Paleo / The Doomsday Prepper

by David Liss

  Candi remained motionless for a moment, and then her mouth twitched just a little. “So, what do you want, Pete?”

  “I want you to take care of the client and their roof, like you promised you would,” he said. “I don’t care how. Pay for the repairs out of your own pocket. You won’t even miss money like that. And then you need to change your tune about me. Talk me up. Send business my way. All I want is for things to be like they were before you took a complete dump on my life.”

  “And if I do that, what do you do with this?” she gestured toward the envelope on her desk.

  Pete shrugged. “I don’t want a war with you, Candi. That never goes anywhere so long as you hold up your end of the bargain. Oh, and pay the private detective’s bill. Grant’s my friend and all, but digging up your dirt was expensive.”

  “I can do that,” she said. Just like that. She was doing what he wanted. She leaned forward, letting the top of her blouse hang open. “And what else can I do for you?”

  * * *

  There were a bunch of reasons why Pete decided to go ahead and have sex with Candi Watson in her office. The idea of putting it to a woman who had treated him like dirt for so long was too sweet to resist. The six pack he’d put down while making his t-shirt was still swimming through his system, and that probably played a role in it too. Most of all he did it because it felt like what he was supposed to be doing, and as near as he could tell, that’s what drove the system. That’s what made things go his way. Having sex with a near-retirement-age realtor was the ritual the spirits demanded of him, so he did it.

  There was also the fact that if Jenny could step out on him, he could do the same, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to brag about this one.

  * * *

  Next up was Rick’s place. Grant said they’d been using his casita out back as their rendezvous place, and he’d said lunch hour was the time, so Rick drove over, parking his car a couple of blocks away. He just walked around back, through the fence, and opened the door.

  In the movies, the cheating couple is always caught in the act, but really, what are the odds? There’s a lot more time spent in before and after, and it turned out that Pete got the after. Jenny and Rick were both in the process of dressing when Pete walked into the casita. They froze. Rick in his t-shirt and boxers, one leg going into his suit pants. Jenny had her back to the door, but was turning, her mouth a little O of surprise as she latched her bra.

  Pete didn’t want for there to be a whole lot of conversation. There wasn’t much to say. He smacked Rick in the face, a big open-palm slap that, given his awkward pose, sent him sprawling to the carpet. Jenny screamed.

  No one was telling him it was not what it looked like, which was good. Pete didn’t want to mess around with that bullshit.

  “Look at you,” Jenny said, her face having moved from surprise to anger. “You come here stinking of beer and you slap him, like you fought with our neighbor. Is that what you are now? A drunken brawler?”

  Pete felt himself nodding. “I guess it is. I don’t think it’s all of what I am, but that’s part of it, sure.”

  “Get out!” Jenny screamed.

  “I’m not quite ready to get out.”

  Rick was now on his feet. He’d managed to get his pants on, which was better for his dignity. “Now, look, Pete. I know this is uncomfortable, we shouldn’t deal with this when tempers are running hot. Why don’t we go somewhere and talk about it like civilized people.”

  “Somewhere your wife won’t find out about?” Pete asked.

  “There’s no need for this thing to blow up in our faces, is there?” Rick smiled at him. “I know you’ve been having some hard times, so what’s it going to take to make this right?”

  Pete stared at him. He’d been pushing back against the worst of his impulses. He wanted violence. He wanted to inflict pain and take in the coppery smell of blood, but he’d been holding himself back. He kept telling himself that it didn’t have to be that way, but maybe it should be that way. “Rick, did you just try to bribe me into letting you have my wife?”

  “She’s not yours anymore. I’m just trying to take the sting out of it.”

  Pete hit him in the face. Rick staggered back, bounced off the wall, and came at Pete, arms waving wildly. Pete hit him again. And again. Rick’s nose burst open, spraying blood in a fine mist. Pete tasted Rick’s nose blood on his mouth. He licked his lips. There was blood in the air, and the powers were satisfied.

  “Leave him alone!”

  Pete turned in time to see his wife rushing at him with a cheese knife. Why was there a cheese knife in the casita? It was a good question, but Pete didn’t have a chance to ponder it. Jenny’s eyes were wild, her muscles tensed. Pete could see it all. Her rage, her angle, the shoes she’d left on the floor. He merely stepped out of the way, let Jenny slip, let her fall forward, cheese knife in hand. He watched as it made contact with Rick’s throat, and he saw the explosive mist of arterial blood as it streaked across his wife’s face.

  A shudder passed through Pete, revulsion and regret and relief. The powers had their blood, and they would be satisfied for now.

  Pete glanced around the room, dazed, heart pumping, mind racing. There was a platter with cheese and crackers on the dresser. That explained the knife.

  * * *

  The last few months had been hard on Addison to be sure. With her mother arrested for killing her lover, and all the local media attention the case had produced, a change of scenery was just the thing. Pete stood on the lawn and watched the movers load up the truck. Across the street, William’s old house stood empty. The Douche had moved out a couple of weeks before, but he hadn’t been able to find a buyer. Pete had considered snatching up the place himself, but there were too many weird memories.

