Chapter 8

“No meat, no maggots.”

 

Andrew stared at the ceiling, hours after the excavation. His stomach gurgled, but he didn’t sate it—he couldn’t. The food was right there, but he couldn’t have it. It was right there, but he’d die if he ate it now.

“Three more days of this,” Dan said, sprawling out in the center of the tunnel. “Not counting today, I guess,” he paused.

Andrew looked back at Dan with dark bags under his eyes. “Wasn’t this the apocalypse? Isn’t this supposed to be exciting?”

Dan shrugged.

“My phone is already dead, and I didn’t even bring a book,” Andrew said. “Should have kept food in my car. Real food. Aside from that, I was quite responsible. I kept three weeks’ rations in my pantry, like everybody says to do. Right now, I’m finding all that effort very useful, see.”

Dan smirked and stretched his shoulders.

Continuing, Andrew flopped back against the wall. “My whole life, everybody said the same thing: ‘Watch out, Andy, those bastards’ll get us any day now, and we’ll be rippin’ our shirts off and screaming and yelling and blowing each other’s brains out before you know it!’” He yawned, slumped onto his side, and stretched himself out on the ground. “Maybe if someone had told me I’d be staring at the ceiling for days, starving beside a fresh bag of beef jerky, I’d have moved out and dug deep down like all the looneys. But it just makes you wonder now, doesn’t it? What the hell were people thinking, shooting those damn bombs into the sky?”

Dan nodded. “Who launched first?” he said.

“All the radio said was ‘we’ve confirmed the launch of this and that,’” Andrew said. Looking up at the pipes on the ceiling, he pursed his lips. “Could go either way. The Iton won in Trant, they might’ve thought we wanted to invade, so they burnt it all down. Or maybe we thought the Iton would finally move through Marobia and Glasdale, or something like that, and we did it ourselves. Could’ve been a RADAR error, or a satellite crashed into one of the Rings, or maybe the King just went mad.” With a slitted smile, Andrew cocked his head. “I’d say the Anarchists might’ve done it on purpose, but my wife would kill me.”

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The two men chuckled a little, but they stopped, soon after. Andrew opened his eyes halfway and let his shoulders fall. Yes, Dan laughed at everything Andrew said, but it was all charity. Or bootlicking. One or the other or both.

“It was probably us, wasn’t it?” Andrew said.

Dan stretched his lips tight.

“Ah, fuck, it was us,” Andrew said, shaking his head. “Goddamn it.”

Dan cringed.

“And look where the old royal bastard left us,” Andrew said. Dan flinched at those words, so he toned himself down. “Well, we’ve got bread and water. Here’s the thing: we’re smart, we’ve got spirit, we’ve got imaginary rats for dinner, so whatever! Three days, no problem.” For a little while, he even managed to convince himself.

But then the lights blinked off.

“Shite.”

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