for twenty minutes, so I was pretty happy to take it out on someone else.
Usually, when I see a large body on the ground, I attribute the size to the blankets and newspapers and whatever else is being used to keep warm. I assumed Joe was going to be quite small. I was wrong. Joe was also much healthier and far faster than I expected. I don't really know if his name was Joe, but that was what was tattooed on his fists. I got a good look at the fists.
As I lay here, bloody and partially mangled, my clothes distressed from the fight, I wonder how I could have avoided this situation. After about an hour, I'm still not able to stand. I'm relatively positive Joe was once a lineman for his high school football team. A very kind homeless person worries about me getting cold and throws a blanket over me. It smells awful but I am much warmer. I decide to sleep for a bit, I'll heal in my sleep and will be able to move when I wake up.
I do wake up. I wake up to a giant work boot crushing my ribs. I am in too much pain to do anything besides turn my head and look after my assailant once they've finished stepping on me. It's a tall man in a business suit wearing work boots. He walks away at a quick clip. I wish I knew his name. Maybe we could start a club?
The Gummy Files
Mine has been a short, hard life.
I don't remember how I came together, not exactly. I know I started as gum base and I got heated up and sterilized. I was then spun around a good bit. That was when I lost a lot of myself, bits of bark and dirt. I then had several things added to me. The sugar was the worst. To have all that added sweetness and syrup out of nowhere, it can be disconcerting. I was stretched, heated, cooled and cut. But it wasn't so bad, not really.
Then life was good for a while. Me and my mates were all together in a little package, a regular family. Oh the times we had. We didn't mind the dark or the constant smell of mint. None of us even minded being wrapped in paper. Our wrappers felt nice and comfortable. I loved our home. We had no needs. We had safety.
And then it happened. Our home was ripped apart. A huge hand tore the top of our package off. Light flooded our damaged domicile. I nearly burned from the intense heat of the day. We were terrified. There was air and noise and smells, our precious mint was nearly lost.
We started disappearing one by one. The hand would come down and one of us would go. We had no idea where they went or why they were chosen. The hand just took them away and they never came back. Then one day, it was my turn.
My paper was shucked off, I was left naked in the too bright sunlight. I could see the world around me. It was dizzying. Then, the hand lifted me to the moist mouth of my torturer. Constant crushing followed. All my mint flavor and most of the sugar left me within minutes. All the extras of my life were taken away. I'd only just gotten used to the sugar when it was squeezed out of me.
And then, the mouth spit me out. I made a large arc in the sky and landed in the grass near a pile of dog poo. I'd had better days. I watched as my torturer’s feet moved away from me.
Then it wasn't so bad. The poo smell faded, light turned to dark and the outside of me hardened a bit. I thought maybe I'd found a new home. It was roomy and open, if a bit isolated. At least there was shade from a nearby bush and I got to see plenty of people come and go. It was okay, until someone stepped on me.
I ended up on the bottom of a shoe, which may have been fine if the person who stepped on me had realized I was there but they didn't. They just kept walking.
Step - I stick to the ground and stick to the shoe. Shoe lifts into air - I stretch. I stretch. I break. Part of me stays on the shoe, part of me on the ground. Step, stick, lift, stretch, break. Again and again and again.
Now, I'm in a closet. Only a little piece of me remains. I don't know how long I'll be here, but at least it's dark and quiet, much like my home. No poo either.
Mine has been a short, hard life.
All Dead
Jacob crouched down low, his knees aching with the strangeness of the angle. Years of sitting at a desk didn't prepare him for this. In his old life, he was more inclined to eat candy bars, slurp Mountain Dew and clack keys all day. His had been a cushy existence.
Smoke wafted from behind the 7-11. Smoke meant fire and fire usually meant survivors. Survivors meant either friends or foe: no way to know unless you ask and asking could get you killed. But they were out of everything. No more canned food, no more bottled water, and sure as shit no more Mountain Dew.
