2010 AD
It worked because of Angie. She had been smart when she was still rich, before the Crisis had hit them hard. Angie’s husband was a sociologist. He was one of the first to realize that world hunger was not something the charity programs used to guilt trip money out of the rich people. It was real, and it was coming up fast.

Angie knew what to do about it. She was the one who turned the House into what it is now.

The House, from the outside looks like a giant cement brick. Once upon a time, it had been a mansion. Now, the windows on the first floor were stripped of glass, boarded shut on the outside and bricked up from the inside. The windows on the next floor were boarded up and rimmed with barbed wire. Sometimes sunlight could filter in through the boards, but nobody was stupid enough to linger near the windows long enough to enjoy it. The border of the roof was liberally trimmed with barbed wire. Thick brick walls enclosed the farm (nee garden) and had been topped with more barbed wire.

The place was a fortress. There was no way out except by a rope ladder on the roof, and no way in unless someone threw it down.

Sam stared up at the roof and dug in her pocket for the buzzer. To all outside viewers, she looked preoccupied with the contents of her worn jeans. Quite the contrary, she was one five-five string of nerves. Three mugging attempts, one nearly succeeding and ending in a dead mugger, on the way back from the market had turned her into a trigger-happy paranoiac. Sam didn’t want to go to market, but Sanders needed the medicine. They had run out of aspirins two days ago. Sanders had been pushing 102 when she left for market with a sheaf of wheat to trade in.

“Ha!” Sam pulled out the buzzer and punched the button a few times. After a couple of minutes, a tow headed kid looked over the edge of the roof. He spotted Sam, smiled and tossed a long rope ladder over the side.

“Glad you’re back, Sam.” Marc said with a quick smile on his face. She smiled back at him. Everyone smiled back at Marc. “Sanders was saying that you were dead over an’ over. She’s real sick.”

Sam sighed. The adrenaline rush from the flight back home was draining away, leaving her very tired. “I got aspirin. She’ll get better.”

“I hope so.” Something in his voice made Sam want to mother him. The boy needed a mother. Sam settled for ruffling his hair instead. “Hey, squirt, cheer up. She’ll be fine. Sanders is too tough to die,” And too mean, she added to herself. Together, they descended into the House and headed towards Sanders’ room.

Halfway there they were met by Charles. He gave Marc an absent pat on the head and looked to Sam. “Did you get it?”

“Yeah.” Sam said dully. By now, she was too bloody tired to muster any sort of emotion. Apathy would do. “Used up a couple bullets getting it, but we’ve got some.” She handed over the bottle of Tylenol caplets that had cost her 75 credit and a human life.

“Good.” He took it and disappeared into Sanders’ room. Sam sighed and left for her own room. “Night, squirt,” She said briefly to Marc.

Angie stockpiled everything back in the early 90s. Everything: canned foods, non-perishables, packages of frozen veggies, vitamins, life saving SPAM that would last through the next millennium, bottled water, everything. The neighbors thought she was crazy when she boarded up the windows of her beautiful two and a half story home. They laughed nervously when she hoarded everything and hired a contractor to build a stone wall around her property.

They weren’t laughing by the time Angie bricked shut her door, climbed the rope ladder to her roof and pulled it up after her. They were the first to bang on her boarded windows when the food ran out.

Angie’s stockpiled food lasted well into the early zeros. Angie didn’t. All her planning couldn’t handle a cancer.

Now the House contained seven people:

There was Sam, 23, who could still remember the plenty of her childhood in the late 90s.

René, 37, kept the leftover electronics working and sold her services as one of the far too few electricians at Mad Mac’s Market.

Charles, 41, was Angie’s husband, the sociologist. He spent much of his time saying, “I told you so.”

His kid, Marc, was eleven and remembered nothing but canned food and sunlight filtered through wooden beams.

Asher, 17, was taken in off the streets two years ago. His Daddy was a farmer; he helped grow wheat and soybeans in the walled up garden.

Monique, 16, was his girlfriend who made clothes that could be hawked at Mad Mac’s for nearly anything they needed. No one complained that they were Angie’s old drapes, though Charles made jokes about The Sound of Music that no one got.

And then there was Sanders.

“I’m fine, I’m tellin’ you, I’m fine!” The young man on the bed kept trying to get up and Charles kept pushing him down.

“And I’m telling you, you aren’t. You’ve still got a fever, and even if it’s come down some, you can’t recover this quickly from a fever that high.”

“But the supply run- we’re running out-“

“Sam went to market. We have everything we need, and we can live off the canned things 'til you’re well.” Charles put a thermometer in his mouth.

“But-“

“Sanders, who has the medical training here?”

Sanders mumbled around the thermometer, “You do.”

