Evil Jester Digest, Volume 2

by Holly Newstein

  ***

  Something damp and cool made little sniffing noises in his ear.

  Derrick’s eyes fluttered open. What he saw was moving fur, and he jolted his head up, swatting with his left hand. The coyote retreated a dozen or so paces, then stopped, turned around, and looked at him.

  The first stirrings of dawn, the sky was a dreamlike purple and gray.

  Derrick and the coyote watched one another. The animal was strong willed, holding its position, holding eye contact. To Derrick’s right there was movement. A second coyote regarded him. Then a third, which had moved away from the passenger side door. Three that he could see. Maybe more. Coyotes. Some of the best noses in the woods.

  Like the flies, they had sniffed out the smell of decay. The woman in the car was food to them.

  His throat was so dry that he had no voice, only the softest whisper when he said, “Get out of here.”

  The one that had been inspecting him took a step closer.

  From somewhere deep inside, strong enough to hurt his stomach, setting his lungs ablaze and ravaging his throat, he shouted, “Get out of here!”

  Gentle tears danced in his eyes as the coyotes raced off and disappeared into the landscape of rocks and trees. Then the tears grew stronger. How he could produce tears at all would have been a curiosity under different circumstances. His nose throbbed and he cried and he forced himself up onto his elbows again. He pushed himself over the ground, pulled himself with what little strength he had in his arms. Things poked him and scraped him.

  Do you mind if I turn on some music?

  I’m kind of enjoying the silence.

  All right, fuck it.

  Time lurched forward, jerked back, went wherever the hell it wanted to go. He slid across the ground, rounded the front of the car, looked up and saw the arm dangling out the window. What little of the hand that remained at its end looked black and jagged. His heart beat faster. He pushed himself toward her.

  It’s like you’re not even trying anymore.

  We’re trying now aren’t we? We’re trying this stupid getaway idea of yours.

  It’s not stupid. I’m trying to give us a chance.

  I think we’ve used up all our chances, Derrick.

  He reached the door, whimpered at the sight of the arm. His lungs burned but he couldn’t help his breathing.

  A road in the middle of nowhere. A drop-off on the right. He jerks the wheel a bit, bringing the car close to the edge.

  Stop it!

  Are you saying you’ve given up on us?

  He jerks the wheel again.

  Cut it out!

  Are you saying you’ve given up on us?

  I’m saying it’s hard! Stop fucking around with the car!

  He reached for the handle. The door was stuck but it wasn’t solid. It moved. He pulled hard at the handle. A small gap appeared between the door and the car and he moved his fingers into it.

  I’m not ready for this to be over and I don’t think you are either.

  He jerks the car once more. Only a little bit, but enough to scare Cynthia, and she reaches for the wheel…

  He pulled as hard as he could, screaming out from exertion and realization.

  A snag in the road. A quick gasp. The car screams as it goes over the hill, and keeps on screaming as it goes up on two wheels and then topples over, then over and over, down the hillside…

  There was a pop and the door sprung open. She collapsed down as far as her seatbelt allowed.

  No, the car isn’t screaming. He’s screaming, his wife is screaming as the car rolls over and over again, as fiberglass splinters and safety glass shatters…

  He looked at her dangling there. He felt no physical pain now. He struggled up and over her, pressed fingers near her left hip until he found the button and pressed it. The seatbelt let go and she fell into him. They collapsed on the ground together. The insects had done a number on her face. Her beautiful face, which he kissed the cheek of. He hugged her and held her in his arms, wailing, crying, saying over and over, “Cynthia…”

  And through the agonized noises he made, another sound chirped in. The early morning discord of reverberating birdcalls.

  Fans of Gene O’Neill are in for a real treat, and so are readers who have yet to discover him. If you haven’t read Mr. O’Neill’s work yet, trust me, this is a great place to start.