  Now that his web business was taking off – Pete had one of those sites where people paid money for a downloaded book, his on how to achieve your goals by indulging in what makes you happy – the world was opening up before him. There had been some setbacks, sure. Jenny’s legal fees, for one. Pete had considered throwing her to the wolves. No one would have blamed him after how she’d treated him, sure, but that would have sent the wrong message to Addison. Instead he hired a relatively inexpensive lawyer.

  Rick’s death was, of course, a colossal mess, but no one was going for first degree murder charges. Pete told the police it was an accident. In his version, he’d caught the two of them having an affair, Rick had attacked Pete, and when Pete fought back, Jenny came at her husband with the knife. She hadn’t meant to kill Rick, he’d said. It was an accident. The plea deal gave her a chance of getting out in ten years.

  “Things are going to be better,” he told Addison. “You’ll see.” Pete leaned over and kissed the top of her head. She gave him a hug back. That was one positive aspect to all of this. Addison had dropped the attitude. She’d realized just how much she needed her dad, and he was there for her. He’d have to be a bad person not to be.

  Pete smiled at her again. A new town. A new start. He could have whatever he wanted, and if things got a little messy along the way, that was just life.

  The End

  David Liss is the author of nine novels, most recently The Day of Atonement and Randoms, his first book for younger readers. His previous bestselling books include The Coffee Trader and The Ethical Assassin, both of which are being developed as films, and A Conspiracy of Paper, which is now being developed for television. Liss is the author of numerous comics, including Mystery Men, Sherlock Holmes: Moriarty Lives and Angelica Tomorrow

  THE DOOMSDAY PREPPER

  JOURNALSTONE’S DOUBLE DOWN SERIES, BOOK VI

  By

  Eileen Curtright

  JournalStone

  San Francisco

  Copyright © 2015 by Eileen Curtright

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrie
val system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  JournalStone books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

  JournalStone

  www.journalstone.com

  The views expressed in this work are solely those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  ISBN: 978-1-942712-30-5 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-942712-31-2 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-1-942712-33-6 (hc – limited edition)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015938645

  Printed in the United States of America

  JournalStone rev. date: June 12, 2015

  Cover Design: Cover Art & Design: Chuck Killorin

  Edited by: Aaron J. French

  THE DOOMSDAY PREPPER

  THE DOOMSDAY PREPPER

  I

  I’d seen it coming for a long time, but mostly I kept it to myself. You don’t become branch sales leader by popping off about the End of Days, the coming social, political, and environmental collapse. Imminent collapse. And when your field is insurance, well... you better believe I held my peace.

  At Alamo Mutual, I was trading in lies. I’d pull up a chair at some stranger’s kitchen table, accept a glass of orange juice I didn’t want, and explain how a given policy would mean lifetime security and protection. The clients were awkward and prone to nervous laughter, like people unused to discussing their own deaths and the catastrophic loss of all they owned. I wanted to hurl the orange juice against the wall and scream about bodies in the streets and days of darkness and rivers of fire, like a methed-up street preacher, but instead we’d shake hands and I’d promise that with a whole-life policy they could sleep easy. “Peace of mind” was the phrase our regional head was pushing in those days. So I’d get the signatures and take the forms back to my office. I had wood paneling and a philodendron in there, and the radio turned down low. I’d sharpen a pencil and get back to it, assessing the risk that such and such building would burn or flood, or this or that business would fail during the term of the policy, as if things would go on in this comfortable way for the foreseeable.

  It didn’t feel right. “I’m a fraud,” I said to myself. I was standing at the front door of Jeff Robert and Marissa Beal, holding a briefcase, sweating in my suit and tie. If I’d had a shred of honor, I would have gone back to my car and left these people in peace. But when Marissa came to the door I put on a smile and stuck out my hand. “Oh, but we’re family!” she said and pulled me in for a hug. I prayed the back of my shirt wasn’t sweaty, but I knew by her recoil that it was.

  “Thanks so much for seeing me,” I said, assuming a slightly cringing manner. That’s the way you do it—deferential at first, uncertain of your welcome, but inside a quarter of an hour the dynamics would shift. In the end, they’d sign where I told them and pass over the check.

  I followed her into the house, evaluating her claim of kinship. Where we family, really? Marissa is my wife’s second cousin, but if I’d seen her since our wedding, I couldn’t now recall it. Anyway, it had been long enough that my weight gain was clearly a shock to her, but she did a passable job of hiding it. Marissa led me into the kitchen where Jeff Robert was flipping grilled cheese sandwiches on the griddle. He hugged me, too, with the spatula still in hand, and I decided second cousin by marriage didn’t count.

  “I’m interrupting,” I said, even though this was the time of our scheduled appointment.

