The supermarket shelves emptied first.
It wasn't gradual, nor was it with the consideration of a society functioning normally, but instead it was with the frantic, animal desperation that always lurked beneath civilisation's thin veneer.
"They're limiting toilet paper to one package per customer," whispered a woman clutching three to her chest, eyes darting toward the harried cashier. "But Lena's holding the exit door. Just go around through Automotive."
Her co-conspirator nodded, already mapping the route in her mind.
At the meat counter, two men in business suits squared off over the last package of chicken breasts.
"My children—" began one.
"Everyone has children," snapped the other.
Security moved in their direction, but without conviction. Half the security team hadn't shown up for their shift today. The other half kept checking their phones, each ping drawing their attention away from the chaos unfolding before them.
