“We have new band-aids. I bought a special package just for fingers, because- yeah, you don't really need that, you do almost nothing…” I interrupted myself.
“I do a lot of things!” Bob objected.
“You don't do anything in the apartment, you don't even cook.”
“You reheat food… Anyway, they'll be just here if you ever need them. But there's only eight of them…”
“Isn't that too few?”
I gave him a puzzled look.
“As people have ten fingers?”
“We have a dead girl in the water tank!” I yelled from the bathroom.
Bob came to see.
I was staring anxiously at the grunting faucet and the rusty water flowing from it, remembering the series about Elise Lam on Netflix. I'm addicted to documentary series about murders and mysterious disappearances.
“There's probably a water-pipe accident somewhere,” Bob said calmly.
“Do something!” I turned to him desperately.
After a few seconds of silence and staring into my eyes he slowly began to dance a belly dance.
“Water!” I found the last bottle of water among the lemonades and reclessly annouced my finding aloud. If it were an apocalypse, I would die first.
I heard Bob's footsteps. I quickly poured myself a full glass and covered the bottle with my body.
“I still have water in the garage,” Bob arrived.
“You don't have water water,” I negated his claim, because I know he drinks mineral water.
“Yeah. Because the corona started a I thought it's going to be the end of the world. And I didn't want to cook my pasta in mineral water.”
The infection is spreading reletlessly. Radical gas treatment has been ordered by the goverment to all areas with an infestation of more than 80%.
The deserted scenery of the city is littered with toxic smoke rising to the clouds. Brown-gray clouds prevent the sun from looking into the streets poisioned by noxious gas. Survivors face the moral decline of society - and each other.
Bob cooks pasta.