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The door

My guess is that it will come down to the baked beans. I can imagine myself killing everyone here for that last can, and I can’t believe anyone else is different. They’d do the same, and if my throat is slashed with the lid to penultimate can, I’d lie in that pool of my own blood feeling jealousy, not anger or regret. Because I’d have lost the survival race we’re engaged in.

Of course we don’t talk about it. Ever. But we all think about virtually nothing else, of that I’m certain. I can see their eyes. Every pupil is riveted to the pantry at all hours, with increasing fragility. Our worst fear is its depletion, for then we’ll be forced to open the door. See the outside. We would all rather kill each other instead.

To be clear, I want to live. I want to be free again. But I’d murder every last person here to avoid opening that door, which only forces the issue, as we all regrettably understand. It will come down to the baked beans, and end in bloodshed. Silently, we still find it preferable to the annihilated world outside.

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