Malory was standing beside him, stealthily uncoiling herself from the ropes of the gathering nets.
“Shut up, you idiot! Look!”
He looked.
The hydra was lying, barely moving, half-out of the water. Twelve long tentacles stretched out, the longest almost reaching the tips of their toes. There was a sound like air-brakes decompressing, and the hydra lolled over, exposing several long gashes along its side.
Ethan looked at Malory.
“What’s wrong with its side? Why is it all ripped up like that?”
Malory took a few steps toward the beast, her eyes wide with wonder.
“They’re from the hooks...the hooks in the gathering net.”
Ethan exhaled, relieved. “Thank God!” he said, taking a few cautious steps towards it, “I was worried there for a second. I thought there might be something even bigger down there.”
Malory shook her head, her bottom lip stuck out, her face twisted into an indecipherable expression.
“No. We did it,” she leaned down beside the hydra and began running her fingers along its long, tube-like body. Ethan stepped forward.
“Malory,” he said, “don’t touch...”
“It’s dead.”
“What?” Ethan squatted down beside her and placed two fingers just below a large, hollow bulb he assumed was the hydra’s head. Malory looked at him.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Nothing,” Ethan said. Embarrassed, he quickly pulled his fingers away and wiped them on his pants. Malory laughed.
“Were you checking its pulse?”
“No,” Ethan said, ashamed of his own foolishness. Malory laughed, but it did not last long. Soon, the silence of death and isolation wrapped around them like a wool blanket. She thumped the hydra with her knuckles. It sounded deep, hollow, empty.
“Nope,” she said, “its dead. We killed it.” She ran her hands along the deep lacerations along its side. “You know,” she went on, her voice heavy with sadness, “the funny thing is, this thing would’ve lived forever if we hadn’t come along. Hydra are biologically immortal, did you know that? They don’t die of old age, natural causes, any of that. The only way they can die is if they are...killed by...something.”
Ethan looked the thing up and down. It really was something, even he could see that. It was impressive, a shining example of how resilient life was, how it could go on and on, even in the face of total disaster. The trees were making a slow comeback, and the marine animals—they really didn’t get hit that hard, the war had sort of skipped over them. Nature was pushing ever onward, reaching for tomorrow with mutated fingers, forcing her way through the decayed and ravaged landscape for a chance at the future. Nothing could stop her, Ethan realized, this hydra was proof of that. Nature would find a way to persevere.
He placed his hand gently on Malory’s shoulder.
“It’s okay,” he said, “It’s probably not the only one. Like you said, the radiation around this spot died out a long time ago. And this isn’t the only impact crater we’ve found life in; there are hundreds more...thousands. I think it’ll be okay.”
Malory wiped her eyes and sniffled. Ethan hadn’t realized she’d been crying.
“I know,” she said, “it’s just...I don’t even know why I wanted it brought up, now. I mean, what did I think I was going to do with it?” She laughed. It was a distant, hollow laugh, completely devoid of humor.
“Come on,” she climbed to her feet and dusted herself off, “help me push it back in the water.” She checked her wristwatch, and said, “We still have a few hours until curfew, and there is another pond just up the road I wanted to check out. If we hurry, we can make it before the moths come out.”
“Alright,” Ethan said, bending down and digging his shoulder into the hydra.
“One...two...three...PUSH!”
About the author:
Dustin’s work has appeared in two anthologies, a book of poetry, and several short stories in the following magazines: Encounters, The New Flesh, Nerve Cowboy, Static movement, Golden Visions, and Sideshow Fables.
Magic Man
by Chris Lewis Carter
Want to know the first rule of product pitching?
Understand your target audience.
That’s why I only hit the smaller towns; backwoods hamlets that barely topped a few hundred residents before the outbreaks started. People who’ve been cut off from major cities long enough to forget they ever existed. Those poor saps holed up with their families in dilapidated general stores and long-abandoned churches, living off the last scraps of a dying world.
To me, they’re just your average post-apocalyptic consumers.
Nobody could have guessed that ‘pitchman’ would be the ideal career choice for surviving out here in the Dead Zones, but its done more than just keep me alive. It’s how I’ve managed to maintain a working ice-cream van, when most people haven’t seen a running vehicle for over three years. It’s why I’ve got two cases of canned spaghetti, five packets of instant mashed-potatoes, and an unopened box of Twinkies stashed underneath the passenger seat, while most of North America’s uninfected population are starving in the streets. Hell, business has never been better.
Why?
Anyone can sell products that work. Peddling total junk—now that’s an art form.
I’ve been driving for about thirty minutes when I pass a faded sign for Ashland, Kansas. Across the bottom, where it used to read, “Population: 975,” someone has smeared the words ‘Don’t Come Back’ in red paint. At least, I assume it’s paint. Either way, there might be survivors, which makes it a perfect opportunity to put my trade to good use.