  Although “Coyote Gambit” is an original story, making its debut here, it’s chronologically the earliest entry in Gene’s Cal Wild mythos, which started (in terms of publishing) with “The Burden of Indigo,” published in Twilight Zone Magazine back in 1981. The series later moved to novels, beginning with an expanded version of The Burden of Indigo in 2002.

  Need I say more?

  Sit back, relax as you embark on this devious fever dream, and thank your lucky stars that The Collapse, though very real in these pages, is not yet upon us.

  Coyote Gambit

  Gene O’Neill

  The man rises up cautiously from the cluster of thick manzanita bushes camouflaging his entryway. With his head barely exposed, he slowly turns and examines his immediate surroundings. He notices that the area has been lightly dusted with snow since early last night. Unusual weather for the Greater Bay Area, even frost rare during the winters before The Collapse. He pulls down the bandana protecting his face and releases a steamy breath from his mouth. Even in his bundled-up garb he isn’t able to restrain a slight shiver. He’s venturing out an hour later than usual tonight, dusk already rapidly descending.

  He’s been delayed with cleaning up broken glass and a mess before leaving his obsessively neat basement stronghold hidden away behind him under the overgrown concrete rubble. Now, he will have to rush over to the old park to check his trap line before predators strip any of his successful snares. Usually the silent thieves operate under the cover of early darkness. Rabbits have best resisted the radioactive pollution of all the animal survivors, and they are now his major source of fresh meat. He can’t afford to lose even one to thieves.

  Nevertheless, for a few moments more, he remains in place, carefully inspecting the wintry landscape. First, he checks around his hidden entryway for any footprints. He finds the thin snow crust undisturbed. Then, he slowly scans the surrounding shadows for movement of any kind, and detects none. He sucks in a deep breath, sampling the air. The sweet stench of death has at last completely dissipated from over the city, and the air tonight is nothing but chilled freshness. Finally, he cocks his head, pinches his nostrils, blows through his nose, popping his ear canals. Then, he closes his eyes and listens ever so intently for a few moments. Hearing nothing suspicious, he blinks, ready to go. But before taking a step, he compulsively touches first his sawed-off shotgun and then his long knife, both holstered on the cartridge belt tightened around his hips outside his ankle-length tan duster.

  As confidant as he can be that no danger lurks nearby, he pulls up his bandanna, tugs down the ski cap over his ears, and begins to head over to the city park, three long blocks away.

  ***

  Like other cities in the Greater Bay Area, the downtown streets of Vallejo are impassably clogged with abandoned, rusting vehicles and stacks of litter. To the West across 250 yards of water, a few steel ribs of buildings are silhouetted, skeletal reminders of where Mare Island Naval Shipyard once stood. Piles of rubble, twisted metal, and burned debris are scattered about everywhere over there, replacing the long two-story shops, deep dry docks, and dinosaur-like cranes.

  In the heart of downtown, the man passes a pair of flattened Muni buses that were caught and buried under the avalanche of collapsing buildings. The city has been almost completely leveled and burned over like most other towns as far north as Dixon and south as Crockett, but especially the Vacaville/Fairfield/Suisun/Vallejo east-west corridor running along I-80 between Travis Air Force Base and Mare Island Naval Shipyard—the sites of three major strikes during The Collapse.

  The man moves cautiously, all his senses remaining
keenly on full alert.

  Just last week here in downtown, after blundering around the burnt shell of an RV while carelessly deep in thought, he’d almost stumbled into the arms of an unexpected man. Fortunately, the startled stranger was not a Desperado. They usually traveled in pairs or small groups, and were very heavily armed with superior firepower—some even carrying military weapons like M16s and AR-15s. This apparently unarmed man was most likely a solitary gatherer/scrounger just like himself. The frightened stranger had turned and shuffled off as fast as he could go. He was obviously hobbled by injury or malnutrition, perhaps both. Once it might have been a comical sight, watching the wretched man making his stumbling, labored, slow motion, and slapstick getaway. But now it’s just sad. An injured or lame person completely on their own has little or no good chance of survival. But the man’s feelings are guarded and hardened after witnessing so much death and tragedy during the last three years.

