is there milk on mars?
His first impulse had been, when the shit hit the fan, to run out and horde all the food he could. Thinking like a true survivalist he had raided the nearest abandoned grocery, returning to his apartment with a backpack full of mostly canned tuna. They still stood on his table, untouched.
The thing with an apocalypse is that there really aren't that many people left alive or around to squabble over the food or resources, and in a city that used to be a million or so souls strong - the amount of food available was ridiculous. Today was another day and he was not about to mess around and go on a tuna-diet - it was time to go shopping, or scavenging as it supposedly should be called according to most popular end-of-the-world fiction scenarios.
Dressed in his turquoise beach shorts, white tennis socks, yes the same socks as before, and red addidas kicks he left his apartment. Nothing adorning his upper body other than his 5.5 millimeter air-rifle and his empty gym bag.
He went down set of stairs after stairs, all 9 floors down to street-level - for the first time in his life he preferred the stairs and avoided elevators like the plague. Nothing wrong with elevators besides that he had had a nightmare where he got stuck in one and there were no elevator-repairmen left on earth. Which in his mind had added a whole new level of potential claustrophobia, seeing that there probably were no elevator-repair left in the real world.
Crossing the street he whistled a tune, he did miss streaming music - but he had forgotten his password to his account and there was no costumer service left alive. It was not for lack of trying, he had in exasperation tried to call costumer service in the hope that of the millions perished, that one costumer employee who had somehow against all odds, survived the end of the world and was so dedicated to his job that he sat there waiting for some desperate costumer to call in with a technical issue - alas not even the phone lines worked and so his attempt at salvation had been shot dead in the water. He had tried to sign up for a new account - but banks had been the first to pull the plug when things got bad and died with their digits still in their vaults. For him, this meant simply his credit-cards did not work and he could not sign up for any trials anywhere and was stuck with what he had, which music-streaming-wise was "nothing".
There it was! His utilization of his feet and leg muscles had paid off and he was at his destination. The neighborhood's mini deli, which was more like a miniature Wallmart squeezed into 5 aisles - small but trying to cover it all. #blessed.
He entered with the automated "WELCUME!" announcing his presence. He smiled and took a step forward - instantly he froze, and got his rifle trained down the first aisle - there 20 feet down the aisle stood Tom. Wielding a medieval spear posed over his head to strike, Tom looked deadly and a bit pathetic.
"You didn't take the last trail-mix by any chance did you?"
"Nope, I hate trail-mix.", Tom replied.
Letting out a sigh of relief he lowered the rifle a little. Tom customarily 'hated', and in this case his selection of edibles stuff to hate, ensured that the two of them got along sharing the same turf.
"I'm leaving now. I'll exit down aisle 3, I need some corn-flakes - you enter on any other aisle, just stay out of mine!"
"No problemo Tom.", he replied and they began moving down the respective aisle in opposite directions. They had met before, them two apparently being the only two around for miles, or at least the only two that needed to have their stomachs filled every few hours.
"Hey Tom." He said to the pasta section.
"What!?" Tom retorted from behind the pasta sauce section.
"How about we get a walkie-talkie each so we can stay in touch?", he ventured. He heard what must have been a pack of corn-flakes hitting the floor, followed an exaggerated sigh.
"No, fudge no fudgemucker." said Tom, apparently also stricken by the post-apocalypse issue of not being able to pronounce curse-words.
Yes, the end-of-the-world was a total fucking bitch.
"Just because we seem to be like the only-" he tried to continue in the hope that he could change the antagonistic disposition of Tom. Alas the familiar automated "WELCUME!" cut him off. Tom had left.
The world had ended and so had his chance of a buddy.
He found his shelf of trail-mix but milk was nowhere to be found, in his frustration at not being able to find anything other than almond-milk he shot up the store a little bit. He would have to continue his search for milk and a social life another day, after all procrastinating was a past-time of his.
He spent his walk home wondering if there was milk on Mars and what his day might have looked like had he not overslept on the Planetary Evacuation Day.
OUT OF MILK - THE STORY-BLOG
Come over here and waste your time with the story of one who survived the end of the world, only to find first-world problems were still problems. Join us on this quest for more milk.
"OUT OF MILK - THE BLOG-STORY" Copyright 2019 AMADREAS MEDIA.