Janie and The Gray: Part 13
Scavenging. Part thirteen of a dystopian science-fantasy serial.
I hated scavenging. In the months leading up to my capture, I'd never gotten used to it — picking through people's possessions like a crow at roadkill. But this was the world now.
Standing in the master bedroom, I rifled through the wife's dresser and closet. I peeled myself out of the cold wet clothes and donned underwear, jeans, and a tattered Pearl Jam t-shirt — black with peeling red lettering around a white stickman. How poetic. I am alive, thank you very much. I also grabbed a hoodie, socks, and a pair of Docs. It was all a little too big — but infinitely better than the blue coveralls I'd called home since 2028.
In the drawer of one of the nightstands, I found a snub-nosed revolver and a box of ammo. I swung out the cylinder. Loaded. This triggered a flood of memories — of Mom teaching me how to shoot, of all the time we spent at the range, of Dad giving her so much grief about all of it. Stop it, Janie. Now isn't the time for any of this.
I tucked the pistol into my waistband and emptied the box of ammo into my front jean pockets.