The only thing I can thank myself for is remembering, just in time, that I nicked a handgun from some poor dead guy in the underground yesterday. Not to boast or anything, but it was only once I'd taken my bag off to take a rest in some cornered-up alleyway in the city that I found out I have a loaded handgun.

To be fair, I've got to make my five bullets count, or else it's really going to be completely down to my pocket knife. I'm not sure how good of a shot I am, but how hard can it be? I'm not too terrible at throwing banana peels on the roads in Mario Kart on my brother's Wii. Yeah, well. It's probably not going to help much. But hey, it's got to count for something, right?

Hopefully I don't accidentally shoot myself in the foot.

As I step out from the alleyway, pistol in hand, I check that the safety is on before starting my way down what seems to be a main street. I mean, I think that button that I pressed is the safety. My parents were always against having any sort of firearm or weapon in the house )except for a $500 framed replica of a sword from a show my dad's obsessed with), so I really don't know how these things work. It's not like this gun came with a manual in that guy's pocket.

I look around for any signs of life, anyone who can tell me where I am, but through the rust and the folds in the green street sign, I can make out, just barely, 5th Ave. 5th Avenue.

Shit.

I'm right in the center of New York City: and I've got no idea how to get out, because there is no way I am going back into the subway tunnels. No way.

My gaze darts up and down 5th Avenue. Buildings have collapsed: it looks like the empire state building puked its contents out onto the street, creating a mess of rubble and what looks like furniture reduced to kindling. I guess a lot's happened since the poor guy who filmed the New York skyline as the city lay underneath a blanket of grey clouds and chaos fell to his death. Or was pushed. Pushed.

Map. Map, map, map. I took one from the store, didn't I?

Frantically, I set the gun down, sling my pack off, and rustle my hand through it before pulling the map out. It's more of a chore getting it out than it should be: it reminds me of that one sheet of crumpled up notes in my school bag that ends up half-torn and wrinkled up like a prune once I pull it out from underneath my textbook. That's usually when I tell myself I'm an idiot for forgetting my notebooks.

That's what the map looks like, now, with a great big tear down one of the folds. Now, that just means I have to be extra careful with it. I'm not good with that sort of thing. Whoops.

Okay, okay. Focus. 5th Avenue. I know that New York City looks like a bunch of squares on a map, so my guts are telling me to simply walk in a straight line, and I'll get out of the city that way. My only problem then would be having to navigate my way back home, but I can worry about that later.

Whatever it is- an infection, terorrists, plain crazy-people - has raided the city of most of its life.

I stand up from where I'm squatting and sling my bag back onto my back, fitting the pistol into the waistband of my skinny jeans before opening up the map again, carefully, this time. All it shows me is a panorama of the city; there's an advertisement for expensive bus tours around the city, for all the tourists who come to NYC and think that's it's the most wondrous thing on the planet.

At the moment, I see it as Hell on earth.

I flip the map around, hoping for a full map of the US, but instead, coupons litter the back. A bright red McDonald's coupon for their gross, plastic-like fish filets glowers back at me. 'Special combo deal, only for $5.95!' The white letters scream out their contrasted message toward me.

No amount of fast food coupons will do me any good. Not anymore.

▿

I choose to consult the map, and find my location based off where the empire state building is. There's a popular Mall to my right, just on the next block, and that's marked down on the map too. It doesn't take me long to find my bearings. And home is... that way. I get out a pen and draw a fat line down fifth avenue. If I stay on that line, I won't get lost.

I kick up dust and little bits of debris, concrete, as I walk, too confused to be shocked at what I see, too shocked to be confused at what's happening around me. I feel like I've been cheated, like someone's injected me with some sort of sleep-inducing drug, and then dumped me on some alien planet. Surely I'm not the only one who feels like this, who feels betrayed.

The mall is right in front of me, the streets deserted, occupied only by a thin layer of dust and debris from fallen skyscrapers. Someone thought it was a good idea to smash the windows of the Louis Vuitton showcases and steal a handbag or two. That's certainly not the sort of thing you'd expect when everyone's scrambling around for their lives.

Choosing to not go into the mall out of fear of running into other people, I continue straight for the end of fifth avenue. All the windows save for a few lucky ones have been either cracked or smashed. Most of the glint, pretty diamonds and finely-cut stones, the well-moulded gold that was on display beneath the sign 'Benguet: Fine Jewellers' is gone. It's tempting to go over there and pick it up, but really, nothing now is more valuable than a life. Dollar bills won't buy you your life back, they won't tempt someone else to stop shooting you. It's like we've gone back several centuries and we're back o the Great Depression of 1929- except we're in the middle of a war that's very different to one with two leaders who hate each other and two packs of soldiers that don't know what to do but shoot at each other.

I don't even know what I'm supposed to be shooting at, what's really threatening me. I don't know if I'll find out soon or not. All I know is that home is this way, and that's the road I'm staying on. And anyone who tries to stop me will have to face the sharp end of my gun.

... I mean, the barrel. The barrel of my rifle. It's not a bloody bayonet.