Previously published in Dribbles, Drabbles and Postcards
The door latch is broken, of course. It's been four years since The Event. All the canned goods are gone from the kitchen. Looted or eaten by the long gone owners?
Hard to tell.
No one has lived here in months, maybe years. There's rat shit all over. The dog whines. Must be some rats still around. Some one took all the warm clothes. Blankets too. For use or for trade?
Hard to tell.
Looks like no one has taken the risk of the cellar. The wooden stairs have collapsed into a pile of termite ridden rot ten feet below the door. That could have been before The Event though.
Hard to tell.
Drop a knotted rope down and another with a canvas duffel bag for whatever can be useful. A workbench offers rusty hammers and screwdrivers. Put them in the duffel. The power tools are useless of course, but there would be some copper in the electric motors. Worth salvaging?
Hard to tell.
The dim light from dirty windows shows another door and behind it a root cellar. With row upon row of home-canned fruit and tomatoes. Dust off the bottles. How long have they been here? Fill the duffel and hoist them into the light . No signs of leakage, fermentation or mold. How safe would they be to eat?
Hard to tell.
Try some on the dog. If she lives, we eat. If not, we eat her.
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