Evil Jester Digest, Volume 2

by Holly Newstein

  ***

  After the partially fed, but leaderless and disheartened, dogpack finally wanders off into the night, the man shimmies safely down the tree trunk.

  He begins to finally run his trap line, finding a plump rabbit strangled in his fifth snare. But as he nears his final and ninth trap, located near the wild blackberries growing in a marsh fed by a broken water pipe, he slows with a growing sense of apprehension. Just as he has first suspected from a distance, he finally confirms that the snare is indeed tripped. But it is empty, only several drops of blood and a few traces of rabbit fur left behind on the thin dusting of snow. He doesn’t have to search far or very long before he discovers the thief’s footprint—small and human.

  The sight of the human footprint is as frightening as the earlier moment tonight when he first heard the baying of the dangerous dogpack. Because the man realizes that someone has discovered his trap line; and that person now knows the man exists.

  ***

  Safely back in his basement stronghold, the man lights candles and skins and cooks the rabbit on his propane-fueled camp stove.

  Even though there is plenty of diesel and gas available in abandoned vehicles and a number of underground storage tanks, that fact does him little good. The man has never located a small undamaged generator. He has found several massive industrial ones several miles away, but hasn’t figured out how to easily load and then get them around the nearly impassable streets to his hideout. And if he were successful, he would have to somehow mask the noisy sound of a large generator—silence his reliable guardian. So he has no electricity or refrigeration. But he usually only snares one rabbit every two or three evenings, at the most. So, he has developed the habit of gorging on that one rabbit at a late evening meal, thereby eliminating any possibility of the meat spoiling. Salting or drying preservation experiments are secondary concerns at the moment. Maybe when he establishes another snare run a mile farther south in the overgrown sports park and ball fields, he will begin experiments to salt or dry any surplus meat.

  After thoroughly enjoying the fresh rabbit tonight, which always reminds the man of chicken with a slightly gamy taste, he stretches out on his sleeping pallet.

  By candlelight he likes to read from his small valued collection of books. His favorite two are badly worn paperback copies of The Old Man and the Sea and One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisivich. Both books are really about man persevering under trying circumstances. He usually completes reading each of the novella-length pieces in one evening. He’s always moved by the Cuban fisherman’s or Russian prisoner’s inspiring survival efforts, despite the almost impossible odds against them. Tonight, he grows really weary before the old man has even hooked the giant fish. And he is forced to lay the Hemingway book down unfinished and blow out the candle.

  Almost immediately after closing his eyes and drifting off, the man has the recurring dream about his young wife, pre-Collapse. It’s very late at night, and they are spooning after sex on their apartment bed, him enjoying her distinctive, spicy-lemon scent. He eventually grows aroused again and begins passionately kissing her neck and back. Then, he enters her from behind, and she moans loudly as they make love together ever so slowly. When they climax almost simultaneously, she gasps and cranes around to kiss him.

  Shock.

  She has no features!

  He always awakens after this horrifying moment in a clammy sweat, panting out of breath. And, then, the overwhelming guilt returns.

