From here the town looks abandoned. There’s no signs of struggle. No dead bodies. No blast holes. There are a few vehicles parked on the side streets, but they look long abandoned. Not beat up, really, just left behind. That raises the hairs on my arms. No one leaves a good vehicle lying around.

To our left is a row of shops, all empty. Trash lies in clumps on the cracked sidewalks. I jump as a rat darts out from a pile of bricks, spots us and then scurries back. If animals can survive here, the water’s okay. Probably.

A howl from the road behind us shakes everyone into action. I look to Clay on my right and Ethan on my left. Nodding, we start forward down the desolate street. I grip Ethan’s hand in mine and feel Clay’s shoulder inches away. It takes all my will to keep my feet moving forward.

We pass a small grocery store and I point it out to Clay. I stare at the faded sign until I can puzzle out Top Shelf Groceries and Liquor. Inside it’s a mess of clotted paper, wet garbage, crumpled drywall. A bird has built a nest in one of the top shelves where they used to display apples or peaches. From here it looks picked clean, no canned goods, no bottled water. I think of going in, scrounging around, but the light is so scarce it wouldn’t do much good. I swallow and turn away. So many shadowed doorways. And it just keeps getting darker.

More empty stores. Old traffic lights with busted glass dangle above our heads. The dryness in my throat seems to doubles as I spot a hydrant with the cap off. I look at the water jug that swings off Clay’s pack. Three, maybe four cups left. I turn my thoughts away from water and to each building we pass. We’ll have to pick a building soon and bed down. I can’t imagine huddling in a dark shop, not knowing what might lurk in the wings. Each building seems darker than the next. A shop that used to be a cafe has a large, brown stain covering most of the tile floor. Blood. It has to be.

Clay stops and stiffens beside me. I swing around and look where he’s staring. Between two shops is a dark, trash-strewn alley and something’s moving. I tighten my hand over the rifle and Clay raises his guns. The thing moves. It’s fury and too small to be human. The animal looks up at us. Four legs, round eyes, a dark muzzle. Coyote? I raise my gun. Then I see the patchy brown fur, the droopy ears and tail. It’s a domestic dog. Sensing no real threat, it goes back to whatever it’s eating. I think about calling it over until Clay’s grips my arm.