One Can of Soup
One-shot based on the game 60 Seconds
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Robot Gentlemen
There's only one can of soup on the shelf
Only one can.
Not even a full can of soup, maybe a quarter if we're lucky. If we're lucky? Lucky? If we were lucky, then we would be far, far away from this hell hole. If we were lucky, then we would have more water and more food than a quarter of bland tomato soup!
I am so sick and tired of tomato soup. Is life so cruel not to give us any other variety of food except the red sludge that I have to force down my throat? I am not the only who thinks this. Those who agree with me all glare at that single solitary can of soup.
We have a gun with ammo. We have a radio. We have an axe. We have a flashlight. We even have half a bottle of water.
So why don't we have enough food?!
Had Delores not brought enough supplies when she last scavenged? How did we waste so much food and water? Was it Timmy? Did he steal another can again? Mary Jane was always a big eater. Did she eat a can or two? Or was it Delores? But she wasn't the type to steal… at least I thought before. Who knows what she is capable of now?
We have all changed down here in the bunker. We have gone through hell and back, doing everything we could to get rescued and yet is there even a chance to survive? What was the point of trying to survive all this time if it was in vain? But even if we did survive, could we possibly go back to the same life we used to have before the bombs dropped?
We're animals now. Savages of the wasteland. Almost as bad as bandits, I heard before. We need food and we need it bad.
And if people have it and my family needs it, we will get it.
Family first, consequences later.
At least at first…
Maybe the consequences of the less moral decisions impacted us more than we thought. We grew in apathy under the thought that we needed the supplies. Survivors that wandered near, desperate for food or water were denied. Camps with dying people or small children had plenty of food and we didn't even hesitate.
Now we were in that situation again. We are all survivors, denied of the soup can. But unlike before, the thought of family had long left our minds. We are starving and sacrifices have to be made.
But no one moved.
We are just simply staring at the single can of soup. Maybe if we stare at it a little longer, more soup will appear or at the very least fill up that single can of soup. If that is not the case then we can only pray that a trader comes by with food or even better, the military!
But what are the chances of that at this point? Why come now when you could have come earlier?
Have we not contacted you on the radio? Did you not hear us through the persistent static? Or maybe you didn't think we were alive after days without contact?
No radio. No static. Nothing to disturb that silence.
And yet we waited. And still waited.
A sound finally disturbed the tense silence. It wasn't anything to look hopeful about. It was only the empty echoes of a hungry man's stomach. The noise seemed to snap everyone out of their trance. Delores shuffled her feet tiredly and raised herself out of her chair. She moved slowly and robotically toward the corner of the room where four stiff sleeping bags and prepared herself a bag to rest in for the night.
Maybe it is still daytime? We don't know. I am not opening the hatch anytime soon.
Mary Jane and Timmy followed in pursuit, exchanging "Goodnights."
The silence returned again. To be honest, it never left. It always remained in the corners of the room, disguising the quiet footsteps of the mutated rats that roamed in the pipes. Conversation became redefined into gestures, in which soon words became almost meaningless. Except for the words that did not come from our own mouths.
"I have food! Trade with me!" Those words filled the silence with cheer and laughter and joy and hope. The promise of surviving a little longer was always very much appealing. But those who said those words had slowly disappeared and soon simply never came back again.
But not everyone left. Bandits and savages had long since taken over the wasteland. Scavenging no longer became an option after Delores came back, shot in the leg. She recovered in the end but if we send out someone now, there is no chance they would come back.
It wasn't long after when the rest of family slept that my mind grew more and more drowsy. A yawn escaped my lips. My head slumped onto the makeshift table in front of me, blinking away the darkness. But I was far too tired.
I closed my eyes.
But not without a final glare at the can of soup.
"Ted? Wake up now!"
Firm hands violently shook my shoulders. The shock woke me up instantly. The offender was my wife who was looking very concerned, almost tearful. Panic rippled through me.
"What?! What happened?!"
"She… isn't waking up."
There was only one other she in the family.
I turned my head to the corner. Timmy was standing shaking, staring at a bag. A very, very still bag.
Without hesitation I stood up and moved as fast as possible toward the still sleeping bag. Mary Jane laid above the bag, motionless. She was very pale. She was not moving. She was not moving. Why was she not moving? No. No. No. This can't be happening. Mary Jane wasn't supposed to die.
Timmy moved backwards away from Mary Jane, mumbling something under his breath. Delores stood by me, stroking my back.
"She died in her sleep…" She said with an abrupt pause as if stopping herself from saying something.
"If only we had more food."
She moved her hand off my back swiftly. Her sudden change of tone surprised me. Was she blaming me for the lack of food?
Maybe it was my fault. If we had brought in more food, Mary Jane would not have died. When the alarm had first set off, I should have grabbed more food. Maybe we would have had enough to survive longer.
Or at least enough that Mary Jane would have lived another day.
There's another silence. It was heavy and suffocating. If Mary Jane didn't lay so still, maybe the quiet would have punctuated by her voice and laughter. Maybe not. Instead, we would continue this tranquillity and grudge on the rest of the day. If we haven't talked before then we wouldn't talk now.
A little part of me is glad she is gone. She doesn't have to live another lifeless day in this bunker, starving to death, waiting for a rescue that might never come.
There was shuffling behind me and a sudden soft metallic sound I can't identify ripped through the silence but it barely registered in my mind.
Three of us are still alive.
Do we still have a chance?
..
….
"Yahahahahahaha!"
The sudden laughter echoed uncomfortably through the tense peace. Delores and I turn to the source of the sound immediately. The colour drained from our faces.
Timmy had gone insane.
That would explain why the only remaining can of soup balanced on his head, the quarter of the red sludge dripping down his face and tangling his hair. That would also explain why he had an insane grin on his face with a decapitated teddy bear head in his hands.
No! What is happening? Why is it happening?
My mind raced with unanswered questions. No more food. No more Mary Jane. And now no more Timmy.
Delores snapped out of the shock instantly. Her face contorted into an ugly frown. Her fatigued eyes suddenly filled with rage. With outstretched hands she gave a war cry and charged at the laughing boy. She was screaming curses. She had murderous intentions.
He was running. She was running.
They climbed up the ladder.
They opened the hatch.
They kept running.
Their furious yells and insane laughter grew quieter, the further they fled.
They never returned.
I dropped to my knees. Why? Why? What was it about today that destroyed any hope of survival?
Was it because of Mary Jane's passing? It makes sense. We have survived for so long with so little food and water, that the sudden passing of one of our own would send us back to reality. The reality that the military wouldn't save us. We are going to die.
Die.
Die.
Die.
Die.
Die.
We can't survive. We have no chance. No hope.
My sweet daughter gone silently in her sleep. My brave boy gone mad from his sister's death. My loyal wife's desperation for food made her irrational. What chance do I have alone?
It's my fault.
My fault.
My fault.
I was supposed to get more food.
Then maybe none of this would have happened.
Then maybe the military would have rescued us.
….
…
.
I slumped to the ground. A dizziness engulfed my head. There was a sharp pain in my stomach, not the usual ache of hunger.
…
So this is the end then. I have survived for months, hoping for rescue and yet within the span of a minute everything was lost. What was the point all this time?
The fault is not of the soup can….
It is ours.
We were not prepared.
…
The corner of my eyes blurred and darkened.
At least, I can join my family hopefully. A happy family living in a time before the bombs.
…
..
It's cold.
And…
I swear.
I saw my left sock puppet talk…
"See you soon, Ted."
The End.
'We spent 68 days in our shelter'
-PrettyInEveryRed