed, "everything will die eventually."

I paused. "Hugs. All the cats. All the time you can."

I reached over, grabbing Abby and pulling her under the blanket. He didn't resist.

"What if it’s… painful and torturous?" I asked softly, playing with Abby under the covers.

"Better prepare a gun or something to end it quickly," I added.

"Go ask the group chat. Just tell them it’s for self-defense," another voice replied.

Stormy leapt onto the blanket, fingers spread, trying to hunt whatever stirred beneath.

The weather turned colder, wrapping the town in a lazy, cozy blanket. I found myself less inclined to move much, content to stay wrapped in warmth while the cats darted and chased each other around the house. Now with two LPG heaters humming softly, the place felt almost like the world before the incident—a comforting illusion, though scarier than whatever invisible radiation I carried with me.

Sometimes, half-joking to myself, I’d switch off the lights to check if I was glowing green yet. It was a weird sort of humor, especially for someone in my position.

The things I missed most were food deliveries. At times, I wasn’t sure if I hated people outside, or just the 'outside' in general.

I called into the group chat a few more times. The first was during a drunken stupor, but later sessions found me more sober—well, still drunk, but clearer-minded. I didn’t expect to become famous online or anything, but human instincts, I guess, made me crave some kind of conversation.

There I was, lying in bed, Snow curled on my tummy, listening to a group call. A guy was explaining a theory he'd learned from a game called State of Decay—how to sweep nearby houses efficiently to collect all required resources. I found it kind of interesting and started imagining a zombie outbreak in this empty town.

"So, food and first aid kits first," I murmured, half paying attention, half on the verge of sleep.

"Right," the voice went on, "that’s the most essential. If you have time or means to store more, take everything else."

"Like This War of Mine," he added. Another game, apparently.

"Oh, what about guns? Where can I get one in this town?" I asked.

Silence filled the chat, then a private message popped up: "You can have mine. I'll DM you."

I saw the message but tried to ignore it for the moment. The guy continued, "And is there any chance you’ll livestream while in the city?"

"No," I said flatly. "Like I said, there’s no connection to other parts of the city."

A woman chimed in, "I think we can get you some GoPro to record."

I sipped more whiskey. "No, I don’t want to."

"But please! It will be a very interesting story," she persisted.

I chuckled. "Alright, I’ll think about it." (Really, that meant no.)

"Alright, guys, I have to go now. The wasteland is waiting," someone said. Goodbyes followed, and I disconnected.

I went straight to the inbox of the guy who’d offered me the gun. The message contained a house location, along with instructions: "In a box under the bed."

I replied, "Thank you."

Dressing in my warmest clothes—just a jacket and pants, hardly enough—I planned also to gather some first aid kits and medicine from the pharmacy, which was described as a normal, standard place. I was told to look on the counter; the most-used medicines were kept there.

I drove off on my scooter, my jacket pulled tight around me.

The pharmacy was near the middle of town. I stopped there first. It was like any other pharmacy you could imagine. I found the first aid kit behind the counter and emptied everything onto the backpack.

"That's one thing done," I said to myself.

Next, I headed to the house the guy had described, quite isolated in a farming area.

"Anybody...?" I called out as I entered and searched under the bed, eventually finding a box.

Opening it, I held the gun in my hands. It was heavy.

I didn’t know much about guns, but enough to ensure the safety was on.

On the way back to town, I stopped for a smoke. The surroundings were empty aside from fields of grasses and some flowering plants.

"What kind of flowers bloom in this weather?" I wondered aloud.

"The kind that like the cold," another voice answered.

The treeline was further away, and it seemed greener than any other forest I’d seen.

"Probably because of the overcast," I muttered, inhaling deeply and feeling the cold wrap around me like a shroud.

On the way back, I decided to take the long route along the north road—closer to the power plant but also giving me a chance to pick up some dried cat food for the cats that lived outside my house. I rode carefully, a cart tied behind my scooter creaking softly with each bump.

There weren’t many trees close to this road, so the pavement was relatively clear of leaves and branches. As I passed through, I noticed several small shops I hadn’t seen before. Quickly, I marked them in the offline map app I had gotten from the group.

I stopped at the pet shop, grabbed some more cat toys, a few cat beds, and dry cat food. Near the counter, I spotted a bag that had been torn open—likely another cat here had helped themselves to the food.

Heading back toward home, the wind picked up sharply. I pulled my jacket tighter around me, but honestly, the cigarette’s taste cut through the chill better than any jacket could.

Back at my house, I arranged the new cat beds at various spots in the living room. I also placed a few at the hardware store and refilled the dry food dispenser. Then I grabbed some ant spray from there—ants were starting to appear out of nowhere around the place.

I decided to light up the firepit in front of the house. There were still some sausages and dried meat left. "This will be fun," I thought. "Like camping," and I seriously began considering getting some camping gear to make it even more interesting.

The sausage was good, pairing perfectly with the whiskey—I’d run out of beer. The cats outside smelled the sausages and started walking toward me. They came closer and closer but still wouldn’t let me pet them yet.

The plants were growing better than I expected. I had four rows of planting plots now, with the first one already about palm-height tall.

I stayed outside beside the fire until dark, watching the flames dance and feeling just a bit more connected to something—the cats, the plants, the warmth—against the cold that crept outside.

I rested lazily on my sofa, the warmth of the house comforting against the chill outside. All the cats were curled up in their spots—Snow on the windowsill, Stormy dozing by the bookshelf, and Abby snuggled near the heater. Snow gazing outside, ears twitching.

The cloudy sky loomed over the town, heavy with the threat of rain, not that it mattered much to my solar setup; today, the lack of sunlight meant little power. I had only one lamp on, casting soft shadows across the walls.

I began to look for my phone charger, but it wasn’t where I usually kept it. Suddenly, I recalled I’d left it outside by the firepit. I peered out through the glass and found the night had fallen pitch black—the overcast sky muffled even the usual starlight.

I stood beside Snow, whispering, "Too dark, isn't it?" She flicked her tail but didn’t move away.

In my hands, I clicked on the flashlight app, shining the beam around the yard. Nothing stirred, not even another cat. The darkness felt oppressive, like a thick, living thing pressing in.

"It's scary," I murmured to myself. Maybe my mind was weaving too many imaginings. In the dark, I could almost feel something lurking—persistent shadows teasing my senses. That’s why I hated going outside after dark.

"Like being alone in an abandoned town isn’t scary enough," I thought, voice low and trembling. "It’s not the loneliness I fear in the dark—it’s the fear of not being alone."

That thought sent a shiver down my spine.

In both hands, I grabbed two flashlights and bolted outside, my breath clouding in the cold air. I dashed to the firepit, swiftly grabbed the charger, and ran back inside, heart pounding fiercely against my ribs.

Safe indoors, with the cats settled once again around me, I let out a shaky breath. The dark played tricks on me—always did—but for now, I was home, and that was enough.

Whispers on the Wind

The next day, the sky opened wide, and a strong wind blew nonstop, as if trying to blow away the last patches of stubborn clouds. Despite the gusts, it wasn’t getting warmer, but the sun’s weak glow still managed to lend some comfort. Nature seemed to be making its presence known—displaying its raw power. Thankfully, I hadn’t set up a tent last night; if I had, it would’ve ended up on the other side of town by now, blasted by the relentless wind.

I ventured outside to water my little plot of plants. They glowed vibrant, unaffected by the fierce wind. One lettuce leaf had partially broken away from its cluster. I pulled it off, its color a deep, fresh green. Craving a bite, I popped it into my mouth and chewed. "Damn," I muttered, "that’s dirt. I should’ve washed it first."

The house hadn’t made much progress; it looked the same. Solar panels lay scattered in the front yard, the water pump sat steady in the stream. I hadn’t yet learned to fish—"I still have food," I thought, "I have a choice not to hunt." I felt grateful there were no predators like cougars or coyotes roaming the valley.

Then, unexpectedly, I spotted something—a helicopter. I hadn’t heard it, probably because of the fierce wind. It was to the north, likely heading to the power plant. I shaded my eyes with my hand and watched as it attempted to hover over the ruins of the power plant. I stood still, observing.

"It’s been about a month," I thought. "They might be here to monitor the site."

I kept watching as the helicopter suddenly made an unnatural 180-degree turn. It dropped below the treeline far too quickly—too fast for a landing. My body tensed. I grabbed a chair nearby and stood on it to get a better view, hoping to see it take off again or smoke rising. Then, a thin wisp of smoke spiraled up above the tree line.

"Shit, shit, shit," I cursed inside.

"What now? Did they crash?" my mind raced.

"I don’t know," another voice answered, "what can I do? Can I even help?"

