World of Ash

Before the world ended, my hair was incredibly, stupidly important to me. I once spent four hours at the salon having my hair dyed. My hair shifted from dark blond at the roots to bright, platinum white at the ends. It was beautiful and cost more than three hundred dollars. I loved it.

But I hadn’t seen what my hair looks like in over a month. I knew it was getting bad, but I didn’t expect to see anything this bad. My roots have grown so far out that, next to the faded honey blond, they look almost black. Of course, not washing it in over a week probably hasn’t helped.

The mirror is cracked and tarnished; I can see the black backing in some spots. Jagged lines cut through my reflection. One particularly gnarly break slashes through my right eye, and I have to lean to the side to get a clear look at my face. My cheeks are pink with sunburn, and the lank curtain of my hair casts a shadow over my face, highlighting the dark circles under my eyes.

The scissors I found in this abandoned farmhouse are rusted and heavy. They’re the kind of scissors grade-school teachers used to cut construction paper. They were never meant to touch hair, especially not my hair. I hold up the scissors, opening and closing them only to feel the bolt stick as they squeak. I drop the scissors into the sink, and I cringe as they scratch the stained porcelain bowl. Bracing my hands on the edge of the sink, I try to get my breathing under control. It is just hair, just fucking hair. I can cut my hair. What does it matter anymore anyway? I don’t have my flatiron. I don’t have my Moroccan oil to fix the frizzy split ends. Hell, I don’t even have shampoo.

I look in the mirror and glare at the sharp part down the middle of my scalp. The few waves that have survived make me look a little crazy. Touching my hair, I’m still surprised by how brittle it is. It crunches under my fingers, and no matter how gently I touch it, strands fall out, clinging to my fingers like sticky cobwebs.

The muscle in my jaw jumps as I grit my teeth hard enough to hurt. Snatching the scissors, I grab a hank of hair and chop it off. Holding up the fistful of hair, the brittle fibers breaking, I stare at my reflection again. The girl looking back at me looks betrayed, angry—but more than anything, she looks defeated. There’s no going back now. I take the scissors to the rest of my hair, letting the locks fall around me and litter the floor.

When I’m done, I have a messy, uneven bob. My hair hasn’t been chin length since I was eight years old. Was that really eleven years ago? It feels like a lifetime. As I lean against the sink, my hair swings into my face and I realize my mistake. With long hair, though greasy and uncomfortable, I could tie it back. This stupid cut will get into my face.

Idiot, I mutter. I take the scissors to my hair again until it’s less than an inch long all over. The girl staring back at me is some punk girl who tried to give herself a messy pixie cut. That is not me. Setting the scissors on the edge of the sink, I lean closer to the mirror to examine my handiwork. I tug on the ends, twisting my head back and forth to see it from all angles. At least it’s all the same color now, even if that color is a dank, mousy brown. If Balthazar ever found out I took a pair of rusty kitchen shears to my head, he would kill me. He took more pride in my hair than I did. Enough, Kat.

It’s stupid and childish to bemoan the loss of shampoo and pretty dye jobs. I have more important things to worry about nowadays. Like where I’m going to get more food once I run out again. Or whether or not this house is safe enough to sleep in tonight. Or just how long it’ll take me to walk to Washington.

These are the things worth worrying about. Not the fact that when I look into a mirror, I don’t recognize the girl looking back at me. The girl who drove a cherry-red Mini Cooper, sipped her daily Starbucks, and knew her hair stylist better than most of her friends is long gone. She died when the Pestas swept the country and destroyed it. The girl in the mirror is someone brand new. Maybe she isn’t as pretty and shiny, but she is stronger, smarter, and absolutely does not cry over the fact that her eyelashes are short and stubby.

Except sometimes she does cry. Sometimes she does mourn for the life of that girl and her innocence.

