“Cheryl from accounting, right?” the man in expensive but dirty camo asked, as he grasped the piece of moldering summer sausage he’d just dug from the ruins of a Walmart.
It was now one year since the asteroid strike had destroyed civilization…lights out. All the food was gone.
His former coworker watched in sullen silence. She wore scuffed red Pradas.
The man’s hand edged toward his Bowie knife. His crafty, desperate smile faded as the others drifted from the shadows, skeletal wraiths. They fell on him like ravening wolves.
She stared as they dressed him for meat. “Name’s Sandra, asshat.”
Another clever twist ending. Liked the gritty realism of this tale. It’s a Winner!
Thanks for the feedback Bobby. I’m glad you enjoyed!
Yikes! Guess name tags are optional in the dystopian future, eh?
Haha! The importance of avoiding social gaffs seems to have racheted up a notch or two…??
From normal to nuts in no time flat. Great piece.