At this point I considered breakfast.
You’d be surprised how quickly SPAM loses its novelty. After 3 months of the stuff, I was more inclined to build a fort out of the remaining cans (87) than open one and brave the pink horrors within. But I still had some cartons of powdered eggs (25), bacon (2 sides), cans of beans (30) and even some Hungry Man meals (4). These I had designated ‘Emergency Only’.
I flicked my butt at a skull half-buried in the ash, and scored a three-pointer through its right orbit. With a final glance at the sunrise, I headed back into the bunker. Something told me I was soon to have all the time I wanted with only scorched ground and crispy buildings for a horizon.
I secured the hatch halfassedly – my smoke break to the surface hadn’t revealed roving bands of leather-happy gangs or fleshthirsty mutants – and walked in my PJs back to the living room.
The TV was still on – a waste of power, but we all have our vices – with a re-run of some dumb sitcom I had long since come to hate.