At the End of It All

When the bombs fell and the people were driven from their homes, the first indignity they suffered was the lack of personal amenities. Sure, their store lasted for a while, longer for the more prudent, prepared ones, but in a year or two, it all ran out.

The shelves of fallen grocery stores lay bare with rat droppings amid the clutching vines that spread across the shattered plate glass windows. Tenements filled with corpses of addicts instinctively holing up when the drugs dried up.

The giant holding gas tanks under the abandoned filling stations became enclaves of insects and small mammals. Canned food.  Medicine. Toothpaste. Toilet paper. It all ran out.

They bent against walls, their rectum spluttering from the rank meat they found for their starving bellies, meat sometimes half rotting crawling with lugubrious maggots.

They wailed, looking about for something to wipe their arse with, sometimes settling for taking their shirt off and discarding it on the ground where wild dogs would later drag off to gnaw in the shade.

Others would brave it with bare hands, holding them at arm’s length until a brook was found. Never was the simpler luxuries more appreciated.

The End

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