The house was completely run down. You couldn't tell from the outside, but he knew. There wasn't a single house left that hadn't been scoured for supplies, pulled to pieces to make firewood, or simply destroyed in some cathartic fit of rage by one or many pepole who knew they weren't long for this world. No, the house wasn't good for anything anymore. It's french doors useless props to impress high scoiety friends who had become ash long ago, the hardwood floors torn up and no longer able to carry the creaks and groans from the man sneaking downstairs for a latenight snack, and it's brick fireplace no longer in service to man but instead in service to a family of raccons. They knew the value of this place and could put it to use. At least some living thing could do so.
He grumbled to no one in particular about entering the house. Who was there to hear? God? But he was hungry and he learned long ago to trust the oustide chances. Besides, he had no choice. It was this house or death. Nearly three days wihout water and alomst a week without food left him weak and hopeless.
Moving down an empty hall way from the empty kitchen he checked his pockets. The search produced a small prybar and he held it like weapon, ready for a possible attack. His eyes darted back an forth as the hallway led to an open family room. The room contained dusty, ruined furniture; someone had already taken the stuffing from the chairs and couch for insulation.

"That's alright", he thought, "I already have a thioat to endure this hard, endless winter."
He continued to check the room for more useful items. With the prybar he loosed some moulding he oculd use as firewood, and then he tapped on the floor in search of possible trap doors. He had been saved more than once by finding hidden cellars or bomb shelters created by the former, paranoid homeowners.
"I suppose they weren't really paraniod", he guessed, "they were right."

Suprisingly, his search did yield a trapdoor. The hollow knock rang true and pronounced the possibility of hidden treasures. He removed the moth-eaten rug that hid the door and pryed open the trap. Looking into the infinite darkness he fumbled to find the stairs. It was too dark to see and even if he could find a light switch at the bottom there was certainly no power. Quickly, he pryed loose a chair leg and took a piece of the rug and wrapped it around to create a makeshift torch.
"I hope there isn't a gas leak" he thought.
He produced a lighter from his other pocket and a flask from his inner pocket. First, dousing the cloth in alcohol he then lit the torch which illuminated the entire room.
"This was once a very beautiful home." he conjectured. "These people had money, power, and prestige and where are they now?"

dead

He made his descent into the cellar. It was a brick one probably created by the original owners, and it must have held some great treasures at one time. Hoping this space had not been found before, he looked around once he arrived at the bottom of the stairs.
He looked around and saw a long corridor leardin to a room. He walked down the corridor. The wall contained family photos of trips to Hawaii, France, California, every place imaginable He wondered what the trips might have been like, what those times were like before this new age of survival began. Before the end of time and the beginning of chaos.

Reaching the end of the corridor he arrived in the room. It was a small cave with old barrels and shelves; a wine cellar. He checked the racks for bottles or anything at all. Most of the slots were empty, a few held broken pieces of glass, and some the carcasses of long dead rats. He searched the floor and found a case that looked intouched.
"Former looters must have thought this was a table" he said out loud to on one in particular.

He pried the top free and lowered his torch. The case was full and held bottles marked: Chateau Petrus 1985. What a find if this were another day and age. Wine was useless for the most part; better if they contained water instead, and the wine was long past it's prime.
"It must be vingear by now" he thought as he broke the top of one bottle.
He poured a little into his cupped hands and sipped. Proving his point, he spat out the turned liquid and stared at the case. A fitting symbol for the world that once held much promise. Now it had turned sour and, from here, there was no going back.