After scraping together some more processed foods from the cupboards that could be eaten without any need for heating or cooking, Michael had come to the realisation that it was time to try something different. He needed to be smarter. So far he'd come up short on everything that had happened; his parents were missing, and while he thought he was safe in his own house, he wasn't sure, and it wasn't sustainable even if he was. There were only so many bags of tortilla chips you could eat without craving some fresh meat and veggies, for one thing.

Michael sat in his living room. The curtains were open. There was no light outside, as it was autumn, the afternoon, and the sun had already gone over the horizon. The street outside was deserted, and Michael couldn't hear anything. He decided to write in his notepad once again, to try and get an inventory of where he was at and what he should do next.

For one thing, he was running low on food. His pantry had only enough to last a few more days, if he ate sparingly. It'd be a lot more if there were any power or if he could find a gas stove. Then it occurred to him that he could try cooking on the small fireplace in the living room. It wasn't really sustainable versus a better solution though.

Next, he thought about the person, or people, he'd seen in the house on his last excursion. Now he knew there were other people out there, it gave him some hope; they'd run away from him, but it didn't necessarily mean they were hostile.

But he knew that people were not going to come to him, not unless they had something they wanted from him. And if that was the case, it might be dangerous.

There were a lot of ways he could end up getting hurt or killed if he tried to approach strangers, so Michael had to think of a different plan.

As he thought, Michael came to a decision: he was going to break into some of the nearby houses.

He couldn't keep going on his own, he decided. If there were people in those houses, they would help him, even if it meant trading with them for food and water, or whatever else he could offer. And, he reasoned to himself, there might not be anyone living in them, but he could still scavenge what they'd left behind.

It wasn't the nicest solution to his food problem, but it seemed to be the best of the ones he had. And he was going to have to leave his own house to get to other places eventually. Maybe the best thing he could do would be to use other, abandoned, houses to get where he was going.

He knew that across the street, in the opposite direction he'd gone in earlier, one of his neighbours, lived a guy named Keith. Michael immediately wrote down his name, because his house was a possible good target. The reason for this is that, at least before this world-ending craziness had started, Keith had been considered by Michael, his parents and the other neighbours, to be a bit "weird."

By that, he would talk for hours to anyone who'd walk by, but more importantly; he was a bit of a doomsday prepper: he'd often talk about how he was going to survive when the zombie apocalypse, nuclear holocaust or other such world ending catastrophe came to pass.

In reality, Michael and his parents, along with most people who lived in this area, knew that it was unlikely any of the doomsday scenarios were ever going to happen, but Michael hoped that in Keith's zeal he had a store of tinned goods and bottled water.

His next door neighbour was Mrs. O'Brian. While Michael liked Mrs. O'Brian - and even considered her something of a family friend - the woman was ancient, so it seemed unlikely that even if she were alive, that she'd be a very useful ally in the apocalyptic world. But Michael thought the right thing to do was at least knock on the door and see if she was still around. Most people weren't.

Michael looked at the rest of the packet of tortillas, and ate them all.

"Time to get this over and done with, then," he said, looking over the page. He was hungry, but not starving; and if he was right, Keith would have something worth eating in his home, if Michael could only find it. He got to his feet and left the room.

It took less than five minutes for Michael to cross the road and stand in front of Keith's home, and in that time no one had come out to confront him, and he'd heard nothing other than the sound of birds.

As Michael walked up the driveway to the house, he saw that there were a lot of things scattered about, and he wondered what they were doing here, in the yard, when the house was obviously in use.

Michael's hand rested on the front door handle. It felt like any other door handle in the world, and that felt strange. Michael was aware of the fact that the door was probably locked. Michael took a knock at the door, figuring he couldn't just break in assuming that Keith and his wife had disappeared like his parents, or like most people, in fact, in this town.

"Hey Keith?" He shouted at the door.

He listened closely. He could hear a soft scratching sound, like rats running across the floor, but it seemed too quiet and far away to be rats.

There was nothing else. No reply, no sounds. He took another look at the doorknob. The lock on the front door looked sturdy and well made. He had to hope it wasn't a good lock.

If he put his weight behind his shoulder, he figured he could knock it down, but he didn't want to damage Keith's house if he didn't have to. Michael put his hand on the door, and tried the door handle. To no surprise, the handle didn't turn, and the lock didn't give. The lock was well made.

He looked around for another entrance into the house, and spotted the side gate to the backyard. It looked like it might not be as well made, and it was definitely a lot quieter, out of view from the street as it would be. Michael went to the side gate. It had a simple latch and no lock.

The gate swung open. The hinges on the gate squeaked slightly, but there were no sounds of alarm from within the house. Michael looked at the house. He couldn't see anything moving inside the house. It didn't look like there were any signs of anyone being there.

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He went to the back door, which was just a regular sliding door made of glass, but with a security panel on the frame that could be activated. He hoped that wasn't activated right now. It would mean Keith and his wife had left without setting it off. Michael put his hand on the door handle. It slid open.

Michael breathed out. That was one hurdle overcome.

Michael decided, before going in, he'd call out for them just once more to be safe. "Hey Keith, or Lisa, are you guys here?" His voice sounded much quieter in the house, but it echoed in the hallway and living room beyond, making his voice sound like it came from a long distance away. "Keith? Lisa?"

Nothing.

He slid open the door the rest of the way, and walked into the house.

It looked like it hadn't been cleaned in a while, but overall, with Keith's reputation, Michael was surprised how, well, normal the place seemed.

Michael walked into the living room and found the sofa. The room was big enough to hold a big television and several big sofas and a couple of chairs.

The furniture was comfortable. He looked around the room.