I can’t bear to look in the mirror for another moment. Collapsing among my discarded hair, I hug my knees and cry. Resting my forehead on my knees, I brace my feet against the closed door to ensure no one can sneak up behind me while I give over to my tears.

When I manage to calm down and stop crying, the bathroom is darker. The light coming through the tiny window is fading. It’s later than I thought, and I haven’t done a damn thing to secure the house. Wiping my face with the backs of my hands, I struggle to get to my feet. After a quick look through the window to make sure no one is coming from that direction, I grab my bag and shrug it on. After slipping my dust mask over my face, I pull the knife out of the sheath jammed into the top of my boot. Opening the door as quietly as possible, I pray I’m still alone before stepping into the hall.

This two-story house and its wide-open land seems a little too good to be true; the closest neighbor is half a mile away. The people who lived here probably thought they were safe from infection, but that shit is airborne. Really, nowhere is safe anymore.

Not now that we all know monsters are real.

It still makes my head spin to think about how fast everything happened. No one really knows where the Pestas came from, but they’re smart and systematic. They started spreading their pox in the biggest, most densely populated cities. All they had to do was infect one person out of every hundred. Urban population did the rest.

They came in the night. They slipped into homes, locks and chains doing nothing to keep them out. One touch of their gnarled finger brought on the pox. At first, no one realized what was happening; people were just waking with fevers. Most didn’t even have spots right away. Then the government tried to say it was a rare, random breakout of smallpox, even though that was supposed to have been eradicated back in the seventies. But we understood smallpox; we accepted that as the rational explanation. People rushed for vaccines, useless, stupid vaccines.

People had fevers and rashes that eventually became blisters and boils. Their skin turned black and swollen. Yes, it was just some mutated strand of smallpox. But then people would bleed internally, and their organs shut down in a matter of days. The vaccines weren’t working. So scientists scrambled to find a cure that didn’t exist because, according to some, this isn’t a natural occurrence; this is the stuff of magic and nightmares.

We dismissed stories of black-cloaked figures breathing pestilence and death as the ravings of fever induced hallucinations. It was a simple but terrifying disease that the government would learn how to control and contain; it was not the stuff of fairy tales. There are no such things as monsters or things that go bump in the night. Crooked fingers tipped with ugly claws and hooked noses leading to dead, sunken eyes had nothing to do with the outbreak.

Except they did. They had everything to do with it. The Pesta, the stuff of legends from the Dark Ages, are creatures that carry plagues and death in their breath and skin. They are roaming the earth again spreading their pox and plague. We have nothing, nothing to combat it.

By the time the government tried to quarantine whole cities, it was too late; the pox had spread from one coast to the other. Not that it mattered. The Pesta didn’t care if every single infected person was corralled behind fences. They just moved on to the next city and breathed death into the air.

And then came Containment. A fresh horror brought into our lives by our government.

I understand why they did it, but it was grotesque. We watched when they aired the first bombings on the news. They didn’t stop with the big cities. Any city with an infected population of sixty percent or more was Contained. They didn’t come into the cities to look for the healthy, those of us who miraculously hadn’t caught the pox; they just closed the roads and sent in the drones.

When people saw the government attempting to contain the most infected cities, they went crazy. Anarchy ensued, and soon after that, the military bases closed their gates. They stopped hauling away the dead bodies. The bodies piled up in the streets, and there were bonfires everywhere as we tried to eradicate the plague on our own. It didn’t work so well.

It was a nightmare, a living nightmare. But nothing compared to the day I saw my mom’s hands black and bloody. My father looked worse. His blisters concentrated around his mouth and throat. The doctors at the CDC decided the Pestas had infected people with some bizarre combination of the two most deadly strands of smallpox, Malignant and Hemoragatic. The Hemoragatic caused the blisters under the skin to burst and the internal organs to bleed, but the Malignant strand was almost always fatal. For some reason, adults, especially people over the thirty, are particularly susceptible. Parents abandoned their kids, trying to flee to save their children. Older siblings and cousins were thrown into parenthood, doing whatever they could to save the younger ones. But when my parents succumbed to the pox, as an only child, I was left all alone.

