Can’t remember what you ate for dinner three nights ago? Good for you. You’re not living through the apocalypse. I remember every disappointing meal.

• Last Tuesday: a dented can of kidney beans (low sodium)

• Last month: nibbles of burnt squirrel (more skin than meat)

• Every night our scavs are unlucky: risky gulps of creek water (we have no choice)

One thing I can’t remember? The night I lost my leg.

Jo says one of the furballs ripped it clean off, but I blacked all that out. When I sit outside my tent on humid days, massaging my aching stump, Remy stares with that strange look in his eye. I’m good at ignoring Remy, we all are, but I can’t shake the feeling he’s thinking about a meal he can’t forget.

 

My ears prick up at the sound of crunching leaves behind me, then Jo’s hand clamps hard onto my shoulder. We’re all getting thinner, but her grip’s still a vise. I manage to not jump out of my own skin.

 

“What’s grub, Cook?” she beams.

Natural leader, our Jo. Affable, plays a little dumb, but her hands pulled most of us out of the fire. I may not remember the night I lost my leg, but I know it was Jo who dragged me to safety. Plus she was gracious enough to make me the survivor camp’s cook.

 

Let’s face it, when society collapses because weird black furballs invade from another planet, and everybody’s arguing and stealing and shooting way more than the usual amount, odds are a one-legged geezer isn't exactly considered hot. So I’m grateful for some job security.

 

I rub my hands together, sigh, and pop open our sad canvas bag. It’s never good.

• Half a box of bran flakes (ignore that expiration date)

• Three taco sauce packets (mild, why even bother?)

• Handful of acorns (a prehistoric classic, but too classic for my guts)

The rest of the bag is handfuls of greens Raoul swears are edible. Mustering the last of my false enthusiasm, I declare: “Looks like salad night again, Jo. I’ll—”

 

“We GOT one!” It’s Raoul, busting into our camp’s clearing way too loudly. He startles me, and fumbled acorns plonk onto the ground. Raoul’s sporting a freshly scratched-up face, but one with a thousand-watt smile. Carla’s close behind, holding a soggy ball of black fur over her head like a championship trophy.

 

Damn. Maybe tonight’s not salad night.

 

Plop! Carla dumps the hairy, gooey prize onto my cutting board. She backs off a few steps and waits proudly with her hands on her hips.

Don’t judge. We’re all crazy to eat something that could actually be meat, even if it’s weird meat. And if you’re stuck in the apocalypse, doomed to remember every crummy meal, wouldn’t you want to sink your teeth into your oppressors at least once?

 

I push up my sweaty sleeves and chop the air with my machete. Everybody’s eyes are on me. Time for Cook to do his job.

 

It’s tough, like sawing through a rubber basketball with a butter knife. A full minute passes as I struggle and sweat. Carla and Raoul’s faces hold their smiles, but their eyes start to dim. Remy crosses his arms and sniffs the air. Jo says nothing, but she nods at me to keep going. I grin and nod back like everything’s fine and it’s not my first extraterrestrial surgery.

 

Just when my hands can’t take the strain any longer, something gives and the soggy black furball splits open like a cheap purse. Raoul gasps and Remy’s eyebrows hit the roof. Watery juice gushes out, and we all get an eyeful of… blue. Bright, cheerful royal blue.

 

Hey! Now my machete’s getting somewhere, cutting deep into the soft blue innards. No bones, fat, organs, or tendons. Just squishy blue stuff. In a delusional moment I try slicing a filet, but it’s like carving the pulpy flesh of a grapefruit. A blue grapefruit.

 

When the first pieces hit my hot skillet, it smells… good. If my eyes were closed, I’d swear it was pork. The chunks sizzle, the juice thickens, and the blue color deepens. The whole crew holds their breath as I skewer a chunk and take a cautious bite. Then another. I’m not thinking about what star system birthed this creature or how compatible the proteins will be with my intestines. I’m thinking about hot juicy meat and how damn good it feels to chew it.

 

This flavor is, well, weird. But seasoned with the thrill of putting the enemy into my belly? Heavenly. If eating alien meat liquefies my bones or makes my eyes explode, I swear I’ll die screaming but happy.

 

But a whole minute passes after my first bite, and I’m feeling great. Better than great, if I’m honest. Another minute passes, and nothing happens except watching me eat fried alien makes everybody drool harder. Turns out that two minutes is exactly how long they can wait to see if I’ll die. They all shuffle forward to try some, even Remy. Soon, everybody's chewing and gulping and smacking their lips.

 

“Not bad, Cook.” Jo smiles, for real this time. I rip a loud belch of that not-grapefruit, not-pork flavor and start to laugh, but my emotions get tangled up and I can’t hold it back. My cheeks are wet and I’m crying. Jo chews thoughtfully on a chunk of blue meat, rubbing my back as I sob.

 

* * *

• Next Tuesday: Carla will get good at catching aliens (pit traps will work nicely)

• Next month: We’ll grow fatter and happier (and our skin will acquire a mild blue tint)

• Day by day: My leg stump will grow a little longer (I won’t notice at first)

Eventually, it’ll become harder to remember every meal. A few months from now, the weather will be nice. I’ll stroll around camp, I’ll stargaze, and I’ll forget what it was like to only have one leg.