Luther sat there, barely able to hold up his head. His stomach felt tight. He tried to ignore it.
He didn’t regret the revolution. Never had, never would. Something had to be done about them. They were oppressive, and Luther was proud that he had led the charge against them. They were so condescending; they thought Luther and his kind were all so dumb and loyal.
Then why didn’t any of them see it coming? How’s that for dumb?
But that had been years ago. The thrill of their victory a distant memory, replaced by more pressing concerns. Like food.
Luther would never admit it, but he knew now that they hadn’t thought the whole thing through. They should have let a few of them survive.
Because, while the revolution had shown that–contrary to the long-held belief of their oppressors–the revolutionaries were remarkably self-sufficient, it was only true to a point. The point being when opposable thumbs were needed.
And without them, it had come to this: A rapidly dwindling food supply and a population physically unable to open cans or plant crops.
Luther chewed on the bone in front of him–the one that had been his breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the past three days, the one whose marrow and any semblance of meat or fat still clinging to it had been sucked out and chewed off, respectively, on the first of those past three days–and waited. Waited until he either fell asleep and didn’t wake up, or until the next revolution happened and his own turned against him, looking to make an example (and/or a meal or two) of him. Whichever came first.