Brent had warned me that something like this would happen. He was suspicious about the way “they” were acting. He was sure the virus was a lot more serious than they were admitting.

As usual, Brent was right. The president finally stopped saying the virus was no big deal, Admitted it was so deadly he “had to” declare martial law.

National Guard immediately started rounding everybody up. Story they were giving us was that they would take us all to safer housing inside the commandeered stadiums. That way, they said, we could "wall ourselves away" from the virus. But remembering Brent’s warning, and the urgency of their screeching bullhorns, told me that’s not what they were doing. They just wanted to herd us all together so we’d be easier to handle when the virus got us. They probably already had the crematoriums set up close by.

I hurried out of my apartment before they made it up to my floor. Went up to the roof. Then roof to roof until I could find a way down. Back streets were deserted, but I had to dodge the National Guard. Their vehicles were everywhere. I wasn’t too worried about them until I saw them shoot somebody, a young man who was trying to run away from them down an alley. After they shot him, they laughed. I thought it was a kind of relief laugh. Young soldiers. Probably scared they’d get the virus too. Ready to shoot at anything that moved.

Young soldiers shooting people. A deadly virus. My death might be around the next corner. I kept running.

Brent had told me to avoid the gang neighborhoods. Said they’d have their guns out. Said they wouldn’t submit to the curfew. But it didn’t take me long to discover it was the only place the National Guard wasn’t patrolling, so that’s where I had to go. When I got there, sure enough, the gangs had armed guards posted. They’d put out a line of old cars. They were hiding behind the old cars, with their guns at the ready. They’d posted handwritten signs. I crept close enough to read one of them. It was from a gang leader, directed at the authorities. Warned the authorities to stay out. Said they could take care of their own neighborhoods. Said they’d keep their people fed. Said they’d take the dead ones out to the official collection points. But I could see they weren’t doing that. They were stacking up the dead bodies outside. Fortifying their perimeter with them. Looked like old people mostly. First ones to die of the virus, I suppose. Or maybe the gangs killed ‘em ‘cause too many people to feed. Either way the gangs must have figured nobody would want to get through their wall of stacked up infected bodies. Pretty smart. A wall of concept. A wall of fear.

From there, I had no choice but to go into the infected neighborhoods. All the houses were deserted, most of them marked with big red signs. Was I crazy enough to go into a marked death house? What choice did I have? Those young National Guard soldiers would be scared to go into a death house.

I picked a house with a big back yard. Grass. Trees. Plants didn't know danger was all around.

Broke in through the back door. Found some canned food. But not enough to last long. Then what?

I’ve been hiding in the death house ever since. Not dead yet. Not even sick. Don't know why.

I find a ladder in the back yard. Use it to climb up and tap into the electric line. Sometimes late at night the electricity will come on. Plugged in the TV. Nothing. Found a dusty old radio in a cabinet. Plugged it in. Only static, but it works. Twisted the dial. Found a staticky underground radio station. Claimed to have news, but mostly just rumors. Rumors of widespread cannibalism. Rumors of secret government medical treatments to save the leaders. I don’t believe any of it. One rumor says all the leaders are dead. Don’t believe that either. They’re probably hiding out in their bunkers.

Manage to get my phone charged. Discover a text message from Brent. Using our own secret language of acronyms, abbreviations, and short-cut misspellings, he tells me he’s figured out a way to get food. Asks where I am. Says he’ll come to me.

I tap out a reply: Foolhardy thing to do, Brent, still being out there. Virus is gonna get you. Or the National Guard.

Reply from Brent: says he figured out how to defeat the virus. Asks why aren’t I telling him where I am?

Am I crazy enough to let him know where I am? But no food left in this house now, and Brent claims he has food. If I tell him where I am, will he come? But knowing Brent, his secret new type of food might be humans like me.

No, Brent wouldn’t eat me. He’s my best friend. Besides, do I have any choice? Got to get food or I’m dead anyhow. I tap my location into the phone.

A reply: he’s coming.

Night comes: no Brent.

I sleep a bit.

Morning sunlight comes: still no Brent.

Virus probably got him. Or the National Guard. Or the gangs.

Night again. Starving. What to do? Should I go out and scrounge?

Loud rapping on the back door. Is it him?

Grab my knife. Look out the window. It is him. It’s Brent, my old friend.

Hide the knife under my shirt. Let him in.

He’s happy to see me, but knows not to touch me. We exchange namastes.

He pulls out a bag. Some kind of cookies.

I gobble down a handful. Good cookies. Damn good. The expensive kind. Where did he find them? I chase down the cookies with water I scrounged from the last rainfall (a plastic sheet spread out in the back yard - hope it’s safe to drink). I give Brent some. He thanks me twice, as if we aren’t best friends.

