Fitting Food
by sacredlilac
Major George Nesbitt kicked the snow and ash from his boots on the farmhouse steps, then paused, frowning, one hand on the faded blue door, to scrutinize the surrounding snow-and-ash covered Rocky mountains shining brilliant white in the afternoon sun.
Bikes missing in the garage.
Horses' oat bins left open.
Someone was around. Danger these days meant rogue groups instead of wild animals or foreign enemies.
He checked his weapon and glanced at the kinetically-charging walkie strapped to his leg that had powered up while he cycled here from inspecting the radio tower. Full battery. Same for the watch and biometric meter on his wrist.
When he pulled open the door the mouthwatering aroma of stew from the kitchen's rocket stove greeted him. Thank God this area had just brought in a bumper harvest before the nukes went off.
He tugged down his bandana and smiled at the five people setting up the missing bikes and a generator in the front room. "Movie night?"
Pulling the soft CamelBak thermos from inside his vest, he drained the last of the water his body had kept warm and set it down.
Maura giggled. "We're taking turns on the bikes to have a ChickFlick marathon. You in?"
"Got Fried Green Tomatoes? It was my wife's favourite." He shut away the pain mentioning her raised. There was a slim chance she'd survived the nuke that looney dropped on Toronto, along with every major city around the world.
"Sure do." Sheila smiled sympathetically. They'd all lost a lot of someones.
His walkie squawked to life. "Major, 4A. Repeat, 4A. East barn door. Over," whispered Private Wheeler.
He snapped to attention. "Intruder. You know the drill."
Everyone scrambled to close the window shutters and secure the building.
Bandana back up, Major's feet crunched softly over the snow. He stopped to crank his flashlight to charge it, but kept it off, before easing into the dark barn. His nostrils flared at the pungent aroma of the only livestock for fifty miles.
He slid up beside Wheeler, who nodded at a stall with a look of suppressed mirth on his face.
God, he needed something to laugh about too.
Inside a filthy man squatted in the far corner, turning a horse nugget around, muttering something low and unintelligible. He took a bite and immediately spat it out, coughing and raising a racket that had the nearby horses stamping their feet nervously.
Major readied his weapon and clicked on his flashlight.
The man cried out and shielded his eyes from the sudden flare of light. "I'm unarmed!"
The rest of his soldiers arrived one by one reporting, "Clear."
Major said to the man, "You alone?"
The man vigorously nodded and slowly stood, hands raised above his head. What had once been a suit hung loose on him, sagging like his jowls.
"I need food," the man pleaded.
"Horse shit ain't it."
"Horse...?" The man looked where Major shone his light at neatly stacked piles of horse dung cakes they'd dried to burn in the rocket stoves. He began retching up yellow strings of bile.
"What's your name?" Major asked.
The man stood, wiping his face with his sleeve, and stepped closer to the stall door. "You're soldiers!"
The stranger straightened up and tweaked his filthy clothes like a company president about to address his employees.
"Don't you recognise me?" the man snapped.
The soldiers looked at each other in confusion.
"I'm your commander-in-chief! President Trump. I demand you feed me. Fetch your best bottle of wine. Slaughter a cow for a thick steak, then I'll take that fine piece of horseflesh there out for a ride. I'm taking over effectively immediately."
A long moment of silence beat by before the soldiers began laughing so hard tears rolled down their faces and they had to hold onto each other not to fall down.
Through it all Major stood still, hand ready on his weapon, watching the mad man before him.
"Firstly, we're Canadians-"
Trump waved a hand dismissively. "Irrelevant. Your soldiers. I'm your commander. No, I'm bigger than Jesus, bitch!"
The soldiers sobered instantly.
Major narrowed his eyes. "I'll let that slide. For now. If we were Americans, I imagine we'd stage a military coup. Bye bye presidency. We should kill you just for those bombs and this god-damn nuclear winter."
Trump crouched in fear and looked from unyielding face to face.
Wheeler said, "We can use the HAM radio to ask those soldiers down in Ohio."
Trump smiled hopefully. "Until then, can I have something to eat?"
"No," Major said simply. "But we'll happily tie you to a chair and let you watch us."
Sargent Potter sucked his teeth. "We could stick him on the roof. See if any birds come pecking."
Major nodded and regarded Trump coolly. "Indeed we can."
Trump held his hands palm up. "Have mercy! Don't you have any honour?"
"Don't taint those words with your mouth!" Major said angrily. "You killed the world with nuclear bombs because you had a temper tantrum after losing the election. I don't know, or even care anymore, how you managed to do it."
Major smiled wickedly when an idea came to him. "There is one thing you're useful for, you pathetic sack of bones. Get everyone from the house. Show's here. Suey!" He called to the pigs.
YOU ARE READING
SmackDown: Back to Our Roots
Science FictionOur previous two SmackDowns were both massive successes, and it's high time for another. You might remember the last one was heavy on the "game" elements, maybe even too heavy. This time we're going back to the basics and keeping it simple. It's jus...
