Reliance on government became total. Food, power, TV, radio. There were two options. Acceptance, or face the consequences. Most accepted, aided by the government-produced brandydrink. Sickly sweet and a guaranteed release from the horror that daily life had become.
What Connor wouldn’t give for a beer. A six-pack would be better, but he’d settle for just the one. He wasn’t sure there were any left. They’d been an early casualty in the clampdown. Four hundred million bottles, destroyed. His own considerable stockpile had lasted a few weeks. He’d had to conserve them, obviously. Only two or three each night. Except for weekends. To be honest, he’d lost track of which days were “work” days and which weren’t, but there was something about cracking open a cold beer on a warm Saturday afternoon…
His foot caught in a strand of kikuyu and he found himself flat on the path, face to face with a tiny green praying mantis. It raised one spiked arm. Attack? Defence? Saying hello?
“Hello.”
Satisfied with Connor’s response, the tiny predator shuffled off to carry on with the important business of the day.
Connor envied it. Business as usual. Hunt. Eat. Sleep. Hunt. Eat. Sex. Decapitation. Yes, he’d dated women like that, too. He smiled. These days, it would almost be worth it, just for a change of pace.
Hello. What was this?
Lying in the neglected grass jungle, covered by brown stalks and invisible from any other angle, was a rectangular piece of paper. He reached out and plucked it from its lair. It wasn’t just a scrap of paper. It was an envelope. Crisp white stationery. Sealed with an old-fashioned wax seal.
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