I paced back and forth. The town was closed off with blockades; a rescue team would take ages to get here. Without hesitation, I ran back inside, grabbed the two first aid kits I had, and hopped on my scooter.

"If someone needs help—even a little—I have to help," I told myself, driving off toward the power plant.

Around twenty minutes later—or at least that's what I think—it felt like I reached the crash site. I hadn’t been to the wreckage of the power plant since that day, over a month ago. I slowed down as I approached the entrance, and there it was: the helicopter lay on its side, clearly crashed, but without any fire. The smoke I had seen from a distance might have been dust raised when the helicopter blades hit the ground.

Near the helicopter, I noticed two figures standing, seemingly staring at the wreckage. Both were males. I rode my scooter into the power plant area and stopped in the middle of the field where the helicopter lay.

I blew the horn a few times. The two men turned towards me, visibly surprised to see a girl wearing boxers and a jacket, riding a scooter with two small first aid kits dangling from her elbows.

"Hey, everyone alright?" I shouted.

Their jaws still dropped. One of them seemed to gather himself faster, closed his mouth, and replied, "Yeah, we’re okay. The wind caused the crash." They appeared uninjured, just dusty.

"Thank God," I breathed a sigh of relief, killing the scooter engine and just staring. This wasn’t something you saw every day—or even in a lifetime.

"Who are you? This town isn’t supposed to have people," one of them asked.

"Umm," I hesitated, unprepared to answer. "I didn’t evacuate," I finally said.

One pilot said, "Hey, I think I know you. The internet said something about the Wasteland Girl." The other pilot turned to him. I nodded quietly and tried to change the subject.

"And what are you two doing here?" I asked.

But the pilot didn’t seem ready to change the topic. He turned to his friend and began explaining what he'd heard online about me: a suicidal girl who chose to live in the radioactive wasteland instead of evacuating. Then he turned back to me and grinned, "Can we have a selfie? We got saved by the Wasteland Girl!"

They proceeded to approach me and took a surprisingly large number of selfies with the crashed helicopter in the background.

"And, will they send some help? Or do you want me to take you to the first blockage?" I asked, then turned back to my scooter. "In two trips."

The pilot shook his head. "No, the rescue team will be here. It’ll probably take some time because of the winds." The other pilot showed the screen of his phone—they communicated with the base using WhatsApp? I nodded.

"Do you want anything else?" I asked.

They declined, only asking if they could know what it’s like to live here. I explained a little here and there—it wasn’t quite what I had imagined before I came here. Now, it felt more like I was keeping them company until real help could arrive.

Then I realized I had a few cans of beer under the scooter seat. I walked to grab them. "Want some beer while we wait?" I offered.

The pilot’s eyes lit up, but he stopped himself. "Oh, I would love to, but there will be an investigation. I can’t have alcohol after crashing this thing," he gestured to the helicopter.

"Oh, right," I said, opening one for myself and lighting a cigarette. They accepted the cigarette.

"And how did you get these?" they asked.

"Loot," I answered with a blank expression.

"Badass," they smiled.

We sat there for a while, then I heard something—another helicopter coming.

I stood up. "Welp, that’s my cue to go."

"Leaving already?" they asked.

I shrugged. "Good luck then."

I rode back, extra careful given the cold and the beer, lighting another cigarette along the way to stay awake.

"At least nobody’s hurt," I said aloud.

"The least we can do," I replied to myself.

I arrived home without issue late in the evening. I sat down and opened another beer—just two remaining, not enough for a full round anyway. Then I heard scratching at the front door and realized, "Oh, your lunches. I forgot," and ran back inside to feed the cats.

Evening arrived, and I switched from my usual beer to whiskey—it felt more fitting for the fading light. The firepit had been lit, casting a warm glow that I found oddly comforting. There’s something primal about watching fire; I think I read once that humans instinctively feel safer when near a fire at night.

For dinner, I had ramen with some greens and pork mixed in. It felt surprisingly like a restaurant dish, and I muttered to myself, "Not bad."

On my way in earlier, I’d noticed a few more helicopters landing, reassuring me that the pilots I’d met earlier—and whose names I never even asked—should be okay now.

I added more “fireblocks” to the flames—ready-made firewood from the hardware store. Being out after dark was fine now with the bright fire, providing both light and warmth.

The cats gathered around me again, though this time I had no leftover sausages for them. Instead, I opened canned cat food, which they devoured eagerly. Even after finishing, they didn’t leave. Instead, they sat quietly, eyes flickering as they stared at the fire and the surrounding darkness, like my own guardian squad. It gave me a strange, peaceful feeling. "I feel safe," I thought.

Futurama played on my phone nearby. I’ve got a strict rule not to bring the laptop outside—one drop or accident and it would be gone forever. The cats seemed indifferent to what was playing.

Sometimes I wished I had a book to read, but reading didn’t mix well with my habit of alcohol consumption.

I tightened the sleeping bag I used as a blanket when outside—a camping section find from the hardware store. Slowly, one cat curled up at the end of the blanket, seeking warmth. I smiled. Seems like this blanket wasn’t coming back inside anymore. It was becoming part of my outside ritual.

Wind

Two days later, the wind was still relentless—if anything, it had picked up even more, shaking the trees as if nature was testing if their roots were strong enough to hold.

I made it into town once a day to scavenge more supplies, mainly flour. Supposedly, it can be stored a long time, and with my mini oven now, I could try making bread. Well, almost; instead of flour, what I ended up with was pre-made cookie dough, so I was destined for cookies every other day—assuming I wasn’t too drunk to operate the oven.

I finished watching Futurama, my comfort show, and sent a message to the Facebook group asking for suggestions. A few people recommended "Disenchanted." I tried some episodes—funny, possibly by the same creators—and the best part? The protagonist is a drunkard.

Not sure, but it seemed I’d gotten used to the cold. I was getting out more, accepting a few low-risk jobs, while turning down sketchy ones—like the request to "retrieve" jewelry from a house they didn’t even know.

I managed to get more cat food, plus fresh beef and pork, not dried this time. The fridge was working; that in itself was something.

But today was different. I woke up, stretched happily in my bed, and decided it was another lazy day.

The cats were still asleep, curled up in their usual spots. I looked outside—lots of clouds today. Turning on the laptop, I finally visited the Facebook group, looking for suggestions. The first thing that caught my eye was a petition requesting I record videos while going about town "for people who missed their home" this time.

Scrolling through, someone had posted a news link titled "Wasteland Girl Saved Helicopter Pilot." My eyes widened, and I exclaimed "Jeeeezus Christ!" Without even reading the article, I saw the selfie with the crashed helicopter in the background.

Moving on, another post directly asked me to accept cat food donations from a cat lover’s club. I clicked on it. They asked what time I wanted to pick up the cat food at the first blockade. I commented, "The cats said thanks—whenever you’re ready." It was nice to see people cared about cats.

Not much else for the rest of the feed, but I got some helpful suggestions: using plastic wrap to keep vegetables fresh longer in the fridge, ramen recipes, and a location for rice at a Thai restaurant in town. The owner even posted a link to her new restaurant outside town, including a rice recipe. "Interesting," I thought. Seems I didn’t have to start a wheat farm so soon.

Another post caught my eye—one of the pilots had found the group and posted to thank me. "Thank what? I didn’t even do anything," I muttered. But reading inside, it was tempting. He said he could come drop off "necessities"—he didn’t say it directly, but I knew it meant a crate of beer, from him and his friends, who also had personal helicopters.

I turned to Stormy, still sleeping but with ears twitching when I talked to him. "What do you think, Stormy? Having a delivery by helicopter?" I typed, adding, "Only if you also bring a hamburger," then paused and added, "Also, the cats said fish." Sent.

I closed the browser and opened Disenchanted. It continued playing from where I’d left off (or rather, passed out) last night. Princess Bean was still on her adventure.

I thought to myself: "Why do I seem busier than before the apocalypse?" Then, I walked outside for my smoke.

It was drizzling, something I hadn’t noticed while inside. I walked out to check if the plastic box sealing the solar system control box was still dry from the rain—still good.

I finished my cigarette and went back inside for some cereal. The cats were still asleep. Outside, I took a slow walk around the house for a "parameter check." I didn’t mind the rain.

Everything was okay. Outside, okay. Cats, okay. Life was good—just another day in a radioactive land.

Sitting at my smoking chair, I lit another cigarette and admired the view of the treeline under the drizzling rain. The grasses were growing taller on the other side of the road. "How long does it take for nature to reclaim all this?" I thought to myself. But I didn’t answer.

I got a message on Facebook from the Cat Lovers Club—the first real one. They could deliver cat food today. I mentioned the long walk from the outer blockage and suggested they use a cart.

