open beak, still embedded in an egg salad sandwich.
I caught one whiff and ran.
Outside, I clutched my chest and took deep breaths, trying to calm down. So gross .
Okay. Don’t eat the egg salad sandwiches.
Once my disgust subsided, I steeled myself for another go, plugged my nose, and darted back inside, salvaging what I could of my loot—water, cheese, and crackers. I tore into them in the parking lot.
The water tasted like blood, the crackers tasted like cockroaches, the cheese tasted like worms.
I spit it all out and broke into a fit of shivering.
“What the hell? ” I murmured, clutching my temples and watching my spit bubble on the gum-stained asphalt. Nothing in this city was edible.
The sun dipped below the horizon. A shrinking blood-orange sliver glowed between the silhouettes of palm trees and red tile roofs, catching me in the eye again. I squinted back at it, surprised at how low it was. I hadn’t noticed the shadows creeping across the parking lot. Mid-October, I supposed . . . days getting shorter and all that. Now only the treetops and the mountains glowed pink, and even those were dimming by the minute.
The sliver of sun shrank to a tiny pinprick of light, and then winked out. As I watched, biting my lip nervously, dusk fell over the deserted streets and dark storefronts, the derelict vehicles, the abandoned alleyways.
Soon it would be night.
Night .
That made me uneasy.
I didn’t want to be out at night.
Light. I needed light.
Forget food and water. Those could wait. People could go days without food and water. It would suck, but I’d survive.
But facing fourteen hours of pitch black in this Godforsaken city without power, that I did not want.
I pawed through my parents’ drawers, keeping one eye on the windows, the trees sinking deeper into the blue gloom. Twilight. Going by feel, my palm at last closed around the hilt of a flashlight— gotcha .
I yanked it out and clicked the button, aiming it at my face. The bulb stayed dark.
“Come on, you stupid piece . . .” I clicked frantically. Nothing.
Nothing? Not even an itsy-bitsy glimmer?
Fuck you, dead batteries.
Easy enough to fix.
I hauled ass to my dad’s battery stash, bottom drawer of his nightstand. Like he wanted them near him when he slept or something. Ohhh, Dad.
Prying open the flashlight’s battery compartment, I whacked out the two AA’s and replaced them with brand new ones, then tried again. Click . . . click . . . click . . .
Nothing.
Wrong move, flashlight . Fuming, I tried to break it in half, then gave up and flung it at the wall. A thump, and little plastic pieces skittered everywhere. I wanted to scream.
The windows gave off a dim glow, barely enough to see by. I was losing light fast.
Candles . . . I needed candles. Matches.
I sprinted up the hallway, pounded through the foyer, and swiped the candles off the dining room table, then yanked open the drawer with the matches. Too hard. The drawer clattered on the floor, sending tiny black objects skittering into the shadows. I couldn’t see what they were. I dropped to all fours and felt my way through the mess—a sewing kit, a bar of soap, a box of drill bits.
This was hopeless.
There were matches above the fireplace.
The fireplace . . . A fire . I could light a whole fire! Using the last of the light, I bounded into the living room and slapped the mantel until I found the box of strike-anywhere matches. They clattered around inside. Plenty left.
Down on my knees, I piled firewood and crumpled newspaper from nearby stacks onto the grill and carefully extracted a match. I lined up the tip with the striking surface, guiding my movements by touch. I struck the match.
No spark.
I struck it again. Nothing.
I tossed the dud into the fireplace and plucked out another one, striking it across the surface.
Again, nothing happened. Another dud.
The third match sparked, but never caught. I threw it away, having scraped off all the
I caught one whiff and ran.
Outside, I clutched my chest and took deep breaths, trying to calm down. So gross .
Okay. Don’t eat the egg salad sandwiches.
Once my disgust subsided, I steeled myself for another go, plugged my nose, and darted back inside, salvaging what I could of my loot—water, cheese, and crackers. I tore into them in the parking lot.
The water tasted like blood, the crackers tasted like cockroaches, the cheese tasted like worms.
I spit it all out and broke into a fit of shivering.
“What the hell? ” I murmured, clutching my temples and watching my spit bubble on the gum-stained asphalt. Nothing in this city was edible.
The sun dipped below the horizon. A shrinking blood-orange sliver glowed between the silhouettes of palm trees and red tile roofs, catching me in the eye again. I squinted back at it, surprised at how low it was. I hadn’t noticed the shadows creeping across the parking lot. Mid-October, I supposed . . . days getting shorter and all that. Now only the treetops and the mountains glowed pink, and even those were dimming by the minute.
The sliver of sun shrank to a tiny pinprick of light, and then winked out. As I watched, biting my lip nervously, dusk fell over the deserted streets and dark storefronts, the derelict vehicles, the abandoned alleyways.
Soon it would be night.
Night .
That made me uneasy.
I didn’t want to be out at night.
Light. I needed light.
Forget food and water. Those could wait. People could go days without food and water. It would suck, but I’d survive.
But facing fourteen hours of pitch black in this Godforsaken city without power, that I did not want.
I pawed through my parents’ drawers, keeping one eye on the windows, the trees sinking deeper into the blue gloom. Twilight. Going by feel, my palm at last closed around the hilt of a flashlight— gotcha .
I yanked it out and clicked the button, aiming it at my face. The bulb stayed dark.
“Come on, you stupid piece . . .” I clicked frantically. Nothing.
Nothing? Not even an itsy-bitsy glimmer?
Fuck you, dead batteries.
Easy enough to fix.
I hauled ass to my dad’s battery stash, bottom drawer of his nightstand. Like he wanted them near him when he slept or something. Ohhh, Dad.
Prying open the flashlight’s battery compartment, I whacked out the two AA’s and replaced them with brand new ones, then tried again. Click . . . click . . . click . . .
Nothing.
Wrong move, flashlight . Fuming, I tried to break it in half, then gave up and flung it at the wall. A thump, and little plastic pieces skittered everywhere. I wanted to scream.
The windows gave off a dim glow, barely enough to see by. I was losing light fast.
Candles . . . I needed candles. Matches.
I sprinted up the hallway, pounded through the foyer, and swiped the candles off the dining room table, then yanked open the drawer with the matches. Too hard. The drawer clattered on the floor, sending tiny black objects skittering into the shadows. I couldn’t see what they were. I dropped to all fours and felt my way through the mess—a sewing kit, a bar of soap, a box of drill bits.
This was hopeless.
There were matches above the fireplace.
The fireplace . . . A fire . I could light a whole fire! Using the last of the light, I bounded into the living room and slapped the mantel until I found the box of strike-anywhere matches. They clattered around inside. Plenty left.
Down on my knees, I piled firewood and crumpled newspaper from nearby stacks onto the grill and carefully extracted a match. I lined up the tip with the striking surface, guiding my movements by touch. I struck the match.
No spark.
I struck it again. Nothing.
I tossed the dud into the fireplace and plucked out another one, striking it across the surface.
Again, nothing happened. Another dud.
The third match sparked, but never caught. I threw it away, having scraped off all the
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