The Last Husky

On a stormy apocalyptic night, my own mother kicked me and my Husky out into the cold. I was burning with a deadly fever. She did it just so my brother could have my share of the food. She spat through the crack in the door, "Take this useless mutt and go die. Stop wasting Tyler's rations." I huddled in a dumpster with my dog, certain that my life was over. Who knew my Husky would suddenly speak with a mechanical voice. "Critical host vitality detected. Infinite Supply Search System bound." "One hundred yards ahead, supermarket warehouse. Three thousand crates of self-heating beef stew detected." "Five hundred yards left, pharmacy. Five hundred boxes of antibiotics detected." Three days later, I established a fortress with my dog pack and mountains of supplies. I sat inside eating a hot steak while watching the show outside. My mother and brother knelt beyond my chain link fence, tearing at each other like rabid animals over half a piece of moldy bread.