THE WIND whistles through what's left of the treetops above the desolate town. Distant sirens wail, though smaller in number and intensity than they were just this morning. Smoke from recent fires rises through the blackened air, obstructed from cycling through its natural path only by the jagged remnants of cars, houses, and windows. Bones- both human and otherwise- litter the once-busy streets. 

Yet, in the midst of this utter and total demolition, there exists an eerie blanket of silence. It envelops the area, rendering it stiller than ever before, almost as if it is in a collective trance. A kind of unholy peace has settled into the heart into the destruction. People no longer scream, pray, or cry. 

You have to be alive to do that. 

The only thing that still moves in all of Rutledge, Tennessee is a seventeen-year-old girl. She once called herself Maia McGee, but that name no longer has any significance to her or anyone remaining in her world. The fried mixture of gravel and debris that covers the ground crunches softly under her combat boots as she walks, and the wind tousles her short, brown hair, the ends of which are caked with dried blood. Her limbs ache from a level of exertion they are not accustomed to, but still, she presses doggedly on in her seemingly aimless path with remarkable perseverance. She has no particular destination in mind- only that she wants to get as far away as possible from here. 

Yet, in a split second, all of that changes. She pauses abruptly in her path at the sight of a human skull. Her breath hitches in her throat, and she barely manages to stifle a whimper. 

For a moment, she is frozen in her tracks, staring at the skull. The only audible sounds are the whispering of the wind and the thumping of her own heart. In contrast to the other bones around it, the skull does not lie half-buried in the mound of sludge around it. Instead, it sits pompously atop a pile of ash like a painstakingly preserved relic. 

The extended break in its perpetual motion causes her body to remember how weary it truly is. Exhausted and emotionally drained, she sinks to her knees, taking the skull tenderly in her grimy hands, the fingernails of which have been chewed off long ago. After all, she can afford to spend a moment here, in remembrance. Other than the occasional Air Force patrol, there is no longer any action in the sky. The Resistance jets are long gone, and with them, Rutledge. 

A single tear slides down her cheek as she carefully examines the skull, running her fingers across every curve and crevice. The drop of salty water stings as it drips past the many cuts and scrapes on her face, before landing in the ash beside the skull with a plop. 

She wonders if this skull belongs to her mother, her father, or her younger brother. Perhaps it once housed the brain of her favorite teacher, or her best friend. More tears well up in her eyes as fond memories rush into her mind. 

Her mother's warm smile. 

The smell of fresh apple pie. 

Her roses' first blossom. 

The cheers of her soccer teammates as they hoisted the state championship trophy into the air. 

Regardless of who the skull was a part of, she feels that it is her duty as a human being to spend what is but a fleeting moment of her own life to grieve for that life, which was so horribly and abruptly brought to an end. After all, his or her family is probably in no position to do so. In all likelihood, they, too, have found their final resting place in this city-turned-graveyard. 

She clutches the skull to her chest and curls her body around it protectively. Sobs rack her small frame as she lays in the ashen dirt, the only living thing for twenty five miles around. Wet mud stains her already worn jeans and her red t-shirt, but she is far past caring about her appearance. 

Now imbued with a fresh sense of rage, she sets the skull tenderly on the ground before rising to her feet, pointing her outstretched right arm fiercely at the sky. Her stance undulates ever so slightly with emotion as her reddened eyes face the merciless, blinding light of the sun. 

"Why did you spare me?" she screams, stomping her foot into the ground and feeling the mud squelch beneath its sole. "You killed everyone, everything in this godforsaken state!" she gestures to the lifeless land around her. "What makes me so special, huh? What did I ever do to deserve this? Why did I have to be the one who was down in the basement when you bombed the 'filthy immigrants' to pieces? Is this what you wanted? Are you sitting in the White House with your white supremacist advisers and a five thousand dollar cup of gourmet coffee, laughing as your sick game plays out?"

Fire radiates from her as she speaks. Long hours of travel on foot and the day's taxing events have not left her much strength, but her adrenaline pumps the fatigue away. Her heart no longer beats for life; having cheated death once, it lives on solely for vengeance. Forced to watch the painful demise of everyone she has ever known and loved, she has been broken in every possible way. 

It is impossible to break something that is already shattered. 

Her limits have been crossed. Her boundaries have been sliced through. Her senses have been sharpened. She has crossed a line in the sand. She has become more than just a girl. 

She grins at the whirring sound of an approaching helicopter, and her grip on the pistol strapped to her belt tightens. 

"This will cost you, President Trump," she whispers through gritted teeth. "The Resistance will make you pay."

I hope you have all enjoyed this first chapter of Dawn of The Dumpers. As you can hopefully infer, writing this was very emotionally taxing on me. In my mind, Maia represents the hundreds of men, women, girls, and boys whose lives have been impacted negatively by Donald Trump and will be impacted by him in the future. 

This book is dedicated to every person Trump will ever oppress. If one of you is reading this, please know that you as a person have value, and no President can ever tell you otherwise. I'm hoping for the best for all of you.