Page 1 of To Match A Dragon's Fire

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Ember

Worst. Apocalypse. Ever.

Just when I thought the apocalypse couldn’t get any worse…

“No fries. No oil. Deep fryer is shot anyway. We can burn some frozen patties and that’s it. Word on the street is the government’s been seizing vendor deliveries for their own use. Whatever we might’ve gotten yesterday is gone.” The lights flickered above the kitchen as Marco ran through the notes for today’s shift.

Last week, we’d run out of chicken tenders.

This week, potatoes.

What was this world coming to?

It was truly the end when you couldn’t get cheap carbs at the bar. Mozzarella sticks and flat beer went together like Romeo and Juliet. Margaritas were worthless if you couldn’t stuff your face with nachos like nature intended. Don’t even get me started on how sad life was without onion rings.

And that was only the junk foods.

It was depressing how bad things had gotten.

We weren’t in the true apocalypse yet. Not really. More like the pre-apocalypse. The time leading to the apocalypse. The painfully slow anticipatory years until the end…

I couldn’t come up with a better way to describe it. That wasn’t like me.

I loved words.

But we were basically stuck in a sort of limbo with the economy shutting down while the earth fell apart around us.

Seismic and volcanic activity had increased more than experts thought possible, moving faster than we could predict, and rocked the foundation of our world.

Supply issues were the new normal. Infrastructure cracked with each earthquake. Machines stopped working. Electricity was interrupted. Buildings crumbled. Wi-Fi was always spotty. Water coming from underground sources was questionable.

Chaos was happening around the world, but the most obvious sign was seeing the empty shelves and knowing what we’d have to do without.

We were running low on everything:

Time. Patience. Hope.

Willow was right. We should go.

But we needed more cash first.

I tied my apron around my waist and checked to make sure the lanterns were set behind the bar counter for when the power went out. Keeping the lights on at night was a distant memory. Rolling blackouts were common.

But old habits die hard, and if we could squeeze out some more juice from the useless government, we would.

“What’s on tap?” I eyed the empty bottles on the bottom shelf where we’d moved the glasses so theywouldn’t fall during the shakes. If the moonshine supply hadn’t come in, that meant we were serving—

“The piss Brendon brought,” Marco, the bar’s manager, impatiently cut off my train of thought. He had a crude mouth and a greasy mustache over his lip. His bald head glowed in the flickering fluorescent lights as he glared my way.

He still hated me for getting Garcia fired. Thankfully, I wouldn’t have to work with Marco because he’d disappear as soon as the evening shift started.

Brendon, on the other hand, was a young entrepreneur who’d gotten roped into this job by his uncle. He spent evenings as the bouncer for McKay’s Bar and brewed beer during his downtime. His stuff wasn’t too bad either. Poor kid might’ve done something with his life if he lived in a different era.

Maybe I would’ve too.

Then again, at his age, I’d already been divorced, homeless, broke, and drowning in student debt. English majors weren’t making much money then and they sure weren’t paying the bills now.

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