Day 495

The air stank of stale takeout, dried puddles of vomit were scattered along the path forming trails.
They lead away from the large bins that were our only source of food most days.
If we were really lucky someone would die before they grew too thin and we ate real meat.
Sadly times like that were getting fewer and fewer.

There was just no substance to this "food" we found.
It filled you but ate you away from the inside until you dropped dead and hollow.
That was if you were lucky, some of us had yet to catch the worst of it.
Others were left stick-like and surrounded by the vomited remains of their innards.

The elders of us (the longest survivors, not the actual eldest) could tell which lumps were edible.
We looked to them to help us find the least infected lumps of... something that lay in the bins.
It was best to not think about what we ate, only that we were eating.
What we can't manage we tip into the rivers so that the countryfolk get something too.

We'd received messages from some farmers whose fields had turned to ash.
They weren't given food bins so we did what we could with our limited strength.
We never knew if they were alive, never heard anything from them either.
Sometimes it seems like we are the only ones left alive and even then we're all on the brink.