You're not born into your problems. You're born into a society that creates problems for you. What you don't conform to will work against you. Study what comes your way, and act against it, or join it. With a world that's ending, though, I'm not sure if there's anything that I can do to save myself from the difficult parts.

  Pushing myself to the physical and mental limits, going through losses, going through physical pain, making decisions that shouldn't have to be made. What kind of world would we live in if we weren't forced to meet one of these situations at least once? All at once, though, that's too much. I think I speak for everybody when I say that, but I was always told to never put words in anyone's mouth but my own. It's the kind thing to do. It's the likable thing to do. People need to like you; it's how you survive. It's how you stay sane. Knowing who you are becomes impossible when you start nearing the end of your story, but keeping people around you who can keep your humanity intact is rare but necessary to have.

  What's the point of moving forward if there's nothing left waiting for you?

  *******

  I was so incredibly overstimulated. Trees were gripping onto any loose part of my shirt, which meant every inch of it. I had thrown on a large camouflage coat to try to blend in better before I came here, and now it was working against me. I wanted to be able to hide, but the bright flashlights we held gave away our location anyway. Besides, nobody lives around here. Seven people live in this town, and that count was taken five years ago. The maps didn't even have it labeled. Greenwood is what they call it, and it was the last town in the nation that kept itself in line with the way things used to be. It had to be because of the lack of technology. Other than the kids, nobody had phones.

  We had driven hours to get up here, my three friends and I. We had to leave our small town. I don't know if it's harder to be there or in the big cities all around us, but everywhere is dangerous now. That's not how it used to be when we were little. I remembered walking around the mall when I was in elementary school. The most we had to be afraid of was the once-in-a-lifetime stories of elderly men waiting outside to grab you. It's the stories they tell children to make them stay by their parents.

  Hartland had been such a small, farmland town throughout the first one hundred years of its existence. A small conflict war had been fought there during what felt like centuries ago, and armies camped throughout the town. It's a 4.8 x 4.8 mile wide town. Everyone has either lived here in Hartland their whole lives or has moved from one small town to the next. Either way, there's nothing to do there. Everyone is friends with everyone, or they simply don't like certain people. Generations of families can be seen owning certain cul-de-sacs. 95% of the time, you could look into the crowd and recognize someone, and the other 5% you will recognize certain features of these people and know exactly what family they belong to.

  Minus the three large neighborhoods, everyone else lives out in the country. There are long, winding gravel and paved roads. I live way out in the outskirts, so far out that people don't know what town we belong to. Though there are roughly five thousand people who live in Hartland, according to the sign, it's small. Very, very small. Thirty minutes from any point in Hartland are the larger cities. Cities with hundreds of thousands of people. It's not ideal.

  With everyone knowing everything about you, it's very important to keep a good name for yourself. Our last name, Clark, is known all around here. My father works closely with a multi-millionaire. His voice is broadcast on the radio. Over the past ten years, he's joined those bigwigs and made an even greater name for the family. He lives on the other side of the big city, North of Hartland. Getting to go see him has been a difficult journey the past year.

  I live with my mother. She's kept a small circle of friends around here. My parents weren't born in Hartland, but everyone knows us now. With three older brothers living with me, they've befriended every branch of Hartland. Lucky for us, we have always been seen as kind-hearted, a little wild in a harmless way, and intelligent. Money gets you a place in this world, but so do connections.

  Each of my brothers has moved around the nation now. Barret, the eldest, and his wife live in the city between Hartland and our father's home. He can handle it, and the danger it's brought, but people in the city are getting squirrely. It's pushing them closer to us, and we don't want that. The second eldest, Conner, is at the top of the country somewhere. He's hours upon hours away, but last I heard, he's doing well. That was two years ago at the beginning of the end, though. Gunner lives in the second-largest city in Missouri. He's the closest in age to me, but I'm still the youngest, and I'm the only girl who's fully blood-related to the three. We're all spread around the U.S.

