In the end, the trucks never turned up. You could still see the old television set outside number 13 that had started it all, but the rest of the street was invisible beneath the mounds of junk. Every few days, another piece of junk would appear, maybe an iron, maybe a sofa.
It didn’t seem possible that we’d once been so house-proud. And, really, we still were; once one made it past the refuse-laden naturestrip, our houses were as immaculate as ever, the queens in their counting houses, and kings eating bread and honey.
It was a little harder to get to work since the buses had stopped running, but people offered lifts and carpooled, or just called in to say they couldn’t come in, though the phones didn’t work either. Most people just stayed at home, kept their children occupied now that the schools had closed, cleaned, rationed and re-rationed food. All the houses started to empty as food was eaten, and things broke, or simply got too old to keep, at which time they joined the slowly growing piles outside.
Occasionally, someone would loot a store, and the next day we’d notice their new TV (useless, except to see the test signal), or maybe their cupboard a little more stocked than before. Such raids, though, were generally considered uncouth and frowned upon, though it was eventually decided that taking food or water was permissible, especially since the water had stopped running (though number 19 claimed theirs had run, albeit brown, for another two days).
It was sad when the Campbells of number 16 died, but, at 91 and 87 respectively, they’d had a good run. Their family didn’t turn up, so we had a small service outside, as the smell inside was a little too strong.
A few days later, the Cunanans of number 22 had disappeared. No one mentioned it, but parts of their house started to disappear, and our street enjoyed a brief moment of almost revival. The carpooling had stopped altogether by then; no one did anything at work, and they’d run out of petrol, so they decided to stay at home.
It rained all through the following week. The junk began to sink more deeply into the ground and began to rot. The pile outside number 15 was the first to fall, followed quickly by number 20 and number 14. They mostly fell into the street, but the Herons’ (number 14) fell into their yard and made a hole in the front room. They eventually had to move into number 17 when the rats became too much.
The fire struck all the odd-numbered houses at night. The students in 21 had no chance; the other people ran onto the street and where ushered into various houses on the even-numbered side. Only number 16 remained empty, though perhaps more empty than when the Campbell’s had died.
More families disappeared. Piles of junk sank deeper into the dirt, then crumbled, now growing less quickly.
Number 19 was the last house to remain. No one remembered who was family and who had come from elsewhere. The food ran out first; all that was in the grocery store had been eaten by the rats. Finally the water ran out.
The bodies lined the street in formation, a dead army moving towards sustenance and rest, barely distinguishable from the piles of junk they had built around their fortress.
(originally posted on jameshultgren.tumblr.com)
