After a week in the Taygetos Mountains, hunger overcomes our fear.
The fiery pain in my belly is so intense that food is all I can think of, even as I gaze at the devastation below us. Others will have survived, perhaps including our families. We must find something to eat, even with the chance that some of the invaders are still around.
My son Gorgopas and I stumble across the first blackened field we reach, searching for a single vine that might have escaped destruction, but our hopes go unrewarded. As we near what had been the barn, the stench of death almost overpowers us. Corpses of goats and sheep lie everywhere. Except for the skeletal remains of a few scattered timbers, the farm shack is a pile of ashes. The bloated bodies of a dog and two young children lie in front.
We didn't expect to find food so quickly. The nearness of the fire has even given them a mesquite-grilled aroma. Now the only question is – blackened perro or roasted niño?