After Earth - Mornings

Every morning I watch as the sun creeps up the horizon’s foggy glow and the moon tiptoes back to sleep. I make sure that I rise early enough in the morning to catch these fleeting moments. Once the sky has settled, I turn and slunk back down the alley toward my flimsy tin shack. I rub my eyes and take a nip of water from my canteen. After pushing the shelf I use as a door out of the way, I set my rifle by the wall and lay down on the worn cotton lump that I call a mattress. The night prior was as dreadfully cold as any other.

I remember the wind rattling the aluminum lining of my shack, keeping me awake and alert. I had to put on a third layer of pants and fourth sweater before I was able to fall back asleep. My dreams once again startled me to bolt up in a sweaty jolt of fear. Perhaps that is why I began rising so early in the morning.

I check my watch and mark my calendar.

My journal helps me take my mind off the horrendous world surrounding me. It has become an escape for me to reminisce and step away from daily concerns. I lean over to a small stack of papers and grab the leather bound book resting on top.With a rather short number two pencil, I begin to write.

October 14, 2064

Yesterday was not very productive. Although I’m fortunate enough to say nothing bad happened, nothing good happened either. The MegaMart down the street is dwindling and the deer have caught on to me. I believe they have migrated elsewhere. Food is becoming even more scarce than I had anticipated. The weather is just as unpredictable from one day to the next. Just three days ago, I needed no more clothing than a t-shirt and jeans, yet I still sweat my sorry ass off. Yesterday, was near the complete opposite. The pond around the corner froze what little water was left in it. I fear that I am making very little progress. Today, I must leave this alley and search for another place to forage.

The ground begins to rumble with a fury, like thunder coursing through the layers of earth. I grip onto my matress and brace for the worst until the earth settles back into a light mumble.

“Just another earthquake” I tell myself reluctantly.

For the first 28 years of my life, I had never felt an earthquake. Growing up in a small midwestern town, I never had to worry about picture frames falling off the wall from a sudden, rapid vibration of the earth beneath my feet. It wasn’t something I even considered in my everyday life. I assumed from stories or videos that it felt as if the earth was growling at the people stepping all over it. Its own personal communication to the world above it. Like banging on the ceiling of an apartment as a way of telling the tenant above to quiet down. Communication with actions rather than words. When society began to crumble and roll down hill, these quakes became second nature. The first dozen or so rumbles still frightened people until we realized this was earth communicating a constant frustrated moan. We had damaged it for far too long and it was fed up.

Several times a day the earth reminds me of the mistakes we all made with an aggressive shiver. The quakes are never violent enough to cause damage. At this point, they have become redundant and disconcerning. Now, it is as much a part of my day as watching the sun rise.

I begin to gather the essentials for my journey forward. Survival is the best plan I have. All I know is that the area I have been living in has become barren and scarce of any valuable resources. I will continue to move south until I come across a newfound source of food or water. Worn-down, makeshift signs have been scattered along the highway advertising a small community that have erected a home in Charlottesville. It seems like my best option; however, it is quite a walk from Boston which is why I have had to make so many stops along the way.

For the time being, I gather three remaining cans of tuna, half a loaf of wonderbread, a partially-filled, room temperature canteen of water, and my journal. I stuff these items into my camping bag and grab my rifle as I stride toward the crumbling shelf-door. Unsuspecting of another drastic temperature change, I make sure to clip my jackets and sweaters onto my bag and let them dangle from behind. Today feels like a murky October day, so I leave with boots, jeans, a Boston College sweater, and a knit cap I found in an abandoned home four days ago. I decide to leave this flimsy tin shack for the next traveler to make a home of. There’s no point in wasting my energy to dismantle the rust box. Perhaps this deed will give me good karma.

I have to admit. I barely know how to use this rifle. More than anything I carry it to intimidate any enemy I might cross paths with. Growing up, it was never something I needed, or even remotely wanted to have. I always associated the weapon with violence and a false sense of masculinity. Fortunately, I have never had to use it on another human; however, I have acquired a small amount of practice hunting for food. I don’t enjoy rupturing the bodies of grazing animals. They are trying hard to survive like I am. That being said, it’s a far better option than starvation or eating the earthworms I've had to scoop up after a heavy rainfall.

I bid one last farewell to my temporary home and step toward the road ahead.