Crash by Michael Robertson Page A

weeks ago he was still hopeful of saving his kids through finding work, now he was gauging the weight of just one so he could tie a noose.

Sheep

    Newspapers were free now because money had no worth. Groups of volunteers put the local publications together, and because all the energy supplies had been cut off about three weeks previously, they ran the presses off generators powered by a fast-dwindling fuel. Unlike all the fiction Chris had consumed about apocalyptical events, each one predicting their own kind of chaos, it seemed that very few people cared enough about petrol and oil to make war for it. The petrol stations ran out of fuel fast, faster than the supermarkets ran out of bread and milk, but once they were empty, people adapted quickly. It would seem that treating fuel like it was as important as oxygen was a capitalist disease.
    Every Thursday, Chris walked to the local supermarket, holding his nose for the entire journey because of the gassy smell of decaying waste. The streets were lined with black bags, most of them split with their contents hanging out like entrails. Every bin was overflowing. People were now simply dumping rubbish wherever they needed to, turning every street into a playground for foxes and rats. Chris wondered how long it would be before some streets became impassable. He also wondered if he'd witness the return of the black plague.
    The local supermarket, like all of the other shops on the high street, was no more than an empty building now. The memory of consumerism haunted the barren isles, the voices of forgotten customers carried on the winds that swam through the corporate shell. The huge windows that had once afforded a view to the world of the happy shoppers inside had been smashed, rubbish bins and rocks lying amongst a sparkling mosaic of broken glass. The tills hung open like the mouths of corpses, their tongues lolling to reveal trays full of cash that had less value now than plain paper.
    The huge stack of newspapers sat in their usual position by the tills, dumped on the floor with very little care. Chris took one and opened it, the crunching of its pages calling out into the silence, signaling his exact location to anyone who was interested in the whereabouts of another human being. He stood in the middle of the empty shop, reading the paper, anxious for news of an idea that would turn things around. As he stood there, the cold wind being funneled through the smashed windows found the gaps in his clothing and bit into his bare skin. Whilst shivering, he quickly surveyed his environment in case he was being watched. Although he didn't see anything, it didn't remove the feeling that he wasn't alone.
    The 'Situations Vacant' section mostly featured articles about home farming, or speculation on when society would start to rebuild and how. It had an optimistic feel, which contradicted the fast-decaying environment. Chris knew the idea that there would be a job in there, after months of it being empty and with money having no meaning, was absurd, but he looked all the same.
    When he glanced up from his paper, he jumped like he'd been jabbed with a cattle prod and let out a shriek upon seeing an old lady standing before him. She was wearing brown corduroy trousers and a white floral shirt. Stood in the freezing space in his thick jacket, a cold chill of empathy ran through him to see this inappropriately dressed woman. However, she didn't seem at all bothered by the freezing environment. Her hair was unkempt, standing out in every possible direction and seemingly with a mind of its own, her eyebrows were drawn on wonky, and she had a wispy beard. It felt like he was staring at a ghost. Holding the paper out to her, he said, "Umm, do you want this, love?"
    She had the gentle wobble of Parkinson's running through her as she watched him, stunned like a fearful sheep. Her grey eyes searched for the meaning of his words as if they were something she was trying to locate in thick fog.