Also, the helicopter pilot and his friend—now I know their names, Mike and Henry—planned to visit with a delivery. They said they could stay for 20 minutes, "official suggestion," they stressed, and that they’d bring some tablets supposedly good for people exposed to a lot of radiation.

First came the Cat Lovers Club. I tied a cart to the back of my scooter and rode to the first blockage. I waited around 30 minutes and three cigarettes before they finally showed up. There were four of them: two women around my age and two younger men. Looked like some university club.

One woman introduced herself as Nicky, a bit too formal, "Pleased to meet you." Then I noticed one of the guys, a DSLR camera hanging around his neck, starting to film. Nicky kept talking while I smiled awkwardly and quietly mouthed, "What are you doing?"

Nicky said, "Oh, sorry. It's for the club, I thought it would be okay. Is it okay?" I paused but nodded. We were already there; what else could I say?

She continued about human and cat care and the club’s purpose while I spun nervously beside her.

When she finished, she turned to me and asked, "So, please tell me more about these cats."

I froze. What part of a girl who abandoned society to live alone made them think I wanted to be interviewed?

"Umm," I finally mumbled, "They are Snow, Stormy, and Abby. They were abandoned." I paused. "There are also other cats now living in a hardware store; I feed them sometimes." God, please make it stop.

Nicky babbled on about cat health in the wasteland and people who abandoned their pets—that part I agreed with. She handed me a package of "cat-safe insecticide" to use on my cats. She kept babbling—god, make it stop—something about their sponsor—make. it. stop.—and finally thanked me and thank viewer for watching. The guy with the camera put it down and gave a thumbs-up. Thank God.

The guys helped transfer boxes of cat food to my cart. I said nothing and lit another cigarette, but caught him sneaking photos of me several times. When they were done, I thanked them and they started walking back. I gave out loud grunts—but this food was worth the social interaction.

Back on my scooter, I rode home and sat outside for a while, trying to process and recharge after that awkward meeting.

I let the strong wind blow through me, let it pass. Now those clips could be all over the group—fine by me. My life didn’t depend on it, and their “sponsor” would be happy to put footage of a soon-to-die girl on their website.

I took another drag of my smoke, walked back inside, and lay down on the floor. Stormy climbed up and sat on my chest. "Ugh, my ribs," I muttered. He wasn’t getting smaller; quite the opposite.

Evening came. The next event would be with Mike and Henry, the helicopter pilots. I suggested they land in the hardware store parking lot, but they said the middle of the road was safe enough.

Late evening, as the sun began to set, I heard the helicopter’s hum. I walked outside, still in my black tank top—didn’t really care. They landed a bit further away, which was nice; it meant the cats wouldn’t get startled as much.

The engine stopped; the rotor slowed to a near halt. The two pilots, in casual clothes—not pilot suits like last time—walked toward me carrying a box and bags. I waved—at least no camera around their necks.

We said hello, and they set their stuff on the driveway. I invited them into my house, which at this point only had the sofa as seating. We talked and laughed while they looked around at the messy solar system, a hose dragging through the window, and the LPG heaters still running.

"You’ve got quite a comfy house," Mike said.

"Well, I’m still alive," I replied. "What’s there to complain about?" It was so much easier to talk with them when they weren’t holding cameras or talking about sponsors.

Henry handed me a bag of tablets. "Here, before I forget, these will help with radiation levels."

I accepted it and eyed the tablet size, alarmed. "These are for chewing, not swallowing, right?"

They laughed. "Yeah. We think so. Otherwise, they’d be the hardest pills to swallow."

I chuckled, looked up, and said, "Oh, let’s have a beer together. You can this time, right?"

They nodded with a smile. I opened a crate they brought, took out three beers—I couldn’t help but smile at the amount—and they accepted, popping open their cans. I raised mine. "To the radiation."

They echoed the toast, and we began to drink.

"How long can you stay? Twenty minutes?" I asked.

They nodded.

"Yeah," Mike said, "to limit exposure and stuff. But mostly, it’s a safety-first rule. Look at you," he pointed at me.

I laughed. "I know they’re joking. Sometimes I just turn off the light to see if I glow in the dark."

They both laughed, looked around, and the look on their faces was anything but judgmental.

"Hey, let’s take a selfie," I suggested. We spent a while chasing Stormy and the other cats to get into the frame. We even recorded a few clips.

Mike finished his can and said, "Okay, time to go."

They stood up; I thanked them, but they seemed happier than I was.

"It’s the story to be told," Henry said.

I nodded and walked them to the helicopter. They asked me to step back, started the engine, rose higher for a few minutes, and then left me standing alone far from the house.

I noticed how dark it was around here and ran back home.

Inside, I locked the door. All the cats hid under the bed—the helicopter’s noise was too loud even for me, let alone for these poor cats. I held them to help them relax, which took a while.

Once I saw they were settled, I walked outside for a smoke—and opened another beer.

Two visits today. Both left me with very different feelings. One drained the life force from me; the other seemed to replenish it.

I took out my phone and decided to post the clip with Mike and Henry to the group—just to selectively spread what felt good.

I stayed in the group chat for a while, reading comments. Someone started a group call, but I didn’t join—just observed.

I’d choose a cigarette and a beer in my hand over social interaction any day.

The Pause

I tell myself, "Okay, tomorrow will be the REAL lazy day. No one can make me do things." Saying that, I continue my journey with 'Disenchanted' playing softly and a cold beer in hand.

The morning—or more like almost noon—I got up and fed the cats. I stepped outside for a morning smoke, settling into my favorite smoking chair. Lighting my cigarette, I noticed a cat sitting on the camping blanket I had left outside. "Oh, hello there," I said softly, but the cat didn’t move. Worried, I walked toward it to check if it was hurt. The cat startled and bolted toward the hardware store.

"At least you’re fine," I murmured, walking back to my chair to continue my smoke. That cat’s presence made me think about creating a warm place around the house—a better plan before winter arrives.

"But not today," I decided, watching the wind sweep the other side of the road. The meadow there looked like a waving grass field, the tall grass bending and swaying with the strong gusts. For now, this simple moment of stillness felt enough.

I sat in the chair for a while, deliberating whether to just stay put the whole day, watching the grasses wave or to find some other way to relax. The gentle sway of the grass felt hypnotic, and before long, I found myself dozing off under the soft afternoon sky.

I woke up to discover a black cat curled peacefully on my lap. I almost reached to pet it, but didn’t want to startle the little visitor. Instead, I simply enjoyed the silence, sharing the view with my new companion.

Lighting my lighter, the cat startled and leapt down, pausing briefly to look back at me. I took a slow drag of my cigarette and softly said, "Hey there." The cat didn’t run off; instead, it strolled over to the blanket and settled down again. "Hmm," I mused, "I could call this relaxing."

I went inside to get a can of cat food, then noticed my "shooping" pile—my growing stockpile of supplies—was getting out of hand, waist-high now with beers and the latest delivery of cat food added on top. "Too many are better than too few," I thought, grabbing the can and heading back outside. I opened it carefully and placed the food on the driveway.

Letting the cat decide when to eat, I thought about the long rides I used to take, feeling the wind as it swept through the valley. It was a bit windy today—almost like a mini hurricane—so I had to be more cautious. As for the destination? Somewhere I hadn’t gone in a while. Lately, every trip was planned meticulously—routes mapped out. What if I just let the wind decide? Yeah, that sounded like a plan.

I got up, grabbed a jacket and my backpack—just in case I found some resources along the way—and hopped on my scooter.

I headed east, and since I hadn’t encountered the east road blockade yet, I decided to take a road I hadn’t used in a while. Halfway through, in the town, I stopped for a smoke and parked the scooter. The streets felt deserted, and I noticed many shops and stores I hadn’t visited—"or looted," I added wryly.

My eyes landed on a cellphone shop. It could have gadgets I might find useful, but as I approached, I saw its display window was already broken, dusty and littered with leaves. It had been looted sometime since the incident.

I stepped inside carefully, some display cases broken. I tread cautiously to avoid sharp shards.

Scavenging what was left, I found several iPods—great. I grabbed a few, and a tablet—which was interesting, but I already had my laptop. Near the end of the display, I spotted a phone holder—"Hmm, I’ll take it." And there it was, a holder meant to hang around the neck, designed for recording during activities. "Like looting," I thought with a smirk. "Hey, I could use it to record this trip; the group would love it."

I took it out of its wrapper, slipped my phone in, and put it around my neck. "Sturdier than I thought," I mused, then walked back to the scooter—moonwalking to grab the tablet on the way, remembering there were apps for cats.

It was a relaxing day indeed.

I got on my scooter, phone and holder securely around my neck. Taking a deep breath, I pressed record and muttered sarcastically, "Alright, hope you’re happy now. I’m recording." Then I kicked off, the engine humming as I pulled onto the empty street.

