Life is good, and I mean that with my whole heart! Yesterday we found a can of red fruit, which was wonderful - any day with food is a good day. There's always something to look forward to.  Like the way the sun rises every morning, painting the sky with hues of red and orange, performing its daily ritual of trying to murder everything beneath it with excessive enthusiasm.

I adjust the frayed brim of my hat, a faithful friend that's been with me through thick and thin. The sun's rays are relentless these days, but I count myself lucky. My dark skin handles the heat better than most. Poor Siddy used to say she could get sunburned just thinking about the sun, and she probably did - she was magical like that. "With the ozone layer playing hide and seek, it's a good thing you're not here to feel this heat, Siddy," I murmur with a smile. "Though you'd probably find a way to make us all laugh about it."

Vince walks beside me, his eyes scanning the horizon with that particular brand of glee that rivals the murder-sun above. At fourteen, he's the youngest in our group, and despite being the only survivor from when a bridge decided to rearrange his family into goopy abstract art, he carries himself with enthusiasm that puts us curmudgeons to shame. The lack of everything below the elbow on his left arm makes it tough for him to balance, but he treats it like more of an inconvenient fashion choice rather than a disability.

"Do you think we'll find anything today, Lonny?" he asks, glancing up at me with the kind of hope that makes you want to resurrect civilization just so you don't disappoint him.

"I have a good feeling about it," I reply, which is what I say every day, because sometimes lies are kinder than the truth. "Maybe we'll even stumble upon a Twinkie."

His eyes widen with excitement, like I'd just suggested we might find a unicorn that poops AA batteries. "Really? You think so?"

"Why not? Stranger things have happened." I wink at him. "Remember when we found that bag of yellow fruit?" The fruit had turned out to be dried lemons, hard as baseballs and about as edible, but we'd laughed for days about our "yellow gold."

"That was the best day ever," he says with a grin that could power a small city, if we still had those.

We approach the remains of an old supermarket, its once-bright sign faded and hanging askew like a drunk trying to look professional. The windows are shattered, and the walls are cracked, but it's still standing—a testament to resilience, or maybe just really good concrete. They don't make 'em like they used to, mainly because they don't make 'em at all anymore.

"Alright, everyone," I call out to the other six members of our group trailing behind us, our little parade of persistence. "Let's see what treasures we can find. Stay safe, and if you need anything, just holler." Or scream, or whisper dramatically - we're not picky about communication styles in the apocalypse.

They nod and spread out, their faces a mix of determination and quiet hope.

"Stick with me, Vince," I say. "We'll check out the front aisles."

He falls into step beside me as we step through the broken doorway. Inside, the air is cooler, carrying a hint of stale mold and dust. Sunlight filters through the gaps in the ceiling, casting myriads of cross shaped geometries on the floor.

"Were these places really filled with food and people?" Vince muses. "Could they really eat as many cans of fruit as they wanted?"

"I remember it well," I say, though memory's a funny thing - it tends to add sparkles to the before-times. "Kris used to bring me to places like this when I was about your age. She'd let me pick out a treat if I'd been helpful." Looking back, I probably wasn't as helpful as she pretended I was, but that was Kris - finding excuses to be kind in a world that was running low on kindness.

"Kris sounds like she was a wonderful person."

"She was," I agree softly, remembering how she'd sing off-key while sorting through supplies, how she'd tell terrible jokes just to make people groan. "She took care of me when I had no one else, and taught me about the world. Both the one that was and the one that came after." She had a way of making even the end of the world sound like just another chapter in a very long book.

We walk past empty shelves and scattered debris. I keep an eye out for anything useful—canned goods, paper, and hardcore drugs if we’re lucky.

"Hey, Lonny?" Vince says after a while.

"This is Lonny."

"What does a Twinkie taste like?"

I chuckle. "Well, it's sweeter than the peaches we had last month and spongy like charcoal. The insides are smooth and creamy like oil. I never had one in the before, but the one we had a few years ago made everyone happy. Or maybe we were all just really tired of beans."

He smiles like I've just described heaven, if heaven was mass-produced and individually wrapped. "It sounds amazing."

I ruffle his hair. "If we find one, we'll share it. I’ll convince everyone to let you pick your piece first. Promise."

