A large crash rings through the halls of a small home, ripping its occupant from his sleep. He shoots up, reaching for a shotgun by his side. His bony hands gripped its stock, raising it to his shoulder. The man creaked through each room, slowly inching towards the source of the noise. As he tracked his way through the home the noise grew in intensity and the interval between each time the noise was made reduced. As the noise grew closer the man’s breathing intensified. Sweat grew on his brow. The door lay at the opposite end of the hall for him. The noises continued. He quickly moved his feet towards the door. As he approached he again raised his gun. His heart was beating out of his chest. He reached the door, grabbing at its handle. As it opened he pointed his weapon in. Again there was another crash. He shot, making a hole in his floor. As the smell of burnt powder filled the room he scanned, looking for the culprit. He saw nothing. A sigh escaped his lips as he left the room.  

He walked through the halls of this old, decrepit home preparing for the day ahead, opening shutters, letting the rays of the sun dance the halls. It was a very sunny day, and there was a job to do. As he opened the shutters he retreated back into the kitchen, grabbing a small canister of gas from a shelf along the way. He hooked it up to a small burner, opening the valve, releasing the gas in a steady stream. He clicked the lighter one time. Two times. Finally, on the third try, there was a spark and the burner burst into flame. As the flame roared he adjusted the valve to create a smooth column of fire. On this, he attached a small wire burner, perfect for a tin pot. He stood up and looked at the food. A frown spread on his face. The pile was tiny, only a few cans spread here and there separated by the occasional plastic bag. He grabbed for a small onion, quickly chopping it for breakfast. He threw it’s slices into the tin and placed it over the fire. As it sizzled he glared at his remaining resources. His eyes heavy with hunger, he realized he would only last another week if he ate conservatively. He had to go out again. He ate his onions with haste, just so he could get out in search of more food. His stomach grumbled. He gathered the gun, making sure to bring extra shells, and hoisted a pack onto his bony back.

He walks out of the weathered home, taking in the stale air of the outside. Walking, looking at the leafless husks of trees surrounding him, the brown of grass without rain. The ever-increasing heat had shriveled nearly any living thing to dust. Nothing grew here anymore. The world had been changing for a long time. It couldn’t always be seen. Whether it was the powerful machines people traveled around in or the massive smokey stacks that turned on nightlights around the world, the planet had been changing for a long time. All the smoke, all the gasses, had killed us all. First, the rain stopped, then the air went dry. Tears roll down his cheeks, thinking of the soft voice of his mother when he was young. She had never been very open with him and talked with his father behind closed doors. During their talks, you could sometimes hear the creek of a board or see a shadow peeking under the doorway. While the conversations interested him, he never truly understood what was going on.

“Don’t you think we should tell him something?”

“No, he is way too young. Can you imagine how much it would scare him?”

“But everything is going to be changing, all this talk about global warming and climate change is coming true. We won’t be able to live like we are now.”

“I just - we can’t.”

That was until there was less food on the table. Until snow didn’t fall in the winter. Then the trees didn’t sprout new leaves in the summer. The grass was always brown. The parents were preparing, stocking on medicine, food, and drink.

The small tears turn into waterfalls. He collapses, sobbing. He sits, cursing the many generations of the past. The generations that ruined this earth for him, the ones who destroyed his future. As he curses his tears dry up like this hopeless, ruined, earth and he shakily stands to his feet. He continues his journey. The barren branches of a bush suddenly rustle, startling him. He crouches to a knee, raising his shotgun to his head.  The rustling comes closer. First to the left, then to the right. Its as though there is a river of energy flowing around him. A small animal comes crashing through the woods. He snaps the gun towards it, taking aim. Its ribs stick through its skin and the fur is patchy in a sickly fashion. It struggles to breathe while he breathes slowly, and on the exhale, squeezes his finger.

Its tiny body sits in his hands.

“It’s not enough.” He says.

The Man stood, stringing the rabbit to his backpack, and continued his journey. He sweats as he walked upon a trodden path, with nothing to provide him shade. As he walks he notices a beautiful house in the distance, two stories tall and white as the winters of the past. He turns sharply towards it, knowing that if there is a house this clean there must be someone using it. If someone is using it must have food. The man approaches the front of the house, making sure to step with a light foot. He noticed the old burnt candles through the windows, approaching the front. He grabs the door, opening it with a large creaking noise, and steps inside. A stench fills the air. He covers his nose and continues into the home. The man walks its halls, peering around every corner and opening every door until he sees something at the end of the hall. There is a doorway with tiled flooring driving right up to it. He picks up his pace as his stomach grumbles. The closer he gets the stronger the pungent smell gets. His eyes start to water. He reaches the doorway, peering into the kitchen. He pukes. There, sitting at a dining room table is a woman. She is slumped onto her table, with flies eating away at her with a small pool of dried blood. The man gets up from his knees, wiping his mouth. He moves past the woman's body, looking for any food. He speeds up his every movement, breathing heavily. Then as he starts to fill his pack with canned goods he hears the front door creak open. Boots come crashing through the house, getting louder by the second. The man zips his backpack and starts running towards the door, making sure to grab his gun along the way. Then a loud bang sounds, stopping him dead. A stranger stands opposite of him, aiming a rifle.

The stranger bellows,  “What are you doing in this house!”  

The man timidly announces, “I was just looking for food sir, I didn't mean any harm.”

The stranger responds with a growl, “Well then did you take any?”

The man boldly says, “No, I was just leaving,” as he sprints for the door. Another bang is heard. The man drops to the ground. He lays face down on the white tile flooring, as an ever-expanding pool of red surrounds him. The stranger walks over, grabbing the mans pack, and prying his shotgun from his hands. He watches as the man's breathing slows. As he walks away he sheds a tear. He cries as he takes everything, leaving nothing to spare.