Word Count: 100
After the floods and gales, pestilence descended, and you had to pretend you were ill or get eaten. It began with the homeless and the already forgotten, those without symptoms and too aimless to feign the tell-tale cough.
Not so Vince, with his filched pot of pepper and his begging tin filled with dried butter beans from the dumpster. I remember his contagion act all too well. The raw eyes and the pepper sneeze. The butter bean chest rattle.
I never let on. Being a vegetarian with allergic rhinitis, why would I? We were the last two survivors, the obsolete.
Friday Fictioneers: 100 word stories
Photo Prompt: image copyright (c) Roger Bultot