  ***

  A few days pre-Collapse, he’d gone on a hunting trip with his cousin up into the Ruby Mountains north of Elko, Nevada, picking Joel up in Roseville in his new Ranger. They were isolated at their camp when the first strikes hit Northern California, completely unaware of what had happened. But they’d decided to break camp early and return home—the buck hunting exceptionally poor for some reason. Of course they noticed the abandoned vehicles and almost complete lack of any people as they traveled back down I-80. But it was only after they finally reached Roseville, on the outskirts of Sacramento, and stopped that they actually realized the enormity of what had happened. Nearby northern Sacramento around old McClellen AFB and most of southern Roseville were a flattened, badly burned over mess. Nevertheless, Joel stayed there at his home to check on relatives. The man continued in his pickup, successfully bypassing Sacramento to the far west and able to drive south; but eventually he was forced to abandon his truck and start walking with backpack and hunting rifle near Vacaville, as the highway and surrounding roads grew impassable. He soon noticed the heavily bundled-up dress of the occasional paranoid survivor he encountered. He imitated their garb, finding a longcoat, roll-down skycap, and face scarf in the debris of a shopping center near Fairfield and the Travis AFB turn-off. Surviving on the left over freeze-dried food and fresh water they’d taken along on the hunting trip, he avoided all hazards on the way, including a large group of Desperadoes apparently looting around Cordelia. But, he’d had to flee from camp late that night after hearing approaching voices, fearing it was the Desperadoes tracking him. He was forced to abandon his pack and hunting rifle. Finally, after being gone almost a month, he arrived back home to Vallejo, realizing he was indeed lucky to still be in one piece and not radiation sick. But a day later he found his wife’s badly burned and almost unrecognizable remains buried in the ashes of their burned-out apartment building. Nothing important remained to be salvaged—not even any photographs of her, nothing.

  ***

  But now, three years later, almost crazy with the palpable reminders of his isolated loneliness, he cannot really remember exactly what his wife looked like. Auburn hair, yes, and a petite build, and he thinks she smiled constantly… That is the extent of all he can conjure up with his eyes closed. His guilt and the lonely despair on a number of occasions have driven him to the brink of ending it all with the sawed-off shotgun. But, after twice getting to the point of tightly fingering the trigger with the barrel locked under his jaw, he manages somehow to back off, avoiding oblivion. He shoulders the nagging guilt, convinced that forgetting her face is a major betrayal on his part. But he suspects—actually hopes—that if he can ever totally recall her features, his guilt will instantly dissipate like air popping from a punctured balloon. But the passage of time continues to erode her memory, and suicide is now the constant dark companion of his nagging guilt.

  And tonight he is again extremely agitated and depressed by the recurring dream.

  It lingers in his mind, the featureless image an open sore. Despite it being several hours before dawn, the man gets up and paces about his immaculate but confining basement sanctuary. Finally, he takes a piece of a brown paper bag from a neat pile and decides to completely inventory his six-foot long, floor-to-ceiling storage shelves of canned and packaged dry food and other supplies. He isn’t really too low on anything. But he’s been planning a visit to the old Safeway ruins today anyhow. Just to check around. So, he goes over his supplies and compiles a list to distract himself from the depressing thoughts.

  ***

  Just after dawn, the man dresses, shoulders his empty backpack, straps on his cartridge belt, and checks his shotgun.

  He’d used the weapon in the early days to hunt game. Mistake. Because it made too much noise and used up too many shells. Now, he has only three shotgun shells left. Ammunition almost impossible to find anymore, the Desperadoes confiscating weapons and ammunition from their victims. And he always left one shell at home, for when he can no longer cope with the guilt.

  Ready, he pushes back the heavy grill cover hiding the crawlspace leading out from his basement shelter. Noiselessly, he creeps along the narrow path, shifting through the maze of rubble, which emerges in the stand of shoulder-high, thick manzanita bushes.

  ***

  A half an hour later, the man pauses at where the Marina Safeway Super-Market had once stood pre-Collapse.

  ***

  Within a few weeks after the strike on the far southwestern end of the Shipyard, the alm
ost flattened Safeway had been completely stripped of all the unspoiled packaged meat, wine, liquor, and medicine that surviving scavengers could dig out from under the rubble. But, fortunately for the man, a portion of the rear warehouse section, containing mostly durable canned and packaged goods sealed in cardboard boxes, had been sheltered away. A six-foot high pocket-like bunker had been created when four curved steel beams fell and crisscrossed together, mostly protecting the cache from roof remnants that collapsed down onto the beams. And more importantly, the hidden hoard had been initially overlooked and bypassed by foragers. The man had found it later only by accident, stumbling through a weak spot in the leveled roof, falling six or so feet, and finding himself sprawled out in Eden.

