In the second year of the disaster, I squatted on the roof of a high-end apartment and looked down at the corpse tide. I couldn't even smell the breath of a living thing in the whole neighborhood. My lips were chapped and peeled after two days of hunger. I paused when I glanced at the window on the 18th floor of the building opposite - there was a school uniform still dripping hanging on the balcony railing. I clenched the steel bar in my hand and stood up. There was a scratching sound from behind the rooftop door under my feet.