Not much caught my eye on this ride — at least not for me. I just cruised along, turning here and there, even circling the roundabout a few times just to irritate anyone foolish enough to watch this video. Eventually, I headed east toward the blockage.

The road was quiet, but the trees looked livelier than ever. The grass stood taller, and a few branches lay scattered across the pavement. I stopped briefly, pulling the larger ones off to the roadside.

It took a while, but I finally reached the east blockage. Surprise, surprise — there were concrete blocks laid out, firmly barring passage. I parked the scooter, stepped off, and walked around. Nothing of interest except five empty military crates lying abandoned.

Lighting a cigarette, I settled down right there on the blockage, almost forgetting the phone was still recording.

The tall trees along this stretch formed a sort of natural tunnel overhead, branches dipping lower than I'd ever seen. In the past, they were trimmed high to avoid hitting passing cars, but now, with no traffic, they were free to grow wild. "Go, tree, I root for you," I whispered with a grin.

I finished my smoke and decided to head back. Normally I’d grab some coffee on the way home, but these days, I’d cut back to just cigarettes.

Starting the scooter, I drove back but took a right turn onto a different road, still recording. I paused a few times — to smoke, to check a local pharmacy for more first aid kits, and to pick up some surprisingly still-good snacks.

As I neared home, I stopped the recording. The whole world didn’t need to know exactly where I lived; too many people already knew that, and that was alarming enough.

On the way, I stopped to feed the rainbow cat family, refilling their dispenser before continuing on. Finally, I arrived at my house peacefully.

"Mama’s home!" I called out. One by one, all the cats appeared in the doorframe. Today, even another cat popped out from the side of the house.

"Oh, hey, Inky," I smiled.

I put away the extra things and tried turning on the tablet I’d found. Still had some juice. I connected it to my phone’s Wi-Fi and downloaded some "apps for cats," placing the tablet on the floor beside the sofa.

Feeling a bit tired — I hadn’t ridden this long in a while — I opened the fridge and grabbed a can of beer, popping it open. Plugging in the charger, I started uploading the video to the internet. With these speeds, it would take a while.

I set the phone down and opened my laptop. "Internet in the post-apocalypse world," I muttered, then started doom-scrolling. But lately, my feed had been overrun by cats.

Half an hour passed with empty beer cans scattered beside the sofa. I grabbed a cat toy and tried to play with them.

Then I checked the phone. The upload was finished. Sending the video link into the group chat with the caption, "Done, now stop nagging me about it," I closed the browser and leaned back.

Another day in my cursed little town.

That evening, the plan was simple—steak, or rather something close to it. Translation: just slap a beef steak on the fire because I was too lazy to fuss over food. Honestly, it went surprisingly well with a cold beer, I had to admit. I even cooked a little extra for the cats and the strays hanging around the house. Inky, the black cat who had become closest to me, seemed to be leading the stray crew now.

I sat outside by the fire for a while, watching the dance of flames as twilight embraced the evening. The few solar lamps I'd scattered around the house had done their job—lighting the darkness long enough to chase it away until I was ready to sleep or, more likely, passed out drunk, whichever came first.

One odd habit I’d developed was periodically walking to different parts of the house, shining a bright flashlight into the darkness outside. I wasn’t sure if it helped with my fear of the dark or if it made that fear worse, but I kept doing it nonetheless.

Eventually, I moved to my bedroom. My tablet was charging—Stormy, the chubby cat, seemed to have taken a particular liking to playing with it the most. The heater, still running smoothly, hadn’t consumed nearly as much LPG as I had feared. Judging by the stock at the hardware store, plenty of LPG tanks were still available.

I turned down the lights, leaving just the laptop screen glowing faintly. A show played softly as two beer cans sat on the nightstand. I sipped the beer quietly, glancing out the window. The solar lamp was still faintly glowing outside, its light dimmer now, casting eerie shadows among the trees.

I kept watching the show late into the night but soon found the beer wasn’t doing the job. I went and grabbed some whiskey—the beer just wasn't cutting it tonight.

Before long, I drifted off to sleep, the cats creeping up onto the bed and settling close to me.

For once, I slept peacefully. This little cursed town might be the last place I’d ever call home, but at least here, I knew exactly what to expect.

A Face in the Distance

I woke up to Abby biting my nose, a sharp but familiar little nip that got me moving. It was a sunny morning, the kind that made me decide another ride was overdue. I fed the cats and myself a quick breakfast, then gathered some snacks and a few cans of beer onto my scooter.

"Wasteland picnic," I muttered with a smirk, tossing the cans onto the seat. "Just don't crash and break your leg."

I started the engine, unsure exactly where I wanted to go, but deciding to take the outermost road—the one that passed through farmland scenery. Not much farmland, considering the valley town, but enough to offer a different view.

Riding toward the other side of town, I stopped a few times here and there to take photos and have a cigarette break. The air was crisp and clean, the sky a vast, uninterrupted blue.

Later, I found a big old tree beside the road, close to an old barn. Nearby was a wooden bench, and I pulled up to sit a spell.

I took out a bag of snacks and popped open a can of beer, savoring both while taking in the wide fields stretching out on either side of the road. The barn, once a bright red, had faded to a soft, weathered hue over the years.

A cold breeze blew, and I felt a drowsiness wash over me. I was toying with the idea of a quick nap when suddenly, the barn door creaked open.

My heart tensed. An old woman stepped out, dragging a wooden plank further into the treeline. She didn’t seem to notice me at first.

I stood up, still holding my beer, watching her carefully. Then she adjusted her grip on the plank and turned around to get a better hold—and froze.

Our eyes met. She dropped the plank and just stared, equally surprised.

After a moment, she raised a wavering hand in greeting. I lifted my own in return and started walking toward her.

For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t alone in this town.

We talked, and she turned out to be quite a nice old lady. Like me, she hadn’t left town during the evacuation—nowhere else to go. As I shared my story, she told me she ran a chicken farm just beyond the tree line. Since the evacuation, she hadn’t seen a soul. Her life was solitary but unchanged in routine, except those delivery trucks stopped passing down this road.

She offered me some tea in her small house tucked behind the barn. I accepted and followed her inside. The place was modest, nothing fancy, but it seemed to have everything she needed. When I offered her a can of beer, she laughed and also accepted.

We talked for a while. I told her about life back in town, the emptiness outside, my cats, and all the strange routines I’d picked up. She told me that sometimes she would walk to the nearest grocery store and take essentials like sugar and flour. With no one around, she'd simply write down what she took on a piece of paper taped to the store counter. “Common courtesy,” she said.

It was refreshing—no judgment, no criticism about the choices I’d made. Since she lacked nothing and needed nothing, I excused myself, and silently promised to visit her again soon.

We said our goodbyes. I climbed onto my scooter and rode off to continue my journey. She went back to her farm, to her solitude, and I felt the faintest flicker of connection in an otherwise empty world.

I headed back home without stopping anywhere else. Nothing along the way seemed to interest me as much as the fact that I’d just learned I wasn’t alone in this abandoned town.

The image of the old lady lingered in my mind as I rode. Despite the evacuation and the disaster, despite the ruined power plant and the desolate streets, she seemed untouched by it all—living her quiet, isolated life without a hint of worry. The power plant’s meltdown, the radiation—it didn’t bother her at all.

This realization settled in me like a small seed of hope: maybe I could find a way to exist not just surviving, but living, even in this forsaken place. With every turn of the scooter’s wheel, that thought grew stronger.

When I finally arrived at my home, the familiar silence greeted me—not loneliness, but my own kind of home. And I was not alone anymore.

Between Thoughts

I woke up, spun around in my bed, and heard Snow meowing softly. I opened a can of cat food for her, then crawled back under the blanket, pulling the cover tight around me.

"Five more minutes," I thought. "Or five more hours," my other self added quietly. I remained still, letting the familiar warmth soothe me, though sleep no longer came so easily.

After a few minutes of silence, a scratch at the bedroom window broke the calm. "Eat, I won’t let you out," I murmured sternly. The scratching stopped, then started again. I peeked over the blanket edge and saw Inky trying to get inside. I sat up excitedly and opened the window.

"Hey, you want to come in?" I asked, but Inky didn’t jump inside. Instead, he meowed and hopped down onto the grass beneath my window. He looked up at me, meowed again, and walked toward the front of the house.

"Did he come to tell me to feed them?" I wondered aloud. "How smart are these things?" my other self asked. "We wouldn’t know," I replied with a shrug.

Deciding to get up, I fed Inky and his gang, along with Snow inside. I lit a cigarette and settled into my smoking chair outside, the cool morning air wrapping around me.

