If the world stopped right now – zombies, natural disaster, disease – and, as is likely to happen, you become one of hundreds of millions to quickly vanish in the ensuing panic, what would the few lucky survivors find in your home as they scavenge for supplies?  What could they eat?  What clothing is left behind?  Are there any first aid supplies?  Would your home be a safe place for them to stay?  Is it defensible?  If this hypothetical survivor is contemplative – which could be dangerous in a world where paying attention is likely the difference between life and death – what would they think of you? 

I’ve had these thoughts recently as I’ve packed up my apartment in preparation to move to another state.  Stacks of boxes with labels like “Living Room #16” and “Kitchen #3” line the walls of the spare bedroom and lead back to a notebook with a more thorough inventory of the items in each box.  Assuming my husband and I are out running errands when the calamity strikes and we more or less die instantly – whether in an impromptu triage, the stomach of some monster, or some other unimagined way – our third floor apartment would be locked and left in situ. 

I’ve thought, rather egotistically I’m sure, that our apartment might be a valuable asset to the first person to get past the lock, assuming they do it quietly or quickly and can find a way to lock the door again upon entering.  We have a modest assemblage of hand tools and camping gear, including two mostly untouched first aid kits, sleeping bags, and a set of backpacking pots and pans.  My husband makes jewelry as a hobby and has a bunch of smaller precision tools that may or may not come in handy.  We don’t have a lot of food in the apartment right now since we’re getting ready to move, but I do keep a large container of rice above the stove and we have several very sharp knives. 

Having grown up in a first world country and never had the need to seriously consider my survival against the elements or other people or beasts trying to kill me, I’m not much of a strategist.  So, if this survivor decides to spend the winter in our abandoned apartment, I’m not sure whether it’s a terrible idea or not.  It’s a corner apartment on the third floor and shares a long wall with an indoor fire escape on one side and a much shorter wall with a neighboring apartment on the other.  If someone was determined they would probably be able to easily beat their way through the plaster and dry wall, though a better option may be the previously broken door.  It has eight very large, deep-silled windows, four of which have excellent views of the small river valley below.  The building is old and can be drafty, and the floor creaks in all sorts of places.  I doubt the wood (or, more likely, particle board) furniture would last very long against a hungry fire, and since we are on the prairies of the upper Midwest the winters can be very cold and windy. 

Moving through my assumptions, misinformed decisions, and possible logical fallacies, this survivor has decided my apartment is the best place to winter.  A stock pile of food and fuel for the fire has been assembled or is accessible nearby.  Now this survivor must keep cabin fever at bay.  Hopefully they like books.  We have a lot of books.  Too many of our boxes and totes are full of books right now.  Assuming these are not needed to feed the fire for warmth, there is more than enough to get this lonely survivor through the winter months.  If they possess the right mindset, they can even play themselves at a couple board games. 

However, what happens when the survivor is bored of reading and can’t stand to pretend there are two people playing Scrabble?  If they idly wander through the apartment, what will they learn about the previous occupants?  The books this survivor has been reading are the first source of knowledge.  Then there are the pictures and art on the walls, and the modest collection of records, CDs, DVDs, and even VHS and cassette tapes.  Finally, the trinkets that were deemed important enough to be displayed on a shelf versus those stored away in a closet would inform the observer on what we thought was important and help round out the initial posthumous evaluation of my and my husband’s personalities.  I’m coming from the other side of the equation here, but I’m pretty sure anyone can figure out “educated nerd” from these clues. 

The above are the low hanging fruit, but what if the survivor is really bored?  What personal touches would you leave behind if you expected to return, but never did?  Would you leave hair on the shower wall; a PS4 controller on the arm of the couch; a forgotten soda can on the window sill; a To-Do list on the table reminding you to call the mechanic about the car, pick up ice cream at the store, and do the dishes; the speech the best man wrote for your wedding on the fridge next to that faded picture your niece/nephew/much younger sibling drew for you seven years ago and last month’s utility bill; the cap off the toothpaste; a coaster on the nightstand and the unmentionables inside it; dirty laundry in your hamper; a stained apron hanging in the kitchen; a box of photographs you salvaged from old photo albums – birthdays, vacations, prom, the birth of a sibling; a pile of junk mail next to the shredder; a recipe on the counter for a meal never cooked; a single shoe tossed carelessly next to the door; an open laptop and attached headphones on the living room floor?  What would these more ambiguous signs tell a stranger, other than to emphasize the absence of a person, the death of a way of life no longer relevant? 

Maybe if the survivor thought hard enough about these subtle signs they could learn a great deal about you.  If they were particularly lonely and isolated, they might even develop an attachment to the idea of you, consider you a friend, thank you for letting them stay in your home.  This is all hypothetical, of course, because if they did start to think like this, it means they’re probably not giving as much thought to their surroundings.  Emotional attachment can kill in a post-apocalyptic environment.  A detached personality is probably best, which means that while the survivor may observe your possessions with mild interest, the art, notes, pictures, mail, and most of the books would be burned with the furniture, clothing would be worn or used for blocking drafts, and that one shoe would be kicked into the closet to avoid tripping over it.  In the end, you’re dead, and if the survivor wants to live, they can’t afford the sentiment of an imaginative writer sitting on a couch and thinking “What if?”