I stayed with my parents for as long as possible. My dad had already boarded up the windows and doors to fortify the house. When things were just starting to get out of control, we’d gone to the store and bought as many canned goods as we could. My dad had to punch a guy in the face for trying to pry a can of sweet potatoes out of my mom’s hands, while I clung to our cart full of stuff as if my life depended on it, which, I guess it did. Living in Southern California, we already had an earthquake kit with first aid supplies and stuff like flashlights and batteries. But eventually my city would be slated for Containment. I couldn’t just sit around waiting to be incinerated. At least, that’s what my mom said.

So I left. That was six months ago, give or take a month. It’s hard to keep track of things like time when I’m constantly on the move. My best estimate is that it’s somewhere between May and June. Not that the exact month matters anymore. Only the seasons matter now, and I know it’s getting warmer, even at night. For that, I’m grateful. It’s staying light longer and longer, so when I step out into that hallway, it isn’t impossible to see yet.

Bracing my back against the wall, I walk slowly down the hall, checking rooms as I go. At the far end of the hall, the walls are blackened with smoke damage. The white walls are covered in soot and crumbling in places. Only the thick plaster and redwood lath behind it kept the flames from eating away at the walls. The fire had obviously gone into the bathroom, but with so much tile, there was little fuel to sustain it.

When I come to the last room, I smell burnt wood and plastic before I open the door. Everything inside is coated in black and charred. I assume the massive shape in the middle of the room used to be a bed. The windows are broken, possibly from the fire. Whoever died here left people behind, possibly kids, who knew what do to with their bodies. It’s amazing that the fire didn’t eat through the ceiling to the roof. If the roof had caught fire, the rest of the house would have eventually taken flame.

I close the door and dig out a red marker from my pocket. I draw a circle with a line through it on the door, warning anyone else who might pass through not to enter. I have trouble seeing the red through the black, but I have to make the effort. The virus is passed through inhalation, even as far away as six feet. People don’t take any chances anymore. The dead are burned, and the sites of the burning are avoided at all costs. After adjusting my mask, reassuring myself it is tightly in place over my mouth and nose, I head downstairs in search of supplies.

Chapter 2

Once I clear the rest of the house and lock and relock all of the doors and windows, I go into the kitchen. The cupboards are mostly bare. All I find is one expired can of boiled potatoes in the back corner of the top cupboard. But beggars can’t be choosers, especially not in this godforsaken world.

I test the stove, hoping it still works. I was surprised how long so many utilities lasted even after people stopped going to work. The electricity is out so the ignition won’t click. I push the knob in and take a quick sniff, but the gas isn’t on either. It’s been so long now that finding anything that still works is a damn miracle.

Using my can opener, I get the potatoes lid open. The expiration date is about six months past, but the potatoes are still bright white and the water around them is clear. They smell like potatoes and tin. With a shrug, I sit on the cold linoleum, resting against my backpack, and eat my dinner of cold boiled potatoes. Though they are mealy and bland, it is some of the best food I’ve had in a long time. I haven’t eaten all day since I’m trying to stretch the meager amount of food stashed in my bag. I only ever eat any of it when I can’t find something like this can of potatoes. I gulp down the water after the last tinny potato, cringing at the bitter taste.

Soon the sun sinks behind the mountains, throwing the house into a dark shadow. The muscles in my legs are firing from exhaustion and my lower back aches. Hiking all day with a thirty-pound backpack makes my morning cardio routine from before look like a stroll along the beach.

I had refused to give into the concept of the freshman fifteen when I started college. I lifted weights with a personal trainer three nights a week after my last class, and I did double cardio every day: forty-five minutes on the treadmill in the morning and thirty minutes on the bike at night. I only ever took the weekends off. But none of that had prepared me for the day-long hikes I face now.

