Day 5 – Ash in the Gutters

The street outside still stinks faintly of smoke. Not from today, from months back. The gutters are lined with ash, little grey flakes that stir if the wind catches them. I know what it is. I watched them burn the bodies.

Back in the first month, the soldiers rolled through. Trucks, masks, flamethrowers. They cleared Southport like they were spring-cleaning. Corpses in piles, pyres lit right there on the road. I stayed indoors, curtains drawn, but the flames lit the house anyway. The crackling, the shouting. For a while I thought maybe they’d bring order. Maybe they’d stay.

They didn’t.

Now there’s just ash, and me. No rumble of engines, no boots on tarmac, no gunfire. Just a dead town that feels like it’s waiting for something.

I thought about following the soldiers when they left. Packing up, heading out. But I never did. Couldn’t. Janice was already gone, Ted too. My world had shrunk to four walls and one locked door. I convinced myself it was safer here. I still don’t know if I was right.

The George feels smaller every night. The silence outside presses in, heavier than the walls. I keep catching myself listening for sounds, boots, voices, even gunfire. Anything. Instead, all I hear is ash scratching in the gutters when the wind moves it.

Feels like even the dead are quieter now.

Keith