The clouds, sparkling dreamily with blue-green disinfectant, roll in from the military base. They were too late: a fat, chemical haze hangs over the dead farm animals. They bloat and deflate but nothing will pick at their flesh. The air smells like bleach and scorched hair.
The sky is wiped clean of its birds and airplanes; the factory stopped clanging a few weeks ago. I found a baby raccoon trapped in a drained pool. I’ve taken her in. I think we’re the last ones left.
Cars filled with spoiled groceries and decaying housewives are scattered on the highways. I drove to Columbus but everyone was dead. I came back.
The water’s still good. I have food and the electricity is working – this morning, a telephone was ringing across the street. I smashed the window but it stopped before I got in. Maybe I’m not the only one.