Now, I know what you're thinking. I know because it's my business to know.

The smart ones think about my infrastructure. How far it reaches, how current my reports are. Concealed ambitions, quiet alliances, that sort of thing. They think about the books on my shelves, the digital knowledge lost in the collapse, and if we even printed on paper how the most important things worked. From there it's easy to think about factories and vehicles, satellites and power grids, about the brains who could've stitched it back together but were too soft for this world.

Nobody wants to be smart anymore. Shit weighs on you.

The dumb ones think about booze, drugs and pussy, and the kind of respect you get from a gun. They think about today, not yesterday. There's an excellent chance that shitkicker you see propping up the bar, stinking of moonshine and herbal smokes, knows how to hunt and work the land. He knows, in ways a smart person never could, how to spot trouble and isn't afraid to fight.

Dumb inherited the earth. It was only a matter of time.

No matter where you fall, there's one thing we all have in common. Everyone wants to know what happened to Snake Plissken.

Plissken, yeah. Easy to remember that broadcast, it being the last one anyone ever saw. We were like pigs in shit before he pressed that button; seeing our self-righteous prick of a president humiliated before the nation. For one glorious moment, nobody even cared about the invasion force off Miami. Then everything went dark. I bet you think I had some inside knowledge, some inkling of what to do.

Would've been nice.

My mind kept skating over the enormity of what just happened, but it was too big, Teflon smooth, and I couldn't get a handhold. Instead I kept the fridge closed and went to bed. Power cut, that's all it was.

The next morning was so quiet it felt like waking up in church.

I took a cold shower, shaved, and left home with all my pass-cards and papers; as though they still meant something.

Small, gossiping groups clustered on the street. Some moved with great purpose, loading up cars with luggage and supplies, whereas others were content to just watch. Only a sadist would want to see those keys turn in the ignition, so without thinking, I just started walking. Funny thing is, it was the kind of nice day we didn't get anymore. People watched me pass by, astonished that I was going further than the next block. Skin cancer was our country's biggest killer, beating heart disease for a while now, thanks to a tardy ozone layer. Then there was the rest. Dust storms, mini-tornados, hail big enough to crack your skull. I knew that, everyone knew that, but I hadn't even checked the horizon.

Nobody walked anymore, unless they were desperate or poor.

Was Santa Clarita a nice place to live? Yeah, people really used to ask that kind of question, at least they did when I was a kid. Fast forward twenty years and even nice places jostled elbow to elbow with slums. In the space of five steps you could be enjoying the aroma of homemade stew, then filling your lungs with a one-two punch of rotting trash and stale piss. This neighborhood was boxed in by a seven foot breeze block wall, broken glass cemented onto the top of it, with steel security gates. Maybe it deterred the laziest burglars, but my place had still been turned over three times in the last two years. Which was actually pretty good.

Safe was where you wanted to live, but expecting the USPF to keep you safe was like expecting a good spin in Russian roulette.

So why settle there, when it was a USPF stronghold and so close to the Deportation Center? Working at the DC was only part of it. The USPF could be many things, but here they were mundane. Mind numbing routine, wedded to a short leash, had dulled their sadism. They still meted out the occasional beating, but it was a sad spectacle; like a retired boxer hitting the bag at his old gym.

The farther from a stronghold, the more autonomy a USPF officer had, and that was where problems started.

It was only after reaching the express lanes that I realized how ill equipped I was. No food, no water, and a mosaic of broken down cars as far as the eye could see. Smoke rose from the direction of O'Melveny Park, better known as Hobo Hills. Back then, it was a ruin, and whatever had survived polluted soil was losing the battle against acid rain. A vast homeless population occupied it now, as I guess it beat squatting on the edges of the cities and risking death from a USPF officer who'd had a bad day.

Hobo Hills was a recurring topic at the DC, with more than a few goons itching to wipe it clean, but the only way to go would be mob handed, and command had yet to approve.

The cars turned a pleasant walk into something rather more real. At best, I had to weave between them. Then there were the pile-ups. Broken glass shining in the sun; a ripe stench pushing against spilled petrol. The only way past was to clamber over, and every now and then I'd get close enough to a corpse to smell the shit.

Never forgotten it.

Bet that sounds quaint. Death is a way of life these days, but back then I was a stranger to it. Oh sure, most of us had seen dead bodies from a distance. Usually homeless. But I had no idea that people soiled themselves when they went. Never heard a death-rattle. Hadn't yet found out that you can't close someone's eyes right after they die, like in the movies.

Hearing voices close by filled me with a gladness I'd never felt around other people. Hated crowds. Parties. But among the flesh and metal, they were sweet as an oasis.

