The ashes fall like snow upon the cold ground. I look up at the grey, grey sky and see them drop lightly around me. As I walk through them, the dark swirls of soot flutter like butterflies around my dirty boots, caked with mud and ash from long trudges through desolate landscapes such as this one. The dark forms of crumbling brick and steel around me seem to flow by as I walk briskly through the ankle-deep ashes, my footprints serving as a testament that there is still one living soul in this scarred and barren place.


I look at the sky once more and see that it’s turned from its dull pallor to radiant shades of purple and orange. At least the sunsets are still beautiful here. Beautiful as they may be, they signify a rather large problem: it’s going to get dark soon, and in this world it is no longer safe to travel at night. I’ll have to find a place to stop soon. I begin to scan what is left of the street around me, searching for anything with a roof. Without a roof, one could fall asleep and be covered with the falling ashes, suffocating before they wake.




Continuing to trudge through the would-be snow, a building, about a hundred feet to my right catches my eye. A building with a roof, a cracked plastic sign above the door still bears a few faded letters in peeling black paint: MOTEL 8 CHECK IN. As I begin to walk toward the derelict hotel, I notice something I hadn’t before: the office has windows. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen windows. I must be lucky today.


My steps become more careful and tentative as I draw nearer to this haven. I’ve realized that animals would find this as safe a haven as I would. I stop, and pull a long, wooden bow from my heavy, overstuffed pack. I pull its string from another side pocket, and draw it across the smooth, lined surface. I make sure it’s taut before nocking an arrow and resuming my careful trek toward a safe place to rest.


As I near the door, I pull the bowstring back a little. The door to the unused office looks like it hasn’t been disturbed in years. Its coat of peeling red paint doesn’t bear any marks. Even so, one can never be sure. I push my foot against the bare wood and the door slowly squeaks open to reveal a receptionist’s desk to my left and a bank of computers against the opposite wall. I walk around the desk and see the comfy leather office chair that must have been left here so long ago. I sit down and scan the room, making sure that there’s no one or nothing but me in it, and for a comfortable place to sleep. Under the desk I’m sitting at seems nice.


I stand up and walk to the wall opposite the desk, pulling a chair from under the table where the computers are and propping it up under the doorknob, just in case someone or something gets curious in the middle of the night. I’m a heavy sleeper. I unclip my faded red sleeping bag from the top of my pack and lay it out underneath the receptionist’s desk. I take a seat on the worn cloth that I have called my bed for a few years now, ever since… no. I’m not going to think about that. It’s too painful.


Shaking these thoughts away, I pull my cracked leather jacket off of my aching shoulders and lay it beside me on the tile floor, followed by my boots and my hat. I look at that hat. A blue baseball cap. Even through all this turmoil, it’s retained its striking indigo pigment. Las Vegas, it says across the front in dirty white letters. A tarnished brass pin still clings to the bill, its painted letters long faded. The only thing I can still see is the outline of the continents etched into the brass. The world.


It’s time to get to bed. I crawl into the warm folds of the sleeping bag and lay my head back as I begin to drift off. My thoughts run like a train, one to the other: I’m lucky today. I have a roof to sleep under and even windows. I like windows. I remember that where I went on vacation once had nice windows…


My little sister shakes me awake. “Get up, sleepy head!”


I glance at the clock on my bedside. It’s seven in the morning and I’m on vacation. What in the name of all things sacred does she think she’s doing? She’s always so annoying. ”mmmfffffshhh…”, I mumble. “I’m tired! Go away.”At this, she promptly throws up a switch, flooding the hotel room with light.“AAAAAAGGGGHHHHHH!!!!” The light stings my eyes. “Fine”, I mumble, barely audible, “I’m up! I’m up!”


I sit up and swing my legs around the side of the bed, blinking the light out of my eyes and taking in my surroundings. I didn’t see much of the room, my family got back here from Hollywood at about three in the morning. My parents booked us a treat. This hotel is quite nice. A walnut desk with a comfy- looking chair sits in one corner next to a sliding glass door that they tell us leads to a green courtyard but the curtains are closed. A flat- screen T.V. faces the two queen-size beds, and there’s a big sofa near the door that leads into the hall. My little brother is sitting on the sofa playing a handheld game.


Looking around the room, I notice that my parents are nowhere to be found. “Where are Mom and Dad?” I ask my sister.


“They went out to get breakfast. We’re supposed to play in the courtyard or stay here in the room until they come back.”


“Oh. Then why on earth did you wake me up!?”


She giggles as ten-year-olds do and gives me a mischievous little smile. “Because I can.”


I roll my eyes and walk toward my backpack. It’s funny, the rest of my family used duffel bags or suitcases, but I crammed all of my vacation clothes into a camping backpack. I pull a faded green t-shirt out of it along with a pair of worn blue jeans and my favorite baseball cap, its shiny new pin from universal studios glinting proudly in the light of the lamps. I slip my feet into a pair of worn but flexible leather boots. Perfect for sunny weather. At least that’s what the weatherman told us we’d have.