  The man continues south toward the waterfront bordering Mare Island Naval Shipyard, which even though shut down for almost three decades had still been designated a prime target for a major strike. Encountering nothing alarming or obviously hazardous, the man continues to his destination. Arriving at the edge of the old Marina Park, he stops and again checks about cautiously. The shedding eucalyptus trees, madrones, oleanders, and manzanitas that have survived the holocaust after The Collapse are now prospering and overgrown. In addition, tall field grass has sprung up shoulder high across the entire park, providing good cover for both man and animal. A protected feeding area for rabbits.

  He sees, hears, or smells nothing suspicious. No human tracks of any kind in the snow powder here on the eastern perimeter of the park. So, the man moves into the tall growth around the old playground to check his first rabbit snare.

  Nothing.

  But at that moment he hears them coming. Distant baying, howling, barking, growling.

  The dogpack—probably good size—is in deadly pursuit of something and coming straight down Georgia Street in his general direction, approaching the park’s northeastern boundary.

  The rapidly encroaching sounds raise the hair on the back of his neck, cause the breath to catch in his throat, and elevate his pulse rate. Even in the frosty night air, he’s beginning to sweat, his underarms and crotch already gritty and itchy under his protective clothing. Compelled to act defensively, he quickly checks around for something to climb up on.

  But the closest eucalyptus trees have no low branches, and he’s too far away from the basalt restrooms still in place. Fortunately, one of the few surviving oaks in the park is not too distant, a low limb beckoning. He hustles over and adroitly hoists himself up into the cover of the tree. Deftly, he scoots higher until he can easily survey his immediate surroundings for 360 degrees through the waxy black-green leaves.

  Dogpacks are one of the constant deadly hazards threatening his daily survival. But here, far up the black oak, he is perfectly safe from ground attack. Sweating even more heavily now under his bundled-up garb, he again tugs down his bandana to more easily catch his breath. Then, he sucks in the cold air deeply, gathering himself for what may be a long wait.

  As the pack nears the park, the man sees that it is in close pursuit of a deer, a small one—perhaps a yearling. There are six, big, well-fed dogs in the pack, led by a huge tan-colored mix of mastiff and probably pit bull. Under normal circumstances the deer would’ve easily evaded this pack of dangerous but relatively slow dogs. But it is sick or perhaps has something wrong with its right foreleg, as it seems to list clumsily to that side as it runs. The deer veers suddenly left, cutting directly across the park, and easily avoids the larger obstacles. But as the pack rapidly closes in, it begins frantically dashing headlong through the thick grass, brush, oleanders, and manzanita.

  The man rotates slightly to the south and watches as the obviously fastest dog, a sleek Doberman pinscher, leaves the pack and closes in on the heels of the hapless creature. But something suddenly diverts the dog’s attention.

  Abruptly, it halts as if it has run into an invisible wall.

  The Doberman’s head is cocked now, and even from a distance, the man can see its nostrils flare as it intensely samples the breeze blowing across the park from the nearby Carquinez Straits. The dog obviously has caught the scent of something that immediately commands more attention and greater interest than the struggling deer that has by then disappeared into the darkness on the far southern side of the park.

  By now all five other dogs have also caught a whiff of the attractive scent. And pack discipline has been seriously disrupted, as they break apart and begin turning in circles, while constantly sniffing the air. A few snap at their neighbors’ heels as they jerk about, resembling crazed cats catching the scent of catnip.

  Then, the man sees it.

  A single coyote stands on the crest of the first of a double set of hills right at the center of the park. Sleek, brown with just a hint of grayish rust on its shoulders and ear tips. Peering down almost nonchalantly at the distracted pack.

  It has to be a her.

  The dogs—obviously all males—also have now spotted her. And even though they are excited into a snapping, yelping, whining frenzy, the huge mastiff maintains a semblance of leadership control and pack discipline. He prevents a mass breakout of individuals chasing off after the lone coyote by direct threat. Lunging, baring his huge yellow fangs, and growling aggressively up in the faces of individual pack members.