She needed him. She was alone now, big and swollen with child. They were so happy when they first found out. A baby was a blessing in those days, seven months ago when the world was right. Now, a baby was a burden plain and simple. He didn't know how to deliver one, and who knew where a doctor was, if there were any left in the civilian world. Maybe there was still a regiment out there, wandering around with a doctor in their midst, thinking there was still someone left to fight and something left to win.
He scanned the street looking for movement. One kicked can could save his life. Nothing. All dead. “This block, all dead”. That's what the sign at the end of his block said. He and Jenny hid when the soldiers came. They hid like children in the crevices of their house: her in a crawl space, him in a trunk in the attic. The soldiers were looking for survivors to draft them into service. This was back when the wars were in full swing, before the collapse of nations. Back before all communication had ceased.
He could see the 7-11, only a few hundred yards away. No good food at a 7-11 but at least it was calories and it was close. Right now, that would have to do. It wasn't safe to stray too far from the house, he'd found that out already.
He would raid a big store tomorrow, he thought with a false sense of bravado. The idea of leaving his own block had been terrifying, but racing the ten blocks to the big store, hoping to meet no one? He couldn't think about that now. That was tomorrow's chore.
He peered around the fender of the Subaru station wagon. The station wagon was on its side, the windows busted out. Whether that was from the looters (back when things had value) or from the most recent battle, he didn't know. He could've easily pushed it over, the crazy angle it lay at begged for a push.
“Get ready. Get ready. Get ready,” he told himself, psyching himself up like an Olympic sprinter. “Get the food, get some supplies, get the hell out of there.”
His mind wanted to launch but his legs were frozen. Just because he couldn't see anyone didn't mean they weren't there. He thought of Jenny, thought of the life in her belly. This was his responsibility. She couldn't do it for herself, not now.
“Go, go, go, go!” he screamed in his head. He stood, knees popping, and raced across the street towards the building. Faster. Faster.
Then he saw them, kids really, teenagers. All of them covered in dirt and grime. They came from around the corner of the store, guns in hand.
He ground to a halt.
The kids stood in front of the door. He stood in the parking lot. They stared at one another.
“Can I come in?” he asked. He had a gun tucked into the back of his pants, but there was no way he'd last in a fire fight. There were three of them and, besides, he had never fired the gun. It was there just to scare people off.
“It's our store,” the tallest one said. He guessed the kid had been an athlete before the wars. He was tall and muscular. The kid would focus on Jacob for a few seconds, then let his eyes dart around, looking for other threats.
“I just need a little food. I won't take much. I'll find another store tomorrow. Please.”
“Can't. This is ours. It's all we have.”
“There's a big grocery store ten blocks from here,” he offered.
“Burned down.”
He let that sink in. He'd have to use a scooter to get to the next store. The roads were too littered with debris and bodies to use a car. He'd be in the open, vulnerable.
“Please.
My wife is pregnant and she needs to eat. I won't take much.”
“I told you. We can't,” the kid said moving closer, gun raised, eyes only on him now.
“Pregnant?” This was from the youngest of the bunch. He looked to be about twelve. It was hard to tell because all his baby fat had melted away, leaving him with hollow cheeks and an old man's gaze.
“Yes,” Jacob said. “Pregnant. Seven months.”
“None of the chemicals got to her?” the kid asked. No one was sure what was dropped, but yellow liquid fell like a mist on all their houses. Death was quick for most, only a few hours of pain. For some, months. For a lucky few, there was no effect at all.
“She's fine. I'm fine. Baby's still kicking.”
“Not our problem,” the athlete said.
“Let him in,” the youngest said.
“Richie!”
“I said, let him in.” The youngest kept his gun at his side but his eyes were fierce. “How many pregnant ladies you seen recently?”
The athlete looked from Richie to Jacob, his eyes darting back and forth like he was watching a tennis match.
“Please,” Jacob said.
The athlete dropped his weapon. “You get one bag full. That's all. The rest is ours.”
“Absolutely,” he said. “I'll go to a big store tomorrow. I'll even bring you guys a few cans of stuff.”
“I wouldn't be planning tomorrow until you get through today,” Richie said.
When he left,