It had been 3 days since Sam, Matt and Rachel had been ambushed on a supply raid by not only The Riders, but their now ally Jamal Dusek. Since that day, they had not had anything to eat though Jamal had a stable supply of water at the ruined house.
"We need to eat." Sam protested. "It's been three days, Matt. Three days! The most any of us have had is a granola bar!" Sam knew he would win eventually, it was merely a matter of playing on everyone else's hunger.
They kept telling him they should lie low, stay quiet, and go during the night. He was fine with that. But he had also been fine with that the last 2 days in a row he had been told that, and he couldn't be fooled forever.But he knew the true reason that Matt and Rachel were so reluctant; they were afraid.
They'd had run-ins with other gangs before, everyone had, but usually they just wanted to take something from you. Now if you wouldn't give it to them, they'd shoot at you of course. But these people, The Riders, came at them guns blazing.
Sam couldn't help shaking the feeling that maybe they'd run from them before, and this was their way of getting payback. And though he'd never admit it, he was afraid too. However he knew they couldn't just sit there forever! Why do adults have to be like this! he wanted to yell. Even Rachel was on their side.
Matt's stomach betrayed him with a loud growl, but his voice stayed firm. "Tonight, Sam. Just a little longer." Sam scowled but held back the words itching to escape. They wouldn't help him anyway.
Sam trudged off to a room Jamal had said he could have for the time being and went toward his backpack. It was laying turned over and opened in the middle of the floor next to his black sleeping bag, half of its contents spilled out. That was all that was in this room, except for a small desk with a candle on it and a chair that used to roll, but now two of the wheels were missing. Because of this, the chair was badly lopsided.
He righted the overturned pack and searched through the seemingly mass of junk, though it all had some meaning to him. There was a ragged piece of metal in it, a piece of his families old car. It was all that was left of it. He also had a refrigerator magnet he found from home, it was shaped like Florida from one time they had vacationed there. There was his orange Asthma inhaler, which he hadn't had to use in several years now.
But it was when he found the small black book, it's cover scratched and stained, that he stood from his bag of items from another life and treaded over to the small desk. He opened the only drawer of the desk that was still on the track and pulled out a green pen with elegant gold spirals swirling around it and an old box of matches.
The match burst to life as he struck it against the edge of the box and he lit the candle as the dancing light filled the room.
turning back to the book, his journal which he would do anything to keep, he opened it to a new blank page. He had kept journals like this before the explosion as a way to release stress from the day. As a sort of escape. He frowned as he let that thought process. He'd give anything to go back to that life now.
Grabbing hold of the expensive looking pen, he started writing down the days events. He tried to be as detailed as possible, he never knew when some seemingly inconsequential detail could be important.
The words flowed from him as quickly as the ink from the pen, and by the time he was finished he had filled 2 and a half pages.
As his stomach growled, he truly hoped tonight would be the night they went out for food. It was only 3 hours from midnight, and after that the land belonged to the Roamers. They couldn't risk getting caught then.