“It isn’t a big deal. Besides, our country was founded on freedom of choice and having a mandatory water rationing would be unconstitutional,” these were the famous words as said by California Governor Oscar Shilling. These were the words that made us feel safe when we watered our lawns instead of starting a stockpile. The recognizable words that everyone quoted when they talked about the Great Drought that started in California. It was the sound bite everyone used in their documentaries on the US’s extreme decline in population. And it was because of these words that we were reduced to sheep being led to a slaughter.

I reposition my shotgun onto my other shoulder and continue walking. “Hurry up, Peter,” I call back. I hear the sound of quickened steps and feel my little brother take my right hand. The echoes of our footsteps on the pristine residential sidewalk are the only sounds. I turn my head to the right to look at the pavement across from us. Fancy cars sit abandoned along the edge, with dented sides and smashed windows. The familiar words, “Beware of the angry people with bats,” flash momentarily in my mind. The houses aren’t in better shape. Opened front doors and random furniture strewn across overgrown lawns tell the usual story of looters and criminals.
I hate residential streets, it’s easy enough to hide in a house and wait for unsuspecting people to walk by so you can rob them. Or worse. Being a girl I know that if a man were to pop out from one of these houses with malicious intentions it wouldn’t just be our meager food and water supply he would probably want to steal. I clutch my shotgun tighter.

“It’s raining, it’s pouring, the old man is snoring-”

“Shut up,” I snap at Peter. He switches to humming. I feel guilty as I bite back a smile; it’s comforting to know that my brother won’t ever completely give in. Ahead of us, a row of bushes leading to a grand colonial looking house makes me contemplate crossing the street. I shake my head. I’m getting paranoid. A rustling from the greenery makes me stop. I put out my arm and push Peter behind me. Silence follows.

Just as I’m about to continue walking and call it a small animal when a man jumps out from behind the shrub. We’re about ten feet away from him. He licks his lips and I can’t help but notice how it looks like something’s moving behind his pitch black eyes. “What have we got here? A pretty little toy for me to play with,” and then he lunges for me. I don’t know if he didn’t see the gun, or just chose to ignore it, but within seconds it was off my shoulder and pointing straight at him. “Stop, right now,” my voice is firm and authoritative, but underneath I’m screaming and wishing I could run. He lifts his hands in a surrender position and looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. “Hey, calm down girlie, I don’t want any trouble, just passing-” and then he dives for the bushes to probably grab a gun of his own. A bang rips through the air and suddenly it’s silent.
Blood starts to flow down to the sidewalk and all I can do is stare at the man’s legs, the only part not hidden by the bushes.

“Peter,” my entire body shakes but my voice is steady. “Let’s go.” I start crossing, not wanting to know if it was a gun he was diving for or a place to hide. It doesn’t matter, the result would’ve been the same, I couldn’t have let him live. He may have followed us and attacked when we were least expecting it. I don’t touch Peter; I don’t want him to feel the shaking in my hands.
Once again the only noise is our footsteps.
“Hurry up, Peter,” I call back. The sound of his little feet hitting the concrete fills my ears, followed by the feeling of his small hand slipping inside mine.
“He fell out of bed, and hit his head, and didn’t wake up in the morning.”