  As insurance, the night after the initial discovery of the stocked cache, the man had worked steadily for almost 24 hours to further protect and secret his trove of undamaged rations. That first night of work, the man had completely sealed off the loading dock warehouse entryway to the ruined supermarket with heavy chunks of concrete rubble and a seemingly half ton of shoveled debris. A day or so later, he’d followed four National Guardsmen using a Geiger counter to place freshly painted red skull & cross bone signs—most of them along the closest three miles of waterfront stretching parallel with the nearby Shipyard. The Guardsmen mysteriously disappeared in a truck shortly after completing the placements of the radioactive warning signs.

  The man had conspicuously relocated the stolen signs all around the burned debris pile surrounding the destroyed supermarket, especially near the now covered rear entry.

  ***

  Around in back of the store, the man cautiously approaches the wooden hatch he’s made that camouflages and conceals the small entrance into the tunnel he’s reinforced with basalt blocks through the concrete rubble and debris.

  Inside the tight, dark passageway, he takes out his flashlight and follows the beam into the rear warehouse pocket of the Safeway. It’s quiet, cold, and dark inside the bunker. He makes his way past the smashed liquor and wine section, mostly only broken empty bottles remaining now. He glances at his list, stopping at the now often visited soup section, breaking open new cases of beef-barley, tomato rice, and another of chicken noodle. He puts five cans of each soup in his backpack. Then, he makes his way over to the packaged powdered drinks, to a half-full case of lemon-lime Kool-Aid he’d left opened during his last visit. He selects a dozen packages of the drink—his favorite. He finishes his food shopping at the section of packaged pasta, rice, and cereals, picking up a selection of ten sealed packages from recently opened cartons. Before he leaves the warehouse, he also gathers up four packages of double D batteries, two boxes of matches, and a carton of the large fat candles he likes to read by.

  Finished now, he shrugs the stuffed and heavy backpack high on his shoulders, making sure his arms are left free enough to reach either of his weapons. Then, he crawls back out the tunnel and emerges minutes later through the hatch hole. Carefully, he replaces the camouflaged wooden plank back in place.

  But, before he takes even one step away, he sees the small footprint in the remaining frozen crust of snow. The sight causes him to gasp and flinch back, as if the print were a coiled rattlesnake. He sucks in a deep, settling breath, certain that the print is identical to the one that he’d spotted yesterday at the end of his rabbit run. No question in the man’s mind now. He is definitely being followed and watched—a heart-stopping thought.

  For three years he’s remained under the radar, coming and going with complete impunity. Undetected and safe, but also completely alone. This way he’s managed to survive, escaping the attention of all others, including the occasional Desperado gang and the more frequent wandering dogpacks.

  Fighting off a disabling sense of panic, he closes his eyes, takes several more deep breaths, lets the air trickle out past his dry lips, and tries to pull himself together.

  Still unnerved, he carefully checks around…

  He sighs, thinking that whoever made the footprint is now out of sight.

  Stiffly, the man begins to make his way home, on super alert. Stopping and furtively checking behind himself each time his paranoia flares.

  Who’s stalking him? What does the person want?

  He feels perplexed, not sure what to think.

  ***

  Later that afternoon before dusk, the man has to force himself to venture out and return to his rabbit run in the park near the waterfront.

  Carefully, he advances along the trap line, inspecting each un-tripped snare, but also keeping on the lookout for more small footprints. But the crust of frozen snow has almost completely melted now. So he finds nothing, either game or footprints.

  ***

  At the end of the run near the blackberries, along the perimeter of the park, off in the shadows, something moves ever so slightly, catching the man’s eye. After squinting, he realizes it’s a human figure lurking over there.

  His first inclination is to flee.

  But he stands his ground, held in place by a strong smell…a she-scent—musky, sweaty, salty, and so sexually exciting. The overwhelming smell makes his eyes water, his nostrils flare and itch.

  She-scent. He’d almost forgotten.

  So it’s definitely a female figure standing there, partially masked in the shadows, but boldly staring back at him.

