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Jim stood impatiently in the queue for the beat-up old hot dog van, hands stuffed into the pockets of his road dusty jeans, weight shifting constantly from one foot to the other.  He kept glancing towards the horizon for any sign of the blinding flash that would signal the end of all things.

People lay in the desert dirt in various states of lethargy, sweating their last in the stifling heat.  Families huddled together and held each other, parents whispering platitudes to their children and telling them how much they loved them.  

Jim didn’t have any family, not any more anyway.  His parents died when he was young and he’d made the best of a bad start to life.  A few brushes with the law, but on the whole, he’d kept himself clean and landed a steady job at a burger joint.  The plan was to work his way up to management, save for a deposit on a house and maybe find himself a girl.  It was going ok too, until that college kid, Will, joined the team, fast-tracked it to management and left Jim stuck.  He found he didn’t have it in him to be bitter much.  Will was a good guy, and the best man got the job, as they say.  

Then the whole world began to unravel.  Whatever had gone before seemed pretty pointless now.  But what he did know for certain was he was going to taste one of those foot-long hot dogs before the end.  The sign on the van read ‘best in Nevada’ in faded green letters.  He sure hoped so.  

He risked another glance at the horizon, the city in the distance rippling in the heat haze, and shuffled forwards in the queue.  Almost there.

As the guy in front turned from the condiment stand, hot dog loaded with ketchup and mustard, that sweet, smoky smell in the air, Jim felt saliva pooling in his mouth.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a hot meal.  Probably before the Government, or what was left of them, told people to vacate the cities.  Since then, it had been canned food eaten cold and potato chips.

As he stepped up to the counter the hot dog guy rubbed out the ten-dollar price on the chalkboard and re-chalked it in at twenty.  

“Twenty dollars?” Jim cried, frustration bubbling up inside of him like a sticky stew, “Who charges twenty dollars for a hot dog?”

“Supply and demand, man” replied the hot dog guy, smoothing down his moustache which drooped over the corners of his mouth, ironically reminding Jim of a limp frankfurter. “There ain’t no more where these bad boys came from, ‘n’ look at that queue behind you, I gotta make my green while the going’s good.  Now, you gettin’ or you going?”

Jim checked his pockets.  He had a grand total of eighteen dollars.

“Listen,” he began earnestly, “I’m two bucks short but I’ve been in this queue for an hour and a half since the price was ten dollars.  How about we call it eighteen for a plain dog, no extras?”

“I wish I could man but I ain’t no charity.”

“But what do you need the extra money for anyway?” Jim pleaded, “It’ll all be gone any time soon.”

“Maybe it will and maybe it won’t”, said the hot dog guy in an annoyingly sing-song tone of voice that was apparently his best attempt at mysticism, “but the ancient Egyptians had this idea that if you buried a man with his wealth it went with him to the afterlife and when we’re all blown to Kingdom Come I’m fixing to be as rich as a Pharaoh by the time I reach those Pearly Gates.  Now move along so I can serve someone with the cash.”

“I don’t think it’ll be the Pearly Gates you’re going to,” Jim muttered under his breath.

“What’d you say, wise guy?” said the hot dog man sharply, his expression darkening.

“Hey hurry up would ya?” came a raised voice from the queue, “there’s hungry people back here.”

Jim could feel his dream slipping from his grasp; just like that management position; like the prospect of a home, a family, a life past the age of twenty-four.  Something in him shifted and all those knockbacks, frustrations and resentments he’d pushed down over the years began to coalesce into one focused ambition: he was going to get that hot dog.  

As his lips began to form into a thin line and his hands curled into fists, he felt a tugging on his sleeve.  He looked down into the grubby but angelic face of a small boy aged around nine or ten.

“Hey Mister,” said the boy, “I got two dollars, it’s yours if you share that hot dog with me.”

“Where are your folks?” asked Jim, peering over the kids head.

“Dead” replied the boy with impressive frankness, then “where’s yours?” He shot this back with such a look of triumph at his own wit that Jim couldn’t help but feel for the kid.

“Dead” replied Jim with a nod of his head.

It took a split second longer for Jim to make his decision.  What the hell? Half a hot dog was better than no hot dog and the kid looked just as hungry as he was.

“Sure why not, you got yourself a deal.”

The boy fished in his pockets and handed Jim the money.

Jim turned to the grumbling hot dog vendor, a triumphant smile plastered on his face.  “One hot dog with everything on it.” 

The vendor snatched the money, muttering to himself about time-wasters, and loaded up the dog which he placed on the counter.  Jim took it and turned to the condiment stand, the kid half a step behind him.  “Mustard and ketchup?”

The kid nodded enthusiastically.  Jim chanced another glance towards the horizon as he added the sauce, but they were still good for now.  

As the nozzle on the ketchup pump dispensed its last drop the hot dog was whipped out of his hands.  He looked up, startled, to see the kid running at high speed towards the horizon, hot dog in one hand and flipping him the bird with the other.  Pure, incredulous rage bubbled up inside Jim.  How dare that little shit steals his hot dog!  He gave chase but the kid was quick and much more nimble than he was, dodging in and out of the lethargic bodies that littered the ground.  Jim felt himself make contact with a body or two as he ran, shouting sorry’s over his shoulder.

Two things happened at once and it seemed to Jim that they happened in slow motion; the kid tripped on a rock half-buried in the sand and hurtled through the air, the hot dog flying from his grasp.  At the same time, there was a blinding flash from the horizon and a mushroom cloud billowed into the air, sending a wave of destruction racing towards them with a menacing roar.  A moment later there was a loud clap as if God was firing his shotgun.   Around them, some people screamed and wailed, but most just held tighter to each other and waited for the end to reach them. They’d had a while to prepare themselves for this, after all.  

As Jim reached the kid, prone on the floor, blood dripping from his nose, he pulled him up.  He had a chagrined smile on his face and held up his hands as if to say ‘you got me.’

“Why?” asked Jim, his rage giving way to bewilderment, “Why did you take it? We could both have eaten our halves by now, instead….” he trailed off, gesturing towards the quickly advancing wall of smoke and debris. 

“No hard feelings Mister, I saw an opportunity, ’s all” and with a shrug of his shoulders, the boy turned to face the horizon, sitting in a cross-legged heap with his chin on his hands to await the inevitable.

Jim felt all the fight go out of him.  There was nothing left to say and no time to say it in any way.  He sat down next to the boy with a long exhale, shoulders hunched against the oncoming wind.  He noticed the hot dog about a foot in front of him.  It had rolled free of its cardboard tray and was covered in sand and dust, the ketchup and mustard mingling together in a congealed heap, scattered onions making one last feast for the busy ants if they were quick.

As the heat began to blister his face Jim found he couldn’t feel all that sad.  They’d had their time and they blew it, literally.  Maybe whoever or whatever came next they’d make a better job of it.  They couldn’t do much worse. 

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