Onwards I go.

There's really nothing difficult about walking in a straight line, but my body begs to differ. I take one step forwards, and my legs wobble, my body waves to the side, and I take a near-staggering step to the left, to the right. I'm slaloming down 5th Avenue, except there's nothing artistic about the way I'm doing it. I'm not on skates or skis, there's no snow, just pulverised rock and rusted metal scaffolding.

The dust that rises from the wreck of the city centre and that moves outwards, over the wind, is present in every sunbeam around me. It shines like gold. It's raining gold, I think. If only. If only it did, then this would be a much more beautiful world, filled with much uglier people. Then again, I think to myself, my thoughts flickering back to the train, the people of this world are ugly enough, and the Redwoods of California, the blue waters of the Pacific, the foamy streaks at the base of the Niagara Falls, and the infinite sand dunes of the Sahara make up for that well enough - or so I thought, because when you visit a wonder of nature, a true masterpiece sculpted by some force from the dirt at my feet, nothing in the world seems ugly. And then you think of the number of people who jumped from the top of the Falls, how many people died from dehydration and were never found, buried miles deep in the golden sand of the Sahara, the image changes, and the experience is ruined, not by horror, but by sadness, and the feeling that the world is beautiful becomes bittersweet.

That's how I feel about this, right now. This morning, the grass plains surrounding my house were lush and green; now, I stand in the middle of a grey wasteland.

Let me take you back a good number of days, almost a week. A week, god, a week.

▿

Laughter. The sound of a smack against skin, someone purposefully letting their notebooks clatter against the floor and their crush stopping down to help them up, the sound of panic echoes up and down the corridor. That's the sound of life, that's the sound of a high school hallway. It's a mess, really, and if you've ever been through high school, you'll agree with me.

Lydia was my 24/7 bodyguard around the school halls, and I was hers. We were thick as thieves and impossible to separate- if one person threatened us, Lydia would tell them, the next time she saw them, to "watch your back, bitch," and I'd do the same for her. She did my English homework and I did her biology and chemistry homework, and then we'd help each other prep for finals by spending afternoons discussing cute boys (or flawless girls, for that matter) or funny cat videos on YouTube between an explanation of The Arrhenius Equation or an analysis of Fitzgerald's Gatsby. Our teachers never failed to separate us when it came to partner or group, but we'd always worm our way back to each other during class. Lydia was my lifeline, she was my 9-1-1. She's not here anymore. She's probably dead, but I don't want to believe it. If I were with her, right now, I'd have nothing to fear. But it's not like that.

One week ago, the grass was green. Now, it's dead.

▿

The remains of the Empire State Building tower over me, casting long shadows my way over the beige dust of 5th Avenue. I approach the mound of shattered concrete, more curious than cautious, although one hand still rests on the rifle. Splinters of wood crunch beneath the soles of my sneakers. A rusted pipe skids to the side with a clinking chime as I accidentally knock it with my shoe. What was once the world's tallest building, now reduced to nothing more but rubble. The front lobby is still standing, as well as the first few floors of the building, but a spidery crack the width of my thumbnail on the side of the ruin tells me what remains of the Empire State Building won't be standing for much longer.

A gust of wind picks up, facing me head-on, and I gag, quickly drawing the front of my shirt over my nose and mouth. The stench of rotting flesh and petroleum fills the air around me. I squint, and stand there as dust fills up the cracks in my eyelashes. Closing my eyes completely, I rub at the dust with one hand, and drop the rifle. It lands with a clatter at my feet, but I ignore it- nothing can possibly happen to it in the quick moment I need to readjust the comfort of my face.

I take in a deep breath through my mouth, decide I can handle it, and stoop down to pick up the weapon. My hand traces patterns in the dirt at my feet - and I look down. It's gone. It's fucking gone. My mind goes on a wild ride of panic. Shitsticks. Then it turns to self abuse. Saskia, you unaware piece of shit! Then to self-pity. Oh my god, oh my god, I'm going to end up rotting here in the middle of fifth avenue and I'm never going to get home—

"Stand up."

"Ow! What-" Something round lies pressed against the back of my head. It's cold against my scalp, and it doesn't take me a long time to realise that it's the barrel of my rifle.

"I said. Stand up." The voice is male, young, and it's weak, shaking, as though he's scared. He probably is.

I stand up, hold my hands up. I don't think he's infected, or crazy, or whatever.

"Turn around. And keep your hands in the air."

I comply. My eyes widen, and the first thing that comes to my mind, instead of shit I'm going to die if I don't move my butt, is whoa. Cute.