who disappeared with their clothes falling into toilet, most of which had already dried out. Inconvenient it must has been for those whose closes had burned to powder in their wrecked automobiles. Tragic for those whose clothes had been scattered or buried by unchecked disasters, such as bursting dams. They returned only to be suffocated or mangled by pure misfortune.
Food was scarce for those that returned but they survived the winter. Repairing the infrastructure of roads and power wasn’t too difficult, except that the hydroelectric plants were destroyed with the dams. People made do, got along, and survived.
Stories began to emerge of a few others like myself. There are truly very few of us, just 2 or 3 per continent. I haven’t told anyone except for my wife and children, but no one has visited my little valley.
The Beginning
It’s spring and we’ve had several visitors, usually hunters looking to supplement the government rations with wild game or cattle.
The first groups were surprised to see us so well established. After all, for them, it was only last summer that they’d been here last.
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