Karima Ali sat on her bed at the Rathelot barracks, silent and with a somber expression.

It had been a week since she had removed the bandage covering her entire cheek. The splash of ignited gasoline had left a massive and hideous pink scar. It was impossible to ignore how grotesque it was; it was as if someone had tried to tear off her skin from bottom to top.

The only positive aspect was that her eye was unharmed.

Unfortunately, her colleague, who had received a Molotov cocktail to the head that day, couldn't say the same. Almost his entire face had melted.

With no functional emergencies and no medications, no one could help him. Almost all the anesthetics that had been saved had been used to alleviate his suffering.

It hadn't been enough. In agony, he had thrown himself out of the window, unable to put a bullet through his head with his service weapon.

His suicide had been an additional shock for the already grieving Rathelot barracks, which had lost many comrades.

Karima's thoughts went straight to the family of the poor man who had already lost a child since the crisis began. Like many people in Paris, the son of the gendarme who had taken his own life, Arthur Gonard, needed medication to live. It was a disease one could easily live with; all it took was presenting a prescription to receive the necessary medications and occasionally undergoing blood tests.

But when electricity disappeared, hospitals stopped functioning, and pharmacies were looted.

France no longer produced this medication on its soil to save money. Their only hope lay in emergency aid from abroad. Since that aid never arrived, their son had wasted away and died. It was a true tragedy. Now the mother had to support her last child alone, who luckily didn't have the health problems of his younger brother.

The Rathelot barracks had lost other members whom Karima knew. What had happened to Françoise, she had learned a few days after her facial injury.

She had been forced to hold a difficult-to-defend position, and the enemies of the Republic had surrounded her with her volunteers and a few comrades. She had been beaten dozens of times, even while lying on the ground. The fact that she was a woman had no effect on these cruel bloodthirsty people. Reinforcements had arrived, but too late to help her. She had died during the night in a makeshift hospital built behind the barracks, on the training ground.

Knock, knock.

Someone gently tapped on the door of the young woman's room.

"Come in," she said hoarsely. "It's open."

A young man in a gendarme uniform timidly appeared at the entrance of the room and removed his cap. It was the most basic headgear in the gendarmerie. Slightly high and almond-shaped, the gendarme's cap was black on the sides and bore the gendarmerie emblem. The top was navy blue.

"I'm sorry, Major, I just wanted to bring you some water," the young man said.

He indeed held a pitcher. Water had become extremely precious much faster than she would have thought. Bottled water had long been consumed, so they had been forced to drink rainwater. After all, drinking water from the Seine was inconceivable. The river was far too polluted.

Unfortunately, they had experienced a fairly intense heatwave in recent weeks. All their reserves had melted away during this very difficult time for bodies and minds.

Several people, especially the elderly and the youngest, had died of thirst. The lack of food had already weakened them. This heat, this furnace even, which had made the air unbreathable during the day, had been the final straw for all these people.

Although Seine water was undrinkable, even after being filtered and boiled, hundreds or even thousands of people had rushed to it to cool off. It was madness, even though the pollution level was far from that of some rivers in the world.

Karima had heard that a fairly large percentage of them had fallen ill in the days following and that a few had been bitten by rats.

The young woman readily accepted the pitcher because she was very thirsty. She took care, however, to turn in such a way as to expose only the good side of her face. But as she took the pitcher, she felt resistance. The young gendarme looked at her with surprise and embarrassment.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

"I-I'm sorry. It's one glass per person. I have to visit the other residents to serve them."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Karima replied, mortified. "I thought… Anyway, here you go."

Karima felt ashamed as she handed over her small glass. She thought the entire pitcher of water was for her. She tried to change the atmosphere by making conversation with this young man, who had only a career gendarme rank, symbolized by two gray diagonal bars.

"How are things at the barracks?"

"Not very good, but better since it started raining. Everyone's trying to collect that water to store it. The problem remains food. We sent someone to Rungis, but it was much too late. All the food was gone."

"Off course. They should have gone in the first few days. Too bad. But we were too busy maintaining order."

The young gendarme said nothing, but his expression said it all.

Rungis, located in the south of Paris, was an impressive storage site, a veritable city within the city, which some called "the largest market in France." Practically all the food in France passed through this point. It was a highly strategic location for supplying food to the entire country.