"What to do today?" I mumbled, still not hungry. "Laundry?" my other voice suggested. A mental image of a pile of dirty clothes in the bathroom corner flashed in my mind. "Or I could just be naked in the wasteland," I thought with a half-smile.

"Yeah, and the drones will start live broadcasting you," my other self reminded me, snapping me back to reality.

I stood, picked up my phone, and checked online to see if a washing machine would run on solar power. "Hmm, looks like the washing machine will work fine," I read, "it doesn’t consume as much power as I thought — just not one with a water warmer."

I browsed a little longer, then got up, ready to face the day.

I got up, stubbed out my cigarette, and grabbed one of the shopping carts left outside—a few still scattered near my house that I never bothered to return. The morning air was crisp, a quiet contrast to my restless mind.

I pushed the cart over to the store, where I found a laundry machine tucked between aisles of tools and forgotten supplies. Grunting with effort, I loaded it onto the cart, then restocked on cat food before heading back home. The weight of the cart slowed my pace, but the thought of clean clothes made the effort worthwhile.

Back at the house, I decided the back balcony would be the perfect spot for the machine. The wastewater could drain into my plant plot below, a resourceful way to recycle—something I learned today was called "gray water." The plants were thriving, their green leaves a small victory in this wasteland.

I plugged the machine into the power grid, connected the hose, and started the cycle. It felt surreal—my first laundry since the apocalypse. "No reason to stay dirty in the wasteland," I thought with a small grin.

Stepping back, I lit a cigarette and watched the machine hum its mechanical song. The drainage pipe dangled from the balcony, swaying slightly in the wind. I debated if I needed another pipe, but after a moment, grabbed a hand shovel instead and dug a narrow creek just wide enough for the gray water to flow toward the plant plot.

Ten minutes later, the shallow canal was complete, and I stood listening to the faint sound of water trickling down the incline. "That’ll do," I said to myself.

I went back inside and used my leg to block Snow from darting out. "Getting a bit chubby, aren’t you?" I remarked, or perhaps she was just adapting to the cooler weather by growing a thicker coat.

I settled on the sofa, cracked open a beer, and smiled to myself. "Guess I win an award for doing laundry in a post-apocalyptic world."

Taking a deep sip, I opened my laptop and logged into the Facebook group out of habit. For once, there wasn’t much activity except for a girl who’d turned my earlier video of the town into a memorial montage titled "Our Beloved Ridge Valley," drawing quite a few viewers.

"Hmm, if only I could charge a can of cat food per viewer," I chuckled quietly, my other self seeming to agree. Suddenly, a tooth throbbed painfully; I pressed my tongue against it and sighed. "Not now. This is no good timing for a bad tooth," I muttered, then continued doomscrolling.

After a while, I stood and stretched. There wasn’t much else to do, so I felt freer than usual. I noticed some friend requests and messages on Facebook but ignored them.

Then, an idea flashed through my mind, so I sat back down and googled "mini cat shelter ideas," scrolling through various designs and suggestions.

"Hmm, I don't know if these will help," I muttered to myself, scrolling through the various cat shelter ideas I’d found. Most of them looked like the kind of handiwork only a seasoned carpenter could pull off. The wood wasn’t the problem—there was plenty of it at Harper’s Hardware—but the actual building part? That was a different story.

Giving up on DIY shelters for the moment, I decided to reach out to the Facebook group. I posted, “Hey guys, with more cats moving around the house and the weather turning colder (nuclear winter—haha), any ideas for cat shelters that don’t require a carpenter certificate?”

While waiting for responses, I scrolled through the group and stumbled upon a post titled, "Elera, please read, job offer." It wasn’t a typical plea or request. The message was official and formal—a summary ran through my head as I read it over and over.

Apparently, Silverbrook—the next town over, which seemed to be welcoming a lot of former residents from Ridge Valley—was setting up a museum to commemorate the events that befell our town. They needed someone on the inside to provide photos, to document the buildings, streets, and remnants of what was left. Essentially, a job offer.

"Hmm, a job offer?" I thought skeptically. My other voice was quick to scoff, "Fuck that, we aren’t here to work." But logic crept in, and I tried to see the silver lining. A few snapshots in exchange for tons of cat food? That could amount to a small fortune. I started calculating how many cans of cat food a normal salary could buy.

I decided to reply with a simple, “More info?” and sent the comment.

Then, with a wry twist of fate, I teased myself, “I hope the benefits include dental,” as I used my tongue to examine the nagging toothache again. No promises there, at least not yet.

Offers and Decisions

The next day, I logged into the video call the initiative had set up, feeling a mix of curiosity and skepticism. The formal tone of the woman leading the meeting clashed painfully with my decaying patience for official language. "This way we will have a progressive cataloging of buildings, located on the town map. This phase focuses purely on achieving a complete registry of all buildings. Should the initiative continue next year, we can retake and update photos to monitor the decay process," she explained in a tone so dry it made my brain itch.

I scratched my head, wondering if the part of my brain that processed formal language had already gone bad first.

Before I could reject the offer outright, another man stepped forward from the call's shadows, apparently sensing my mood. "Basically, Elera," he said with an earnestness that cut through the stuffiness, "we'll bring you a good camera and all the gear you need to take photos inside the town. You upload them weekly—or at your own pace. No pressure. In exchange, we'll supply whatever you need twice a week. Think of it like a bi-weekly salary."

I exhaled, silently thanking him for the 'wasteland language.'

He added, "If you agree to help, we'll be in your debt. Many former townspeople—including Uncle Ben and Aunt Susan—will have something tangible to remember their hometown by. Something not lost forever, wiped from all memory."

He paused, giving me time to think. The woman who'd spoken earlier fell silent, perhaps losing some face.

"Can I... give you my answer later?" I asked cautiously.

"Of course, Elera. Take your time. We understand your special situation. It's up to you to accept or not. Everything's flexible," he assured me. "And there won’t be any monthly meetings or anything like that." He smiled, and I caught the woman’s look—surprised, maybe impressed by his sudden informality.

"Yeah, I'll get back to you soon," I said, watching him nod and thank me for my time. Just before disconnecting, he added, "Oh, by the way, Ben passed along a message. He’s opened a restaurant here now—‘Ben and Susan's.’ Good food. And he named a menu item after you."

I raised my brows, caught off guard and unsure how to react. He must have seen my face because he smiled and then the call ended.

After the call ended, I found myself still staring at the screen, the idea of a camera hanging around my neck while riding through town stirring a mix of amusement and mild apprehension. "What am I? A war zone reporter?" another voice inside my head quipped dryly. But the truth was, I liked taking photos wherever I went anyway—it could be something fun, maybe even a little purposeful.

I shrugged off the lingering tension, deciding to leave the decision for later. Lighting a cigarette, I stepped outside and walked toward the water mint plant I’d been tending. The leaves were growing well, vibrant green against the muted backdrop of the ruined town. I carefully plucked a few of the leaves, leaving the rest to flourish on their own, then placed them gently in the fridge.

Opening my back door, Abby darted out, his usual spontaneous energy contrasting with my contemplative mood. He paused after a meter, uncertain of where to go next. I scooped him up, feeling the soft warmth of his body against mine, and carried him back inside. Maybe tomorrow I’d think harder about that job. For now, there was still the quiet comfort of this broken place and the small life we were trying to keep alive within it.

I went back to the group, scrolling through the flood of ideas for makeshift cat shelters. Some were impossible dreams, but a few practical suggestions caught my eye—like using those big coolers from Harper’s Hardware. Punch a cat-size hole in the side, and I’d have an insulated box perfect for the winter chill. That felt doable.

“Now that is feasible,” I muttered, already picturing the row of cozy shelters lining the side of the house.

I grabbed my jacket and headed out to the hardware store, dragging a cart behind me. Four cooler boxes later, loaded and balanced precariously, I hauled them home. Lining them up neatly next to my bedroom window, I couldn’t help but mumble my own twisted version of a proverb: “Keep friends close, keep cats closer.”

With a power saw in hand—thankfully not a chainsaw—I started cutting holes, the ugly pockmarks gouged into the coolers feeling oddly satisfying. Twenty minutes later, I panted, “Whelp, at least they can get in and out.”

A quick trip back to the store yielded some rugs for lining the insides, because cold plastic hard floors wouldn’t do. Pulling the rugs into each cooler, I stepped back to assess my handiwork.

“Nicely done,” I thought, though I inwardly defended my work’s aesthetics when an inner critic whispered “It looks ugly.”

I snapped a photo and uploaded it to the Facebook group “Wasteland Cat Shelter,” captioning it casually, hoping for some community cheer.

Checking my phone again, I noticed a message in the museum job chat and typed “I’ll do it,” then tapped send.