As we move deeper into the store, something catches my eye—a faint glint near the base of a toppled display. I kneel down to get a closer look.

"What is it?" Vince asks, peering over my shoulder.

I reach into the gap and pull out a slightly squashed package, wiping off the layer of dust that's been protecting it from discovery like the world's most ineffective security system. My heart skips a beat, which these days is less about romance and more about cardiac surprises.

"Well, would you look at that," I say, holding it up like an archeologist who's just discovered proof that ancient civilizations had lewd magazines. "A box of macaroni."

Vince's face lights up. "No way!"

"Seems like today's our lucky day."

He beams at me, and for a moment, the weight of the world feels a little lighter.

"Let's keep looking," I suggest, placing the stale noodles in my bag. "Maybe we'll find more surprises."

We continue our search, pushing deeper into the retail archaeology site, and that's when I spot it - a section where some shelves and roofing have collapsed against each other, forming a sort of tunnel. The kind of tunnel that practically screams "this is definitely not a trap" in that way that usually means it absolutely is. Beyond it, I see the glint of metal—cans, maybe even some jars, the holy grail of post-apocalyptic shopping.

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"I think I see something back there. Someone may have tried to stash some goodies there and forgotten about them." I tell Vince, my voice carrying that special tone of 'I'm about to do something stupid but potentially rewarding.' "Wait here while I check it out."

"Let me get it, it’s too small for you to fit," he says earnestly.

"That arm is no good for crawling, champ." I hand him my bag, trying to sound responsible and adult-like, as if anyone still knows what that means anymore. "Let the others know we found some noodles. We'll need to boil some water." Assuming we could find water that didn't need to be convinced not to kill us first.

“I’m staying here with you.” He replies with a particular tone that makes me feel irritated and proud in a way that only rebellious teen can.

"Ok, ok." I agree, because sometimes it's easier to give in than to argue with someone who's perfected the art of concerned puppy eyes. "Just stay back from the opening."

I crouch down and start to crawl through the narrow space. The roof beams creek above me, but they seem stable enough - "seem" being the operative word here. Wait, is that a spoiler? Just forget I said that for about 30 seconds. 

As I reach the other side, I find a small cache of canned goods, their labels faded but intact. A regular post-apocalyptic treasure trove, naturally the word “treasure” gets more mileage these days.

"I reach out to pick up a can, and that's when I see it - a dust-covered package beneath, its yellow wrapper peeking out like a ghost of civilization past. My heart stops for a moment, which turns out to be good practice for what's about to happen. As I reach out, my fingers trembling like I'm disarming a bomb (which, in a way, I suppose I was), I reveal a dull yellow cake in a plastic pouch.

"A TWINKIE!!!" I shout victoriously, my voice echoing through the store like I'd just discovered the cure for the apocalypse. "I actually found one!"

"No way." Vince says in disbelief, his voice small and wondering. "I wouldn't joke about something like this, champ."

As I toss my prize out of the makeshift cave, I feel a slight shift above me. The kind of shift that makes you realize that maybe, just maybe, crawling into a structurally unsound pile of rubble wasn't your brightest idea. Before I can react, there's a soft crack—a sound that sends me into a panic, because nothing good ever comes from architectural onomatopoeia.

I lose feeling in my body and my vision goes black. There's a frantic voice shouting for help, though I wish they wouldn't - I'm trying to die with dignity here, thank you very much. I feel cold and tired, which is probably not a great sign. Everything goes silent. I'm weightless, untethered from the world, almost as if I’m falling, I know I’mn making it sound fun, but it really isn’t.

In the quiet that follows, memories flood my mind, because apparently that's what your brain does when it's checking out - puts on a greatest hits compilation. First up is Kris, smiling at me with that look she had - part saint, part retail worker who'd seen too much. Her eyes are full of whimsy as she tells me more about a world I had barely known. A world that had everything but where people still wanted more. It was a mythical era when people complained about Wi-Fi speeds and thought the end of civilization would be more zombie apocalypse, less "everything is on fire and we're out of sunscreen.".  She taught me to find beauty in everyone, to appreciate their company and what time we had together, which in retrospect feels a bit on-the-nose given my current situation.