The kitchen was the same. There was a small dining area. A breakfast bar and a table, with two chairs.

There were no signs of a struggle or any indication of violence, no signs that anything out of the ordinary had occurred in this house. There was a stack of dishes on the sink.

The kitchen had a small kitchen island. Michael walked to the kitchen and opened the cupboards. He looked at the shelves and drawers.

He saw some dried foods. Some pasta and some rice.

But Michael wanted to find something he hoped would be here; specifically, a small camping stove or something so that he could actually cook the various supplies he found. Making his way through the house, he collected various items; general medicines from the bathroom cabinet; matches; tinned and dry foods; a couple of packets of AA batteries, a can opener, a flashlight and even an unopened toothpaste tube.

There were no camping supplies or anything useful for heating up food or boiling water though, and he figured he'd try Mrs. O'Brian's house to see if there might be anything useful.

By the time he'd ransacked Keith's place, it was fully dark and getting quite cold. His backpack, that he'd packed with a couple of days worth of clothing and essentials in the morning, was full and getting quite heavy. So, rather than making a second trip straight away, Michael decided it would be best to get back to his own house.

Dropping the supplies back at home, he then decided to go around to see if Mrs. O'Brian was home and alive.

Her house was in total darkness, but she was old and there wasn't any real light in the skies. She probably was in bed.

He decided that the only way he would be able to tell whether Mrs. O'Brian was at home would be if he rang the bell, so Michael pressed it, and heard it echo throughout her home.

There was a shuffling from behind the door, but the sound stopped before it got to the front door. Michael listened to the door for a moment and then knocked again.

There was no sound this time. In fact, Michael thought that maybe he'd imagined the shuffling sound before. He tried the door handle, but it was inevitably locked.

He peered around the side gate, and there was no sign that anyone was inside. He knew that this was a pivotal moment; he was about to break in to someone's house.

On one hand, he felt bad. On the other, he knew if there was anyone who'd understand, it'd be a kindly old woman. Besides, he told himself, he could always break in under the guise of figuring out whether she was inside and needed help.

"Mrs. O'Brian?" he called again. He knocked at the front door, but no answer.

"Hello?"

Michael looked at the house, and decided it was worth it. It would have been one thing to just ransack the homes, but at least he could tell himself that he'd made sure that there were no survivors first, before breaking in. And there might be a good haul in an old lady's house. Food and camping equipment. He'd be able to stock up on food.

He went to the back garden, through the side gate. The garden was immaculate, which was no surprise as Michael's dad used to cut her grass every couple of weeks in return for home-baked cookies, cakes or muffins.

Michael thought for a second and then picked up the garden gnome from under the patio. It had a hard, sturdy head which he could use as a hammer. But as he picked it up, he saw that underneath it was a spare key to the back door.

"Huh, this was easier than I thought it'd be."

The back door opened with the key and he put the gnome down again.

"Thank you Mrs. O'Brian," he said out loud, feeling slightly guilty about going inside her home while she was either not in or worse. He loced the back door behind him, as he didn't want anyone else finding their way in, and slipped the key in his back pocket.

He went inside.

"Mrs. O'Brian?" he called as he walked through her home. He opened a couple of cupboards. "I'm Michael from across the road, are you in here?" His voice was loud, but not shouting. "I just want to know that you are OK. Are you in?"

He walked up the stairs, no longer calling out but not particularly aiming for any sort of stealth. He figured that Mrs. O'Brian's house would be as empty as the rest of the town seemed.

He peered around the first room, which was an upstairs bathroom, and figured he'd come back to see if there was anything useful later. For now, he wanted to do a quick sweep.

Moving forward, listening intently for any sort of sound, he made his way into the first bedroom.

That was where he saw the body.

"Oh shit" he muttered to himself.

Mrs. O'Brian was there. Lying in bed. Michael looked down at the body and then stepped forward and bent over it. She could be sleeping, he tried to tell himself.

The woman's head was tilted backwards, with her neck bent back and her chin pointed up. The rest of her body was flat on her back, her arms straight down. Her legs were together. She looked as if she had been asleep and had died in her sleep. There were no wounds or injuries on her.

"Mrs. O'Brian, are you okay? Can I do anything?"

No reply. He felt a sudden wave of grief and sadness. The poor woman, he thought to himself, and he had liked her so much, even if they were only acquaintances.

"Are you okay?"

Still nothing.

"Mrs. O'Brian? I don't want to leave you here. Do you need help? Should I get an ambulance? Or take you somewhere?"

She looked very pale.

He checked for a pulse.

"Mrs. O'Brian. Please. Wake up."

Still no answer. Her body was cold. She was definitely dead.

Michael tried to hold back tears. Not just because of Mrs. O'Brien, but this whole situation, how lonely it all was.

"I'm sorry."

Michael looked down at Mrs. O'Brien and took a breath. The woman's face was cold, pale. He tried not to stare, tried not to look. But it was so sad, to see the body. She'd always been kind and caring.

Michael covered her body with her bed sheet.

"I'm so sorry Mrs. O'Brien."

***

He sat at the bottom of her bed for some time, crying and thinking of her.

Eventually though, the realisation came that there were still things he had to do. It wasn't safe, this new world. There were creatures that wanted him dead. Probably people that wanted him dead. Even if there weren't, he had to survive, which was going to be difficult enough.

Michael didn't know what was real and what wasn't anymore. It felt as if his reality had changed.

Michael stood and looked down at Mrs. O'Brien, still under her bedsheet. She had always been a kind, sweet person. Now she was dead.

"Goodbye Mrs. O'Brian."

He then turned and left the living room, and with his back to the old lady's corpse, he was in no position to see her eyes open, revealing black, oily eyeballs.