I was born after it happened. I’m pretty healthy, too, if you don’t mind a little webbing between the fingers and this stub that tried to grow into a third arm. That’s rare, you know. Being born healthy like I am. I suppose I got a lot to be thankful for.

You can call me Ell, by the way. I suppose it’s Ellis for a boy and Elise for a girl, but those distinctions aren’t as strong as they used to be. Most folks got a little bit of both, now, and not much of it works right anyway. There’s rumors, of course, of enclaves that survived and are still breeding true, but I ain’t never seen one.

I found a real good site the other day. That’s what I call ‘em. All the people were either dead or gone, as was usually the case, but the houses themselves hadn’t been badly damaged. That was the weird thing about it. Sometimes I would wander through the forest for miles, and there would be nothing but trees and plants and rot and old half-buried rusted things. Then some days, I’d find a house or a building that was still mostly put together. If I was real lucky, the stuff inside would still be there too, as long as it hadn’t burned or been taken by somebody else first.

My folks don’t like me going out and wandering around much, but they’re too sick most of the time to do much about it. True, there’s bad things walking in the woods, but I’ve been walking through the woods for near all 15 years of my life, and I know how to take care of myself.

Besides, I got a knife.

This time I got lucky. I found a whole row of houses, and all of them were still in decent shape. I spent the better part of the week going through the different places before I found the thing that would change my life forever.

I don’t steal, mind you. Sure, now and then I’ll find something useful and keep it, but that’s not why I’m there. There aren’t many young people my age, not many people at all who were born after. Most everyone now is old and sick. Nobody likes to talk about what it was like before and I want to know. Everyone else has their memories, but all I have is what I find.

I do know my letters, and every now and then I’ll find a book or, less often, a magazine or newspaper that didn’t burn. It takes me a while to read them, but it’s the best glimpse I have into life before. I don’t know what a lot of words mean, but everything they describe seems so fantastic I wonder what is true and what is make-believe. Did they really have machines that kept food cold and made it hot and machines that moved pictures and machines that let you talk to someone miles away like they were standing next to you?

I was exploring the third house on the street when I found it. I was in a room with several strange objects. I found a few books, which I immediately tucked into my pack for later. Then I found a series of pages with bizarre looking writing. It looked like a bunch of dots and lines and squiggles to me- not like anything I had seen before. Most of them were burnt or torn, but I found three sheets folded together that were mostly undamaged. I frowned over the weird script for several minutes until I was startled by a sound from the front of the house.

Hurriedly I tucked the page into my pack next to the new books and moved quietly to the window. My breath caught in my throat. There in front of the house, walking with an evil swagger, were three Outcasts.

Had they seen me? I ducked my head down below the window and listened as their footsteps moved across the yard towards the front door. Did I remember to lock the door when I came in? I always remember to lock it.

Well, almost always.

I heard the sound of a hand grabbing the handle, and I got ready to run.

The handle turned. The Outcast pushed in on the door.

And the door stopped, held by the deadbolt. He pushed again. The door creaked, straining on its hinges.

But it held.

Cursing, the three moved away down the street, looking for easier access. They could have decided to break in a window, but one deep cut might easily be a person’s last, so I stayed safely hidden.

I read that years ago, there were enormous buildings to hold society’s criminals, and people could be sent there for the rest of their lives if they did something terrible. Now, if someone commits a crime against the community, or if they are just too horribly mutated to live among others, they are cast out into the wilderness. Those few that survive band together and prey on anyone they find, for revenge and love of blood.

I waited for a few heart-pounding moments until I was sure they were gone, then I left quietly by the back door and cut through the woods towards home.

When I got home, I showed the strange writing to my mother.

“Can you read it?” I asked.

“No.”

“What language is it?”

“It’s not really a language. Anyway, no one uses it anymore.”

“Well, what is it then?”

“It’s something that was lost.”

I don’t know if I have ever seen my mother look so sad. She began coughing again not long after, and I hurried to boil her some tea.

