Day 54 — The Raid

The fever came fast and stayed. Nothing worked—cold cloths, herbs, prayer. She burned like the world before the bombs.

I had to find medicine. The old pharmacy sat twenty miles east. Three scavengers had already claimed it.

I moved quiet. The knife did the rest.

When it was over I was shaking. Not from fear. From how easy it was.

In the back room I heard a song—broken music skipping on a loop. I found a little girl holding a cracked radio. “Is my mom with you?” she asked.

I told her no. She nodded once, like she already knew. “Can I come?”

I said yes.

Day 55 — Back at the Cabin

When I carried her inside, my wife stirred. She smiled weakly and whispered, “He’s home.” I didn’t correct her.

The girl laughed. For a few days the cabin felt alive again. We taught her to boil water, to draw, to hope.

But the fever didn’t break. Her skin split. Her eyes clouded. Her voice came out in fragments—half words, half whispers.

Day 58 — The River

I went fishing this morning. She was asleep when I left. The girl was outside humming to her radio.

When I came back, the door was open.

Blood on the floor. The girl on her back, eyes wide, throat gone.

My wife stood over her, trembling, skin cracked and glowing faint green. She turned to me, smiling wrong.

“Hungry,” she said.

I raised the gun.

“I’m sorry.”

Day 59 — Ashes

I buried them together beside the memorial. Poured the last of the whiskey over the dirt. Then I burned the cabin.

The flames climbed quick, hungry. I stood until the roof fell in and the air turned black.

There’s nothing left here but ghosts.

I packed the journal and started walking east. The sky was gray again, humming with that same broken note.

There is no home in the waste.