As I pass by the first stretch of boarded-up houses, I flip a switch on the dashboard, activating the speakers mounted on top of the van. A jingling chorus of, ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’ cuts through the hazy silence.
It’s always risky to cause such a ruckus near a once-populated area. Those bells used to attract children looking for cold treats. Now they attract everything else. Still, I have to chance it. If there are still people here, odds are they’ve already taken care of the local infestations. If I happen to run into any unplanned guests, well, I’ll just keep on driving.
But sure enough, a quick glance in my side mirror reveals living, breathing, human beings. They’re creeping out of the more heavily fortified buildings, pointing and waving at the van.
By the time I reach the end of the street, nearly two dozen people are headed in my direction. They all have ragged clothes and gaunt faces etched with confusion. Most of them carry some crude form of weapon: baseball bats studded with rusty nails, hammers, knives—one man is actually holding a revolver, but experience has taught me that it’s likely just for show. These days, bullets might as well be plutonium. I haven’t heard a gunshot in over a year.
I kill the engine and the music dies with it. The only sound now is the gentle hum of the van’s cooling unit. From the window, I see the crowd pooling together near the serving window. They look as though they haven’t had contact with the outside world for ages, much less someone like me. It’s time to put on a show.
The second rule of product pitching?
Show enthusiasm.
I move to the middle of the van, slide open the window, and push down the hinged counter. “Thank God, I was right!” I pump my fist and smile like I’ve just discovered buried treasure. “They told me that nobody would be alive out here!”
The group takes a collective step closer, and the man with the revolver pushes his way to the front. He’s wearing a blue flannel shirt and has a beard that travels up to his hairline. His swagger tells me that he must be their leader. “Who are you, mister?” He gestures the gun in my direction. “And what do you mean ‘they?’”
I shoot him a puzzled glance, like it’s common knowledge. “The military, of course. Just cleared out Topeka no more than a week ago. They’re planning to resettle everyone there until it’s safe again.”
Hushed murmurs ripple through the crowd, but the man still looks unconvinced. Every bunch has at least one skeptic. “You tellin’ me they’ve got a handle on those...things?”
I give a polite chuckle. “Hardly, sir. Why, I passed about a hundred or so on the drive here. What I’m telling you is that good old-fashioned American spirit is once again overcoming adversity. Our boys in uniform are giving those freaks hell.”
It’s a rousing speech, but a total crock. I’d passed through Topeka about a week earlier, and they didn’t have anything remotely resembling a military. I did, however, manage to score a twelve-pack of cola, three cans of beef stew, and two gallons of gasoline.
While everyone takes a moment to chatter about my story, a voice near the back calls out, “Hey, I know you.”
The crowd quickly parts near the middle, revealing a skeletal-looking woman standing a few feet back from the others. She clutches a swaddled red blanket against her shoulder, bouncing it softly. “I know you,” she repeats, then screws up her face, trying her hardest to summon a memory from another world. Finally her eyes grow wide. “You’re Walter Watts. You used to be on TV!”
She’s right. Back when television still existed, I sold kitchen appliances on three major shopping channels. All stainless-steel this, and easy-to-clean that. Over ten million Americans bought at least one of my products. My name was even attached to a successful line of smoothie machines. Ever own a Watt-A-Taste? Well, that was my smiling mug plastered across the box.
So much for a lifetime warranty, though.
“At your service, ma’am,” I call back.
I still get recognized from time to time, but that’s a conscious effort on my part. It helps that I still wear the same lime-green polo shirt and black pants from all of my infomercials.
The woman takes a step forward. “I... I bought one of your toaster-ovens.”
The third rule of product pitching?
Make a personal connection.
“Get outta town.” I shoot her one of my unit-moving grins. “And how did you like it?”
She nods for a moment without speaking, like she’s trying to remember what a toaster-oven is actually used for. “It was good. I used to make grilled cheese sandwiches for my two—”
The skeptic steps between our line of sight and shoos at her with his revolver. “That’s enough, Emily. You just stay back there and let me do the talking.”
Emily nods and moves back to her position away from the group. The infant wrapped inside her red blanket starts to cry.
Skeptic runs a hand through his dusty beard. “Now then, to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit, Mr. Watts?”
I extend my hand across the serving counter. “We haven’t been formally introduced. What’s your name, friend?”
He doesn’t budge an inch. “We ain’t friends, Mr. Watts. Now, why are you here?”
He’s going to be a hard sell, but I’ve spent years honing my technique on these tough guys. “You’re clearly a man of action, so I’ll get right to the point. I’ve traveled here today because, despite all the people who told me this was a fool’s errand, I believe the good folks of Ashland deserve an opportunity to have the cure for themselves.”