“Exactly,” Charles said paternally. He took the thermometer out again and checked it. “Down to 99.” He tucked the blanket around Sanders. “Now you’re going to sleep for the night- the whole night- and in the morning you’ll eat an actual breakfast, not that bar crap you keep eating. And then we’ll see about going to market.” Sanders settled back against the bed with a disgruntled look on her face. Truthfully, she acted a lot like the tough young man she looked like, though in reality she was a woman in her early thirties. It was Sanders unvoiced job to take care of nearly all business the House had in the outside world, and a woman on her own was much more of a target than a man. Streetboppers didn’t really care about women’s lib.

“So Sam went to Mac’s?”

“Mhmm.” Charles answered inattentively, putting away his medical supplies. “Came back looking like a cat next to a rocking chair.”

“Oh really?” Sanders started to sit back up. He noticed and realized she was just looking for an excuse.

“Of course, that probably just had to do with you being sick and all.”

“Of course.” Sanders' eyes glowed darkly. “Tell her that I’d like to talk to her, sil vous plait. In the morning, of course. ”

“Sanders is mad at me today. She said I sold the grain at Mac’s for too low a price.” Sam scrawled on the wall. “I don’t see what she was so pissy about. I sold it for enough to get the medicine, but no. I wasn’t as good as her. Pft. No one’s as good as her.” She paused, chewing her lip. “Marc started coughing yesterday. He’s running too. Charles said he’ll get better, but there’s flu running around Mac’s. Marc never had flu. He doesn’t have the…” The rock trailed off. What was the word? Sam sighed deeply and dropped the chunk of rock. Her eyes rolled up to the ceiling and she whispered a quick prayer. “Hey whoever You are up there? You can’t let Marc die, You got me? If we lose him, I don’t know what’ll happen, so You just can’t, all right?”

The room smelled sick. It was the smell of aspirin powder and the creaky leather of Charles’ medical case and wet heaving coughs and stale air. It smelled like death.

Marc was worse. A lot worse.

Monique paced around the house, fretting. “Mon Deau, mon Deau, what are we gonna do? Quelle?” She kept slipping in and out of old French and streetbopese. “Frickin’ flu, he never had the bloody flu!”

“Mony, please…” Asher started.

“He’s gonna blow it out, I know it, he’s gonna die!”

“Don’t talk like that!” Sam growled.

“He never had it before and-“

“SHUT IT!” Sanders screamed at the top of her lungs. Everyone silenced themselves very quickly and stared at her. “Monique, I swear to God that if you don’t shut up I’ll kick your bony little-“ Suddenly she realized how loud she was. Marc was sleeping for the first time in days, upstairs. She softened her voice. “You don’t talk like that about Marc, you hear me Monique?” Monique sank into an old chair and looked at the floor.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Now Sanders was the one on her feet. “Okay. Charles, what kind of medicine does he need?”

Charles looked at her wearily. “Really with the right vitamins and rest, he would be fine with just a few antibiotics and maybe some Nyquil.”

She nodded decisively. “All right then. Sam, get your gear together, we’re going to Mac’s.”

The subject of the conversation had been sitting rather quietly on the floor pondering Marc’s fate when she was brought up. “WHAT?” Sanders chuckled and headed off to the basement without another word.

Reek of too many bodies packed in one place, scent of vegetables and grain just this side of going bad, hunger. You can smell it. You can see it in the prominent ribs, the stick arms, the sunken dark eyes. They’re lucky, oh so lucky, to have the excess wheat to trade in. Today, a sheaf of grain is worth twice its weight in gold. Or guns. Or drugs. SPAM is priceless.

Mad Mac’s food section is in the back of the warehouse. They push through the human press of bodies to Anson’s table. Anson gives them the best deals; he’s a little soft on Sanders. He knew her before she went male for the protection. But he’s been getting greedy lately. Maybe he got hooked on some shit going around, or maybe he owes someone money, but whatever it is, he’s paying less for grain than ever before.

“Sanders, what can I do for my favorite customer?” He smiles nervously. Maybe he’s a little scared of her too. Sanders can be damned scary when she wants to be. “I heard you were sick.”

“I got better.” Sanders smiled grimly. “But you know what I heard? I heard that you gave my friend Sam, here, a bum deal on a prime sheaf of wheat.”

Anson shrugged. “What can I say? Times are hard. Everyone’s dropping.”

“Bullshit. You’re rolling in credits, we all know that.”

“Prices are going down all over the place, Sanders.”

“Oh really?” A dark gleam surfaced in her eyes. She reached into her shirt for the hidden travel bag and pulled out a blue tin. Anson’s eyes widened. Spam is a treasure this year. “Now over at Robbie’s stand, I was offered 500 credit. Touser was willing to part with 600 plus a pack of aspirins. So, Anson, are you going to beat that price or do I go take my business to Touser?” You could practically see Anson drooling over the tin of Spam. Credit signs were chinging through his mind.

“I can give you 625.”

“Don’t shuck me, Anson. I know you’ve got ten times that in credit here. And I know you can get over a thousand reselling this,” she hefted the can in her hand, “After you’ve chopped it up a bit.”