The next day I decided to go into town to see if anyone there could read it. We had a big population, with nearly 150 people, most of whom had been alive before. Someone in town must be able to read it, or at least tell me what it was.

I went first to the town leader, Mr. Jefferson. He had been something called a ‘used-car salesman’ before.

“Can you read this, Mr. Jefferson?” I asked him.

He looked at the page for a few minutes, then shook his head. I thought I saw him blinking back tears, but I couldn’t be sure.

“I seem to remember something about that from long ago, when I was a boy, but I can’t remember. Maybe you should ask Mr. Barnhart.”

Mr. Barnhart had been a teacher at the university, which was like a giant school for older people, but now he was the town’s wisest person. He seemed to know everything.

“Can you read this, Mr. Barnhart?”

He took the page and held it up close to his eyes.

“No, I’m afraid my eyes aren’t so good anymore, Ell. Do you know what this is?”

“My mom said it wasn’t really a language, but she wouldn’t tell me what it was or what it said. Do you know?”

“I have an idea, but it would be unfair to just describe it to you,” he said wistfully.

“My mom also said that this was something important that was lost after it happened, something that could maybe tell me more about what life was like before. Is it true?”

“Yes, I suppose if you found someone to read this, you might have a better idea of how things were before. If you are really curious, I have a friend who lives in Salt Town. She should be able to read this still.”

“How can I find her?”

“Just go to Salt Town and ask for Brandy Karol. You should probably wait until there is another caravan though. The way can be dangerous if you travel alone.”

“Thanks. I’ll find her, one way or another.”

The next caravan to Salt Town left the following week carrying what few items of food we had to spare and what few crafts and tools we had made. We hoped to trade them for salt and anything else of value.

It was a three day trip. We set out early each morning. The hard black surface of the Old Road was still visible among the weeds and rubble, and it felt hard and reliable beneath our feet. I moved around the caravan, talking to different people from the town, or looking into the forest as we walked past. We stopped to rest. I took off my pack and set it on the ground.

I was talking with Ryan Belkin when they hit us.

I heard a hiss and felt a puff of air. Mr. Belkin stopped talking in mid-sentence. I turned my head to see why he had stopped and saw the arrow sticking out of his throat. He was clutching at it desperately, but his slick fingers found no purchase as the blood spurted out of his neck in rhythm to his fading heartbeat.

There seemed to be a pause, like one second got stretched out longer and longer until it snapped. Then everything happened in a blur. Maybe time had to make up for stretching so far and it was hurrying to catch up.

From out of the mangled trees, the Outcasts came. Bullets and arrows filled the air as men fought with guns, knives and clubs in the shade of the twisted pines.

I stood in shock for a second, maybe two, and then I ducked into the woods. I only remembered to pull my knife a few seconds later. Our men were armed, of course, but the Outcasts had the advantage of surprise. I crouched there, watching, as the fighting raged back and forth.

The fight did not last long. Our men were outnumbered and quickly overwhelmed. The bodies of our men lay with the bodies of the Outcasts in piles of gore and twisted limbs. Without so much as a glance towards their dead, the Outcasts began going through our supplies, taking what they found valuable and throwing the rest aside.

I fought back the tears rising in my eyes. I had known all of those people, and now, in the span of a few minutes, they were all dead. I only remained alive because of my cowardice.

I remembered then that my pack was not with me. It was on the ground, right at someone’s feet. I hoped, momentarily, that he wouldn’t notice it, or that he would throw it away, but I had no such luck. Someone threw the pack on one of our wagons with the other things the Outcast were stealing.

“Should we search the woods? I think I saw one or two escape,” said one.

“No need. We have our goods. Let them go back and tell their town. Keep ‘em scared.”

A few minutes later they left in the direction of Salt Town.

I waited until they were gone, then left my hiding place to see if anyone was left alive. I had to stop twice to throw up and I found nothing but corpses for my trouble.

So that was it, then. There was nothing left now but to return home and tell them of the massacre, and how I ran and hid during it.

