I could not help but stare as we passed, remembering. Overlaying the now ruined merchandise and shattered glass, an ingrained memory of the storefront display flashed before my eyes and briefly I felt transported.

I had been there before.

Wait, I wanted to say.  Though I knew no words would pass between my lips.  Sound had left me long ago, when the Death finally came to my doorstep.  It was not really much of a handicap.  In fact, the inability to make any kind of sound was considered more of an asset, especially for a Mouse.

It was not likely to be the wisest choice, but I lagged behind the others to stare longer.

The memory was of better days.  I had lagged behind then too, though it was in order to forge the memory, make a permanent imprint in my mind, instead of try to recall what had been forgotten.  I could not quite recall why, but this place had been special to me.

I tightened my jaw at the thought.  Special.  What a crock.  

It was not safe to linger too long so after one last look, I started off after the others.  Mice knew how to leave few trails and forage noiselessly, but our greatest precaution was to keep on the move.  We moved as a pack, though loosely – each seeking out our own path through the ruins of the city, though aimed in the same direction.  It was a way to keep the safety of the whole as a priority – if one was spotted, the rest could continue on unhindered.  Mice were not meant to be heroes anyway.

Only the Watchdogs exercised that option. 

I caught up to the others soon enough.  They were in camo, the reason being readily apparent the moment I arrived.  A small herd was finishing off a recent catch, and unfortunately they were spread in such a way that it was difficult to find a way around. Better to wait it out.  I quickly scanned for my companions and it was a relief of some sort to know that they had not caught a Mouse. It was most likely a Feral, instead.

I settled into my camo, soundlessly becoming a part of the environment – though any noise I made was effectively masked by the sound of flesh being torn and devoured a mere twenty feet away.

I wondered about the earlier flash of memory, about the Before.  I searched my memory for what we used to call the concrete ruins, and the word ‘mall’ came painstakingly out of the foggy parts of my brain.  Malls.  More of the Before returned to me with the word.  It used to be so noisy.  It’s funny how much I longed for noise when I was unable to make any sound myself.  I felt as if I barely had use for my tongue – taste seemed to have disappeared ages ago – or nose, for that matter.  I had gotten so used to the rot, the decay that seemed to permeate every molecule of breathable air.   Was there ever a time where smells were so diverse that a single waft of a particular scent could trigger memory?

And what were we then if we lacked half of our senses?  What was I – missing a voice on top of everything else we survivors were deprived of?

The herd was moving now, and suddenly I couldn’t afford to be lost in thought.  As if by cue, all of the Mice resumed scurrying back home, myself included.  It was a bit tricky.  They couldn’t smell us, we had the same scent of decay and rot growing on our skin and in our hair, but noise made them curious and if they took notice of us, they could see the life we still held.  

Well.  What little of it we clung to, anyway. We were just as likely to die from malnourishment or sickness as from being hunted.  It wasn’t much of a life, but it couldn’t be helped.

I slid out of my camo – I had squeezed myself into the wheel well of an overturned semi -- and slipped in between the remains of an old car wreck. The Find was good this trip. I would call it a success, though we hadn’t found the water we were sent out for. We had come across the remains of a fighter jet, crashed into the earth sometime during the Death’s hostile takeover. There were loads of shrapnel to scavenge, sharp pieces that would make for much needed weaponry. 

Too bad it had just been a scurry.  Only mice traveled on these missions.  There had been plenty to scavenge that would have been useful to reinforce the wall-shields, but Mice were too small to carry such things.  We’re too small to carry most things, for that matter.  Even the amount of shrapnel we collected could only be as much as we could manage to tie flat on our thighs and forearms – places on our bodies that would not hinder our movement much.  And of all the Mice, I was one of the smallest.

Oh well.  The new weapons I did manage to collect were happy enough prizes. Guns ran out of ammo years ago, and besides, only the Watchdogs could afford weapons forged from Before. The rest of us had to make do. 
Proper smithing was far too noisy. No wall-shield in the world could keep out the size of the herd that would come for the noise. So there weren’t many options except to crudely fashion spears or knives out of debris. Problem was, the blades never seemed to last much more than one or two uses. 

 We were nearing the canal.  The final mile, just past the canal, was always the trickiest, when there wasn’t enough space for Mice to spread out and furthermore, places to hide were scarce. The Eagles needed a clear line of sight, and nobody could begrudge them that, but it didn’t make life any easier for the Mice.

I wondered who would be devoured today.

The final mile also tended to have large herds milling about, though if we were lucky, they might have wandered off and only a few strays would be left behind. If not –

I scuttled into the canal and joined the other mice in peering at the distance we needed to cross to make it Home. If not, then we would have to create a diversion. And that was a guaranteed loss of life. 

Home was not permanent. Despite precautions, attention would eventually be drawn by the activity, and once the herd had grown to a certain number, it would be time to move on.  Transitions were terribly anxious periods, when the wall-shields were not yet erected and everyone was vulnerable. Often construction would have to be abandoned in rapid retreat.  It took sometimes months before the Beavers were lucky enough to have enough time to set up the Home.

As such, much effort was made to avoid drawing more attention than necessary. Of course, Mice were the ones that bore most of that responsibility – being the scout force of the community. Which was probably why of all the roles, becoming Mice was the least desirable.

I squinted at the view before me. It wasn’t quite a herd, but definitely more than just a few strays. The eight of us peered at each other. Could we make the sprint without a diversion? Everyone seemed uncertain. Watchdogs weren’t too forgiving if we ended up needing their help.

We didn’t have that much time to decide. The sun was setting, and we would never be able to find the entrance then.  Plus, the dark was the Ferals’ domain.

There were too many strays.

I looked at my team – loosely speaking. The boy whose turn was up was pale, though his brow furrowed in determination. He was young, not as young as I was -- in fact, he was the oldest in the group as Mice never lived that long – but still, his obvious youth just highlighted the injustice of having the misfortune of existing in this kind of world.  His shoulders had only begun to broaden, and his proportions were ever so slightly awkward – I guessed he was maybe 19 years old.  His eyes suddenly caught my appraising gaze and I found myself revising my estimate.  His eyes, an odd kind of green, were sharp and intelligent, in stark contrast to the dull acceptance that most people carried in their visage.  I realized with a start that he actually wanted to live.  The rest of us were merely clinging to life, death being just a tiny bit more fearsome.  

What a waste.  He knew what had to be done. Everyone knew without speaking.
Wordlessly, the boy turned back the way we came and we turned to wait for our opportunity.