The Old man sits by his second-story open window and watches the world go by. He hasn’t been out there in months. But he’s running out of food and nobody is willing to risk delivering anymore, so he knows that sooner or later he will have to go out and try to make it to the grocery store and back. Assuming there are still grocery stores out there.

For now, the Old Man will just sit and watch the world out there deteriorate. These days, there isn’t much to see. Nobody walks past on the sidewalk like they used to in the old days. Can’t blame ‘em. Not safe to be walking out there anymore. If the virus doesn’t get you, the gangs will.

The only sign of human activity out there are the few cars that go by on the freeway. And of course there are those living under the freeway. Those without a home have taken over the underpass. They live under there, crowded together for safety, each inside his own scavenged cardboard hideout or under tarps held up by abandoned shopping carts.

The Old Man smells something. Something burning. It must be coming from the freeway underpass. They’re always burning things to stay warm. But what are they burning this time? Smells like burning plastic. Did one of their tarps catch fire?

But why was there a fire under there? It’s too early in the evening for them to be starting their nighttime warmth fires.

A Tattered Man crawls out from under his ragged blue tarp. Coughing. His tarp must have caught fire. Smoke probably kills more of them than anything else, except maybe the slower death under that underpass from breathing the exhaust of the cars.

The Tattered Man tries to retrieve some of his possessions from the fire. Trash, of course, but valuable to him. It’s all he has.

As he drags his things out, some of them still smoking, two young Gang Boys grab him and throw him down on the pavement. The Gang Boys search his clothes for valuables.

Now the Old Man understands. Those Gang Boys must have lit the Tattered Man’s blue tarp on fire. To smoke him out.

Apparently frustrated that the Tattered Man has nothing of value, the Gang Boys hit him in the head with the hammers they have lashed to their wrists.

The Tattered Man goes down. He’s not moving. The Gang Boys kick him to make sure he’s dead.

The Old Man is not sure if their hammer blows to his scull killed him, but it doesn’t matter; like everybody else out there, he was already all but dead anyhow.

The cars speed past. The drivers inside the cars look the other way.

The two Gang Boys move out into the street. The cars swerve around them. The Gang Boys spread out to block the entire street.

The Old Man decides they must be going for bigger fish.

A person in a black car aims right at them and accelerates. Smart.

The two Gang Boys dodge aside and hit the car with their hammers as it passes. The car speeds away.

The Gang Boys force the next driver to stop.

The Old Man knows that is not smart; the driver shouldn’t have stopped.

The Gang Boys break the car’s side window and drag the driver out. It’s a woman. They take whatever she has, then one of the Gang Boys hits her in the head with his hammer. She’s down, not moving.

The Old Man hopes she’s only playing dead.

The Gang Boys drive away in her car.

The Old Man closes the window. Maybe he’s seen enough of the world for today.