When I was told that this year would be legendary, I imagined it was because of the wild End of the World parties we’d been planning for the past decade. 2012 was the year that the world would come to an end, at least according to the Mayan calendar, and that was worth celebrating.
“The sun’s coming up,” said Robin.
“Yeah,” I stalled.
“It’s your turn to look.” It was my turn to make my way up the mangled stone steps to what had once been the fourth floor of my apartment building. It was mostly gone now, ripped right off by a giant claw. The morning light streamed in through the slashes left in my apartment walls by each sharp, giant talon.
I took a deep, labored breath as she handed me her binoculars. It was out there, somewhere, and if it spotted me, I’d be dead as dust. Ultimately, though, I understood that someone had to check. That is, if we were planning on being able to make the trip up to the fourth floor as a group to grab an egg. It’d take at least five of us to carry the thing down the stairs, but it wasn’t going to happen as long as Mama stayed near.
Slowly, I opened the door to the exposed staircase. Rubble was everywhere, and a trail of dried blood–once my super Mrs. Petrovich–marked my path up. Robin shut the apartment door behind me. If I got caught, there was no reason the rest of them should be sacrificed along with me. After all, we all had to eat.