It’s been 264 days. The birds no longer adorn the blue sky, nor does the sun. Where once the streets never stood still, it’s about 2 p.m., I would guess. Not that it really matters. Time is irrelevant, not unlike before, when time was of the essence. The world revolves around time, deadlines, and schedules. It’s stupid now to think that’s what we valued with our time, that we stressed and worried about such unforsaken things. So very stupid.

I sleep in a small cottage by a lake, more of a pond I would say, a dead-still pond. I wouldn’t call it my home; there is no home anymore, no life to call home. I am now immune to the smell of rot and mold; it may kill me, but it’s safer than most things in this new world. My only comfort is a blanket. It is white with purple hearts, although now it may seem more gray than white. It’s my only warmth. luckily it doesn’t get cold like it does in other areas, going there is a death trap, and it’s almost impossible to make it a night in the cold. I did once, waiting for the death that refused to take me. I wasn’t by myself then, though. I often go out to the city, I scavenge the pharmacies and stores for any scraps that may be left, if any. It’s not something I look forward to, the city, it only reminds me of the society that was once there, the life that once thrived. It’s all dead. 

I lay in the bed that was once slept on by whoever called this place their home. The springs are loud and the mattress is hard but it’s better than many can ask for. The blanket is lying halfway on my knees, I no longer own any socks, I used to have two pairs, both now bare more skin than cloth, and the blanket keeps my feet warm from the cold breeze. 

I jolt as the radio buzzes. There’s shock in my eyes as the frizz I hear from the machine doesn’t stop. It hasn’t rung since that day when heaven flew its doors open to the world. A harsh voice comes out of the radio, male, young of age I assume, frantic. “Hello.” is what it says, the symphony of the human voice satisfies my ears as if something I longed for, craved. “If there’s anyone there, I am calling from a base in New Jersey. Many of us survived, there is still life. I am Commander James. Come with us, we have food and shelter. We are cordin–” It cut out, no, no no. 

Yes. 

There is life, I’m not alone. 

 “We.” He said “We”. 

The radio cut out before I could get any real coordinates to their location, but I don’t sulk about it too much. This is a sign of hope not disappointment. Hope. I thought such a feeling was lost. Unheard of. 

I pack all that I have, though not much—only the little food that I have and a set of clothes. I take the radio with me, just in case. I know the road signs are still intact, so I will follow them until I get to New Jersey. Finding exactly where will be a problem I will face later.

If I make it.