Occasionally, I find places like this house and manage to get a couple of days rest, enjoying the shelter and protection of four walls and a ceiling. Eventually, other people arrive and I have to leave.

In the beginning, people killed over a can of peas, but once the population was decimated, some formed groups for protection. These groups are like roaming tornadoes, destroying anyone and anything in their path. They take whatever they can, and if two groups come upon each other, they would rather burn a building than leave it for the other. So if I find shelter, I know it is only a matter of time before it’s taken from me.

After I jam a couple of kitchen chairs under the doorknobs of the front and back doors, I lay out my sleeping bag on the kitchen floor. Plenty of furniture in the front room is much more comfortable, but I feel safer in kitchens. In my mind, I see millions of germs festering in the cushions of sofas and chairs, the fabric moldy from layers of dust, a breeding ground for bacteria. And if I got too comfortable, I would fall into a deep sleep. That would make it easier for someone to sneak up on me. On a cold kitchen floor, I am never totally relaxed and will wake at the slightest sound, ready to fight or flee.

I learned the hard way how important it is to stay on my toes, even if I’m sure my shelter is secure. After two weeks of trying to get away from the bigger cities of Southern California, I found an abandoned house that I thought would be safe for the night. The previous occupants had boarded up the windows, and there were only two doors on the ground floor. Both had working locks, so I felt safe enough, at least against people. I was planning on staying just long enough to get a couple of hours sleep and to give my feet a rest.

I never learned how to pick a lock, so it didn’t occur to me that merely locking the doors wasn’t sufficient to keep people out. I had to learn the hard way that if there’s a skill I don’t have, I didn’t think about someone else being able to perform a task requiring that skill.

I had curled up on a leather sofa in the office, telling myself that leather was cleaner than the fabric couch in the living room. For the first time since I’d left home, I felt comfortable and warm. That, I would learn, is a dangerous combination in this new world of ours.

The group that broke in while I was sleeping had a member who knew how to pick locks. They unlocked the door and got inside without making a single sound to wake me. They went straight to the kitchen though, raiding the cabinets for food. When they slammed drawers and cupboards, yelling at each other when they found something, they woke me.

I had never been in a fight. I had never been punched in the face or kicked in the side. I didn’t know how much any of that actually hurt, but I knew I didn’t want to find out. When the girl found me, I was trying to climb out of a window. The boards were far enough apart that I thought I could squeeze through and run away before they found me. I had only managed to shove my backpack and sleeping bag out when she opened the door.

She towered over me at five foot ten. Her arms were longer than mine, and I don’t think I’d ever seen a girl with bigger hands. She grabbed my hair and pulled me back into the room. My jeans snagged on a nail in the window frame, tearing a hole in the fabric.

I screamed in pain and surprise before I could stop myself. The noise brought her group of bandits running. Two of them had guns, and the others had blunt objects like a baseball bat, a fireplace poker, and a broken chair leg. None of those were things I was willing to be hit with. The girl flung me backward, and I fell on the floor, landing hard on my shoulder. Before I could sit up, she was on me, planting a foot on my back and shoving me down.

What are you doing here? she demanded.

When I didn’t answer fast enough, she kicked me in the side. I cried out as pain lanced through me, threatening to make me lose what little dinner I’d foraged. I needed to get to the window. I twisted around and tried to get to my hands and knees, but the girl’s fist connected with the side of my face. It was shocking. Having never been punched in the face before, I couldn’t anticipate the pain or immediate tears.

I asked you a question, bitch. She squatted in front of me, twisting her head to try to make eye contact with me. She looked like a bird eyeing a worm too far away from its hole. What are you doing here? This is our place.

Of course it wasn’t their place; it was some poor dead family’s home that we all happened to find on the same night. I didn’t know, I managed through gritted teeth. I tasted blood where my teeth had cut my cheek. I’ll leave. Just let me go.

