Sharon had been a cashier before the food ran out. Worked at a Best Buy and scanned DVDs for children birthday shopping with their mothers. When times changed she discovered her ability to react little in the face of terrific violence.
In the midst of the clapboard longhouse fire pit her family had gathered. To the left and right a gallery of human skulls lolled on the timber walls. Propped up on hooks bent out of foraged tent pegs or melted cans tooled on a crude forge outside. They hung from their eyeholes or the crumbled sockets of their spinal cord, while more drooped jawless on ivy ropes tied about them in bows.
The head she offered was suspended on a rope of thorns. She drilled the holes herself through the temples. Some of the tribe had complained that the small size of the skull made it a poor offering. Those who had seen it before she boiled off the flesh knew how the size was a value in itself.
Sharon pulled the rough clay lid off the soul jar with a red-stained palm, and thought of how she sold this one a gamepad in her ancient past. She couldn’t have imagined then that her family would now be in possession of his eternal soul.