But just as I was about to put the phone away, a notification popped up—not from the job chat, but the cat lover club, sharing the photo I'd posted.

“Hmm,” I sighed, uncertain how to feel. They’d probably be calling the cooler company for sponsorship next. I scolded my own bitterness, reminding myself, “Don’t be so bitter, they’re helping cats… in some way.”

Leaning back, I smiled faintly. “I made the right decision to stay in this town, then.”

I sat on my heels, staring at the row of cooler boxes lined up neatly beside the house. Something felt off. "Hmm, something is missing," I muttered.

"Cats?" my other voice suggested, but I didn’t reply. Instead, I stood up and walked back to Harper’s Hardware store again. Inside, I didn’t look for more cats, of course — those three were staying indoors with me. What I grabbed were small signs and alphabet letters: plastic pieces to label each cooler.

Back home, I carefully attached four signs to the coolers: “Snow,” “Stormy,” “Abby,” and “Inky.” I imagined the three indoor cats would appreciate a named shelter, even if they couldn’t read. There was one sign left, with even bigger letters that said “Human.” A step back, a nod of approval — that sign would go over the front door of the house.

Carrying all the signs, I affixed each one to its rightful cooler, now transformed into cat houses. The large “Human” sign went proudly above the door. Finished, I smiled to myself. "You know no one will see this, right?" I said aloud.

"Who told you?" I answered, a smirk touching my lips.

Grabbing my phone, I took photos of the colorful coolers with their new names, and the front door proudly sporting the “Human” sign. The coolers’ vibrant colors popped against the pale blue paint of the house side. I uploaded the images to the Facebook group, a quiet announcement of home and hearth.

Satisfied, I fetched a can of beer from the mini-fridge and settled into my smoking chair outside, lighting a cigarette. As I admired the photos glowing on my phone, a deep, small sense of accomplishment settled in me. In this cursed town, with no one around, this little bit of order and love felt like a victory.

Tools of the Trade

The update from the museum gig I accepted said the gear was arriving today. Right now, I was waiting at the first blockage, standing by the cracked concrete blocks with a cigarette dangling between my fingers. Through the slight haze of smoke, I saw three figures approaching—three men, backpacks slung over their shoulders. We exchanged greetings, and they introduced themselves quickly but efficiently.

What they brought were two compact cameras—not much bigger than the size I could fit in one hand, yet promising sharp, vivid photos. Along with them came a handful of memory cards and data transfer cables to connect the cameras to my laptop. They mentioned they'd be the ones delivering my salary, paid in goods every two weeks. I thanked them quietly, apologizing for the long walk they must endure.

"It's okay," one said with a grin, "I'm a trekker. Though next time, I think I'll use my electric scooter."

I raised an eyebrow. "You can bring scooters here?"

"I think so," he answered. "I just have to take it around this main blockage—the roads beyond are still good enough for it." Relief washed over me. I hadn’t caused them much trouble after all.

They were about to leave when one turned back, a small card in hand. "Almost forgot to give you this," he said, holding it out. "They figured you'd probably throw it away."

It was my badge—a photo of me smiling slightly, my official title printed clearly: "Historical Relics Imaging Specialist."

"I think I like it," I said with a small smile. They returned my smile and handed me the backpack containing the gear.

As they started walking back, I opened the pack. Nestled among the equipment was a tupperware container filled with sandwiches and a note from Aunt Susan and Uncle Ben: "Take care of yourself X, -Aunt Susan and Uncle Ben." The simple gesture warmed me unexpectedly.

Pocketing the note, I swung my leg over my scooter and started the engine. The day had been long, but small signs like these reminded me that even in this cursed town, care and kindness could still reach me. I rode back home, camera gear in hand, and allowed a rare moment of longing to settle over me.

I'm at home now, sitting on my battered sofa, my fingers trembling slightly as I examine the gear the museum gig sent over. Two compact cameras, surprisingly small, yet packed with a confusing array of memory cards—probably far more than I'll ever need. They come with a cable for direct transfer to my laptop, a convenience I appreciate, even if I’m clueless about half the tech jargon.

I fumble with one camera, turning it on and snapping my first photo. It’s disorienting — I’ve never used a camera before. But the images it produces are stunningly detailed, vivid in a way my phone could never manage. Colors pop, light dances across objects with depth I didn’t think possible.

"Snowy, smile," I murmur, peering down at the plump white cat curled lazily beside me. I snap a few shots of her, trying to coax a reaction.

"Lady, you’re really getting fluffier, huh?" I joke, picking her up gently. Squinting, I examine her belly. "Wait, are you just fat or… pregnant?" I prod, but she refuses further inspection, leaping down and climbing the cat tower, leaving me uncertain if she’s simply well-fed or expecting.

Shrugging, I grab the camera and step outside.

I roam the house and its immediate surroundings, capturing shots of my plants, the washing machine, the cat house, the uneven solar panels, and even the road stretching out in front of my place. The photos start to border on nonsensical—close-ups of a leaf on the driveway, a pile of leaves, the texture of my foot, and a selfie (hey, I’m a part of this town too). Above my door, I frame the weathered “Human” sign. Later, I capture the cats lingering near the hardware store down the street.

Honestly, I couldn’t say whether the camera is truly high-end or not, but the shots look more beautiful, more alive than anything on my phone screen. And for a woman who’s mostly survived by blending into the background, it feels oddly satisfying to hold this new tool of creation in my hands—one that can capture the world’s worn textures and my small corner in it, in vivid detail.

I walked back to the house, the camera in my hand. Setting it down gently, I connected the camera to my laptop with a cable. The screen glowed softly as I clicked on the link they’d given me: an upload form.

The familiar hum of the laptop filled the quiet room. I dragged the photos into the form, added the title—"test upload"—and watched as each file began its slow climb into the digital ether. It wasn’t much, but it was my first delivery.

Feeling a surge of impulsiveness, I opened Facebook. "What, they didn’t say I can’t," I muttered to myself. I selected a handful of images—barely the highlights—but enough to share. The upload bar crept upward steadily.

Then, the unexpected ping of a notification caught my eye: "You've got 2k+ friend requests." I blinked, heart sinking a bit.

"Damn," I thought, staring at the flood of names and faces I barely remembered or cared to know. But for now, I chose to ignore it. This was about me, about reclaiming a small piece of the world in my own way.

I settled back, the faint glow of the laptop screen casting long shadows across the room. It was just the start, but it felt like a foothold—a thread connecting me to a life worth capturing, or at least remembering.

Through the Lens

The morning light spilled weakly through the curtains as I finished breakfast with the cats. Despite the lingering toothache that buzzed annoyingly in the background, I decided I couldn't sit around any longer. Today was for getting out, for moving, for making some sort of mark. I grabbed my camera, small but remarkably sharp, its weight familiar in my hands, slipped on my jacket, and stuffed a few essentials into my backpack — also a nod to scavenging if the opportunity presented itself.

I hopped on my scooter and began to circle the town. Buildings, trees, the drainage system — I captured them all. I even peer inside a few houses where the doors hung loose or unlocked. "Anybody?" my voice barely cracked the air, followed by the customary "common courtesy," before I stepped inside. Dust motes danced in slates of light, items left behind telling indifferent stories.

Each location I photographed, I marked on my offline map app. It was a tacit record for myself — a way to remember where I had been, where subjects waited for their stories to be told.

At one point, I parked on the curb in front of a faded house, lit a cigarette, and scrolled through the day's captures. "Damn," I murmured, surprised by the camera’s prowess. The details were crisp, the colors vivid, beyond what my phone could hope to catch. It was a small device with a big soul.

My inner voice chimed in, "Take too many in one day and you’ll get bored of it and stop taking photos." I nodded, pocketed the camera, and let my eyes wander. Waiting in my gaze was a small corner grocery store, its door slightly ajar.

"Anybody..?" I called softly, then added my usual, "common courtesy."

Inside, dust coated the shelves, a postcard panel hung crookedly on the wall. I photographed rows of cigarettes — once abundant, now an empty shelf where I took every pack.

The act of looting felt oddly thrilling once more, yet beneath it, a quiet amusement sparked. I thought of an old lady who sometimes shopped here, her frail hands often reaching with care.

I marked the store’s location on my map, hopped back on my scooter, and rode out toward where the old lady lived—a red barn nestled near a large tree by the roadside, a weathered bench underneath.

I honked a few times before cutting the engine. Within moments, she emerged from the tree line, waving gently. I waved back and approached.

"Hey," I said, holding out three bags of sugar. "Saw these and thought of you."

Her smile was warm despite the shadows under her eyes. "Thank you, honey. Not many visit me—even before the evacuation."

