The Rot

Hunter’s television-induced trance was dissolved by spirited tapping from the end of the hall. He rose slowly, leaving an indentation in the sofa and an empty can on it’s arm. Approaching the fibreglass door, he made a mental list of his firearms in order of accessibility and noted the kitchen window as his closest emergency exit. Hunter pressed a timid eye to the peep hole. Zeph Kent, a person whom he held in high regard due to the nature of their profession, waited patiently on the porch. He opened the door, and was greeted by a startlingly-hot breeze.

Zeph’s warm smile was hardly visible through the thick veil that shrouded them, but the good humour in their voice put Hunter at ease, as did the large box in their gloved hands.

“Good day to you!” Called Zeph, in a voice too loud and jovial for the occasion. “This months rations have arrived a day early! I apologise if this caused you any apprehension.”

Hunter gave a tired grin. “Not at all Zeph, you know how I appreciate your services, and your company.” He accepted the box eagerly, and fought back a frown as he noticed that it was even lighter than last month.

“As highly requested by civilians, your government has included extra Vitamin C capsules, and doubled the number of sleeping tablets, for when the nights are just a little too warm.” Zeph gave a conspiratorial wink, before continuing in a vaguely commercial tone. “As always, your monthly rations are sponsored by Coca Cola, and you’ll receive your complementary can when water provisions are delivered next week.”

Hunter nodded, scowling internally. “My thanks to you Zeph, how are things at your end? I saw there’s a petition going around that’s advocating for the right of Ration Delivery Workers to have licence to kill in self defence.”

Zeph’s mood dampened almost imperceptibly. “That’s right. We’re hoping they’ll let us carry automated weapons, otherwise we’re too easily overpowered in this garb, and the vehicles are looted, which is what the government is most concerned with”. They jerked their head in the direction of the supply van parked behind them. “So if you get the opportunity, I’d appreciate it if you could add your name to that appeal.”

“Will do, take care of yourself.”

Hunter ensured all the locks were in place before heading back down the hall. His age made him a prime target for looters who struggled to afford their monthly, so caution was essential. The contents of the box was unsurprisingly bland. Freeze dried meals and nutrient packets. He appreciated the extra Vitamin C, the fruit pulps were so full of sugars and artificial flavours that they were marked as dessert food. In vain he attempted to remember the texture of apples and oranges. The notion of whole foods was almost lost in his decrepit mind.

For most of his life there had been too much sun and too little water for crops to be sown. Scientists had locked themselves away in their laboratories trying, and failing, to produce enough food for a rapidly increasing population.

At least the rations were packeted in 100% recyclable material, and were 100% vegan - changes in human behaviour that had arrived far too late.

With a sigh, Hunter returned to the sofa. On the television the president was beginning his afternoon address, which he listened to without much interest.

“Good day to my citizens on Earth!” The president began, allowing a phoney smile to spread across his features. “As I’m sure you’re all aware, today marks the 20th anniversary for human civilisation on Mars! Since our beginning here we’ve discovered new ways to farm fresh produce and source water, and we couldn’t have done it without you!”

Hunter halfheartedly tossed the empty can at the television. When he was thirty, he had worked tirelessly, six days a week, attempting to save up for a one way ticket to Mars. The red planet was no haven, by any stretch of the imagination. The amount of uninhabitable terrain had resulted in a turf war between nations, which seemed no closer to ending than it did twenty years ago.

However, whatever struggles were faced by the inhabitants of Mars, who were the wealthiest of the human population, those left on earth faced tenfold. Missiles sent from space devastated villages, and air forces bombed the ration warehouses of opposing countries. As yet, Hunter’s faction had been fortunate.

When he was forty, he had briefly considered marriage to tend to his despondency, but it was difficult to get to know people when any one of them could be seeking to rob you. The UV protective shrouds that were essential for going outside made connecting difficult anyway. Hunter had dismissed the idea entirely, and comforted himself in the knowledge that a family was an expense that could prevent his passage to Mars.

By the time he had reached the age of fifty, Hunter had realised he would die on Earth. He was no longer able to work six days, and the cost of monthly rations had more than doubled. The government had cited the development of new opportunities on Mars as the reasoning for this, but he suspected that the price of technological warfare was taking its toll.

Now an isolated old man with a hatred of cola, he spent his retirement watching the screen, filled with regret and self-pity. Hunter wished that when he was younger, he had taken part in the protests. He wished that he’d put rubbish in the right bins, cut the meat from his diet and ridden a bicycle wherever he went.

Of course, as he eyed the coke cans he had stacked in the corner of the room, he knew that none of this really mattered. Big brands, politicians and corporate leaders would always have led them down this path. But at least he could have said that he tried.

An understanding of the pointlessness of it all engulfed Hunter at that moment, and with it, his dread of robbery and missiles from Mars dissipated. The entanglement of despair and fearlessness in his mind was an odd sensation. His eyes scanned the apartment and took note of two objects. First was the vent, which housed a secret pistol in case of emergency. Second was the bottle of sleeping tablets, holding, as Zeph had promised, double the quantity.

In a resigned silence, and not for the first time, Hunter contemplated which method would suit him better.