Just let me go, the girl mimicked in a high falsetto, earning a round of laughter from her cohorts.

Kick her again Jenny, the boy with the baseball bat called out. Kick me again? Why? I hadn’t done anything to these people. They were like something out of the Lord of the Flies. I never thought civilized people could actually revert to wild, animalistic behavior, but when I looked up into Jenny’s eyes, I realized just how wrong I’d been.

Jenny’s hair was more frizz and kinks than actual curls, and it was a sad shade of dirty blond. Her eyes were muddy brown, and I knew she’d never been taught how to properly use a pair of tweezers. That towering girl had had a hard life in high school, but at the end of the world, Jenny was the boss. Jenny was the one doing the bullying. Jenny was finally queen.

Aw look, Jenny said, pointing a pudgy finger in my face, the pretty, pretty princess is gonna cry! The crowd laughed again, and Jenny grinned at them.

When her head was turned, I pushed off the floor. My sneakers squeaked against the hard wood as I rushed forward. I shouldered past Jenny, striking her as hard as I could. I put all of my weight and panic behind my shoulder. Jenny cried out as she fell, landing on her ass with a loud thump. I had my hands on the window sill before she grabbed my waist, spun us around, and sent me flying a few feet before I hit the ground again. The impact jarred my head, and I couldn’t locate what part of me had hit the floor because by then, everything hurt.

Jenny was on me in the next moment, effectively holding me down by straddling my waist. I remembered that Women’s Self-Defense class my father had made me take in my senior year in high school and how the instructor told us to buck our hips to unseat an attacker in that position. I thrashed under Jenny, throwing my hips up as hard as I could, but Jenny only laughed. I cursed that instructor to the deepest levels of Hell just before Jenny’s palm struck my face, splitting open my bottom lip.

Stupid bitch, that’s for hitting me. She backhanded me across the face with the same hand. And that’s for being a stupid bitch! Didn’t the girl know any other insults? I tried to grab her arms to stop her hitting me, but I couldn’t hold on to both of them because her wrists were so thick. I kicked wildly, trying to unseat her or knee her in the back or something, but nothing worked. I cried and begged her to stop, but that only spurred her on.

Enough, one of the boys with a gun said, his voice cutting through the cheers and hollers. Only he and the girl with the other gun hadn’t joined in. From the looks on their faces, they didn’t enjoy the display of violence.

"Shut up, Brad," Jenny said, nasally drawing out his name while curling her upper lip.

The rest of the group had gone silent. Something about the way they stepped out of Brad’s way made me go still. Brad stopped in front of Jenny, his boots on either side of my head so that I was looking up at him and the rifle resting in his arms.

Brad’s voice was soft, but there was nothing soothing about his tone. Jenny, I said that was enough. Get. Up.

I held my breath as Jenny glared at Brad. If I had to guess, I would say no one else in the room was breathing either. Jenny’s legs tensed and I flinched, expecting her to lash out, but she stood. She smashed my face with her hand, using it for balance as she stood, but otherwise she left me alone. When she was on her feet, she stood face to face with Brad. Her hands were fisted at her sides, her knuckles running from white to red. I imagined she was fantasizing about punching Brad in the face but the rifle in his arms kept her hands at bay. She turned and stepped over me.

Jenny, don’t, Brad warned, and I saw that she’d brought one foot back, getting ready to kick me one more time. His voice stopped her. Jenny stormed out of the room, pushing through the group at the door. Her footfalls could be heard all the way into the kitchen. All right, go check the rest of the house. The younger kids hurried to obey, but the girl with the gun remained. It’s fine. Go.

The girl glanced at me, but after a moment, she turned and walked away. Brad walked around me and shifted his rifle to rest over one shoulder so that he could hold out a hand to me. I eyed it. Part of me wanted to accept his help, but then I remembered that, though he had stopped my beating, he had stood back and let Jenny wail on me for quite a