Pickle

Crispin Birdwhistle, former bricklayer, slowly carried a crate up from the tunnels, his cheeks red with exertion. With a final grunt, he dropped it on the floor of the family bunker. His three kids eagerly crowd around him as he pried the crate open.

"Ugh, Branston Pickle again?" whined the youngest Birdwhistle.

"Ah, my apologies, dear," said Crispin in a patronizing tone. "Let me just go get in my lorry, drive through nuclear armageddon and pick up some crisps from whatever shop's still standing." The child sulked, but the point was clear. "Now, pack this away and get your boots on. The Wilkshires found an old generator and they need small hands to help fix it up." Crispin leaned against the earthen wall as the kids grabbed five jars apiece and hauled them off into storage. Only his wife remained in the makeshift living room, darning the family's clothes. Above them, they could faintly hear the sound of the radioactive wind that still ripped through the fractured village above

"Martha, what do you think did it anyways?" said Crispin. "What political screw-up brought the bombs down on us?" Martha Birdwhistle raised an eyebrow.

"Maybe someone served Branston Pickle at a diplomatic dinner, dear."