This hadn’t been an especially bad place. Sure, certain parts of it needed a good bulldozing, or maybe a casually thrown molotov, but on the whole, it didn’t deserve the whole nuclear annihilation thing.
It had two-bedroom homes with aluminum siding. Those homes had blue-collar, working-class owners who liked beer, prime time and maybe the occasional chance to blow holes in wild animals or bang the neighbour’s wife.
It had a grocery store, run by the same chubby, good-willed shopkeeper for the last million years. The store had potato chips in every flavour of the rainbow – even bacon-ranch.
Around then I found myself looking at the dessicated remains of both; heat-popped chip bags and flash-fried manager. Ironically he gave off a kindof bacon-ranch smell. The rest of the store was totalled. But in a good way; noone to loot the tasty objects within – just one hell of a mess.
I knelt and started sifting through a pile of blackened cans. As long as it wasn’t Spam I’d be delighted.
That’s when the pig showed up.