  The man knows the coyote standing enticingly on the hillcrest is indeed female, because he has seen coyotes play this gambit before. He allows a thin, rare smile, appreciating the cleverness of the small predators. He shifts his position, easing the kinks in his back and legs, while continuing to watch the drama being played out below.

  The female coyote is undoubtedly in heat. Her alluring scent so pervasive that it holds prisoner the attention of all six male dogs.

  ***

  Dogpacks are almost all exclusively male now. Female dogs, which are much smaller and weaker, had been mostly cut out of the successfully surviving packs. Often attacked by the males and driven off, if not killed and eaten. A matter of immediate necessity. This began only a few months after the initial devastation and successive fires of The Collapse. Stray dogs soon dying by starving to death or from having eaten radioactive carrion. Only the most ruthless dogpacks survived by quickly honing their pack hunting skills, stalking and eating only fresh meat—any kind of fresh meat, including weaker dogs. Female dogs are rarely seen now.

  And, something similar had been happening to women, survivors hiding out of sight. The last woman that he had seen was almost a year ago. Near the waterfront, when he’d been on a routine scrounging expedition. He’d spotted the fairly neat and young woman crawling out from under the fallen roof shell of a CVS Drugstore. He’d felt a strong surge of elation. But fortunately for him, he’d resisted immediately approaching her after he spotted the wide dog collar on her neck and a leash trailing down her back. The three men appeared only moments later, all heavily armed with M16s and holstered handguns, chests crossed with belts of ammunition. The woman was the property of Desperadoes.

  ***

  Growling and continuing to threaten an attack, the huge male lead dog forces the pack to back down into subservience to his dominance—several eventually rolling over and displaying their stomachs. Then, nervously glancing back over his shoulder several times, the mastiff begins to creep up the hill by himself, stalking the lone coyote female in heat.

  But, before he reaches her, she turns and coquettishly trots over the hill and out of sight. The great mastiff breaks into a mad dash now, headlong up and over the hillcrest.

  Where the man sees the huge, fearsome dog skid to an abrupt stop.

  Because, waiting in ambush for him, hidden by the dip between the two hills, are six other members of the female’s coyote pack. Roughly half the size of their prey, the seven coyotes, including the female, aggressively encircles the huge mast
iff.

  They begin darting in and back out, depending on their superior flexibility and speed to evade the lunges and crunching jaws of the stronger but slower and clumsier dog.

  Over a short period of time, they wear down the mastiff’s stamina. Its chest heaves and its broad tongue lolls out of its drooling mouth…

  At that point, the largest coyote, probably the pack leader, confronts the mastiff directly, commanding the tiring dog’s undivided attention. While he’s so occupied, two coyotes simultaneously sneak in close and attack him from the rear…and efficiently hamstring the mastiff with twin slashing, tearing bites high on its inner rear legs.

  Dragging his bleeding hindquarters uselessly now, the mastiff struggles fiercely to protect himself. But he is soon being successfully savaged from all sides, bleeding heavily and weakened from a dozen deep bites. After another harrowing minute or two, the coyote leader finally lunges in and locks onto the badly wounded mastiff’s throat, and begins a slow, strangling maneuver.

  The fight is over.

  Now, for the spoils.

  In a few brief minutes, like skilled slaughterhouse butchers, each member of the pack expertly tears off a huge chunk of the dog. Then, the individual coyotes scatter to the east, taking along their shares of fresh meat.

  The coyotes quickly disappear off into the night, moments before the remainder of the cowed dogpack finally collects is wits and courage enough to investigate the prolonged absence of their leader. Only to discover a partially butchered carcass and meat-covered bones and innards from their once fierce leader strewn about the hidden dip between the hillcrests. They immediately begin feeding on these bloody remnants.

  At that point, off in the distance, the clever coyotes yip and howl with what seems like a triumphant victory yell to the man still crouching up in the safety of the black oak.