  Petite, bundled-up clothes, but exposed brownish hair with rusty streaks, and a broadly smiling face. Of course the man is instantly smitten. He has been alone so long, too long. His chest is tight with anticipation. He is eager to move close, greet, talk, and maybe even touch her.

  But the tiny woman suddenly turns to leave.

  “Wait, wait,” the man attempts to shout, but manages only an inaudible hoarse whisper—his voice unused for nearly three years. “I won’t harm you,” he tries to add loudly, the unfamiliar vocal effort rasping his throat raw. He swallows dryly and whispers, “ Please stop…”

  But she ignores him and flees off to the south. He breaks into a run and follows her. “Wait, wait,” he says faintly at her back, massaging his aching throat with a hand.

  The tiny woman is agile and fast, distancing herself initially from him, leading him away from his familiar turf.

  But he spurs himself on, faster and faster, paying little attention now to the increasingly unfamiliar surroundings, having thrown all caution to the wind. He has to catch this woman, he thinks, paying little attention to any hazards on the path, where his striding feet are landing—

  “Ugh.”

  The air is driven sharply from his lungs as he is jerked off his feet into the air, folded in half, his uplifted arms trapped overhead, preventing him from being able to reach either of his weapons. Stunned, the man feels himself sinking down, down into unconsciousness… But gasping for breath, he fights off the encroaching blackness, managing to partially collect himself and avoid the shutdown of senses, which still tunnels his vision. He gasps loudly for more air. Blinks repeatedly, finally clearing his vision. Hanging upside-down, the man realizes he has been caught in some kind of a huge net.

  It dawns on him what exactly has happened here.

  He has been trapped, like one of his rabbit prey, lured into a stupid, reckless dash by the powerful she-scent and sight of the tiny woman. Clumsily tripping the net. And now he is paying for his abandonment of good sense, hanging upside-down about eight feet off the ground, swinging slightly to and fro. Despite his best efforts, he’s still unable to reach either his sawed-off shotgun or long knife.

  Glancing down to his right, he sees the smiling, petite woman is moving a bit closer. Right below him now. He realizes something isn’t quite right with her face. Her smile is odd, slack-jawed, and meaningless…and her wide-eyed gaze is actually childish, almost vacant, and lacking intelligence.

  Then, the other two appear, stepping out from the shadows.

  Both are women.

  Older, taller, well-fed. Neither anywhere as comely as the smaller one, but obviously brighter. Th
e first time he’s seen so many women gathered in one place in three years.

  All three females are directly below him now.

  One, the largest, oldest, and plainest woman is taking something from her big backpack…unfolding what appears to be a broad plastic sheet. She spreads it directly under where he hangs helplessly.

  The man sucks in a breath. Because the other, taller woman is carrying a rifle. What appears to be an old rusty .22, which she’s now lifting and aiming up at his head.

  Badly frightened, he squeezes his eyes tightly shut, sucks in a deep breath… and catches a familiar scent from the tiny woman, not quite completely masked over by her powerful she-scent.

  Yes! It’s faint, but it’s definitely the smell of spicy-lemon.

  And it all rushes back now, overwhelming him.

  For a moment, he vividly sees his wife’s beautiful face in his mind’s eye. All her features completely intact now: her lustrous auburn hair, the ice-blue wide eyes, the high rosy cheekbones, the sensuous lips, and the full, engaging smile.

  His spirit briefly soars free before he hears the balloon pop—

  Amy Wallace’s “Closing Time” was the first story I accepted for this book. I had it in hand, as a matter of fact, months before I started querying for the others.

  You might say I built this entire book around it. And, though I took some twists and turns along the way, you’d be right.

  The idea for this story was originally hatched in the mind of Scott Bradley, Amy’s boyfriend. Scott and I even tried our hand at cracking this sharp little number a couple times, but our efforts never drew blood.

  Enter #1 New York Times Bestselling author Amy Wallace, always brilliant, always up for a challenge.