"Ah! I've always wanted to see this one."

In the dim light provided by his flashlight, a middle aged man stood admiring a painting. The little plate beneath the work, which depicted a tiny little bedroom, read 'Gogh, Vincent van- [i]Van Gogh's Room at Arles'[/i]. The man was Ezra Schultz, and he was most delighted to find that the Chicago Art Institute had been left largely alone by scavengers. In the days since the cataclysm most survivors had focused on essentials- food, water, necessary supplies. There seemed to be very few art thieves about. Certainly, the lower level- in particular the gift shop and the various staff rooms- had been turned upside down by locals searching for items of utility, but most of the cultural treasures remained in place. Ezra had noticed a Jackson Pollock was missing, but that was no major loss so far as he was concerned. Some desperate fellow had probably taken it for kindling. And that was just as well.

Deciding he had played art critic long enough for the day, he made his way down the dark and silent corridors toward the entrance. It was sad, Ezra thought, to see that the august halls which once had teemed with admiring onlookers were now so bereft of such attention. He was glad, though, that there were no monstrosities about. He had seen- and sent to Hell- more than a few since civilization had broken down, and had run at the rumor of even more. He had scant desire to run into another, when his day was going so well. The entire reason for his pilgrimage up to Chicago, to tour the museums and to peruse the libraries, had gone off almost without a hitch. True, he had lost his bicycle- but in such a large city he was certain to find another means of transport.

"Too bad the L isn't running anymore." he said, to nobody.

Speaking to himself was a habit he had picked up while wandering the ruins, and he frowned as he realized he really had no one else to talk to. He had been in the company of a cordial young man from Indianapolis, but the rogue made off with his bike while Ezra was strolling through the Field Museum. That was two days ago, and he had not met with a single soul since then. Stepping out onto the great steps before the main entrance, he took a seat with one of the only friends he had left- Gibbon's [i]The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.[/i] It wasn't a very fair account, but it had been years since he'd last read it, and so he had made a point of 'borrowing' it from a library in Gary.

As he read the tome, he produced his pipe, his tobacco, and a book of matches. Puffing meditatively, he pondered his situation as he read. He had just a little food left, fewer than twenty bullets for his gun, and only his legs for getting around. There was no way around it- he would have to throw his lot in with some other survivors. That was, if he could find any. It seemed like most people these days were living in the countryside, shunning the cities. Perhaps a trip to the suburbs? Perhaps someone was holding out in Cicero, or somesuch. He would have to find a map- and perhaps a working car and some gasoline. Cars were easy enough to come by, but gas was a bit rarer for someone without the the know-how to get it out of a pump [i]sans[/i] electrical power.