Bizarro-Universe Dystopian Future
A Day in the Life of A Survivor
Time...time was a frail social construct, one so easily tossed aside when shit hit the fan. A pandemic wiped out 4% of the worlds population, and we survivors went into hiding. No longer measuring time by the hands of a clock, but instead, but the sheets or toilet paper left on the roll.Sitting at my morning constitutionals, I gaze at the final soft sheets of Charmin, the good stuff, and think about that last pop-tart I greedily devoured this morning. Junk food is a precious commodity, almost as sought after as our essential ass-wipes; if we can't get name brand, we are stuck with the junk, and things get messy...and chaffed. The store shelves have been lain barren since the government raised the alarm, which makes sense, as such comforts go hand in hand: intake excessive waste, excrete excessive waste. Aisles of fresh produce swarm with flies, rotting with the shame of undesirability. The situation is so desperate, that farmers' entire crops have become nothing more than extremely well priced fertilizer. Out of spite, they slaughter their livestock, knowing full well they can't compete with the new world's meat cartel discount goods.
Snapping back from my daily realization that we are now living in a post-dystopian world, I acknowledge that it is time to once again go raiding, my family needs supplies, and as the man of the house, it falls on me to ensure their survival. So I call out to my partner to grab me some socks, so I can once again dawn some real shoes, my slippers were making my feet sweat anyway.
The outside world is dangerous, so the children are kept at home in compounds complete with Nintendo Switches to pass the time, and swimming pools to help aide in hygiene (we still have water, but they really hate showers). With the children secure, a raiding party of no more than two bravely set forth to the nearest supply depot, Dollar General.
Wanting to be as thorough as possible to ensure our survival, my wife and I do one final equipment check before departure. In my pockets, I feel for the keys to my 2003 VW Golf, in the other, I make sure I have my cellphone (it gets boring waiting outside while a merchant loads the cart), my futuristic trade currency (the US dollar (now worth slightly less than the Euro)), and of course, my retro style cassette case, complete with newly printed metal albums for the drive.
I check the gas, still full, that's good. Being out of work now for nearly 65 days, ( I can tell because this is our third package of toilet paper), has left me with very little reason to face the barren wasteland that is New Mexico, thus helping to conserve the precious petrol, or as we call it, premium, 95 octane gasoline.
Our raid party's masks sit warming in the sun, the supreme leader of the Free Republic of America said to try drinking Lysol, and inserting sunlight in our veins to fight the pandemic, so we assumed the same approach will work to sanitize our raid gear. On one side, made from the scraps found in our basement, a rainbow unicorn face mask, and on the other Superman. That one is mine. Gloves at the ready, we depart into the uncertain territory that is the Dumbass Dystopia.
Upon arrival we see other raiders must've been nearing the end of their supply cache, yet not a single Mormon in sight. Their community had the foresight to build bunkers stocked for YEARS of survival. What sweet vindication they must feel, I regret mocking them. While their shelves house what may be the last bottles of sanitizer on earth, mine bulge and grain with the weight of the Game of Thrones board game, a relic with high novelty factor, but not particularly useful.
This is our reality now, my wife knows full well what she must do, but it doesn't make her fate any easier to stomach. I offer for her to relinquish this burden upon me, and to let me fight through the five, maybe TEN, other raiders we spot at the supply depot, but she says "no, I hate driving, that's why I do the shopping. Besides, you always mess it up". She's right, I suck at this.
I take a deep breath from the air conditioned confines of our transport, as I see her approach the masses, pressing stop on my deteriorating car's cassette deck in order to hear if she cries out for help. She does not, she's safe, and is truly incredible. Standing six feet between either stranger, she waits in line to be allowed passage. Some idiot encroaches upon another member of the queue, violating her safe space, expecting a fight to break out I brandish my camera, this will be hilarious on Facebook later! Sadly, the man is asked to step back, and though he complies, he grumbles to himself about how stupid the world is.
I wait, for what feels like at LEAST 30 minutes, uncomfortably scrolling through Facebook, sometimes resisting the urge to pounce on an unsuspecting person who expresses a differing opinion than mine, which really chaps my ass. A wandering nomad approaches me in the middle of a political rant, asking if I could spare some food or coin. In the early days of 2020, I would've gladly given the man any change I could spare, but this is about survival now, and I only pay with card. He understands, and steps back to maintain the recommended safe distance, and asks if I could buy him some mouthwash instead. I decline his petition, but before departing he asks if I have any weed, to which I reply "I wish". He laughs toothlessly, and I share a chuckle. I watch him wander off into the dust and haze only to approaches another citizen for aide. This guy is way less chill, and could probably use some weed himself, or mouthwash.
That's when I see her, glaring over her sun bleached mask, glasses fogged from labored breathing, with her tiny hands outstretched, carrying this week's bounty like some angelic martyr. I can't tell if she's filled with apocalyptic fury, or merely can't see because her mask and glasses obscure her vision.
I chivalrously open her doors for her, hoping to avoid cross contamination from her now virulent frame. I douse her in 75% alcohol, CBD based hand sanitizer, and disinfect every surface she has come in contact with. This procedure is necessary for survival, and is repeated upon entry or exit of our wasteland transport. Not doing so could be a matter of life and death, and it isn't worth the risk.
The ride home is a harrowing retelling of her supply acquisition. Apparently some idiot had the audacity to skip the safe distance tape, and place his things on the belt behind hers. She almost kicked his ass, but the sheer ferocity of her tiny being, intimidated the felon into submission. He stepped back, and was lucky, because he avoided what he had coming to him. He grumbled under his breath about how stupid the world is.
The worst part of these excursions, is the sanitation process when reentering our compound. Every item must be doused in Lysol, then wiped down to ensure cleanliness. When this is done, the raiders, my wife and I, take a relaxing, albeit necessary shower. I tell her we need to conserve water, so we should probably shower together, but she is unconvinced. She is sure I have ulterior motives.
This is our reality every day; we have a routine in this new world, and time passes by the replenishment of supplies, punctuated only by the arrival of another Amazon package I can't even remember ordering. I window shop for firearms online, mostly because they are sweet, but I try convince the other members of my commune that its for survival. They inform me we don't need anymore, and that we also have enough tea sets. It is disappointing,but I understand, we must only buy what is necessary if we hope to survive this future...which reminds me, my damn retro cassettes haven't shipped yet!