Shopping centers and restaurateurs sourced from here, and it was here that Parisians found their happiness when they realized they needed to stock up. A few days were enough to completely empty the warehouses, which was an achievement considering the size and astronomical quantities of food stored there.

"And Paris?"

The gendarme's face immediately turned grim at the mention of the capital. It was as if Karima had uttered an insult. The young man honestly answered without hiding anything.

"Fallen. For now, at least."

"F-fallen?! Why?! Didn't we get reinforcements?"

"Yes, but apparently the officers said that fighting for a ruin wasn't worth it."

Karima couldn't believe her ears. Mouth agape, she stared at the boy, waiting for him to tell her it was a bad joke.

It can't be true! They didn't say that?! Did we fight for nothing, then?!

"Did they… Did they really say that?"

"It's the rumor. They say there are only extremists left in Paris and nothing worth saving."

"But still… I hope we'll still try to retake it. It's Paris, after all. It's the capital. All our monuments, all our history…"

Karima's expression mirrored that of the young boy, who couldn't have been more than eighteen years old. For him, too, it was a disaster. What they felt now was more a sense of defeat than loss. It was as if something precious had been torn from them, and it had taken them time to realize that what they had lost was pride. In other words, they were defeated and covered in shame.

The young gendarme felt tears welling up. His eyes were red and shiny, which Karima noticed quickly.

"I… I'll leave you. I have… I have a lot of people to see."

"Okay. Thanks for the water," Karima said softly, and as the young gendarme was about to disappear, she called him back. "Hey, keep it up. You're doing a good job."

The young man seemed surprised but smiled weakly before leaving.

Karima found herself alone in her room again. She had been ordered to rest, which she had done. She had stayed locked up in her quarters at the barracks for a long time. She had voluntarily isolated herself because she didn't want to be seen with her bandage. When she had removed her bandage for the first time, she had collapsed in tears.

In her eyes, she had become ugly and could never find love.

Her gaze turned to a small mirror hanging on the wall, and it was with great difficulty that she didn't look away. It was better than a week ago. At first, she couldn't stand to see her reflection, even briefly.

Despite the free time granted by her superior, she hadn't taken the opportunity to spend time with her mother. They had hardly seen each other since the blackout, and even before they spent little time together. In reality, she didn't even know when she had last seen her. If she had a calendar in her room, she didn't keep it up to date. She didn't even know the date of the day.

Every day was the same and was an intense and exhausting struggle.

I can't stay like this. I have to pull myself together.

Karima went to the coat rack and grabbed a waterproof jacket before putting on a pair of reinforced boots. She placed her cap on top of her head and, after a brief hesitation, opened the door to leave.

As the young gendarme had said, Karima's colleagues, including the volunteers, were mostly busy collecting rainwater. Anything was good as long as the water was stored, and again anything was good as long as it could be drunk later. They filled jerry cans, canteens, bottles, pots, and even old cleaned tin cans.

It's okay, it's okay, it's okay. No one's looking at you strangely. You're normal.

Karima thought of nothing but her scar. She feared the gaze of others, but she had come to the conclusion that she couldn't live forever in fear, away from people. There was no escape: she had to face her fears, go out, show herself until her colleagues no longer saw her burn, but a comrade.

"Major Ali! Major! Look!"

"Huh?"

Karima turned to Greg Toussaint, who was waving his arm like a child to get her attention.

They had become quite close since the blackout. The fact that they had fought side by side against a fire and tried to save survivors from a plane crash had had this strange effect on them. Likewise, she had become closer to Frédéric Rolland, aka Fred.

"It's… a real tiger?! exclaimed the young woman, her eyes wide open as rarely before.

"Yes! The colleagues shot it earlier in Puteaux!"

Karima admired in awe the body of a Bengal tiger riddled with bullets. It was massive, and its amber eyes seemed to stare at her.

He-he's really dead! Damn, he's so scary!

"We think it came from a circus. Or maybe a zoo. We're not sure. Anyway, it was alone."

"My God," the young woman murmured, imagining herself in her colleagues' place, facing this immense predator.

Its teeth and claws were terrifying weapons. Certainly, she would have collapsed in terror.

"We need to know! Maybe there are others in the area! Or other dangerous animals!"

"The officers are discussing it, actually. We'll probably form search teams."

Damn it! When will we stop getting bad news?!