Yet I found myself unable to let the pages with the strange writing go. What was on those pages? Why did everyone react so strongly? Did it really hold the key to understanding how life was before?

I decided I couldn’t go back without finding out. Instead of heading back, I turned to follow the Outcasts.

With their ambush completed, they kept mostly to the Old Road, and it was fairly easy to follow them at a safe distance. Night fell, and they made camp. From the dark shadows of the forest, I watched as they ate roasted meat and got drunk on the moonshine made in the hills.

One by one, the men either passed out or went to sleep. There were two sentries, but as the night wore on, they began to doze as well. It grew later and the fire grew weaker.

As silently as I could, I crept past one sleeping man, if such a twisted creature could still claim the title. My heart was pounding in my chest so loudly I worried the sound alone would wake the entire camp.

I reached the bag. The top was opened slightly. I reached my hand in to grab the mysterious pages.

Behind me, an Outcast groaned and rolled over in his sleep. I froze, my hand halfway in the bag.

The seconds ticked by.

Slowly, I reached deeper. My hand closed over the pages. I had to resist the urge to immediately run from the camp, because that would surely wake them, and their chances of running me down were better than I wanted.

Gingerly I removed the pages from the bag and made my way back to the safety of the dark forest. I moved some distance away, my heart pounding, and climbed a tree to spend the night away from the creatures of the forest floor.

I awoke stiff but alive. I had clutched the pages so tightly to my chest that they were wrinkled and bent. I hoped someone could still read them.

I snuck towards the Outcast camp, but they had already gone. Apparently my theft had gone unnoticed.

I kept to the forest, but always within sight of the road. That way if there were Outcasts still patrolling the route, I would at least have a chance of hiding or escaping into the underbrush.

It took another day and a half or travel, but I finally arrived at Salt Town. The city’s makeshift gates were open, and I hurriedly identified myself when hailed by the guards.

My tale was met with sadness, but not shock. It was not unusual for travelers to be attacked. There was talk of stopping the exchanges, but each side needed goods only the other could supply, so the risky ventures continued.

I was fed and given a warm bed that night. I mourned for my friends and the townspeople, but death was a common thing and it didn’t take long for them to take their place next to all the others who had died.

Later the next day, I went in search of Ms. Brandy Karol. Mr. Barnhart had said she might be able to read my strange document and give me a window into the past.

After asking a few people, I was directed to a small house on the south side of town. I knocked on the door, and a young man answered. By his age, I guessed he must have been around 12 when it happened.

“Excuse me,” I said. “My name is Ell, and I’m looking for Ms. Brandy Karol. I was told this was her house.”

“Sadly, she died several months ago. My name is John Karol, and I’m her son. How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for someone to read a document for me. No one in my town knows how to decipher it and I was told that Ms. Karol did.”

“Well, my mother taught me a lot of things. May I have a look?”

I handed the pages, now creased and crumpled from travel, over to Mr. Karol.

He looked at it intently for several seconds, his finger tracing the lines carefully. His eyes, too, got that same look that I had seen on the faces of people in my town, only his expression was deeper, more knowing.

“Come inside, and I will show you what this means,” he said.

I followed him inside. The house was small, but well kept. In one room was a large wooden object, similar to the one I had seen in the house where I found the pages. Mr. Karol sat down on a bench in front of it and slid back a lid to reveal a series of white and black markers laid out in a horizontal line.

He took the pages and opened them in front of him, like a book. He pushed down one of the levers and a thin sound came from the wooden object.

“Tell me, Ell, is your name short for anything?”

“Um, it could be short for Ellis or Elise, either one.”

“Elise, how appropriate that you have brought this to me. After all, it was written for you.”

He stared intently at the pages. Slowly he began, then faster as he gained confidence.

There is nothing in my vocabulary, nothing in my experience to describe what happened next. The aging instrument came to life beneath his hands and wove a tale of such beauty that I thought my heart might break from hearing it.

And I understood then what had been lost when the bombs fell.