Excitement ripples through most of the crowd, but Skeptic just stares. “You got a cure for The Climb?”
Not the most impressive name for a devastating plague, but it’s the one that stuck. For whatever reason, the infection first presents itself in a host’s feet, then works its way up. Hence, The Climb.
I do a short drum-roll against the window sill. “Yes sir, I certainly do.”
He snorts. “Alright, magic man. Let’s see it.”
This is my favorite part. Without missing a beat, I pull a tub of Rocky Road from the side freezer and place it on the counter. “Here you go. One cure, as advertised.”
Being able to produce a luxury like ice-cream is impressive by itself, but it was the last thing Skeptic was expecting. He scratches his temple with the revolver’s barrel. “This some kind of sick joke?”
I laugh. “What were you expecting, sir? Test tubes filled with glowing potions? Why, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve been watching too many movies.”
When I first took my show on the road, I’d mix energy drinks and cough medicines to create vials of multicolored syrups. It certainly looked like a fancy new cure, but it was too cliché. With today’s unique market conditions, giving people what they don’t expect is a much easier sell than what they do.
I pop open the lid and display the contents to the crowd. “Do you think I’d be crazy enough to drive all the way out here with regular old ice-cream? Sure, it might look normal, but there’s a special ingredient.”
Here’s where I like to get a little creative. After all, every good pitch is tailored for the appropriate audience.
In Washington, my Mint Chocolate Chip contained a serum created by the last remaining Pentagon scientists.
In Texas, my Vanilla was mixed with holy water that had been filtered through the shroud of Turin.
I thought of today’s little number on the drive here.
“Have any of you folks ever heard of ‘Taraxacum Officinale?’ It’s a rare plant that only grows along the Alaskan coast.”
Actually, it’s the scientific name for dandelions, but which one of these yokels would know that?
“It contains a unique compound that stops the infection dead in its tracks—pardon the pun—but it needs to be kept cold in order to remain stable.” I hook a sliver of Rocky Road with my finger and taste it. “Mmm-mmm. That sure as heck beats getting an injection.”
A tall man wearing a faded Jack Daniels t-shirt pushes to the front of the pack. “You’re going to give us some, right, Mr. Watts?”
Jackpot.
“Absolutely,” I reply. “Well, practically give it to you. All I ask for in return are a few meager supplies for the trip back.”
Skeptic jerks his thumb at Jack Daniels, who mutters an apology and slinks back into the fray. “You want us to give you our stuff? We’re nearly out of food, you’re driving a van, and you need our supplies?”
The fourth rule of product pitching?
Sell the benefits.
“Sir, I’m offering you protection from the plague that has ravaged our entire country. At two-scoops per dose, this tub can provide a dozen of you with complete peace of mind. Do you realize how much this goes for back in Topeka? Tens of thousands!” My tone is so incredulous that I almost convince myself. “This is my last batch until I rendezvous with my contact, but who knows when that will happen again? He won’t even tell me where he smuggles it from. Only that it’s a top-secret laboratory.”
But wait, there’s more.
“Here’s what else I can do for you folks. I give you my personal guarantee that the military will be informed of your situation here. In less than seventy-two hours, a convoy will arrive to take you and your loved ones to safety. All for just a few dollars worth of rations.”
Never underestimate a good value-add. At the mention of rescue, half the crowd starts shouting offers.
“Will you take kerosene?” says Jack Daniels.
“I’ve got an unopened bottle of cooking sherry,” says the man next to him.
“I grow potatoes in the supermarket!” shouts a woman to the side.
Operators may not be standing by anymore, but I’m about to start taking orders.
I motion for everyone to settle down. “One at a time, folks. All offers will be considered.”
Amidst the chaos, Skeptic furrows his brow and aims his revolver at my chest. The entire crowd grows quiet, save for the infant’s gurgling cry. “Let me ask you this, Mr. Watts. What if we don’t feel like giving up our supplies?” He cocks back the hammer. “What if we just take your cure and your van and drive back to Topeka ourselves?”
He thinks that he’s being clever, but in this business you quickly learn to protect your assets.
“Sure you could,” I rep
ly. “Assuming that gun is loaded, you could put a bullet right between my eyes. Nobody would stop you. Hell, everyone here could likely fit inside the van, although it does get a little chilly in the back.” I stroke my chin, pretend to think for a moment. “But here’s the thing. This van has enough gas left for another forty or fifty miles, tops. I’ve hidden more along my route here, but nowhere you’d find on your own. If I’m not mistaken, Topeka is about three-hundred miles away, and it’s nothing but Dead Zones until then. So basically, killing me would leave you stranded in the middle of nowhere.”
“But we’d have the cure,” says Skeptic.
2013: The Aftermath Page 5