[ WP ] A world where people have to go foraging and hunting ... For processed prepackaged food .

I'd been practicing with my bow a lot more, ever since I realized I was running low on actual ammo. Pops had left me some, but not much, and I was n't exactly rich. Not like the Turners, I could n't just buy those parts in bulk every couple years- and buying 20 gauge by the box was n't nearly as cost effective as it all used to be. 
 
 Pops always told me the world had been a lot cheaper before the Preservative Cataclysm. What might have cost us a month of work used to cost an hour back in the days of his youth. 
 
 `` Things were just simpler then,'' He'd say. `` If you wanted something, you just went to the store and bought it. Nowadays you got ta make it yourself, or you got ta really work for it.'' 
 
 I ca n't even imagine what that must have been like. Cheap goods? Cheap anything? The world sure had changed, but I fantasized those ideals all the same. 
 
 `` Convenient,'' `` Wonderful,'' maybe even `` Excellent?'' 
 
 At this point the hunger had me repeating buzzwords from the faded billboard signs hanging by the Northbound highway. In tatters as they might be, the weather had been remarkably kind to them. Sixty some-odd years old, if Pop's memory could be trusted as a reference. 
 
 My feet hit the pavement with soft and quieted steps, cloth moccasins of handmade quality muffled each pressing blow to the crumbling asphalt as I crept along the bridge's edge. Eyes up, head low, bow nocked and ready. 
 
 I'd managed to find a good set of arrows in the ruins of an old sporting good's store during a hunt last season. Jim Turner had gone so far as to mock me for taking them, and Bobby Johnson had been no better about it. 
 
 Well it was easy for them to laugh coming from rich families. I heard they had penned farms of Mac'n Cheese and SpaghettiOs to fall back on. The Turners even had a farm way up past the snowbelt where they raised cookie-dough. Good breeding stock, easy commodity for sale and trade for the winter. 
 
 Best Pops had managed to catch and pen were some rusted cans of Chicken Noodle, and I could barely take those to market anymore. Not since the great Campbell Soup herd pressed up along the Northern Territories, flooding the traders with cheap alternatives. 
 
 No... What I needed was n't breeding stock or trapping. I needed one big sale. One windfall I could use for some steady footing to pick up the pieces Pops went and left behind. That was all it would take, to pay off those debts and get the farm back in shape. I could make it work with one good hunt. 
 
 Up above the ravine along the bridge's edge, I peered down to get a good look at my intended prey. From overhead as I was, they had n't noticed my presence, still quietly milling about in the cool shadows below. Just the sight of such a herd made my breath catch in my throat, even knowing what to expect did n't lessen that impact. 
 
 So much wealth, just waiting for someone to claim it. One good hunt indeed. Steeling my nerves, I tried to calm my breathing, and steady my heartbeat. 
 
 Ever since I first found the pack, I'd been studying their patterns. Months now, watching and learn- but I never dared take a shot. I had practiced, but I knew one alone would n't be enough- and once they scattered, who even knew where they might end up? Just finding them in the first place had been close to a miracle. 
 
 It was a miracle I could n't afford to waste. 
 
 I drew back the bow, steadying my breathing as the string fit against my cheek. Months of training and practice... weeks of watching, preparing. Today was the day. 
 
 I let fly. 
 
 The herd panicked as one downed package let out a squealing scream- but already I had another target lined up, another arrow to loose upon them. I was n't letting it end just yet. 
 
 They scattered with great speed, but not before I took another two, arrows soaring in a long arc to strike down my targets. 
 
 When the dust settled, I counted for a full total of three kills. Each one pinned to the dirt, unable to escape or flee further. Slowly I walked the path down from the bridge leading to the dipping terrain below, pride glowing in my chest with a mix of excitement and disbelief. 
 
 Today was the day Jim Turner and Bobby Johnson could eat their hats and chew cud. 
 
 I was bringing home the bacon. 

