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“We don’t need to move mountains. We just need to unlock one.” -- Decoded message from ILF handler Hiro Tanaka to ILF leadership

Amira

Four years ago

I look feral.

My dirty hair is coming loose from its ponytail. And my eyebrows are dangerously close to becoming just eyebrow.

I shake my head at my reflection, thinking of the days I used to spend at the spa near my father’s office in New York City. I’d get a facial, a hot stone massage, a mani-pedi, and a blowout every time. Sometimes I’d get full-body wraps or hot oil treatments on my hair.

Now I’d maim for a handful of shampoo and a hot shower.

At least I still have a healthy supply of toothpaste. I hit the jackpot last year at someone’s summer cabin on a lake, where I stuffed my bag with all six new tubes of toothpaste and several bars of soap.

If my mother could see me now—searching homes and businesses for anything valuable looters might have left behind…

Sometimes I get lucky. I spent several months in a small Midwestern city that hadn’t been hit by looters yet, working my way from house to house to find food. During the day, I’d read at the library and lift weights at a local gym.

It got too cold to stay, though, so I had to head south.

Every grocery store and Walmart has been picked clean, so I don’t even go near them. In some cities, I’ve seen people looting methodically, filling semis with not just food, but also blankets, furniture, and appliances. Greedy fuckers.

I go to the places other people don’t think about. Nursing homes are always gold mines. Meal replacement shakes and pudding get old after a while, but they keep me fed. I’ve also hit up school cafeterias, but the problem with that is once I open a gallon-size can of vegetables, I don’t want to waste any. Three weeks of room temperature green beans all day every day is about two and a half weeks more than I’d like.

I’m not starving, though. I worried about that when I first left my training facility. Mostly I worried about being attacked, but there was also fear that I'd die of hunger or thirst all alone and be eaten by wolves after.

The mirror in the basement of a dingy church bathroom reflects a woman who wasn’t sure she’d make it this far. Surviving in the basement of the training facility for all those months was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

I’m an explorer now, making my way through what remains of America. I don’t trust people, so I rarely talk to anyone. The bows and arrows I learned to use for sport are weapons now, and they’ve saved me more than once.

When people get too close, I aim an arrow at them and tell them to stop. If there’s time, they get another warning. Then I shoot.

I’ve seen too many horrible things to take chances. People and animals mutilated. Women violated. When they know they can get away with it, some people are unspeakably cruel.

Without books, I’d be in a dark place mentally. Book characters are my only friends out here. Being able to escape into their worlds is how I survive the bleakness of the real one.

I found a case of bottled water in a cabinet in the basement of the church kitchen I’m in. After stuffing fifteen bottles of it into my pack and drinking two more, I head out.

It’s nursing home time. Whatever city I’m in, it’s not huge, but it’s big enough to have a nursing home. Using buildings as cover, I move through the city on foot, finding a place called Lakeview Manor after about an hour.

Perfect. None of the windows are broken, so maybe it hasn’t been looted. I approach the building and stand up against a side wall for a couple of minutes, just listening.

Nothing. I creep around to the back, where a few cars are parked in the lot. That probably means there are dead bodies inside, but that’s not uncommon. It’s another reason nursing homes are hidden gems for supplies. The smell can be overwhelming.

I secure a bandanna over my face to help mask the odor of death and use the small crowbar in my pack to pry the double doors open. As soon as they give way, the smell pours out like a grim reaper genie just released from its bottle.

It’s really bad. I step aside and take a deep breath of fresh air. Is it really worth it? The characters in my books don’t care about my hair.

I do, though. I’ve lost pretty much everything and everyone, and I want to take the time to do something that makes me feel like myself again.

Breathing through my mouth, I go into the facility. The lobby is an open two stories, light pouring in from above. Couches and chairs are arranged neatly, a decomposing body reclined on one of the couches.

I push ahead, finding a supply room. This place is completely untouched. The shelves are still stocked with medications, nutritional drinks, and supplies. But I’m not looking for any of that.

I bend when I see what I want lined up on a low shelf. Gallon jugs of distilled water. Three will be plenty.