The sun set with the timing of a doting parent. Time to head back. Time to get home before it got too dark. We made a quick run for last minute supplies, skittering about like post-apocalyptic tribesmen, then hopped a cab back into the Dark Zone. Down south, the darkness runs thick.
The line of demarcation is 25th street, and it is as sharp as a meridian. The streets are black-black. Looking down one block is like looking deep down a shrouded, moonless forest path. Shadows creep out and up and form an impenetrable archway. It is largely deserted. Those few you encounter are like specters — moving ethereally, quickly, sometimes glowing from a flashlight, often hooded or cloaked. A scan of building windows reveals no activity, like the buildings themselves are skeletons. It’s a strange sensation to pass a building or facade that you recognize intrinsically, but now has been obliterated by the blackout. Even the structures are like ghosts.
The taxi isn’t so much a car as a blockade runner. Intersections blur by and we can’t help but gaze down at the abyss. Each crossroad is an exercise in life and death. The only lights are from cars, and the occasional reflective vest. I can’t help but wonder what it is like much deeper into the Dark Zone.
We’re jettisoned at our stop and scamper out like infantry abandoned on a far coast, double timing across the street. In the building, one last obstacle: a steep, utterly dark staircase ascent. But back in the apartment, we peer back down at the darkened streets, the small lights glowing like cast off embers.
We lit a smattering of candle then retreated back to bed. It has gotten very cold, like the weather knew it was time to lay down winter on us.