Martin walks toward Jenna with her month's rations. There are ten of them. She does some mental math. Thirty-one days this month. Divide by ten. One every three days.

'You've got to be kidding,'� she says, shaking her head. 'Just ten this time? Hell, I used to smoke that much in one night, easy.'�

Martin bows his head. 'I know, I know. This is hard for me, too.'�

'Yeah, right.'� Jenna glares at her husband through angry eyes. Cigarette junkies have become infamous for their short tempers. And their greed. 'How many'd you get?'�

'Ten, just like you.".

'Hmm-hmm.'� She knew the men received five more in their dole than the women. Every month, she'd rummage through her husband's belongings, looking for his stash. And she always found his stash. Rather than confront him'she couldn't really blame him for hoarding them'she'd steal one or two, knowing gutless Martin would never confront her.

America, 2025. A 23-year-old war still rages in Iraq. Sports-utility vehicles rust in driveways because many cannot pay twenty-five dollars for a gallon of gasoline, especially the unemployed white-collar workers working at drive-through windows asking, 'Would you care for a drink with your fries?'�

Terrorist attacks have leveled every major city in the country. Women prostitute themselves to feed their children, men scavenge through dumpsters for furniture and clothing, and smokers have become the outcast parasites blamed for sucking the nation's health care system dry.

Jenna's hands tremble as she examines the plastic-wrapped package. It's been nearly twenty-four hours since she'd last inhaled the nicotine that steadied her nerves.

'Look at old-man Waters,'� she says to Martin, pointing to the man next to the lilac bush outside their compound. Mr. Waters smokes one cigarette after another, his cheeks forming hollow pockets with every drag.

Martin fumbles for matches in his pants pocket. 'Yeah, well he better not try to bum one off of me this month.'�

Like you'd do something about it. 'I think I should tell him our chain-smoking days are over,'� Jenna says.

Still outside their compound, Jenna notices an unshaven, unkempt young man watching them from two houses down. 'Let's get the hell out of here,'� she says.

Martin strikes a match. 'Let me smoke this first.'� Compound-dwellers aren't allowed to smoke inside.

'No, not now,'� she says, pointing to the stranger. 'He's watching us."

Martin spots the scraggly-bearded stranger. 'How long's he been there?'�

'Dunno,'� she whispers. 'He's watching you, though. That much I do know.'�

'Dammit, okay,'� Martin says, carefully flicking off the red-hot tip of his lighted cigarette. 'Where we going?'�

'Let's just walk, okay?'�

When Jenna was in college, she'd tried to quit smoking. But the nicotine patch gave her a rash, the gum left her mouth ulcerated, and the anti-depressants made her too tired to study.

After graduation, she met Martin, a smoker with whom she fell madly in love and married after three months.

At first, their marriage was the envy of all their friends, smokers and non-smokers alike. Soon, though, when employers began receiving hefty fines for retaining smokers under their employ, Martin was fired from his lucrative position at an upscale law firm.

They eventually moved to the government-subsidized smoking compound because, with two meager incomes from minimum-wage jobs, it was all they could afford. Some compound-dwellers were decent, respectful people who minded their business. Others, though, spent their days concocting schemes to acquire more cigarettes. And as the government attempted to 'wean'� smokers from their addictions with fewer cigarette rations every month, the schemers grew in number. Acts of violence in smokers' compounds were never random.

Jenna and Martin walk a few blocks, occasionally looking behind them. Scraggly Beard Man follows, keeping a constant, heavy-footed pace behind them.

Jenna hears his footsteps. She can hear his heavy breathing escalating in intensity. 'Run, Martin!'� she says.

Martin stops her. 'No!'� He sticks his right hand deep into his pants pocket. 'I'm tired of this shit!'�

Jenna gasps when her husband pulls out an ivory-handled switchblade. 'When did you get that? Where?'�

'Bartered it for a few smokes last month.'�

Martin turns to face the stranger. 'You want a piece of this? Huh?'� He dangles the blade in front of Scraggly Beard Man. 'Well, say something!'�

Jenna pulls on her husband's shirt and tugs hard, but he elbows her away, knocking her to the ground.

Scraggly Beard Man takes off his sunglasses and raises both hands in the air. 'What is your problem, man? I just wanted to know'�do you guys have a light?'�

Want to comment on this Flash Fiction? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Flash Fiction and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...