  They both denied it and then offered me a grilled cheese sandwich which I accepted, along with a glass of orange juice. I find people grow uncomfortable when a fat man eats, but I pretended not to observe the mixture of concern and disgust on their faces as I folded my sandwich on top of itself and dispatched it in four large bites. Then I drank the orange juice without coming up for air.

  “Let me ask you this. If something—God forbid—if something were to happen to you tomorrow, Marissa, would Jeff Robert and your boy be provided for?”

  “We have our savings,” Marissa said.

  I began to lay out some numbers. It’s important to dance lightly over all the death and maiming, chronic illness and catastrophe that might torpedo the average suburban life. I took them quickly to another image—Jeff Robert and the boy, Louis, happy and secure, their futures certain, because of the wise and responsible decisions that were made at this kitchen table today. Marissa teared up. It moved her, this image. Never mind that if it came to pass, it would mean she was in the ground and Jeff Robert was dating again.

  “Peace of mind,” I said, tapping the pile of papers. And then I signed them for an enormous life policy, far more than any reasonable estimate of Marissa’s future earnings would suggest was necessary. There was a time when I would not have stooped to such a thing.

  They thanked me repeatedly as they walked me to the door, their arms draped around each other. I didn’t linger. Insurance is like an aphrodisiac for some couples. It’s almost like renewing your vows.

  As I walked to my car, I was filled with disgust. I’d been an insurance man once, but now I was just working a con.

  * * *

  I rode the elevator back to the office with Trip Edmonds, our regional head, swabbing my forehead with a handkerchief. Trip also wore a full suit in 98 degree temperatures, but he never sweated out of context; only on the elliptical trainer had I ever seen his shirt damp. He could see by my tie that I’d been out on a call.

  “Did you score?”

  “So close,” I said, crossing my fingers. There was no reason to lie to Trip, other than that his grin annoyed me, and that my conscience was tender on the subject of this check. I couldn’t face Trip’s whoop of congratulations, the obligatory high-fives. I’d rather let him think I’d struck out.

  “You’ll reel them in,” he said, kneading my shoulder. He’s a hands-on manager. But I could tell he was pleased I’d failed. Trip thought I was gunning for him. I had been gunning for him, once, before the signs became conclusive. Now I put in my hours, but weekends I devoted to the plan—holidays too. Sick days? You better believe it. I wrapped myself in an electric blanket and read up on how to purify water, how to improvise a splint from common objects. But no matter how much I learned or how much I prepped, I could see that it was not enough.

  “Back at it,” I said as the doors opened to the seventh floor.

  * * *

  “I feel like a fraud,” I said over blooming onions that night at Señor Queso’s. The Alamo Preppers Group met every Tuesday in the party room in back. There were twelve of us at the table, passing the onions and a platter of potato skins, and I’d had one too many beers. “I’m out there hawking policies that’ll never pay out. My customers may as well light their premiums on fire.”

  “There’s an idea,” Hank said. He lived just half a block from my house. Insurance was his livelihood, too, but instead of bringing us together, our common profession made us uneasy with each other.

  “Well I feel guilty,” I said. “Don’t you feel guilty, Hank?”

  He chewed a piece of onion and didn’t say a word.

  “The information is out there for anyone to find,” Cerise said. She and Hank prepped together. Prepping is ideally a family activity, but my own wife, Lisa, had never made an appearance at an event or social. “Who are you?” Lisa said once, when she found me at my workbench, dipping arrows into neurotoxic poison and sipping a cup of cold black coffee. Now I found it easier to keep my activities private.

  “You can’t help those that won’t be helped,” Hank said.

  Lisa was firmly in the camp of those that won’t be helped. Officially, I was no longer involved with the Alamo Preppers, because she deemed it—my “hobby”—t
o be borderline deranged. As I sat there eating fried onion, my wife was under the impression that I was at my Tuesday night exercise group, sweating in sync with a trainer and trying to shed the extra pounds. It was a necessary deception, one she’d forgive when I was able to keep her and our girls alive.

  “All I’m saying, Eric, is it’s fine to sit here and talk about your feelings, but when the day comes it’s kill or be killed, my friend.” Hank threw a scrap of fajita to his dog, Cormac, who lounged at his feet.

  Cerise nodded. “I can and will shoot to protect my family and property right now. And when the E.O.D. hits, all bets are off.”

  “Well I sure won’t cross you in the last days, Cerise,” Milo said. Then he winked at me.

  “Oh, I might go easy on you. You’re just a kid,” Cerise said. She reached across the table and stroked his beard. I took a fried jalapeño from the communal platter.

  “Kid or not, each and every other person represents competition for scarce resources. No mercy. That’s got to be the policy if you want to survive. Of course, not everyone will have the stomach for it.” Hank looked at my gut, which was now protruding over the waistband of my athletic shorts. “The weak will be winnowed out early on.”

  Hank ordered another round. He was drinking more than usual and behaving with more swagger than he had before. But we were all changing. The ground shook so often and spewed fire so frequently that even some civilians began to express concern that a calamity of some type might be in the works.