The Price of Bread

 

World End

It was hell on earth. People wailed in hunger and misery, while help remained a distant mirage. No one knew exactly what had gone wrong or how it started, but the suffering was excruciating. Children swelled with kwashiorkor; even lizards weren't safe as desperate hunters tracked them for food. A single rodent was worth more than diamonds—if you caught one, you guarded it with your life. People killed for a fistful of grain just to survive another day.

It had begun slowly, when the government prioritized borrowing and lavish living over its duties to the people. Then disaster struck: a nuclear holocaust that ravaged the world, wiping out most plant life and rendering the rest inedible.

Creditors soon demanded repayment. With nothing left, the country sold off the few assets that had survived the blasts. Those zones were sealed off, forbidden to citizens, forcing everyone to scrape by in the ruins. Fathers sold their own children for a scrap of food.

Connor sat in his cramped one-room apartment, shaking his head as his two boys wailed from hunger. He was starving too, too weak even to stand. His youngest, seven-year-old Samson, crawled toward him, dragging a swollen leg. "Don't do that, Samson—you'll fall," Connor muttered.

"I'm hungry, Daddy," the boy wailed.

"What should I do? I'm hungry too."

His eldest, fifteen-year-old Jerry, crept closer, eyes bloodshot, snot dripping from his nose. "Daddy, I'm dying."

"That would be mercy," Connor whispered.

"Don't say that to your kids," his wife admonished from the floor. She tried to lift her head but lacked the strength to turn toward him.

"What should I do?" he asked her.

"Find something—anything. Even our leather shoes."

"We have no shoes left. We've eaten everything, even the tree bark. I'm dying too, but I can't take my own life. I'll wait for hunger to do it."

"Please don't leave us," she pleaded, straining again to raise her head.

"I'm not. Anything can happen in this country."

A rustle at the door. Jeromy poked his head in, eyes as red as Connor's. "There you are, good paddy," he said, spotting his friend.

"Jeromy!" Connor exclaimed, forgetting his pain for a moment. "Wow, you look... good."

"That's why I'm here, man. Can't let my paddy die of hunger." Jeromy reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese, and a jug of water. "Eat this for now. I'll try for more when I'm on duty tomorrow."

"Wait—where are you working?" Connor asked.

"You don't want to know, bro. It's dangerous."

"What's more dangerous than dying slowly? Look at my sons, my wife—they're half-dead. I need a job that feeds us."

"Okay. Tomorrow, meet me at the T-junction. Four in the morning."

At about 3 a.m. the next day, Connor was at the T-junction waiting for Jeromy. He had eaten the bread Jeromy had given them and was hopeful he would get more from the place if luck was on his side and he was picked for the job. He was surprised to see a large crowd at the junction, and he realized it wasn’t a secret; he had simply been too weak and consumed by hunger to go out and discover what was happening.

At exactly 4 a.m., a truck stopped at the junction and people started clamoring to be picked. Connor saw Jeromy standing at the back of the truck and waved to get his attention. Jeromy beckoned him over and whispered to the other man standing with him, who nodded and ordered Connor to get on the truck. It wasn’t long before the truck was full and they began the journey. It was a hard ride, and at one point the truck stopped and everyone was told to get out.

“Before we continue, I need to clear the air about something,” a man said as he stepped out of the front passenger seat of the truck. “My name is Mr. Snow and I’m in charge of your welfare; but before we go any further, you all need to be blindfolded.”

“Why?” a man at the front asked.

“Because you’re not allowed to know your destination, or the place will be overrun,” the man said with a snarl. “And don’t question me again. If you’re not comfortable with it, go back to your homes now.”

But nobody moved, so they were all blindfolded—including Jeromy, who was a regular worker and knew the drill.

Once they’d all been blindfolded, the journey resumed. It was less than two hours before the truck slowed and finally came to a stop. The blindfolds were removed, and Connor took a deep breath when he saw the castle.

The castle was so grand that Connor hesitated to step inside. He stood frozen, staring at the flawless marble veined with gilded gold, and a fountain where a mermaid spilled water from her gills. Someone prodded him from behind. He walked on, steadying himself—the floor was so polished he felt he was walking on glass.

They kept turning corner after corner until confusion set in. Then the smell hit them: rot, thick and cloying. Some gagged. A man at the back swore, “What the hell is that?”

“Shut up,” the overseer snapped. They pressed on until they reached a chamber where people hung chained in twisted positions. There, the overseer stopped them.

“This is your work,” he said, flicking a chained man’s head to peer into his vacant eyes. “Butcher them. Harvest the organs.”

“What?!” they cried in unison. Connor tried to catch Jeromy’s eye, but Jeromy looked away.

The overseer scanned them coldly. “Step forward if you wouldn't do it.”

Connor started to move—then froze at Jeromy’s subtle shake of the head. Four others stepped out from the ten who’d been picked up at the junction.

The overseer nodded, drew a pistol, and shot all four in the head. “Add their organs to the harvest.”

Some vomited. With trembling hands, the rest began the gruesome work. No one complained. In a world of kill or be killed, survival silenced conscience.

After several bodies, they were ordered to cook and eat the human flesh—to bind their silence.

Connor wept as he chewed. It wasn’t what he expected. Jeromy, beside him, ate with a dreamy, distant look. Connor wondered what the world had become—people doing anything to survive for sins that weren’t theirs. He blamed the government, its waste and greed, the burden now crushing ordinary lives.

When it was over, each received a hundred thousand dollars and a bag of provisions. The horror faded beneath the weight of relief.

Dropped off at the junction, Connor hurried home. His wife smiled at the food—then saw the haunted look in his eyes.

“We already have enough to eat,” she said softly. “Why the sad face?”

“It’s nothing,” he lied, standing abruptly. Outside, alone, he finally let himself cry.

But he knew: if they called again, he would return.

It was the only way to feed his family.