We moved silently through the deadened town of ghostly winds, under the mighty heat of the sun. We went swiftly, but without commotion, in fear of alerting the masked police. I, with the acception of my parents, gawked insensibly at my window as we passed the rows of little pale houses, shops and church buildings. On one widened yard of the ''Glory's Church'', old with hagard foundations, was occupied by life-sized box containers, set in colums, one stacked on the other. This was ordinary to my young perception, but on my father, his eyes were stricken with a unique agony I never thought a man would exhibit. He was sure of what they were, and I was not.
In the Rockwell street corner, a two-story house, fairly sustained, stood facing the high sun, but in a yellow blaze of fire and ejecting ink-dark smoke skywards. That too was strange, that no soul was present in the spectacle of the flames, but a dumbstruck hound on the street alone. Then a ravaged, glass-scattered baker's shop sat on Crescent street, too empty in the chaos that was lively merely days ago. Outside seemed to be an insensible drunkard, asleep on the pavement, or at least asleep he had seemed to us. Though there was bread scattered over the shop, we quickly avoided the place, knowing the plague. There was a vehicle, a red car, window-shattered and overturned by a grocer's market, with a sign painted on its side, ''LIVE ENSLAVED OR DIE HARD''. We noticed this, but simply passed with a thought on mind. For blocks, simply doing nothing in silence, we saw no others, and saw a total of three perished bodies outside left under the radiant sun.
''Here, this is the school, our location of salvage.'', said the driver. ''Remember that one thing, we are fugitives wanted in the eyes of the law, do not cause a noisy tumult.'', he said. We boarded off the rusted bus, releived by the glorious crisp of the air and the blue of the sky, with only a fancy of our treassured spirits with each other, alive and well under the sun.