I set the bag of supplies I’ve managed to collect on the table on my way through the kitchen without a word. I hear a grunt of acknowledgement but otherwise nothing — he doesn’t even bother to search it. I continue into the hall, heading toward the stairs. I pause at the bottom step to unzip my jacket and slip off my boots. We’ve been here long enough that I’ve learned to avoid all the spots that creak and groan on the worn wood stairs.

I set my shoes by the door as I turn left into the first room and start emptying my pockets — flashlight, batteries, a few granola bars — and dump them on the scratched coffee table in the center of the room. I unbuckle my belt, slip off the hunting knife, and then rebuckle it as the first rays of sun filter through the dusty curtains. I’ve been out since sunset, and exhaustion weighs down like a ton of lead on my shoulders.

I sink down onto the cracked leather couch, setting the knife on the coffee table and pulling the pistol from my shoulder harness. I haven't fired it in over a week, but it's been a while since I've found any ammunition. I dig into the left pocket of my jacket for the half empty box of bullets. I try to ignore the guilty flush creeping up my neck, knowing the bullets should have been in the bag on the kitchen table. I listen to the silence of the house as I slide them into the magazine one by one.

When the magazine is full, I check the safety before holstering it. I dump the last five rounds back into my jacket pocket and toss the empty box over the back of the couch and into a small trash can by the desk. That done, I unclip the buckle of the holster but leave it on.

I drag the thick fleece blanket off the back of the couch and curl up facing the door. The two-seat couch isn't nearly long enough, but I prefer it in here. I don’t even bother closing the door anymore, though that has slightly more to do with the screeching noise the swollen wood makes across the floor. My bedroom was originally downstairs, but since my uncle hasn’t so much as approached the staircase in weeks I stay up here now. Hiding, I think bitterly.

I listen for movement downstairs as I consciously relax my shoulders, but there’s nothing. He spends most of his time in the kitchen before he leaves, as far as I can tell. He’ll be heading out soon to do his own scavenging on the eastern side of the town like I’ve done in the western half. This compromise is understood; we stay out of each other’s way and everything goes smoothly.

We always divided tasks that way— him alone, me and-

I clamp down on the memories and pull the blanket up to my chin. I don’t have time for memories. Or regrets.

Along with slow breaths, I tighten and then loosen my muscles, trying to unwind from hours of scavenging alone in the dark. With eyes still closed I push the buttons on my watch to turn on the alarm and force myself to take long, slow breaths.

I should be sleeping already. As soon as the sun goes down, there are more buildings to clear. I curl tighter into myself and count slowly as I breathe. After several minutes, the dark peace of sleep has nearly pulled me under.

A sudden thump shoots through my awareness. I bolt upright, blinking to force away the sleep blurring my thoughts. The thumping noise comes again from downstairs.

I stumble around the coffee table and out the door. At the top of the stairs I freeze. There it is again, from the kitchen? I descend the stairs quickly. He knows how important silence is — drilled it into us too— so why is he making so much noise? At the bottom of the stairs I pause again. A cold breeze trickles in from the kitchen, sending a shiver down my spine.

I swing around the bannister and jog into the kitchen. The chair is empty and the back door hangs open, swinging idly on its hinges. There are three wooden steps with a handrail just beyond it, and as I watch another gust of wind slams the door against the rail. The cold fall air sweeps in through the open door freely as dread settles into my stomach.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

I cross the dusty linoleum floor, wishing I had stopped to put my boots on. I hesitate at the door, one hand on the knob, and scan what I can see of the space between this house and the next. Nothing seems out of place. I start to pull the door shut, but just before the latch catches the unmistakable crack of gunfire cuts through the quiet of the early morning. I lurch backward, accidentally slamming the door.

I back away from the door and then jog toward the living room, but I pull up short at the hallway. The door to the bedroom at the back of the house is open. That door, like the kitchen one, is never left open.

The boom of another gunshot sounds. The front room upstairs would give a better view of the street, but the front door is closer. It’s barricaded beyond actual use, but the window beside it has a view of the street. I pad on silent socked feet to it. With a sharp tug, I yank at the edge of the dark fabric pinned to the window frame to take a look. The push pins pop free and plink against the wood floor. I brush them aside with my sock-covered feet.

There he is, standing in the street in front of the house. There’s a clear bottle of dark liquid in his left hand and a shotgun in his right. I press my cheek to the window frame, straining to see what he might have just shot.

He sloppily fires again. He can just barely balance the gun with the bottle in his other hand. Three shots and nothing to show for it? That can’t be good. Without another thought, I sprint back to the kitchen, noticing in passing the other bottles on the counter and the unmistakable scent of whiskey in the room. I wrench the doorknob and yank the door back open, taking the three steps at a sprint after quickly shutting the door. I race to the front of the house, only slowing once I’m out in the open. I cautiously step toward the porch and reach for my gun, still hanging from the unbuckled holster.

“Well, look who’s come to join me.” He smiles coldly and tries to line up another shot. I take a few more steps to the sidewalk and then down onto the road, confirming what I’d started to suspect— there’s no one and nothing else out here. I let my hand slip from the gun and slowly take a few more steps into the road. He turns when I’m within a few feet of him, swinging the barrel of his gun past me carelessly. He suddenly thrusts his bottle in my direction, sloshing the amber liquid down his arm. “Drink and be merry, we’re all gonna die!” He lets out a perverse chortle and tosses the bottle to me. I pull my right foot back and it hits the road with a sharp crack. The alcohol sloshes onto the road, soaking into my socks.

My stomach clenches with familiar unease. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen him drunk. It’s actually more of a surprise to see him sober these days. I’ve known his unstable, dangerous moods most of my life. He’s always been the rigid, slightly terrifying taskmaster of my childhood, the authoritarian leader. But when he’s drunk…

This is different. I clip the buckle of my gun holster, fiddling with it longer than necessary as I eye the street. I’ve never before thought he might be truly lethal, at least not to me. But out here in the open, with him shooting off rounds for no reason? That will definitely draw attention. And drawing attention will get us both killed.

I step closer and hesitantly reach for his arm, but he shrugs me off and wobbly lines up another shot. The projectile blasts against a crumpled car halfway down the street. I grab for the gun this time, aiming for the safety. Despite his inebriation, or maybe because of it, he catches me under the chin with his left forearm as he turns toward me. The sudden blow snaps my teeth together with a jarring pain and I fall hard on my butt.

Before I can get up he shoves a boot against my shoulder, slamming me into the asphalt. My hair— in its ever-present sloppy bun— cushions the blow of the asphalt against my head a bit, but then his boot lands heavily on my stomach. He glares down at me with more hatred than I’ve seen before. Or at least, not since the night Tommy died.

“Now why don’t you just sit back and relax.” He lets the gun fall towards me, the barrel aimed at my chest. Suddenly he doesn’t seem so drunk. My heart beats hard and fast with panic. I can’t form a coherent thought, but I open my mouth and suck in a shuddery breath anyway.

But his attention — and that cold glare — flicks away from me. He glances down the street, leaving his gun trained on me for a moment longer. I can hear movement, but I keep my eyes on the barrel of the gun. I inch my hand slowly toward it, but he leans more weight on my stomach and my hands snap automatically to the sole of his boot, propping it up as much as I can. With his attention still down the street, he pulls some more shells from his pocket and reloads the shotgun with more dexterity that I would have thought possible.