Anson swallowed. He could get closer to 1300 for it. “650.”

“C’mon, Sam, let’s go find Touser.” Sanders said loudly and grabbed Sam’s arm, steering her away.

“But-“ she protested- “650!”

“50 couldn’t buy aspirin. Touser’s got a better deal any day.” There was a look in her eyes, like she was counting: 3…2…1…

“700!” Sanders turned back to Anson, raised an eyebrow. “Plus the tin when the meat is sold!” Anson knew that the House brought in the best stuff for trade. He couldn’t lose their business.

“Deal.” She handed over the tin and pocketed the credit. “Lovely doing business with you Anson, as always.” They headed out of Mad Mac's, and picked up Sanders' rifle and the rest of their weapons. Sanders knew a place where they could get some stuff for Marc.

“75 will buy aspirin, but will it be enough for the medicine?”

“Please, Sam, please. I know my business. Besides, Timothy owes me a few already, and I heard he has a few bottles holed up somewhere. All we really need is the right method of persuasion.” This time, Sam didn’t like the look in her eyes.

The fire burned with a sickly smell like scorching pork and sent large clouds of black smoke into the sky. Asher, Charles and Sanders stood before the flames, Ash and Sanders holding rifles and Charles holding a small leather-bound book. He read softly from it, mainly too himself. Ash stared into the flames, eyes moist and reflective. Sanders stared past them, watching the world outside the stone walls. There was no expression on her blank face, only a slight tightening of the jaw like she was holding something in.

Once upon a time, they had made a small unspoken agreement that if any of them ever kicked it, the bodies would not be laid to waste in burial. It always felt like something out of Alive, but it was reasonable. They didn't have enough room in the ground for them in the first place, and - as Angie once said- the human body has many nutrients in it. Fertilizer was something that you just could not buy these days.

From inside her room, Sam watched through the window cracks. Rain drops streaked from her eyes down her cheeks. He had died last night, in his sleep, with a peaceful look on his face. Charles could never offer an explanation for why. A small sob escaped her lips and she tried not to scream. "The world's not fair," she mumbled softly over and over. "It's not fair. It's not fair." She kept thinking of his smiling little face and the way he could crack a joke at the worst time and make her laugh. He was so young… "IT'S NOT FAIR! DO YOU HEAR ME? Why'd You do that? He was the best of us, don't You understand? Why?!"

Sam flung herself down on her mattress and stifled her demands. She lay there for a long time. When she got up, she picked up the chunk of rock and start writing.

"It hurts. It hurts so bad that sometimes I want to go jump in the fire with Marc and get it over with. We're all going to die sooner or later, and I think the sooner ones will be luckier than the laters. It keeps getting harder and harder and it won't ever get any better. I don't think there's a point anymore to living. Maybe there was a long time ago, but that's gone now. It's finished." A racking shudder passed through her body and she nearly dropped the rock. "This is how the world dies: slowly and painfully and watching all the little ones go first. We've destroyed everything with our bloody population but dear gods, it's not my fault. It wasn't Marc's. We never did anything to deserve this sort of thing." The wall was almost filled up. There was a last little space left on the boards across the window where nothing had been written. She placed the rock on the grainy wood and pressed deeply. "Life is a cosmic joke."

They scattered the ashes over the garden that day. Tiny little Marc produced just enough to cover the whole grounds. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust." Asher and Rene intoned as they sprinkled the remains around the garden. Monique stood in the back, whispering in French. Charles had declined to do the job and had not been out of his room for some time. Sanders had gone AWOL the night before and had yet to return. They knew she would come back; most of her weapons were still in her room.

"New life springs always from death," Rene recited. "So let us, We Who Were Left Behind, rejoice in the coming of new life on this poor earth. Let us not mourn for they who have moved on to the next plane of Life, for they shall be far luckier than we in the end." A choked quality came into her voice and she bit her lip. "Help us grow, Marc. Help us grow." In a small ritualistic gesture, she took a pinch of the ashes to each of the four corners of the garden and scattered them to the winds.

And it was done. Rene made a small sign with her fingers, saluting the ground, and left. Asher followed her without comment. Monique stayed behind, staring at the ground. "Bonne nuit, Marc."

Sanders came back that night. She climbed up the ladder with blood on her hands. Blood stained her jacket and splattered her pants. There wasn't a scratch on her body. Her breath reeked of what passed these days for cheap booze.

When asked about the blood and where she had been, she only responded with "I had business to take care of," and went into her room. No one followed her or pressed her for an answer. Frankly, they were all rather afraid to ask. Truthfully, they didn't want to know.

By the next day, she had gotten the blood out of her jacket but it was still ingrained in the fabric of her pants. She shrugged, saying something about it making her look tougher.

Charles locked Marc's room. He didn't want whatever it was that had gotten Marc to spread to anyone else in the House. The House was a little quieter from then on.