  I grew up close with my siblings, my mother and father made sure of it while they were still together. Each little copy of each other, we would run around town with a handful of random friends, friends we all shared by proximity relations, and cause a harmless ruckus. Even though none of them live very close anymore, we still talk as often as we can, sort of. No matter how distant we are and how little we talk, if I picked up the phone and needed help, they would answer. No doubt about it.

  Hartland was safe for the longest time, but people started rebelling. After the diseases that wiped out half of the nation, people began to take matters into their own hands. Animals started turning on us, illnesses struck hard, and the weather started ripping the ground apart. Hartland lies directly upon America's greatest fault line, and the stakes have never been higher. When it breaks, the ground will rip into pieces and take everyone with it. Maybe that'll be a good thing. Technology is breaking, and people have started to stir. Everyone here has owned guns; it's a redneck town, but even those who used to be against firearms now own some form of defense. If the worldly problems don't get to you, the people who let those problems get to them are going to wipe you out. I'm glad I spent my whole life getting on everyone's good side.

  So here we are, living in a world where going outside has become something terrifying. What's worse is that school no longer exists for us. Nobody wants to go into town anymore; everyone's learned to ally with the farmers to get food, so really, you only need to go get gas. Some workers are bold and stay in town, but they have to have a death wish. I can't text my brothers and ask how they are anymore, nor can I ask the rest of my family. I'll just show up some days at my father's, or at my friends' house, and say a prayer that they're home. Most of my friends are still in their relationships, but I couldn't imagine keeping up with that in this day and age.

  My mom got less strict with me the moment I reached high school. She knew I would fall into the troublesome tracks of my brothers, but she knew I would be smart about it. Once the town became dangerous, the older version of her would have put me on lockdown, but she's changed. Most of the older adults have been hit with some sort of sickness within the past two years, and they just... don't seem to care. She works and provides for me, and I do too, but she's become careless with the rest of the family. It's a common symptom of this illness, and it's leaving my generation to grow up a little too soon.

  *******

  Today, I left the house after telling my mom for the third time that I'm going to check on my cousin. It had been a long, long time since I saw him. The first year, I had such bad anxiety all the time. There was no way to contact my family, my friends, anybody, so I had no clue if they were still alive. The past months, though, it's gotten better. I've been going to a counselor my dad found for me. The anxiety was eating me alive, but now I've learned to care just a little less. There's nothing I can do about it—that's what they tell me—and the more I say it, the more I feel it coming true.

  Driving down the long stretch of unmaintained gravel has become more and more of a hassle. I live so far out, but it feels good to do something other than sewing and harvesting crops, maintaining the house and the woods, and caring for the land. It's exhausting work every day, but I have nothing better to do. Sometimes I'll go into town and work with the fire department. I had been a volunteer for a couple of years now, and with them I got my EMT certification. I was desperate to make something out of myself before everything went wrong, and it worked. It's what saved me when everything hit the fan.

  I turned the dial on the radio and tuned it to find a channel that had music and not lists of the newest things to go wrong. The counselor had taught me that too—don't listen to everything going wrong unless you can fix it. My father told me this, and I knew I shouldn't listen to it from the start. I couldn't help myself some days, but now I just avoid it entirely. Even though the song was a little fuzzy, I turned it up and sang along, pressing my boot a little harder onto the gas pedal. I got impatient with the gravel. I cranked the window down too, holding my hand out for the air to cut through the gaps in my fingers. I was glad I had this old truck. It was one of the very few vehicles that still ran. My father owned a car company, and it all made it much easier. I was very fortunate.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  I rolled the window up after a few minutes. The crisp fall air was getting a little too cold for me, and the thick layer of dead leaves on the gravel was getting thrown inside the back window. I turned the volume dial up a couple more. The longer I was alone and doing something like this, the more I started to think. Some days were worse than others, and I would overthink more than my head could handle, but today wasn't terrible. I wondered what the world would look like in a few more years. It would go downhill, I knew that, but I wondered if the survivors would be glad to survive. Being this fortunate and having the supplies to keep going makes me feel bad if I waste it all and give up, but the longer we're alone here, the more you start to lose your mind. Sometimes surviving is what leads you to your death, but I couldn't give up. I had too much family here, and the circle of friends I built around me was too much to leave on its own. After all, when all of this started, I had taught them how to survive. Our school had a small group of country kids, but these kids were the ones to keep the town afloat when all else went out of the window. I was one of the few who already knew how to keep going, and one of the few who actually knew how to use our guns. I spent a couple of weeks with a lot of my friends out at my house, teaching them how to use a gun, how to sew the land, how to make food, and how to sew by hand. Those days were fairly nice. Everything had started going wrong, but we were all together and didn't take it too seriously. We would learn and practice these skills all day, then light a bonfire at night. I would take out my guitar and play for them, all of us singing together. It didn't sound good, but it made my heart warmer. My friends kept me alive, too. That's why I was going to get them.

