Tears fell like hail from the young man's eyes. Wails and sobs streamed from his throat like a drowned person being resuscitated. Bitterness filled the young man as he looked at the rubble. He consoled  himself that his parents would live on through him, but he had no faith in life after death.

Curses filled his mind as he thought of how his mother loved her God. He remembered asking how she could limit a God to being only good. Now, the only thing he desired was for God to be good.

"You took them, " he screeched at the air. His voice seemingly inhuman from the rage. "Why? Why?! Why?! WHY?!"

The resemblance of a sane person that the boy tried to keep flew away. He preoccupied the pain of loss in his heart by brutally thrusting his fist into the hard cement blocks. His hands were malleable due to lack of training, fractures appeared throughout his hands, but he ignored it all. Only a calm fire that indicated he was barely alive remained in his heart.

The boy continued to fiercely strike the stone until his hands seized with pain. He fought the growing fatigue striking his taught mind. He looked to find a simple shelf to sit on. His stomach beat like a drum.

Looking over his shoulder, the boy had an aimless face. He meandered around the ruins and rubble in search of something or someone to comfort him. Soon his mind regressed towards a more primitive line of thought. Me hungry. Me hurt. Me lonely.

He was aching all over, and limped for what seemed to be a mile. Attempting to align his memories of his neighborhood with the current wreckage, the boy searched for a convenience store.

I'm the distssnce, a few hundred yards away, the boy saw the outline of a blue roof. Hunger compelled him to limp faster towards the building in the distance.

As he approached the building that seemed almost illusory, the boy heard a buzzing sound.

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Whaaping!

Something struck the ground a few feet behind his head. The boy looked onwards and saw a few silhouettes in the distant haze.

Whaling!

The sound occurred again closer to his face.

Whaakrrst!

A bullet ripped into the boys arm, exitting  the other side, illiciting the boys instinct to kick back in.

As if aroused from slumber, the boy stammered and held his hands above head as best as he could. Blood flowed down from the wound  on his arm into his shoulder.

"D d don't shoot!" He screamed hoarsely. The sound of boots stepping on asphalt and a gun being rested came nearer than desired to the boy.

"Look 'Ere," an obviously red- neck man ssid, "got ourselfs somewun else alov."

The country man cracked his knuckles. He then extended a hand to help the boy crouching. His actions showed he was attempting to help.

"Sorry 'R shooting ya befur. Thought y'd be a zombie within the way you was walkin'."

The man stopped attempting to help the boy after noticing the blood on his arm. He reached in his pocket and took out some tape and gauze.

" 'S the bullit inner?"

The boy didn't respond. The country man took his brown leathers hands and pinched the wound. Blood welled from both sides of the arm.

"Nope." He said casually while wiping down the arm with a wetwipe he got from god knows where.

"Name's Charles, what's your'n?"

The boy watched as Charles bandaged his arm. He then stared deeply at Charles with animosity.

"I don't have a name anymore," the boy said with remorse. "I'm sure the people who cared about my name are gone now."

Charles paused a moment, smiled, and laughed.

"Well, then, sounds t'me like you got yurself a chance to make mor'a yurself then you used t'be. I'm callin' ya Chance."

Charles slapped his knee and laughed like he made the funniest joke. He then donned a serious personage.

"You don't rap, do you? Nah, you wouldn't have a Chance!"

Chance stared at Charles hard once more. His brow trembled before he gave a slight laugh. Tears fell down his face once more as he realized Charles was probably like him. Scared and alone. Only, Charles would make a new family for himself while he wanted to become wild.

Chance parted his dry lips, larger than he had done before, cracking them in the process. He chuckled, bowed his head, and said, "Thank you."

Pain from his hands caused a dull reminder of his recklessness. He recalled himself telling others before this catastrophe happened, "I won't be weak if the apocalypse comes. I'll be a leader." Now he realized how naive he had been. He understood now that to forget is as to live as remembering is to forget. You can't have one without the other.