I was buying fish in the store yesterday when a thought occurred to me. Being a self-proclaimed "idea man"1 thoughts are always occurring to me, but this was a rare occasion when it became lodged in my general awareness like those pebbles on today's hike that lodged right under the ball of my left foot. There it has remained a full twenty-four hours until I finally got around to writing about it (unlike the pebbles that were immediately removed, because I'll be damned if I'm going to hike two miles down a mountain with something that looks like a grain of sand, but feels like a damned boulder, digging into my foot!).
Train of thought...train of thought...what was I talking about before I interrupted myself? Oh right, post-apocalyptic scenarios and spoiled food! But I hadn't actually mentioned that yet as I was too busy trying to be clever. Right, so the thought I had while purchasing some delicious tilapia2 from the local grocery store was about how none of the post-apocalyptic stories seem to deal with the over-powering stench and related health hazard that would arise from grocery stores once the power is turned off. Not only would the frozen food displays all melt and rot, but the dairy, fresh fruit and vegetables, and beer would all start to turn within a day.
Okay, you might not be able to tell with the mainstream American lagers, but the microbrews would suffer pretty quickly. However, I don't bring this up as a joke, but because I think it is a legitimate point that should be addressed in post-apocalyptic fiction. This mass spoilage would be a serious concern for any would-be zombie survivors, resistance fighters, or people too selfish to just up and die once the eldritch horrors of old finally rouse from their slumber. Given that grocery stores today all rely on massive HVAC systems for ventilation, going into one a week, a month, or even a year, after everything goes kablooey would result in you quickly being overcome by a foul redolence the likes of which would make the dread Cthulhu's eyes water. And it would probably kill you.
So, whether you are planning on writing a short story about the pleasures of public sex after the Bomb, or a massive tome that seeks to completely redefine the symbolic paradigms inherent in the imagery of aliens harvesting the toe nails of humans, please remember to have you intrepid band of survivors/resistance fighter/post-atomic nudists wear gas-masks when foraging for canned goods in the echoing vastness of America's now-decimated grocery chains.
Thank you, and good night! Or morning. Which ever it is where you are. Possibly even afternoon, I suppose.
1It's just what I call myself to make me feel better about having zero follow-through.
2Forget tuna, tilapia is the chicken of the sea: it has almost no taste of it's own, and is delicious with nearly everything.
