You turn — too slowly. The man scoffs. He’s tall, wearing an orange prison jumper, and he’s got a gun leveled at your head. At his nod, you drop the bag of snacks and canned goods. They hit the floor with a hollow clatter.

“Good.” He says, flashing a grin that might’ve been charming once.

How ironic. Of all the ways to die in an apocalypse — not torn apart by the infected, not swallowed by some grinning monster — you’re going to be shot by another human in a half-empty convenience store, just trying to bring food home.