The Ashen Sky: Life and Struggle in a Blighted World

She picked her way carefully through the debris-strewn street, her worn boots crunching over fragments of glass and concrete. The skeletal remains of what had once been downtown Portland stretched before her, a monument to humanity's final folly. Traffic lights hung at odd angles, their colors long since faded to uniform grey. Rusted automobiles sat where their drivers had abandoned them in those last desperate hours, their windows clouded with ash that no rain would ever wash clean.

Elena paused at the intersection of what her father's generation had called Morrison and Fifth, consulting the hand-drawn map she kept folded in her coat pocket. The paper was soft with wear, its edges brown and brittle. According to the notations she'd made in her careful script, the community at the old stadium should be roughly two miles southeast. She'd been walking toward it for four days now, following rumors carried by other wanderers about a place where people still grew food, where children learned to read, where something resembling civilization persisted.

A sound made her freeze, one hand instinctively moving to the knife at her belt. Footsteps, deliberate and measured, echoing off the hollow facades of dead buildings. Elena ducked behind the rusted hulk of a delivery truck, her heart hammering against her ribs. In seven years of wandering the wasteland, she'd learned that other survivors were often more dangerous than the radiation sickness or the poisoned rain.