Uncle Billy’s ancient bomb shelter was probably the only one ever to have a window. Secure in the steel box with years of food supplies, I sat each day at the smudged glass, watching poisonous ashes drift down on what had been Uncle Billy and my neighbors. The view never changed, my radio distress calls went unanswered.
One day, something fluttered into sight and landed on a blackened tree stump.
If birds could survive outside, then so could I!
I cracked open the door and began to cough.
The tiny drone lifted off the stump, then crashed, battery light fading.
Holly Schofield travels through time at the rate of one second per second, oscillating between the alternate realities of city and country life. Her stories have appeared in Analog, Lightspeed, Escape Pod, and many other publications throughout the world. You can find her at hollyschofield.wordpress.com.
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