Brent tells me his plan. Says he knows where some people hoarded food, but died before they could eat it all. Brent's plan is we go out and find those houses.

I ask, If the people died from the virus, aren’t their houses contaminated?

Fake news, he says. You don't catch the virus from a house. You catch it from breathing it from other people. Houses, and even dead people, can’t breathe on you.

What do I have to lose? I agree to go with him, and we go out. Brent leads me up into the hills. Fancy houses up here. Dark city down below. No lights anywhere, except for the headlights of the occasional wandering National Guard vehicle stabbing the darkness. We stop at a tall metal fence. Guard dogs. Snarling at us.

Uh oh, I say. Guard dogs still alive. Doesn’t it mean people are in there? With guns?

Dogs don’t catch the virus, he says. Only humans. The humans in there have to be dead by now or they'd be shooting at us.

He takes out his big knife. Touches the fence with it. No sparks. Means the electricity is off.

We climb the fence. The dogs come at us, growling. Brent shakes his knife at them. Growls. They back off.

We go around to the back of the fancy house. Fancy pool has dirt floating on top of the water.

Brent uses his big knife to pry open a sliding glass door. No electricity, so no alarm.

Brent leads us inside. He finds a locked door. Probably a closet.

Brent says, smell that?

Yeah, I smell it, I say. Smells bad. What is it?

It’s what we’re looking for, he says. He kicks in the door.

I see what’s making the smell. Two dead bodies, a man and a woman. Hugging together. Very sad. They must have died together. I back off.

Brent says, Nothing to be afraid of. They can’t breathe on you. And that they still smell is good. Means they haven’t been dead long.

Brent points to the shelves of food. Tells me to find a couple of pillowcases and bag up as much as we can carry. He says to only take packaged food.

I get the pillowcases and start grabbing stuff off the shelves. I find a big bottle of peaches. I love peaches.

Brent says no. Bottled stuff too heavy. Grab only lightweight stuff. Packaged food, like I said. Move it! Soldiers roll through this neighborhood all the time. Orders to shoot looters on sight. He laughs his weird laugh. Says, What’s the point of their shooting people? Everybody’s gonna die anyhow.

We load up as much as we can carry.

Brent says, One more thing before we go. Roll up your sleeve.

My sleeve? Why?

Do ya wanna die? Just do it. We didn’t come here looking just for food.

What else did we come here for?

Fresh bodies. Now roll up your sleeve.

Not sure what he’s up to, but I do it.

He leans down and stabs the dead woman in the neck.

Turns to me with his big knife dripping blood.

I back away. Hold up both of my hands. Has he gone crazy?

He says, Give me your arm. Hurry, before her blood dries.

What the hell are you doing, Brent?

Inoculating you. I know what I’m doing. This is the way they used to do it in India. Long time ago. Before modern vaccines. Read about it back when there was still an internet.

It won’t kill me?

Not if you only get a small dose in your blood. I’ve been though it. Fever only lasts for a week or so.

I don’t want to do it.

You have to. If you get caught by the National Guard and they breathe on you, you'll die. Now give me your arm.

No.

He forces me into a corner. Gets ahold of my arm. Cuts it.

Damn, Brent, you cut me. It’s bleeding.

Let it bleed. Don’t touch it. Let’s get out of here.

Of course, Brent was right. He’s always right. His insane “treatment” worked. Or maybe I was just lucky. Back in the abandoned house, I did have a bad fever and a cough for two weeks. But Brent took care of me. Fed me the food we’d found. Told me dumb jokes. Sang me the old songs.

So, here we are. Both alive, while most everyone else is probably dead or about to be dead.

I hear something outside. I pull the curtains aside and peek out. It’s an armored National Guard vehicle. Are they coming to get us? The vehicle drives up onto the curb and rolls to a stop. It just sits there. Idling. Not moving.

Brent goes out to look. Brave Brent. Comes back carrying an armload of guns. He’s grinning. Soldiers all dead, he says, but I got their guns.

Time passes. We're about out of food. No more National Guard vehicles going by. We decide most everybody must be dead now. Even the underground "news" radio has gone quiet.

We head out to find food. We have no choice.

All is quiet. Nothing moving. National Guard vehicles are stopped here and there. Soldiers inside are dead. Brent searches every vehicle. Doesn’t find anything. He’s not happy. Says somebody already got their guns.

We head toward the hills to find more food. It's so quiet. Dead quiet. Eerie.

We pass by the gang neighborhoods. Some of the gang guys are in their fancy cars, sitting behind their steering wheels. Staring at nothing. With no gas stations now and no gas, those cars aren’t going anywhere, but I guess they loved their cars so much that’s where they wanted to die.

I ask Brent how many other people does he think are still alive in the world.