How To Lose Weight And Survive The Apocalypse

Chapter 15

The farmhouse did not, in fact, have doors that locked. Or enough rooms for each of us. Or even enough beds.

It was obviously a retired couple's home. Nev and Bailey claimed the master bedroom with its double bed and pink patchwork quilt. It made sense for Rueben and Misha to take the smaller room; the matching twin beds were clearly meant for visiting grandchildren, and Mischa cried out happily as she discovered a handmade dolls' house and a collection of ratty Barbies.

Simon and I were left with the couches in the lounge room. One folded out to a sofa bed, but I nominated to sleep on the leather rocker/recliner and gave the fold-out to my fellow pig warrior.

As everyone explored the house, I made my way into the kitchen. My stomach was making loud burbling noises as it digested the few bites of cucumber I'd eaten, and I wanted to see if the gas stovetop worked.

With hopeful fingers, I twisted the knob. The lighter cracked every second, the little spark working its hardest, but nothing happened. I could hear the gas hissing, but it didn't smell gassy.

"Not working?" asked Simon, wandering into the kitchen with an armful of lettuce.

"No."

"Didn't think so. I tried our gas cooker that first night, but it was a no-go." He sat at one of the heavy wooden chairs around the square kitchen table. "I reckon those nanobots didn't just go after car fuel, but natural gas too."

"Shit." Despair cascaded over me. Natural gas would have meant a much easier recovery for the human race; at a bare minimum, it meant heat and cooked food. I sighed and looked out the window, just as Mischa raced past.

She banged up the back steps and into the kitchen, hair flying and eyes wild. "They have, they have chookies!" she cried.

"Chookies?"

"Chickies! Chickens! Come and see!"

She dashed out again; Simon and I followed.

In the back garden, a small fenced compound held a dozen chickens, clucking and brooding. Mischa ran over to a large black hen, picked it up and hugged it. The hen looked somewhat disgruntled, but seemed to accept her cuddle as nothing out of the ordinary.

Simon smacked his lips. "Winner, winner, chicken dinner."

"Do you even know how to kill a chicken?" I asked, fascinated.

"We used to do it as kids back in Perth. I grew up around chickens. We can use the frypans in the house, and I'll make the Chicken Parma of your dreams."

"No!" Mischa's shout was loud enough to cause us both to jump. "You're not eating my chookies!"

"Sweetheart, they won't survive without people around to take care of them," said Simon gently. "The foxes will get them or they'll starve."

It made me wonder how many animals around the planet would perish as a result of the worldwide power and fuel loss. Horses stranded in stables without feed, zoo animals trapped forever inside cages with electric locks, cats who... actually cats would probably be fine.

Mischa wasn't buying it; she squeezed the chicken tighter and said, "You're. Not. Eating. My. Chookies!"

"Okay, okay," I said, crouching down to her level and trying to suppress a smile at her stubbornness. "How about we leave the chookies for now, and we'll collect their eggs instead? We can have scrambled eggs for dinner."

She nodded, and I patted the soft head of the chicken in her arms. "This chookie seems cool."

"Maybe she can come on the road with us? That way we'll have eggs all time!"