  I made it to town after roughly fourteen minutes of driving. I'd pick up the road around every week so I could make it to town without trees blocking my way. Sometimes the houses near the end would also help. We all made a silent pact to maintain the road when it was convenient for us. We didn't speak to one another, but that bond was there.

  Every time I came here, it looked like a ghost town. I brought my brother's pistol with me for self-defense, but I never used it. My dad got it for him years ago, and he left it behind for me. Wherever he was now, he knew I was safe. I practiced shooting it a few times, but using it on a person scared me. I helped people, I saved them. Hurting someone was against every bone in my body. For other people, though, when I would ride in the ambulance, we would have four different calls. They were either gun wounds, stab wounds, illness, or death. We took care of the dead bodies. I wasn't sure when we were assigned to do that, but it became our unofficial job. The first day someone I went to school with was killed was the day I took everything much more seriously. What made it worse was that the killer was another kid. It was his friend. I used to sit and talk to both of them in my English class Freshman year.

  I wearily drove through town, locking eyes with the people I saw. You don't stop for anyone unless every inch of you is sure they can be trusted. I missed throwing parties and making friends with people. I would throw them just to walk up to those I didn't know and befriend them. Socializing was something I was so good at. Was.

  I gripped the steering wheel and stopped at the house in the center of town. I pulled the truck behind the thick bushes that shielded the house from the outside world. The center of town was dangerous. Most kids weren't allowed to come out here at all. The only ones you would usually see around are the ones driving around, looking to kill, or the country kids who are willing to defend themselves using whatever it takes.

  I opened the truck door, climbing out and pulling my jacket tighter around me. The crisp breeze had gotten much, much colder. Maybe I was just used to the warm cab. I pulled my hat further down over my head and walked between their cars in the driveway. They were electric; they wouldn't run anymore. There was no way to move them out of the way. I glanced at my reflection in the window. I could scarcely recognize myself anymore. I tied my dark brown hair up in a high ponytail to keep it out of my face. My hair was pulled through the hole in the top of the hat. Even with it up like this, it reached my mid lower back. I looked away and kept walking down the driveway. The porch was falling apart. There was paint peeling off the stairs' railings, and nails poking out of it. I felt one tug on my jeans, but not quite rip the fabric. With one of my arms still crossed across my body, my hand clutching Conner's pistol, I knocked on the door and waited. I stepped back a bit and kept my arms squeezed around my torso. It kept me warmer.

  I saw a small gap open up in the blinds. The whole outside of the house had something grayish green growing on it. Vines coated the whole bottom section of the wall so you couldn't tell the house was white without looking at the top. The blinds dropped as quickly as they had been parted, then the door handle started to twist. I heard one lock unlock, then something slide, then a few more locks popped open before the door swung open, and Phoebe jumped into my arms.

  "Amelia! Amelita!" She yelled. Tears gathered in her eyes as she hugged me, and I hugged her back. It had been three months since I last saw her. She lost her father a year ago to an illness, and her two little siblings had fallen sick the last time I spoke to her. The whereabouts of her mother, I wasn't sure.

