all ruled more than a few of the developing countries. The governments of the industrialised countries had unilaterally agreed to close the borders of their respective lands to any travel save the most important scientific or political kind. It was hoped that the rate of infection could be slowed in time to find a cure.
As I stand alone on a street corner in what used to be the capitol of the entire country, I reflect on just how badly they failed in that endeavor. It's been decades since cars have been able to travel these streets, but the battered shells of many cars and SUVs still stand neatly parked along the curb, as if their owners will come along and retrieve them from this slow death. It's amazing how many vehicles there must have been before the pandemic, how many people there must have been. It's difficult for anyone born after to contemplate what life must have been like with busy streets filled with people, and access to so much technology and power sources - power that ran constantly and continuously must have been something close to heaven. I have a personal rule not to dwell on wishes and dreams, but for the moment I can savor the thought as I walk down the street, dead flashlight in hand.
The rear window of a dusty maroon van makes a satisfying protest when I slam my flashlight into it's etched surface. One more hit and it gives way, and now it's just a matter of reaching my arm down for the latch or a catch to pop the rear door or window open. Innovation is rarely present in these ugly hunks of metal, once you've figured out the first one, they rarely differ in design. Avoiding the shards of glass reaching for my skin, I pull hard on the latch and pop the release for the door. Unfortunately this one looks like it has been already been picked clean and I find nothing more interesting than an greasy old screwdriver and a handful of assorted screws and nuts. I shut the door with the perverse thought that at least the next person will have to brave that busted window before they discover the same lousy prize. Sometimes it's the little things that keep you going.
It's early afternoon, judging by the position of the sun, so I have a solid couple of hours to work the rest of this line of cars before I have to find shelter for the night. Working the wrecks isn't an idea source of supplies, but it is relatively low-risk unless one has a paralyzing fear of small rodents. In bigger cities like this one, there are still a fair number of vehicles that haven't yet been stripped clean and I'm hoping to clear this street before nightfall with a few goodies in tow. It's also a delightfully uncomplicated job,with the same routine repeated ad nauseam and it gives me time to think and listen. So far this neighborhood has been empty of anything bigger than a stray dog, but one always has to be careful, especially with the noise that shattering glass makes. My next target is a promising sleek silver car, with only a shattered front light. This one looked like someone might have
As I stand alone on a street corner in what used to be the capitol of the entire country, I reflect on just how badly they failed in that endeavor. It's been decades since cars have been able to travel these streets, but the battered shells of many cars and SUVs still stand neatly parked along the curb, as if their owners will come along and retrieve them from this slow death. It's amazing how many vehicles there must have been before the pandemic, how many people there must have been. It's difficult for anyone born after to contemplate what life must have been like with busy streets filled with people, and access to so much technology and power sources - power that ran constantly and continuously must have been something close to heaven. I have a personal rule not to dwell on wishes and dreams, but for the moment I can savor the thought as I walk down the street, dead flashlight in hand.
The rear window of a dusty maroon van makes a satisfying protest when I slam my flashlight into it's etched surface. One more hit and it gives way, and now it's just a matter of reaching my arm down for the latch or a catch to pop the rear door or window open. Innovation is rarely present in these ugly hunks of metal, once you've figured out the first one, they rarely differ in design. Avoiding the shards of glass reaching for my skin, I pull hard on the latch and pop the release for the door. Unfortunately this one looks like it has been already been picked clean and I find nothing more interesting than an greasy old screwdriver and a handful of assorted screws and nuts. I shut the door with the perverse thought that at least the next person will have to brave that busted window before they discover the same lousy prize. Sometimes it's the little things that keep you going.
It's early afternoon, judging by the position of the sun, so I have a solid couple of hours to work the rest of this line of cars before I have to find shelter for the night. Working the wrecks isn't an idea source of supplies, but it is relatively low-risk unless one has a paralyzing fear of small rodents. In bigger cities like this one, there are still a fair number of vehicles that haven't yet been stripped clean and I'm hoping to clear this street before nightfall with a few goodies in tow. It's also a delightfully uncomplicated job,with the same routine repeated ad nauseam and it gives me time to think and listen. So far this neighborhood has been empty of anything bigger than a stray dog, but one always has to be careful, especially with the noise that shattering glass makes. My next target is a promising sleek silver car, with only a shattered front light. This one looked like someone might have