Then there's Siddy, who I loved like the sister I never had (and now never will, thanks to this inconvenient case of death I'm developing). A woman whose body just couldn't handle the demands of living with so little - turns out you can't survive on optimism and expired multivitamins forever. She would have loved Vince, probably would have taught him to embrace gallows humor and an appreciation for obscure and invented swear words. She could be strict, but it was always out of love, like a drill sergeant who bakes cookies.

Speaking of Vince - the first new person our group had met in four years, found with his arm pinned under the same rubble that had turned his family into a particularly morbid architectural installation. We were so happy to welcome him into our group, meeting other people was a real treat, even better than finding biscuits that only had two colors of mold instead of three. He was so shy at first, but became part of our family in no time.

And of course, there's the Twinkie, that golden idol of preservatives and syrup, now probably crushed under the same weight that's busy turning my spine into little crumbs. I hope it survived, if only because dying for a squashed snack cake would be adding insult to fatal injury. My only regret is that I won't get to see the kid's face when he takes his first bite. Well, that and all the other regrets, but who's counting when you're in the midst of experiencing terminal architectural disagreement?

"Sorry, champ," I whisper into the void. "I tried."

As my mind takes its final lap around the track of consciousness, it lingers on the world of the before. I don't miss it, which is probably for the best since it's not coming back. Nobody acted like they were happy to see each other back then, and people never treated Kris like the beautiful woman she was - too busy establishing work camps and collecting firearms. I wonder, now that I'm dying, will I see her again? That would be nice. Maybe she's got a heavenly apartment with air conditioning and a fully stocked pantry. Though knowing my luck, I'm probably headed to wherever they keep all those people who used to say "living my best life" unironically.

And I died.

***

"Lonny?" Vince called out, his voice echoing in the dusty air like a lonely bell at a funeral that nobody bothered to attend.

Being extremely, comprehensively, and irrevocably dead at this point, I didn't answer. Death has that effect on one's ability to articulate. Even if I wanted to respond, my new status as a former person made small talk rather challenging.

The rubble had become my extremely uncomfortable final resting place, though I suppose comfort doesn't matter much when you're busy being deceased. The Twinkie lay there at the entrance to my impromptu tomb, its faded yellow packaging somehow untouched by the collapse, as if it were an offering to the sacred tomb of the saint: Littlius Debbius.

"Lonny!" Vince's voice cracked like sundried charcoal as he stumbled forward, his good arm reaching out toward the fallen shelves. The others came running, their footsteps kicking up dust that danced in the sunbeams like confused ghosts.

"What happened?" Maria asked, her weathered face creasing with concern. She'd seen enough death to recognize its handiwork.

"He found—he was trying to—" Vince couldn't finish, but his eyes fixed on the Twinkie, that stupid, wonderful piece of preserved cake that had cost someone their life. Again.

They searched through the debris with the careful reverence of archaeologists, though they weren't looking for artifacts but for their friend who had just joined the ranks of the professionally dead. The cans I'd found rolled across the floor like discarded dice, each one marking another possibility that would never come to pass.

Vince picked up the Twinkie with trembling fingers. His tears left clean tracks in the dust on his face, and for a moment, he looked older than his fourteen years—old enough to understand that sometimes the universe gives you exactly what you wished for, but takes something infinitely more precious in exchange.

"He said we'd share it," he whispered to no one in particular, because the only person who needed to hear it was currently unavailable, having taken up permanent residence in the great beyond. "He promised I could pick first."

He broke the cake into seven roughly equal pieces, picking a piece that had a little more cream than the others for himself and handing out the rest, and with tears streaming down his face he took a bite and laughed.

“Ith sssoo thweeet!” He said with a smile.

***

So now you're probably wondering about why I'm telling you this story, and more importantly, how I'm telling you this story, especially the part that comes after my (semi) dramatic exit from the land of the living. Fair questions, both of them.

The thing is, this is just the beginning of my tale, because apparently the universe wasn't done with its favorite scrappy dude with a girl’s name. When I woke up (after my rather permanent nap), I found myself in the past, inhabiting the body of someone I vaguely recognized from the old internet- you know, the ones who kinda had a big part in the whole apocalypse thing. Yes, after I died, I was reincarnated as a billionaire, because apparently karma has a sense of humor.

But that's another story entirely. One that involves a lot more corporate boardrooms and a lot fewer collapsed buildings - though surprisingly, my new life involves a lot more zombies.