  We both stepped back to look at each other. To make sure we were real. It had been so long. I wiped my eyes. I didn't know why I was crying, but the smile on my face wouldn't leave. It was a weird combination. I was so happy to see her, and she hadn't changed much at all. Everyone had gotten a little thinner after we had to have food restrictions, but she was still a couple of inches taller than me. Her face was slimmer, though, and the light she usually had in her eyes was a little duller. Still, she managed to look brighter than most. She was always the one to remind me that God has a plan. It was hard sometimes to keep our faith, but we fought tooth and nail to keep that connection with the Lord. Sometimes I questioned it, though. Who wouldn't in a world like this?

  Something did throw me off about her. Her hair, she had cut it short. It was a little above her shoulders, and it looked darker. Usually, it was a light brown, but now it looked like a pale, darker brown. It didn't look bad at all, though. It matched her pale skin and dark blue eyes very well. Memories flashed in my head of us in our Spanish class. We had never gotten through all four years as we planned, but in our third year, we had it together. She was always smiling, always laughing, and as usual, she was always sleep-deprived. I worried a lot about teaching her how to survive during these times because of that. She struggled to sleep, and her anxiety, ADHD, OCD, and sensitive skin, everything she had always had made it difficult for her during school. Now, though, she looked better. She looked peaceful. I could see past her a little bit into her house. It was spotless. That made me feel a little better, knowing that she was still the same person she had always been.

  "It's so good, bien to see you," tears streamed down her face. She wasn't the only one. "What are you doing here? I wasn't sure if you were still alive, but I prayed every day," I felt a pinch in my chest. That's something we said to one another very often. We would pray that each one of us was alive, but we could never know for sure. I was one of the only ones with a car that worked. Hearing her still speaking with little chunks of Spanish in her sentences brought me back a bit.

  "I'm going up North to see Jacob in Greenwood. I was passing through town, and honestly wanted to see if you would come with me if your mom's okay with it?" Her genuine smile faded a little bit, but she still kept it on her face. I saw it in her eyes, though. My heart dropped into my stomach.

  "When my hermanos, brother and sister, were sick months ago, they didn't make it. Es okay, though. I'm still here, and they joined our Father in heaven. Mi madre, mom, joined them too, a little after the last time you saw me. I'm okay, especially knowing that they are too," I wanted to hug her, but other than the initial physical contact we made with one another, she didn't like physical touch. I gave her a reassuring nod.

  "God's plan. I know you don't need to be reminded, but I'm sure hearing it from another voice makes it better." I couldn't shake that terrible, gut-wrenching feeling. Knowing she was here all alone for these months really, really hurt. I couldn't imagine the pain she had gone through, and then she had been surviving alone all of this time? I'm glad about one thing: I had taught her what she needed to know. She clearly still has the will to live, and that I was grateful for. "Come back with me. We can go visit my cousin, and then come back here and get your things. We still have that guest bedroom you used to stay in all the time during school, you remember that?" She smiled.

  "Oh si! I do remember, si. I lived there for so long," We laughed, sharing the nostalgia for a few seconds. We were so used to the silence that talking felt strange now. Especially her. Being alone for months. I couldn't get that thought out of my head. She had spotted my gun about a minute ago, but she didn't care. We knew better. "Lo siento, sorry, it's been a while since I've talked to anyone," She reached up and tucked her hair behind her ears.

  "It's okay, me too. What do you say? Are you coming with me?" She nodded. I could still see the youth in her face and hear it in her words. I had become a legal adult a few months ago, but speaking with her like this made me feel fifteen again.

  "Si! Yes. I'll go up to Greenwood, and I'll think about going back with you. I just... this casa, house, is the last thing I have of mi familia. My family. I know we didn't get along, but they were my siblings and parents. I have time, though," She stepped back inside. "Come on in. I'll get some stuff together." I stepped inside, and she closed the door behind me, locking every lock again. A little bit of me was a little afraid. Three months was a long time for someone to change. She could turn on me at any point. The people you grow up with, you may think you know, but anyone can change. I was a little at peace, though, with the thought that, if she shot me, the world wouldn't get worse or better. It would be okay. I would fight to survive, but if something happened to me, it was out of my control. Don't worry about things that you can't change.