After changing, I walk out of the bathroom and turn to my siblings. “Let’s go play outside”, I say with a smile. “I brought a Frisbee!” I pick up the plastic disk from beside my pack. They both jump up excitedly and we walk toward the glass door. My little brother seems especially excited.


“Yay!” he screams.


Before we get there, however, the ground shakes. Not enough to knock anything off of a table, but enough to be felt. I’m not worried; here in California they get lots of earthquakes. I try to reassure my siblings that nothing’s wrong, and to prove it I walk over to the curtains and pull them aside to show them the bright blue skies and green grass of the courtyard.


But the weatherman was wrong. There aren’t any blue skies. There’s a column of dark black smoke to the north, curling around itself at its highest point. And the sky is blood red. Smoke runs across the dusty sky like some sick, twisted, fireworks display. Planes fly back and forth, darting across the smoky horizon like hawks, searching for prey. One by one, things around us fall. Flaming buildings crumble and collapse, belching fireballs into the sky. Airplanes are shredded by gunfire in midair, sending their wreckage tumbling down to earth.


My mind flies into panic, sending bits of information and questions flying around in my psyche like bits of paper in a windstorm. What’s going on? Why is Los Angeles on fire? Who’s attacking the city? Why? Even among all this chaos, my mind retains one thought: Run. Take them and run to a safe place.


I throw my leather jacket on along with my backpack. Taking one kid under each arm, I race into the hall, practically tearing up the carpet as I do so. As I run further and further down the hall, a question enters mind that hasn’t before. Where am I running to? My mind instantly flies to somewhere underground. Where can I get underground? My overwhelmed brain wracks itself for this tiny bit of information. Think! Think!, I tell myself as I continue to run down the long hallway. It finally comes to me. The basement! We’ll hide in the basement!


I begin to run even faster down the hallway as the lights go out and doors begin to open. People are panicking. I have to run if I want to save us. My lungs burn as I push myself even further. Almost to the stairwell… there. I kick open the door and begin to step carefully down the concrete stairs. We were staying on the fifth floor. I take quick glances at the signs as I pass, my aching legs now beginning to protest the vigorous exercise I’m giving them. Third floor… second… ground floor. The door to the basement is right in front of me.


I set my siblings down and turn the door handle. But it won’t turn. Damn! It must be locked! I throw myself at that steel door. I slam my shoulder into the tempered metal so many times that my shoulder begins to bruise, and then to bleed. I can’t get it open. At last, on what seems like the billionth hit, the door begins to give way. I kick at it one last time and it finally squeaks open.


“Get in!” I shout at the two little ones standing in the corner of the stairwell. They’re so frightened that they obey without question. I see the door behind me, still open. At the bottom of the stairs, there’s a pile of cardboard boxes and folding chairs. I tear open one of the boxes. It’s full of books- heavy. Perfect. I throw the door closed and pile the boxes, about a foot high, wide, and deep each, in front of the door in three layers. Someone is going to have to hit that door about as hard as I did to get it open again.


Tired from all of the running, carrying siblings, moving boxes, the adrenaline in my system begins to fade. I walk down the stairs to where my little brother and sister sit shivering, throw my jacket around their shoulders, and promptly black out.


When I come to, my sister is standing over me with a flashlight, with a look of concern on her face. As I open my eyes, the worry fades a bit from her face, but doesn’t go away completely. “How long have I been out?” I ask.


“A few hours. We found some blankets on the shelf. The little guy is passed out in the corner in a bundle of them.”


I prop myself up on one elbow and take in my surroundings. This part of the hotel basement is about fifty feet square, but there’s a door in the opposite corner to the stairs that probably leads to another room. Shelves of blankets and hotel concierges’ uniforms stand in the middle of the room.


I try to stand, but fall over, hitting my tender shoulder on the concrete as I go down. “OOOOWWWWW!” I yell as the cold, smooth floor makes contact with my weakened form. Instead of getting up again, I just turn to the tiny, shivering little girl standing before me and say, “you should get some rest. We’ll look for some food in the morning.” With that, she lies down on the floor and closes her eyes, as do I.


When I wake up, time seems to cram itself into one unpausing stream. Months pass and events blur together. I find a radio in the back room. There’s plenty of food in the freezer where the supplies for the hotel’s free breakfast are. We listen to the radio… they’re calling it WWIII. China declared war on the U.S. over growing debt. They launched a nuclear warhead at Washington D.C. NATO has dissolved. The U.N. is gone. The entire world breaks out into mass fighting. Europe’s borders are constantly reshaping and being redrawn. The Chinese army advances eastward across the plains but U.S. troops are holding them back from the Rockies. The skies are filled with ashes, now falling like snow wherever the wind carries them. No one knows much about the west side of the Rocky Mountains but one thing is clear: the Chinese are searching for survivors and either killing them or sending them to camps where the conditions are so deplorable that many don’t even attempt to live anymore.


