The sun never learns; it bruised itself upon the horizon every night. It spilled it’s blood on the horizon and she stood and watched. She was very still. She was always very still. The light rose and strengthened and dimmed across her serene features. Behind her the queue snaked and stretched itself across the ruined streets. Exactly sixty three people down the queue stood Piggy. He had forgotten why they called him Piggy. He supposed that he had an odour about him; he couldn’t remember the last time he had washed. He supposed that the sun had made him pink, and he had always been a round man. So perhaps that was why they named him so.
“Hey Piggy” called his friend.
Piggy thought the man must be his friend. They shared food sometimes, when it wandered by and they managed to catch it, and that was a thing that friends did. Wasn’t it? He couldn’t remember.
One had to be careful that one didn’t lose one’s place in the queue. Some time ago he had strayed too far attempting to catch a small finch, and had had to shoulder his way back in, down amongst the new and eager horde. How long ago had that been? He hardly knew.
“Hey Piggy” called his friend. “Another one. See? Another one.”
The man’s teeth chattered, from excitement or cold Piggy couldn’t tell. It was a warm night though. He was pointing up the queue.
“We’re one closer to her. One closer, my friend.”
Further up the queue was a flurry of movement. Piggy looked away, not liking to think what they were doing to the unfortunate soul.
She was oblivious to the fuss and noise, of course. She stared at the space where the sun had been with her blank creamy orbs.
Down the queue, perhaps fifty people back, a woman was squatting and grunting. Her neighbours supported her by her elbows, but their eyes were towards the front of the queue. One of them was having his place taken by a squalling babe. He wondered if it would see through the night.
“I miss the autumn.” Piggy said. “Why is it never autumn any more?”
He looked at his friend and saw from his wide glassy eyes and his shuddering shoulders that he was covered by the long shadow of death.
“Sixty two.” Piggy thought to himself.