She led me inside for tea. We talked quietly, her voice steady though tinged with loneliness. When I asked if she needed anything else, she shook her head. "Maybe next time, you could bring a first aid kit and some basic meds."

After finishing our tea, I said goodbye. The old lady seemed genuinely happy to have a visitor. Before I left, I asked if I could take a photo of her. She agreed with a soft smile. Respecting her privacy, I asked, "Can I share this photo? But it might reveal you still live here..."

She nodded, smiling. "It's okay."

Lighting a cigarette, I mounted my scooter and made my way back home, the weight of the day’s images fresh in my mind.

I took a little detour on the way back, the sun still hanging low in the sky, casting soft afternoon light over the empty streets. Arriving home around 4 pm, some daylight was still left to grace the small valley town. I stepped inside, greeted by the quiet hum of solitude and the familiar sight of Snow waiting by the door. "Sorry, dear, I'm late," I said softly, bending down to feed her.

The kitchen offered a small comfort—a packet of ramen with minced pork and some lettuce freshly grown from my little plot. I cooked it quickly, the steam rising as I settled on the sofa, a bottle of whiskey perched within reach. I flicked on Futurama, my usual escape, starting from one of the early seasons. The world outside seemed eerily quiet, just the soft sound of nature carrying the wind’s insistence through the trees.

Finishing the ramen, I grabbed the camera and began uploading the photos I’d taken earlier today. The process was slow, so I stepped outside for a smoke, the chilly air sharp against my face as I waited.

Suddenly, Snow darted outside before I could react. Startled, I watched her nose around just a few steps off the front balcony. Everything was so new to her; she wasn’t ready to run far just yet.

I picked her up, noticing she felt heavier than before. "Wait a minute," I said, a mix of surprise and worry knotting in my chest. Pulling out my phone, I snapped a few photos and sent them to the group chat. "Is she pregnant?" I posted, not sure what to expect. I’d never witnessed a cat giving birth and feared not knowing what to do if something went wrong.

Soon, someone replied: “Likely yes.” Relief mingled with fresh worry, and comments flooded in — advice ranging from preparing a safe place for her to give birth, to helping clean new-born kittens.

"Well, these aren’t helping with my stress," I commented back, "What if anything goes wrong?" The group understood, quickly clarifying that I wasn’t asking to be scared — just genuinely worried.

Then came a message that caused me to pause, reading: “Father of 20-plus cats here. First, trust the mother’s instinct. You don’t have to do anything unless you really need to. It’s natural that not all kittens survive—the strong ones that’re ready will make it. Just prepare your mind.”

I reread those words multiple times; it was real, raw advice, no sugarcoating. Slowly, I typed a quiet, "Thank you."

"Seems I care more about these cats than the whole town combined," I said aloud to myself.

"I am," came the quiet reply from somewhere deep inside.

Ten days had quietly passed, marked only by the persistent wind and the cool drop in temperature each night. The cats had begun to make themselves at home in the cooler beside the house — a haven shaped by crates I'd carefully placed in front of the cooler, a small sanctuary suggested by the group to make them feel safe.

I made several trips into town during the day, scavenging for resources and clicking photos as I went. These snapshots were more than just images; they were maps to hidden nooks — stores, houses, corners I had never noticed before. Each location I tagged meticulously in my offline map app, adding notes about the resources I discovered.

Then, the museum gig messaged me. They wanted to know what I would like for this round of payment. I paused, unsure. I’d searched for a cat delivery kit — something to help cats give birth safely — but there was nothing to be found. “Trust the mother cat,” they’d told me, and I reminded myself the same often.

So the payment had to be something else. I scanned my shopping pile: mostly whiskey and cat food — cigarettes had their own dedicated box now. If I asked for more cat food, there was a risk it might pass expiration long before these nom-noms could enjoy it. Food it would be, then. Greens weren’t urgent — my eight rows of lettuce plots were proof enough. I wasn’t a fan of vegetables anyway, so I asked for meat products.

I sent the details through the museum gig chat. They promised delivery the day after tomorrow and nodded to my mention of spare camera batteries, which they would bring along too.

With that settled, I turned back to my laptop and fired up State of Decay — a zombie survival game. It was hard; so hard that I resorted to using a cheat program, a “trainer script” that let me play just for relaxation.

“Great,” I muttered to myself, face lit by the laptop screen. “Playing a post-apocalyptic game in the wasteland? Just go outside.”

Sometimes, mocking myself was all I had.

Today is the day they'll deliver the payment for the photographer job. The toothache, nagging steadily, has sharpened into a dull roar, but I push it to the back of my mind as I head out to the appointment spot—the first blockage. Funny how that sounds.

I arrive early, leaning against my scooter, nursing the ache pulsing through my jaw. Yesterday was rough. I even had to scavenge for painkillers at a pharmacy—an all-evening errand that left me feeling more fragile than I care to admit.

Time drags until I finally see movement—someone approaches, electric scooter humming softly, a delivery guy from last time.

"Hey, that's cool," I nod towards the scooter.

"Thanks," he grins, handing over the package. "Got here alright?"

I glance over the road he took. "Yeah?"

"Just had to bring the scooter around a blockage. Road’s still decent, just some leaves—nothing serious."

"Cool," I say, stomach tightening into a knot of nerves and tooth pain.

"Alright, I’m off now. They liked your photos, by the way."

"Tell them thanks," I reply, watching him disappear down the road.

I check the bags—meat products enough to last a while, plus a fresh battery and a box of sandwiches from Aunt Susan. I smile, warmed by the small kindness.

Pulling out a sandwich, I take a bite. The tooth dulls to a manageable throb, just enough to keep me grounded in the moment. I finish it, pocket the rest, and swing around onto the scooter, cigarette lit and dangling from my lips.

As I ride home, cigarette smoke trailing behind me, I can't help but feel a flicker of something close to purpose amidst the haze of pain and solitude.

The Unmanageable

The next few days I didn’t enjoy the sausage as much as I thought I would. The toothache crept up relentlessly, growing into a sharp, unbearable pain.

I lock myself in the bedroom alone, shutting the door softly behind me, careful not to disturb the cats. I don’t want to upset any of them by showing what I’m really going through right now — the pain, the frustration, the helplessness. They sense something’s wrong, their quiet presence both a comfort and a reminder of how fragile everything feels at the moment.

I tried to drown it with excuses — "Yeah, when's the last time you brushed your teeth? Pre-apocalypse?" or, more darkly, "Just use the gun, end it all before you get actually sick."

"No," I screamed to myself inside my bedroom, the walls pressing close around me. "Common, what if the real disease is more painful than this?"

"No, not until I see Snow’s children grow up," I grunted, tears pooling visibly in my eyes.

I pants, breathing heavily, my chest heaving as each gasp of air feels like a knife stabbing deeper into the throbbing nerve. Even the cold, crisp air rushing through my mouth only seems to scream louder against the rawness inside, as if drawing the pain out, amplifying it with every desperate inhale.

I was at my limit. The rotten tooth was deep inside, impossible to extract on my own. My desperate hand grabbed the bottle of painkillers.

"This is not helping anymore," I muttered.

In a reckless moment, I grabbed my jacket, scooter key, and phone. Though it was the middle of the night, and I was deeply afraid of the dark, pain was a cruel driver. I headed out to my scooter, the cold air a harsh slap against my fevered mind, but there was no turning back.

Every bump in the road sent sharp jolts through my jaw, twisting the pain into a fierce sting. With thick gloves clenching the handlebars, I pushed through the ache, racing toward the first blockage—the only spot where I could hope to find help, the society. The night air bit with cold, and the stars above glittered coldly as I navigated the deserted road.

I push down the feeling that I’m betraying myself by leaving this town—just for the moment. Part of me wants to end it all, but the image of Snow, raising her children on her own, pulls me forward, a fragile thread of hope guiding me through the pain.

Reaching the first blockage, I killed the engine and left the scooter. The makeshift barriers cast long shadows in the beams of my flashlight. The biting ache urged me on as I set out on foot toward the outskirts of town where a small clinic reportedly still operated in a nearby settlement.

My footsteps rang hollow in the darkness. The path underfoot was jagged and strewn with fallen branches and debris — a cruel reminder of how much the world had unraveled. Each stride was a struggle, the relentless pain gnawing away, tears stinging my eyes, yet the promise of relief drove me onward.

Finally, reaches the outer blockage. Salvation, or at least a chance of it. Summoning the last reserves of my strength, I quickened my pace, praying anything ease the torment wracking my body.

Almost dawn had begun to crack through the night when I checked the Google Maps app—unlikely as it was, the closest operating dental clinic was about 15 kilometers away. A small settlement resting before the next town. I considered the distance. I didn’t think I could walk that far with the sharp, radiating pain pulsing through my jaw.

