Orange cones, barbwire, and signs mark the terminus,
streets barren as salted earth.
No rustle of footsteps, murmur of voices, or crisp flutter
of birds in flight. The drone of electricity and motors gone.
The hollow city stretches like skeletal remains of a mythical giant
for miles. Haven't touched another hand or face for months.
When the contagion spread black wings over the city
it disdained to take me. My wife and two children lasted two months.
I still have pictures. I've built palaces for them in dream.
When the military came to cordon off the city they didn't
bother rescuing survivors because, I imagine, they suspected
we carried contagion or were in league with it.
Probably made up a name for us like "Viral Terrorists".
Run into others at least twice a week. I keep my distance, avoid
eye contact, and dare not speak. I resent other survivors more than my
Down to three cans of soup, two boxes of cereal, and five water bottles.
Each day brings fainter whispers of miracle.
I hate this life. I fear losing myself and memories of those I love more.