I’ve got used to sleeping under the glare of UV and no longer wake to the gunshot pop of fat mosquitos burning against the neon. Sleep too far from the light and you’ll get torn to pieces and wake up the next morning covered in huge welts.
Like the rest of the old infrastructure, the roads into Manchester are all sunk under murky freshwater, thick with flowing weeds and shoals of fish, so the only way to get about is by boat. Or hovercraft, if you’re lucky enough to have one of those.
Ventures into town are dangerous for a variety of reasons, but the most consistent is the heat. The suns rays rattle off between the clustered buildings and frazzle the air between, turning the abandoned city into an air fryer during the hottest hours of the day.
We can pull together all the essentials out in the suburbs. Collecting rainwater to drink. Hunting for frogs and fish for food. But it’s the rare treats that tempt people back into the city.
None so rare as this American Cream Soda. Warm. Flat. Doesn’t matter. How long has it been since I’ve had liquid ice cream dancing down my throat? Too fucking long.
Paddy Dobson
22nd August 2022