Then one day the radio won’t work. There’s nothing but static. I think at first that maybe the batteries are dead or the radio’s broken. But I replace the batteries with new ones I found on the shelf. And make sure that nothing’s frayed or cracked inside the transistor. We wait for another two months. Nothing.


Then I start to hear things in the night. People screaming and doors being broken down. They’ve begun looking for survivors here. We have to go. Soon. But where would we go? And how would we get there? I suddenly feel a wave of homesickness. That’s where we’ll go. Home. It may not even be there anymore, but we have to go. Anywhere is better than here. East. We’ll go east until we get home. And if it’s not there, we’ll just keep walking until this all blows over. Until we find a place where peace exists.


I rouse my little brother and sister from their fitful sleep that same night. “Come on,” I say with the small smile I manage to pull, “let’s go home.”


I pull two linen laundry bags from the galvanized steel shelving, filling one with blankets, and then walking over to the now room-temperature freezer and filling the other with cans of fruit and some toaster waffles. I tear two extra blankets into halves and rip holes in the center of each, creating ponchos for my siblings. It’ll be cold and they didn’t bring jackets with them on vacation.


Just as we begin to walk toward the door, I hear slamming on the other side. Fear ripples through my body. They’re looking here. Here, of all places. I hear more slamming. The boxes begin to dislodge. One falls off the top. Then three more. I hope and pray to whatever god will help me that the crates hold.


The slamming stops. I guess I’m lucky. I hear men’s voices shouting on the other side of the door. I don’t need to speak Chinese to know that they’re going for a battering ram. We need to run. Now. Once I hear the voices die down, I launch myself up onto the top stair and begin tearing the heavy boxes down, one by one until the door is clear.


The door swings open easily now that the latch is broken. I direct the both of them toward the stairs again. Once we hit the ground floor, I start to run for the large, glass front doors, shattered from what the radio called the battle of Los Angeles. I duck in between the twisted pieces of steel and take my first steps outside in months. The little ones aren’t far behind.


I am completely overwhelmed by what I see. I knew that Los Angeles had been in a battle, but I never expected anything like this. The towering buildings I had been awed by upon my arrival now lay in piles of rubble in the street. Cars and people lay strewn about the street, all covered by an inch-thick layer of gray ashes. I walk out into the street, closely followed by my trembling siblings. My surroundings astound me. My stomach does somersaults inside me as I take in this gruesome scene. How could anyone be so cruel?


I am awakened from my startled state by the sound of shouting in some Asian language. The men have come back. I see them stand there in dust-colored camouflage, trying to pinpoint the movement he saw. One grabs a handgun from his belt before I grab both of the little ones and dive behind the ruined form of a Cadillac. Bullets pierce the aluminum on the other side of the car. I can’t move because I’ll get shot if I leave the protection of the derelict car. I can’t endanger the other two, and if I’m gone then they’ll just be sent to one of those horrible containment camps.


All of these thoughts are swept away by a small, round metal object that rolls into view. It’s got a curious sort of clasp on one side. I sit there for four or five seconds before it hits me- it’s a grenade! There’s no longer any question of staying behind the car. I grab both of my siblings by the wrist and book it down the street. I only make it four steps in slow motion before I feel the intense heat of the explosion and see the bright flash of light.


I jolt awake in a cold sweat. I haven’t dreamt of the world before since… I can’t even remember. My entire body is taken up with tremors that are shaking me so hard that everything I see seems to vibrate. I remember running still further… we were so lucky not to have been caught. They must have thought we were dead.




I sit there, the events of my life up to this point flashing before my very eyes. I see miles and miles and miles of walking through ashes, up mountains, in the snow. I see the small communities that remained after all the heartache, where we traded for the supplies that kept us alive. I see death. Of my parents, whom I never saw again. Of my sister, buried beneath the ashes in her sleep. Of my brother, taken by pneumonia when there were no more doctors to help him. Gone. They’re all gone. My family. My friends. I tried to make it home with them. For them. Now I’m alone. All alone in this world of death and destruction. Everyone and everything that mattered to me is gone. The only thing I have left is the journey home. If it’s even there.




The sun is up, now. I must have sat there in a daze for quite some time. I should get moving. I have a lot of walking to do today. I roll up my sleeping bag and clip it back onto my pack. I slip my feet into my worn leather boots and tie the laces tightly around my ankles before pulling the chair from under the doorknob and walking outside into the ashen place that was once a city.




The ashes have filled my footprints from yesterday. The new ones I make as I trudge ever onward serve as another testament. A testament of one who has fought many battles, but will never win. The footprints I leave show exactly what I am. Empty. Empty and hollow, with nothing but ashes to fill the void.