Wide and Plenty
Although smells at that time were wide and plenty, chief among them a few days post-apocalypse was the stench of vomit as survivors and reanimate celebs alike discovered that they could no longer consume foodstuffs. They chomped on crusty bread and baguettes first, and the fruits and roots with limited lifespans, but all things that went down immediately resurfaced, thickened with bile, sifted with DNA. Great splatters of the stuff coated aisleways and travelators, dribbled its way down pound-sign signage and dripped into slushing freezers. Some, mocked by the golden arches of Pointless Cafe, began to re-eat the sick, and then re-regurgitated the already spewed. And so a few starved to their almost deaths, before rumour wheeled along in her trolley and spread the news that someone had seen a child chewing on Heat magazine and another nibbling at a Lloyd Grossman label, washing it down with glass.
And yes, they ate packaging. They ate the packaging. They removed the food, piled it in a rotting corner, and ate the cardboard and the glass and the plastic and the string and the aluminium foil. It had, after all, been the thing they had spent most of their fucking money on.
