The bakery

Reggie heard the loud buzz of the generator more clearly as he trudged up the hill, weary from the climb and aching due to carrying the two large, full gasoline cans. His near-constant, splitting headache wasn’t helping matters, either.

Time was he’d have never paid much attention to the sound; in fact, he wasn’t sure he’d ever even heard it before. But these days it was like a beacon.

Not only did it break the eerie silence that blanketed this part of the city, but it meant he was about to have breakfast with a friend. Actually, his only friend.

Esther – a middle aged woman who was almost as round as she was tall – opened the door to her bakery and gave Reggie a wry smile.

“Just put the gas next to the generator,” she said. “And then come in and wash up.”

Reggie sighed as he set the cans down, feeling immediate relief as his thin arms were finally free from strain.

Manual labor was hardly his strong suit, and never had been for his thirty something years. To be fair, it was never really required.

Growing up in an old money mansion came with old money perks, meaning much of the “work” that required doing was almost always done by someone else.

He had more cash than he knew what to do with but he often felt invisible, even to his own family. Being wealthy gave Reggie plenty of advantages, but his social awkwardness and C-student intellect hardly made him a favorite son.

Times had changed dramatically, though – and quickly.

Six months earlier the thought of lugging gasoline cans for miles seemed ludicrous. Now he considered it his job.

“So, what’s on the menu this morning, Esther?” Reggie asked.

Esther cracked her neck and then put on an oven mitt.

“Just pulling out a pan of biscuits,” she said. “And I also opened a can of bacon. It’s all yours … I’m so nauseated I can’t even think about eating.”

Reggie winced.

“Is it bacon from a can that makes you nauseated?” he asked. “I can see why. I didn’t know bacon in a can was even a thing.”

“It is,” Bertha said. “I grabbed a bunch of them the last time I was at Durbin’s Supermarket … it’s over there with the potted meat. I could load it all up but going back and forth is about the only exercise I get these days.”

Reggie leaned over and took a whiff of the biscuits, watching as Esther emptied the bacon into a pan and turned on the front eye of the stove top.

“You know I can go to Durbin’s any time that you need me to,” he said, massaging his temples in a losing effort to ease his headache. “I can do more than fetch gas for your generator. I’ve never really done much for anybody, so it feels good to help.”

Esther tossed the empty bacon can into the trash and then grabbed the skillet, taking it to the sink and pouring the excess grease into a pot.

“Nah,” she said, forcefully scratching her cheek with her free hand. “I’ve spent over 40 years cooking, and part of cooking means rounding up food. I mean, it’s not hard. I just grab what I need, put it in a buggy, and leave. It’s not like there’s much else to do.”

Reggie looked out the window and stared at the empty street.

“I know. I just ….”

“Just what?” Esther asked.

“I just sometimes feel bad that it’s all come to this. Every day when I go to the pump and get gas, I find myself looking around to see if anyone is about to catch me stealing. Hell, I still select ‘credit’ at the pump out of habit. Does it ever bother you to just wander into a store, snag whatever you want and walk away?”

Esther reached under the counter and grabbed a plate.

“No,” she said. “The owners are dead. Except for me and you, the customers are dead. We’re scavengers, but dead people don’t care. I’d gladly buy something if there was someone to buy from, but there isn’t.”

Esther put two biscuits and a wad of bacon on the plate and pushed it toward Reggie.

“I’m glad we got to know each other, even if we are scavengers,” he said. “If this hadn’t happened, I doubt we’d have become friends. so, you know … silver lining.

“Still, there have to be other people who survived the bomb … have to be. Maybe we’ll find them … or they’ll find us. Tomorrow might just be the day you’ll have more people to cook for and more people to talk to.”

Esther looked at her left arm and started lightly rubbing the radiation burn that was spreading over the top of her hand. She didn’t have much time left, and she doubted Reggie did, either.

“Yeah, maybe tomorrow,” she said. “I don’t suppose there’s anything wrong with having a little hope.

“Now, eat your biscuits before they get cold.”