"Ober," I muttered to myself, fumbling to download the app on my phone. It felt strange, almost surreal, reaching out for a modern convenience in this fractured world.

Thirty tense minutes later, an Uber arrived. I walked away from the main blockage, veering off the obvious route to keep from drawing attention. Pain throbbed relentlessly with each step, but I made it to the driver’s car. The ride was quiet, tension hanging between us as I tried to focus on the distant promise of relief.

Upon arrival, the dental clinic was still closed. Fatigue and pain forced me down to a bench in front of the building. I lay there, clutching my cheek, waiting, the minutes stretching endlessly as I wrestled with the ache.

Finally, the doctor arrived—an ordinary person in an extraordinary circumstance. I got help, the bad tooth pulled with careful hands despite the primitive setting. The relief was immediate but came with a raw, hollow emptiness.

I sat silently in front of the clinic afterward, catching my breath as the first full light of dawn settled across the town. In that quiet moment, the steady, unyielding pulse of pain began to fade.

I watched the world unfold outside the dental clinic, a stranger to its moving pieces. Society had become a theater I no longer belonged to, a play where I’d long ago dropped my lines and exited the stage.

For a while, I observed people as they started their day—faces softened and blurred by distance, a rush fueled by hurried steps, bodies burdened with unseen weights, and conversations that spilled with shallow worries. The chaos felt remote, a disconnected symphony beyond my reach.

The trip had been hard, the tooth’s ache reminding me with every jolt and bump. Yet as I lingered in the clinic’s waiting area after my treatment, I found clarity among the fractured confusions of life.

I’d made the right decision to leave the thronging crowd behind, to stay in the abandoned town where silence wasn’t loneliness but a strange sort of freedom. The irradiated wasteland, the quiet decay—it was becoming a canvas for me to rebuild a life on my own terms.

When the pain was finally numbed, it was time to go. I summoned an Uber—another connection to the world outside, but a brief one. The driver arrived swiftly, the hum of the engine a lullaby in contrast to my weary thoughts.

Uber seemed to recognize me, or at least, it felt that way the moment I told the driver my destination. The familiarity in his eyes was faint, but unmistakable—an understanding silently passed between us before I whispered, "Please, no talking. I just got a tooth pulled."

During the ride home, I kept my gaze low, avoiding conversation. The air inside the car was thick with unspoken words, shadows of a life I’m part of but no longer fully in.

Approaching the outskirts where military blockades broke the journey, I told the driver to stop. It was predictable, almost rehearsed: the abandoned town where the real me had taken root.

The driver nodded knowingly, as if recognizing the weight of my choice but respecting it in silence.

At the outer checkpoint, I disembarked, the familiar ache twining with faint relief. Turning to the road back to my sanctuary, I noticed details I hadn’t before—the rustling leaves, the way the morning sun filtered through the trees, a bird’s distant call. Nature, indifferent to my pain or survival, carried on.

The way home.

The ride back on my scooter was slow, steady, a meditation of self. Each breath, each each leaves I cross brought me further from the world of noise, closer to the quiet strength I was slowly reclaiming.

When I arrived, the three cats greeted me like little suns of warmth in the gray dawn.

I settled in with them, letting the gentle hum of the world I chose wash over me. All afternoon, I rested and simply existed—at peace here, finally feeling like I belonged.

Breaking Light

The morning light filtered softly through the cracked window as I readied myself to venture into town once again. The unforgiving town held strange familiarity now, even as its emptiness bore down like a weight. My goal today was clear—scavenge for medicines. Thanks to the internet, I’d memorized the basics: antibiotics, painkillers, wound disinfectants. My medicine cabinet needed something in there, a precaution in this place where help meant little more than luck.

Scooter fired up, I pushed through familiar streets with a calm determination. The sun above was warm, a cruel contrast to the cold reality settling in the valleys.

I paused beside the local pharmacy, its doors stubbornly shut, but the back alley offered its usual loopholes—a modest stock of pills, sealed packets, anything intact and usable. Carefully, I tucked the cargo into my backpack, feeling the tangible weight of survival pressing down on my shoulders. It was something I'd never truly thought important until now, when I realized just how much my life could depend on these small, overlooked supplies.

Another stop was the museum gig, where the camera sat ready. I took a few photos—the peeling paint of forgotten homes, the rust of abandoned vehicles, the silent witnesses to a sudden exodus. Capturing decay held strange purpose. It was as if photographing this forsaken world kept it alive in the mind, even as nature slowly began to reclaim the broken.

It had been a part of my life that I wished would simply vanish, erased from everyone's memory once I was gone. To some extent, I lived like that—quietly fading into the background, trying not to leave a trace. But then, just the other day, when they showed me the museum website with my name next to the photos in the exhibit, it stirred something uneasy yet undeniably solid inside me—a reminder that some parts of us linger on, even when we try to disappear.

By afternoon, I finally eased back toward home, the evening light stretching long shadows across the empty streets.

I parked my scooter in front of my house, the familiar creak of the kickstand grounding me after the day's scavenging. Then, from somewhere just beyond the walls, I caught it—a faint sound, fragile yet persistent, slowly rising through the thickening quiet. It was a trembling cacophony, raw and urgent, cutting through the silence like a breath held too long. My heart stumbled, skipping a beat as instinct pulled me toward it.

Snow.

I hurried inside, following the noise that swelled wet and heavy in the air. There she was, curled and panting, surrounded by tiny, fragile miracles—four writhing kittens, fur damp and eyes closed tight. Five had come into the world, but one didn’t survive the harshness of those first moments.

I pulled my phone without hesitation, capturing the scene with the biggest smile—the proud mother, the fragile new life entwined with hope and sorrow. The room was heavy with quiet, the air carrying a promise of both challenge and new beginnings.

I stayed there, watching over Snow and her family, the world outside forgotten for this slice of life that fought fiercely to endure. It was not a normal normal life, but it was ours.

After a long while, I retreated outside, the familiar weight of cigarettes in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other grounding me. "This causes a celebration of life," I murmured, taking a slow sip of the amber liquid, the burn down my throat strangely comforting.

I head outside with my hands full, I barely noticed when Abby and Stormy darted out the door, their small forms vanishing briefly into the grasses just beyond the balcony. They stopped suddenly, noses twitching as they sniffed the blades, exploring cautiously.

I didn't chase after them. There was something about the ease between the cats and the quiet world outside that felt right, settled.

I sank down into my smoking chair, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the cool air. "Alright, kids, five minutes, and you're back inside," I called softly.

I continued my smoke and whiskey, watching the cats excitedly explore their new world. My eyes drifted to the treelines and the boundary of my little domain. Despite the eerie silence from everywhere else, the life around me pulsed quietly yet vividly.

I took another sip of whiskey, savoring the warmth as dusk began to settle.

And here — surrounded by the subtle dance of life, the gentle rustle of grass, the company of silent felines — I felt an odd yet profound peace.

This was it. The book closes on a quiet moment of peacefulness, at least for this chapter—someone learning the flow of life in their own unique way, no right or wrong, just a series of unique decisions, an ending not marked by grand gestures but by the steady rhythm of life unfolding.

Epilogue

Narrator (calm, engaging tone): "In the quiet valley shadowed by towering mountains, a catastrophe changed everything. A nuclear incident forced an entire town to vanish, leaving behind empty streets, shuttered homes, and memories swallowed by time and radiation. But amidst the silence—and the invisible threat—one unlikely figure survived.

Meet Elera, a young woman who chose to remain when others fled, carving a life from solitude and resilience. Beyond just surviving, she became a bridge—a lifeline for those who couldn’t return—retrieving precious belongings, bringing closure to families, and preserving the ghostly echoes of a vanished community.

Her story unfolds not only in the empty town but also through the lens of a museum initiative seeking to capture the history, the loss, and the spirit of resilience that defines this forsaken valley.

Join us as we explore the tale of the 'Wasteland Girl' and the Last Light in the Valley.

[Brief music pause]

[Text on screen:] "The Last Light in the Valley: Elera's Story"

Narrator: "Please stay tuned for the full story—coming up after the break, brought to you by our sponsors."

Extras

About the Author

Peace writes what lingers in the mind — small thoughts, quiet moments, and things that ask to be written before they disappear.

Their work often feels hopeful, maybe too much sometimes, but that’s the point.
The world already gives us enough noise and drama; there’s no need to add more.

Peace writes instead for the quiet spaces — where stories can breathe, and people can, too.

More works and projects:
https://snugly.cloud

Stay Connected

Thank you for reading.

If you’d like to find more of my work or future stories,
you can visit https://snugly.cloud
or follow r/snuglycloud.

— Peace