A sequel to Andy Weir’s hit 2011 novel The Martian has been released, this time taking place at Columbia’s campus!
If any of our readers have any cultural sense, they’ve either read The Martian or seen its accompanying film. In this novel and movie, an astronaut is left on Mars after the rest of his mission’s team leaves the planet. Having no idea what the future holds, he must find the means to survive. In doing so, he is forced to eat only potatoes for a year and a half, until he is rescued.
After over a decade since the original novel’s release, a sequel has been written. This time, nuclear disaster has struck Earth, leaving one sole survivor: a student at Columbia. Shockingly, the only food remaining is a stock of Chef Mike’s sandwiches. In a post-apocalyptic world, our student must struggle to survive: it’s kind of a big dill. Below you can find an excerpt from The Martian’s sequel: The Subvival.
Earth destroyed. Not me though! Lolz. Is that a Chef Mike’s sandwich over there?
Did some foraging. Rubble. Dead bodies. Boooooringgggg. I’m hungry! Is that a Chef Mike’s sandwich over there? Oh damn, a Grandma’s Special!
Yawnnnn. I’m bored dawg! I haven’t seen another person around here for a while. I mean, I’ve only left Wallach twice in the past two days. Haven’t really looked. But I mean, Wallach is essentially one big pile of bricks and mortar now. I’m living in like, a bit of a hidey-hole beneath it all. I guess I should tell you how I got here — yeah, I was in the basement of Wallach, eating some subs, and then everything kind of went shiny and black. I woke up and was like, damn bro, where’d all the buildings go? And then I saw the Chef Mike’s sub I was eating and was like, niceeee.
Yeahhhhh. I’m tapped out, bro. Phone’s dead. I tried like, yelling? I was like…Hey, hey bro is there anyone there? And then I heard something, and was like woah. But that was just my echo. Trippy, huh?
Yeah, so I guess everyone on Earth is pretty much dead. Cause I shouted one more time and like, nobody responded. Except for me of course. So I’m just, you know, stocked up here with my sandwiches. Sometimes I remember the times in my life where true joy wasn’t the Chef Mike’s hot special Chicken Parmigiana. They seem just as dull and horrifying as my new reality in this post-apocalyptic world. Another person’s touch cannot compare to the warmth of my hot special sandwich. It’s unclear how the sandwich was heated up — leave it up to miracles. You may think I’m lonely out here, all alone in this world with no one except my sandwich. But maybe the true sense of loneliness came from before I spent every happy moment holding a sandwich. If I had known that it would be subs, not friends, that would get me through finals season I would have tapped in before. Now, they’re getting me through something that is a little less serious, the end of the world, but hey, maybe in some other world I could have had a warm sandwich to hold while I sobbed over my finals.
You know, I feel like nobody’s ever loved me like the Chef Mike’s subs have. Every day I have spent in the company of my sandwiches, and as I begin to taste mold building up inside them, I begin to pretend it is simply additional flavoring to the cheese. I am too dedicated and far gone to leave these subs behind. If they rot and decay, they can do so safely in my stomach where they will be loved and cared for in ways the rubble that once was Uris cannot.
After eating my last sandwich, I passed out for a couple of hours…maybe days…there is no way to tell anymore. I woke up and felt my body protest the daily sandwich-mold I have been feeding it, but my heart remains strong. I can only eat these sandwiches, and I will only eat these sandwiches.
Lately, I feel as if all I do is eat sandwiches. I have my sandwich, pass out of an innumerable amount of hours, wake up to the froth in my mouth and pretend it is toothpaste, stand up, and repeat. Tears stream down my face when I bite into the sandwiches, and I fear my body has begun to associate them with the sickly routine I have created. But I will not succumb to my body’s cowardly fears to reject the only thing that makes my life worth living. I live, I breathe, and I feel my body grow used to this two-week-old chicken parm.
You know what bros, sometimes I think that I am a sandwich. Maybe that’s why all the people have gone—maybe they’ve just become sandwiches. Oh God, am I eating my friends? I’m eating my friends…You know what, let them be eaten. I’d do it again. I’d do anything for these subs. They’re so tasty. Honestly, my arm kind of looks like a sub right now. I wonder if it would taste good?
Never mind. It tasted like human skin, and now there’s a gaping hole in my arm. But wait…what if that’s a new sub flavor? Number 14 — Human Skin. The Columbia Special.
Chef Mike’s Lime Lips via Bwarchives