It was a husband and wife. I could tell from their clothes, and the guarded way they looked at me, that the rusted piece of crap they were sat on was the most valuable thing they owned.

I had to ask. 'Does it still run?'

The guy hopped down, puffing out his overweight chest. 'None of your fucking business. Keep walking.'

I laughed. Couldn't help it. He turned red, ready to pound me flat, until I gestured at the wrecked cars on all sides. 'Where am I gonna drive it to?'

He looked confused, snorted out a laugh, then started crying.

Seemed to surprise both of us, as he threw himself back into anger. 'Walk or I'll fucking kill you, cunt!'

I held up my hands and moved on.

There were others along the way. A family who were kind enough, stupid enough, I guess, to share some of their water with me. Looked like they were on their way back from a vacation, car loaded down with suitcases and enough empty sweet wrappers to prove the trip. They weren't about to leave their luggage, hopeful of official aid soon kicking in, and I nodded along for the sake of a free drink.

I was so lost in the first cool mouthful, it took me a minute to process that there were sounds coming from a video game handheld one of the kids was lost in.

I wrestled my government issued mobile from my pocket. A 'perk' of working at the DC, as it almost guaranteed an ass kicking if anyone saw you had one. Hadn't even occurred to me to check it. Excitement turned to irritation as the display stayed dark, no matter how many buttons I pressed. Then it hit me. I'd left it charging overnight, and the voltage spike the EMP sent through the grid had gifted me a shiny paperweight.

Suddenly, I knew how scared I was; how much my muscles hurt; the way sweat pasted my shirt to my skin. The loss of that anchor brought everything into focus, in a way not even dead bodies had.

Fuck me, it was pathetic.

I turned and flung the phone as hard as I could, hearing an expensive crack among the wrecked cars.

The girl looked up from her video-game, briefly intrigued.

'Not sure how that thing's still working,' the father said awkwardly, as though in apology.

I looked at their vehicle. Chunky four by four, one step below a Humvee.

'Partial Faraday cage and blind luck,' I said, half to myself.

'You mean other stuff could still be working?'

I blew out a breath. 'I…..ah, maybe. At least, replacement parts, given the right kind of building and storage container…'

It was the answer he wanted, and true enough that I could move on without feeling guilty. There was a lot more to say, to know, but it was all grim, and I didn't have time to waste arguing with someone who wasn't ready to hear it.

Half an hour later, a distant gunshot. Not USPF. Pitch was too high, and the USPF never used one bullet when fifty would do. I looked back down the highway, waited a few minutes. Apart from heat wave shimmer, and the eye snagging gleam of a hundred dead cars, there was nothing to see. No shots followed, but I wasn't really expecting any. Firearms were illegal now, and even gangs used them sparingly.

Goes to show how upside down reality had become, when that single shot spooked me more than a barrage of gunfire.

.

o0o

.

I spent the night in the passenger seat of a sports car; some sleek, black bullet that I would've one day dreamed of owning.

The day had been drawing on and I wasn't sure how much further I had to go. Nothing looked familiar. All the points I should've recognized were somehow gone or twisted into something else. Likely I was just exhausted, this being the most exercise I'd had for years, and muscle pain fought hunger pangs to see which could make me most miserable.

Resigned, I tried the door of every intact vehicle I could find. They were thinning out, as though nobody wanted to be close to the DC. Good for tomorrow's hike, bad for right now. Ironically, all those run of the mill sedans and SUVs were locked up tight, and I was on the verge of smashing a window and just making do when I found the sports car. It made me suspicious enough to peer through the windows before climbing in, half-expecting to see its owner waiting with a knife.

There was enough sunlight left to search for supplies, but the thing may as well have rolled out of a showroom. Just a plastic vial of white powder in the glove compartment. Cocaine, I guessed. You had to be a certain kind of rich not to bother hiding it.

Was I tempted? Well, let's see. Depressed, worn out, with a bottle of water and half an energy bar now my most valuable possessions. Oh yeah, I was also an IT worker in a world without electricity.

Was I tempted? Hah!

The car had rolled onto the scrub-land shoulder, and gave me a prime view of ragged chaparral and telephone lines. Still, it was more soothing than the hills to my left, with their clumps of half-dead vegetation on pale earth making me think of a sick animal's hide. After a few minutes thought, I pocketed the cocaine. It was a risk, maybe a big one, but the world would change quickly over the next few days, and drugs were always valuable to someone.

Reclining in that generous leather seat, I closed my eyes and hoped the silence wouldn't keep me awake.