As people flee with their loot, the disorder begins to dwindle. According to the countdown, only ten minutes have ticked by. However I know time will be precious in the end. If they gave us twenty hours, they expect this to take somewhere close to that, so I need to get moving. I ditch the ice cream, pocket the wooden spoon, and snatch a fabric tote from the front. Then I’m off to score some loot of my own.

Thankfully, it doesn’t start out too hard. Despite having to dodge a few elbows on the way in, I manage to snag a bagful of sandwiches and cold pasta salads without much trouble. Some apples would be a nice addition. I peek my head into the produce section and immediately duck a flying head of lettuce. Nope, nevermind.

Okay, first aid supplies next. The “health and beauty” aisle is exactly what you’d expect of an American free-for-all. Half the contents of the shelves are now strewn across the tile. Packages have been ripped open, painkillers spilled left and right. I can’t help but notice that the cough syrup, condoms, and nicotine patches are gone. Good work, people.

I swipe bandages, gauze, and antibiotic cream from the shelves and a bottle of tylenol from the floor. With that, it’s time to get water and bail.

This is when the trouble hits. There’s a guy in a baseball cap and a stained Cubs sweatshirt piling every drink possible into a pair of carts. He’s got beer, gatorade, tea, smoothies - everything.

He hasn’t stockpiled the water yet, so I cross my fingers that it’s still fair game. But the second I reach for a bottle, he whips around and knocks my hand aside.

“Watch it!” he yells.

I scramble backwards, hands up. I’m not usually confrontational. If this were any other situation, I’d slink out of the store, heart racing, and return home to curl up on my sofa, thinking about all the much cooler ways I could have handled it. But it’s the apocalypse. Or… actually, I’m not sure what qualifies as an apocalypse. Whatever. Fact is, I need that water.

“Um, hey there,” I say, hands hovering uselessly in the air. “Is it okay if I just reach by and-”

“That’s mine!” He tucks half a dozen bottles under his arm and dumps them in the seat of the cart. They’re within reach, but he’s right there, he’s angry, and each of his limbs could fit at least two of mine. And I thought yoga was helpful. I should have tried bodybuilding.

“Can I just have one bottle?”

“No, go away.”

He returns to stockpiling as though the matter is over. He’s still eyeing me though. Wow, his forehead is really sweaty. He’s barely holding it together.

I tentatively lower my hands. “You know there’s like a portal to find…”

He stops to glare at me. “It’s the end of the goddamned world. Does it look like I give a shit?”

I don’t know how to reply to that. I wonder if I’d be able to talk my way through this if my charm attribute were higher. I bet if I took a shower and put on real clothes, this guy would listen to me. Story of my life.

He’s got a point about this whole ‘end of the goddamned world’ though. I’m being far too reasonable.

I point. “Hey, your fly is down.”

“Huh?” He looks.

I snag a six-pack of Guinness and bolt.

I have to reiterate how impossible it is to run in slippers. I’m doing this shuffle-waddle dance down the aisle, my robe swinging free behind me like the world’s least cool cape. And what’s worse is when I successfully make it to the exit, I have to wait for the stupid automatic door to slowly yawn open.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

I glance back at my assailant. His head is on a swivel, eyes bulging, fists clenched. He hasn’t spotted me, although he’s sure as hell trying. Luckily, I don’t think he’ll ditch his dragon hoard of beverages to hunt me down.

I don’t wait around to find out. The second I make it outside, I gasp for air. I must have been holding my breath. My heart thunders against my chest. I can’t believe I did that. I know it doesn’t seem like much, but I’ve never challenged someone like that and I’ve certainly never nicked anything before. What a world.

That’s strange. There’s something blinking in the lower right corner of my eye, like the world’s glowiest eye floater. As soon as I try to look at it, another jumble of text materializes in front of me.

Skill Proficiency Increased:

Deception 3

The heck does that mean? I have skills?

Skill Proficiencies:

Alcohol Tolerance: 10

Cycling: 4

Debate: 6

Deception: 3

Driving: 4

Drug Tolerance: 5

Performance: 6

Persuasion: 5

Research: 7

Rock Climbing: 4

Swimming: 5

Writing: 6

…

My top skills appear in the center, but when I scroll down, the list of low-level and not-available skills is exhaustive. There’s everything from vehicle maintenance to cheesemaking. Oh hey, I’m a 2 in sewing. That’s nice. Apparently there’s a slew of hidden discoverable skills too.

I wonder what having a level 10 means. Am I just being commended for my uncanny ability to down tequila or have I unlocked some god-tier immunity to alcohol poisoning? I’ll definitely have to test that out. You know, for science.

I feel strangely vulnerable being seen like this. Just a glance at my profile is probably worth ten trips to a therapist. According to the… what should I call it, AI? System manager? DM? I’ll go with system. Okay, according to the system, I am pretty much a debate aficionado who knows how to drink and get around creatively. I glance down at my beer. Painfully accurate, once again.

I wonder what it would have thought of me before…

Welp, enough navel gazing for now. It’s time to move.

Dumping the beer in my overstuffed tote, I think about what’s next. I should probably make a brief stop at the Home Depot. Maybe grab a better weapon. Am I going to need a weapon? The implication is there, and I don’t think a wooden spoon is going to cut it. I could probably use a bike too. Oh, maybe an electric bike. I've always wanted one of those. And maybe an extra set of clothes. Do they sell clothes? I’m clearly very well-versed in home improvement stores.

But wouldn’t you know it. I look to my right and the Home Depot is gone. Less than ten minutes ago, when the zones had first broken apart, at least half of the store was still there. Now the entire thing has sloughed off the edge. Because - and I could be wrong here - the edge is closer. The parking lot is now only three cars deep. The light poles are gone, the teetering sedan is MIA. Even the minivan that couple was loading has disappeared.

I’m no mathematician - seriously, I crammed for tests, graduated, and erased all but simple addition from my memory - however I believe our little floating island is shrinking. Fast. I’d give it about twenty minutes before the whole supermarket is flying free, along with everyone inside.

Hopefully they’ll figure it out before that happens. Or I could warn them. I should warn them, right? I can make it quick. I’ll jump up on a counter, shout that the world is shrinking, and run away. It’s the right thing to do.

On the other hand.

It’s a risk. I have what I need, and I’m not equipped to deal with an altercation. Even ignoring the baseball capped drink-hoarder, people are on edge. They’re scared. They don’t want to be told that their situation is even worse. You know how they say “Don’t shoot the messenger”? They say that because of how many times people shoot the goddamn messenger.

I hesitate there on the front curb of the grocery store, my bag of loot hanging loose over my shoulder. If I were playing a game, this would be an easy choice. Be the hero, right? Everyone loves a hero. But I’m not a hero. I’m a small dishevelled 26-year-old who just wanted ice cream so I could give myself a treat before heading off to a job I hate in order to pay rent I hate for an apartment I hate.

A clump of pavement breaks loose and tumbles off the edge. I look at the store, look at the cliff, look at my bunny-eared slippers, look back at the store.

It would have been an easy decision, once upon a time. Not a decision at all really. But now… I don’t know. In the end, you can only count on yourself for survival.

I crack open a beer and sip the fizz bubbling out the top. Through the window, the muted chaos ensues.

Yeah. You can only count on yourself.