Meatballs in the Apocalypse

Lucas knew he was being ridiculous. The world had ended, and survival should have been his only focus. But lately, memories of his grandmother’s meatballs—the ones he’d enjoyed every week before the world met its date with destiny—consumed him. Those tender, juicy drops of heaven in a rich tomato sauce had become a symbol of the life he’d lost.

Driven by his hunger, Lucas ventured into the marketplace. It wasn’t official, obviously. Just a square filled with tattered tents, wooden crates, and rusting metal stalls. Remnants of the world before. People traded anything they had for food, tools, or fleeting moments of entertainment.

Lucas spotted a tattered sign hanging from one stall: “You pick the winner; you win any dinner.” His stomach growled. Though he didn’t starve, his diet consisted mainly of dried beans, canned vegetables, and the occasional rodent or bird. He reminded himself that nothing came for free nowadays, and probably not before either, but the memory of those meatballs was too strong to ignore.

He approached the stall, where a man with quick, dark eyes was waiting. “You want to place a bet?” the man drawled.

“What am I betting on?” Lucas asked.

“A fight,” the man said, his voice hard. “We have a couple of criminals here. They’ll fight to see who’s most willing to repent. You pick the winner, and if you’re right, you get a meal of your choosing.”

Lucas wasn’t shocked—justice and entertainment had become one and the same in this brave new world. “Can it really be any meal?” he asked, his voice skeptical.

“Within reason,” the man replied, his small eyes watchful.

“How about meatballs?” Lucas held his breath, barely able to contain his hope.

“Sure,” the man said, waving a hand dismissively. “Meatballs and pasta in tomato sauce. Just like you remember from the good ole days.”

Lucas’s stomach growled again. He could almost taste the promised meal. “The stake?” he asked.

“Depends on what you’ve got—needs to be valuable, obviously.”

Lucas pulled out his father’s antique Rolex. The man laughed. “Worthless. Who needs a watch nowadays?”

His heart sank. He rummaged through his pack until he found a pair of salt and pepper shakers. They were the only things that made the shit he ate somewhat bearable. He hesitated, not sure if one meal was worth it. Finally, he handed them over. The man took them and smiled. “Perfect,” he purred, quickly slipping them into his pocket before Lucas could change his mind. “Fight’s at sunset.”

Lucas spent the next few hours aimlessly wandering, heart pounding, and mouth-watering when he thought of the meatballs. As the sun set, he returned to the stall, where a crowd had gathered.

In a crude fighting ring made of scrap metal and wooden boards stood two men—one big and burly, the other lean and wiry. Their faces were hardened, but Lucas could see fear in their eyes. Lucas studied them, his gut urging him to pick the wiry one.

When the fight began, it was a close call. The wiry man danced around the ring, narrowly avoiding the bigger man’s powerful swings. Lucas’s heart raced as the wiry man dodged and delivered a decisive blow, sending the big man crashing to the ground. The crowd roared—some cheered, others cursed as their bets were lost.

As the crowd dispersed, those who had picked the winner, including Lucas, were led to a nearby tent where their meals were prepared.

Lucas’s anticipation grew as he waited. The sounds and smells of cooking filled the air. When his meal arrived, it was everything he had hoped for. The meatballs looked and smelled just as he remembered, and he savored each bite, the rich tomato sauce warming him.

As he ate, he glanced around at the other winners enjoying their meals—pie, steak, sausages—and caught the stall owner’s eye. A question he had been too afraid to ask lingered in his mind. “Where did you get all this meat?” he asked quietly.

The man glanced at the fight ring, then back at Lucas, a knowing smile on his lips. Lucas followed his gaze, the awful realization dawning as he looked down at his plate.

“Oh,” he murmured, his fork hovering in the air. His hand shook, but the hunger and the comfort of the meal were overpowering.

“Fuck it,” he muttered to himself and took another bite.