He bent down and picked up a charred cap. It was small. Probably made for a child, he muttered to himself. Taking his eyes from the cap, he scanned the area. Nothing. The brown and ash stretched for miles, dotted occasionally with the hollowed shell of a building.

He looked again at the cap in his hands. The fabric was knitted. He used his thumb to rum off some of the dirt. Pink too. The little girl who had worn it was probably gone. He and the others had searched for survivors, but found none.

He pocketed the cap and continued on, searching like a scavenger for anything that could be of use.

It hadn't always been like this. Once there had been life. A pitiful smile graced his face as he recalled the park near his home. The trees had been green. Closing his eyes he pictured the place in his mind. I remember green, he murmured. It had been countless years since he had seen the actual color, but it was there, in his mind's eye, green. Few could recall their lives before, let alone green. Many had been small children when it happened. The elders remembered more, knew more, knew what had happened to cause this.

It had been a mistake. A missile had been launched on accident. It had landed and killed people. In retaliation another was launched. The second missile killed people too. The conflict escalated. More missiles were launched and more people were killed. Some that survived the missiles did not survive the searing heat and the bitter cold that followed in its wake. The elders never said which countries had launched the missiles. It didn't matter; those countries no longer existed. Nor did any other country for that matter. What was done was done. They could not go back. Life now consisted of moving from place to place, looking for others, trying to survive.

He entered the hollow building. It was empty, save for some blackened, useless furniture and a book, located under a chair. The first and last few pages flaked off as he took the book in his hands, what remained were symbols printed in lines on paper, yellowed with time. He couldn't read the symbols, but an elder would be able to. He always wanted to learn, but there was never time. They were too busy trying to live. Not live no, survive. Living was a privilege; it provided happiness and security. They had been left behind. Abandoned to surviving by the others.

He took the book with him and left the building. Tomorrow he and the others would be gone, leaving this empty place to find another.