There’s not much left. The concrete has powdered away, leaving skeletal edifices. Asphalt roads are cracked or gone.
The rumble is still audible, but graciously far off.

Still, every time I hear that ever-distant sound, the shakes break into my head, and I can feel them in my marrow.

The others with me, a slim girl and a grizzled man, close their eyes and mumble when the rumble gets a decibel louder. Fear has gotten us, and won‘t let go.

Slap. Slap. Slaps coming nearer and nearer. Daring to look out, we see a battered, bruised rider coming near. We stand up, and await his judgment, his news.

The insignia of an eagle is barely visible on his torn jacket. Staring at us, he puts a trembling hand in, drawing out a dingy letter. “The mail always gets through,” he chokes, desperation in his eyes.

The poor girl takes the paper delicately. Unfolding it gently, she reads, birdlike eyes darting slowly. Then, she gasps, and drops it to the earth, tears following.

I pick up the thin paper, and blow the dust off. I get as far as “You Might Win” before I have to throw up.

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