In the world beyond the Checkpoint, where the old fast‑food empires have vanished, even a packet of hot sauce has become priceless. My grandmother—an archetypal wastrel of Generation W (for Waste)—used to toss perfectly new Tico’s Tacos “Sizzlin’ Hot” salsa packets without a second thought. Now, decades later, I pay squatters to dig through landfill mounds for those same foil sachets, transforming refuse into relics for my gallery: Portals to the Past.
Mission Street sits three blocks inside the Zona Protegida—a razor‑wire perimeter that separates our citadel of plenty from the starving masses beyond. There, behind armored glass, I exhibit these unearthed artifacts: styrofoam clamshells, faded wax‑paper wrappers, bent plastic lids, and, at center stage, the scarlet Tico’s Tacos packets. They evoke the world before the Collapse, when fast food chains were as ubiquitous as smartphones.
This evening was to be my greatest opening yet: an entire showcase devoted to Tico’s lore. My contact, a ragged squatter named Zook, delivered the final box of contraband relics just as dusk fell. He smelled of smoke and old urine, limped on a makeshift peg‑leg, and warned me in a gravelly whisper, “They’re coming.”
“Who?” I asked, irritated at the thought of postponing my party.
“The hungry. They’ll storm the wire in three nights—same night as your gala.”
I refused to believe him. Rumors of breach attempts were common, often little more than histrionic chatter among the scavengers. Besides, I’d invested months—and half my stockpile of trade goods—into this exhibition. Delaying one night could cost me everything.
I signed the final voucher: a crate of vintage burger‑joint napkins for a box of well‑preserved jackets and boots. Zook tucked the salsa packets under his arm and melted back into the soot‑stained streets outside the barricade.
By sundown, floodlights snapped on along Mission Street. Sentries in patched uniforms verified IDs, then waved me through the checkpoint. The boulevard was quiet—its diminished traffic a constant reminder of our fragile enclave. My gallery’s steel shutters rose with a mechanical groan, revealing the display: rows of neon‑faded straws from Bloopee’s, archival video loops of drive‑thru carhops, and, in the center, the salsa packets arranged like fiery moths pinned to velvet.
I lingered over the glass case, smoothing a stray curl, when Dean called. His voice crackled through my earpiece: “Zook find anything… usable?”
“Perfect packets,” I replied, stretching the truth. “Don’t worry about that other nonsense.” I hung up, resolute. Fear would only dampen turnout.
An attractive stranger paused before the window, his eyes tracing the line of straws. “Will you be here tomorrow?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” I said, gesturing at my hand‑lettered sign: “Tico’s Tacos: Sizzlin’ Hot Opening—Tonight!” I allowed myself a playful wink, dismissing Zook’s warning as paranoid rambling.
Three nights later, champagne flutes clicked in celebration. Two dozen patrons—Zone denizens in their faded Sunday best—meandered among the exhibits. They marveled at the preserved restaurant detritus, swapping nostalgic tales of neon signs and bottomless fries. A lone violinist drifted through mid‑century standards, and I breathed in the scent of shampoo, a rare luxury I’d indulged that morning.
Just as Dean was congratulating me on “another flawless opening,” chaos erupted at the gallery doors. A ragged swarm of gaunt figures—faces smeared with grime, clothing patchworked from discarded tarps—shoved past the guards. The hungry had arrived.
Silence fell. The intruders didn’t brandish weapons; instead, they spread out, craning their necks to inspect the exhibits. A scabby woman seized a salsa packet, tore it open, and, after a tentative sniff, slurped its fiery contents. Her eyes watered, but she did not flee. A skeletal man pressed his cracked lips to the drive‑thru loop, his mutterings indistinguishable under the violin’s tremolo. Another crouched before a trio of plastic Tico the Cat figurines, trembling in reverence.
A tipsy patron whispered to me, “It’s performance art—our shared history, laid bare.” People nodded as if it made sense, tears glimmering in their eyes.
I managed a shaky laugh. “Yes… a performance.”
But then glass shattered. Someone, perhaps in panic or triumph, hurled a bottle. A swirl of panic seized the room—screams, the violinist’s bow snapping against strings, polished shoes skidding across the tiled floor.
I fled through the near‑empty gallery, heart pounding. Behind me, the artifacts lay strewn: condiment sachets trampled underfoot, straws scattered like neon confetti. Outside, the razor wire loomed through the shattered doorway, the hungry pressing just beyond our fragile defense.
In that moment, I understood Zook’s warning. Scarcity had driven us to hoard history—and now, history had come alive, demanding our attention in the most unexpected, and terrifying, of ways.
