0800 Hours [slash]

0800 Hours: Recording #010

Click.

“0800 hours, barely one day since I punched Cye in the fucking face. Yeah, that happened. Turns out the Evac team missed a single solitary packet of blessed McVities. Hallelujah. But anyway, Cye made a grab for it and naturally, since they are mine, I tackled him to the ground and—”

“Oh my God, I didn't even open the packet.”

“— punched him in the face.”

“You started screaming, dived for me, whined when I pinned you and accidentally snagged my jaw in the struggle.”

…

“Fuck off, why are you even awake right now? It's eight a.m. I thought you didn't do anything before twelve thirty.”

One speaker releases a bleary yawn that crests in time with a click of bones as they stretch.

“You woke me up with your blethering. I'm a light sleeper.”

“Oh...”

…

“Most people would say 'sorry' at this point, you know.”

“Most people wouldn't break into my house and decide to live there.”

An indignant sniff.

“I was only going to pass through. Besides, you have power. That's a luxury I haven't seen for God knows how long.”

“We've got a generator. We live six miles away from the nearest village. We pretty much need a generator to survive.”

“Yeah.”

The next few minutes consist of a busy cacophony of glasses clinking together melodically and metal cutlery clattering off porcelain plates. Spoons scrape against bowls like nails on a blackboard.

“Oh man, I love baked beans. I'm so glad we have a generator!”

This exclamation leads to a thoughtful silence, peppered with the slight sounds of swallowing.

“... They're alright.”

“You don't like beans? Cye. Why didn't you tell me? I've been feeding you beans for like a week!”

“It's the apocalypse, you can't afford to be picky.”

“I have the entire long life section of the Co-Op at my disposal. You're right, it's the apocalype – live a little and enjoy the small things! What do you like?”

The response is a muffled mumble, too quiet to be discernible, footsteps on sand.

“What? C'mon, I feel terrible. I've got enough tins to last a nuclear fallout, never mind a mere pandemic. What's your favourite? I'd bet you ten quid I've already got it in my cupboards, y'know, if money still had any value these days.”

“It doesn't matter. Forget it. I didn't even say I didn't like baked beans, you made that assumption on your own.”

“It does matter! This time next week we could be in a coma due to neuropathic effects in the brain stem! Or lying on the floor convulsing in seizures. Or even —”

“The Infection doesn't cause seizures.”

“Shut the fuck up and tell me your favourite preserved food, Cye.”

“...”

“I'm waiting.”

“... Mangosteen.”

“A what?”

“Mangosteen. Canned mangosteen. That's my favourite food. Canned mangosteen.”

“... Ok, I don't have canned mangosteen.”

“Tch.”

“...Your favourite food isn't really canned mangosteen, is it?”

“It is.”

“You're such a dick.”

The conversation dissolves into laughter.

“Oh wait, shit, I've left the recording running!”

 Click.