Hardly anyone had cash to pay, and before they could decide what to do about it, the server came back and said that under the circumstances there’d be no charge. A spirited argument broke out at the table over whether paper currency would even have any value in the new post-apocalyptic economy. The argument soon splintered into familiar sub-conversations – one involving the role of religion in times of crisis and one analyzing racism on The Walking Dead and theorizing far less homogenity among survivors of the actual apocalypse.
Allison’s return brought a hush to the table.
“Well,” she said. “It’s not just local. Television’s out in the entire Southeast, and radio’s got conflicting reports about what actually happened and how far it’s spread. Might be some kind of attack. Might also be some kind of accident. No one knows for sure. No hordes have been reported yet.”
Nancy quickly said her goodbyes and headed out to meet up with her kid. She lived an easy walk away.
“Do you need to go, too?” Shannan asked Kate, who also had children.
“Nah, the kids are home with their dad, so they’re probably okay.”
Their dad was a poet, so presumably he would understand his wife’s desire to linger and discuss the intellectual mystery of the apocalypse. How often did the world end, after all?
“Cars are still working, right?” Pamela asked. “I don’t live as close as some of you.”
“God, I hope so. Nobody wants a Snowpocalypse do-over,” said Mera, who also lived on the other side of town. Two inches of snow had gridlocked the southern metropolis in winter 2014. It had been an unpleasant preview of the real end of the world.
“Ugh,” said Shannan. “I’ve stockpiled coffee, pet food, and toilet paper since then. Snowpocalypse was NOT pretty.”
“Damn,” said Allison, who was probably the most practical among them. “We should have stockpiled tampons.”