Dead Leaves, Dark Corners

by Nicki Huntsman Smith

“I’m Bailey. Ed Bailey,” he extended a gnarled hand. To say it was ‘grubby’ would be like describing a habanero as ‘piquant.’ I prided myself on only a split-second hesitation before returning the handshake. Every fiber of my being was loath to make contact with the petri dish of bacteria residing on those knobby fingers. I imagined multifamily germ condominiums proliferating within the deeply wrinkled map of the palm.

  “And, yep, I think you got secrets. What’s your name?” The Indian corn grin made another appearance followed by the knowing wink of a watery, pale blue eye.

  I glanced at the antiquated soft drink machine at the corner of the building and found inspiration.

  “Donald Parker,” I contrived. “A pleasure to meet you.” I retrieved my hand, thinking longingly of the sanitizing gel in my glove box.

  “A young man like you, driving a fancy new car with Connecticut plates, all alone in the middle of New Mexico. Yep. I’d say you got secrets.”

  I must admit my curiosity had been piqued. The adage ‘You can’t tell a book by its cover’ never seemed more true. This malodorous old hardback might have some tidbits of wisdom tucked between his leathery covers.

  He had pegged me correctly.

  “I see your point, Mr. Bailey,” I said. “To the casual observer my presence here in New Mexico, alone and far from home, might be cause for suspicion. But perhaps there’s a perfectly simple explanation. I might be visiting a family member in Albuquerque or Scottsdale.” I smiled. Mother always said I had a smile that could charm the skin off a snake.

  “Nope. Fancy-pants boys like you don’t drive across the country to visit family. They fly, and probably first class.” Another amber stream hit the tar pit dead center.

  “Hmmm, I see your point.” I had been called worse. Much worse and quite recently. I noticed a second ancient chair on the other side of the doorway, and after a questioning glance at Mr. Bailey who had followed my gaze and answered with a head nod, I pulled the chair as close as my olfactory senses would allow.

  “Perhaps I’m merely enjoying an extended road trip. I’m sure you noticed my vehicle. It’s a sweet ride, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yep. It’s a beauty,” he said in a convivial tone. We both gazed at the Mercedes. The combination of the arid desert with its sparse vegetation crowned by a brilliant aquamarine sky somehow seemed an appropriate backdrop for the sleek, black machine. Contrast. That’s what makes life interesting, and Mr. Bailey was offering it to me in spades.

  “Which brings up another point. A young feller like you, driving a big sedan instead of some fast little high-dollar sports car...makes me wonder.” He was still looking at the car. On the other side of the two-lane highway, a large turkey vulture glided downward and alighted on the cross beam of a telephone pole. It seemed to be staring directly at us. I imagined one of the oily wings sliding into a secret vulture pocket and pulling out a sanguinely-striped box of popcorn.

  “Perhaps the car is borrowed?” I suggested.

  “Maybe. Or maybe not. Something tells me it’s not. And don’t ask me why I think that. Sometimes you just get a gut feeling about things.”

  “Hmmm,” I replied.

  We sat in companionable silence for a few moments as I pondered my response. October in New Mexico is still warm, but as they say, it’s a dry heat. I wasn’t uncomfortable in my chinos and button-down shirt, but I was sweating a bit. A breeze came through, kicking up dirt and creating short-lived dust devils in the surrounding desert. The cry of a hawk echoed from above as it slowly spiraled on a current of hot thermal air, graceful and deadly. Now there was an elegant killer.

  Two pairs of eyes followed it in silent appreciation.

  “I’m just a guy who likes roominess and comfort. Sports cars aren’t practical, nor especially comfortable.”

  “You got that right. Shelton traded in his F-150 and bought one of them two-seat jobs when he took up with that titty dancer. What a spectacle that was...an old fuck like him, racing around with that bimbo. Dumbass ended up having to hitch it to the back of a U-Haul when they left town.”

  “Precisely my point.”

  “Something else I noticed. You look like you been sitting in that car for a while. Maybe longer than a day’s worth of driving. Your clothes are wrinkled, your britches are dusty, and you got sweat stains on your shirt. Don’t take no detective to see something ain’t right. I’m guessing you come all the way from Co-NETI-cut without stopping for nothing but gas and to take a leak. That’s two thousand miles of interstate. Probably at least thirty hours of straight driving. Why would a rich feller like you not stop for the night at some five-star hotel? Get himself some sleep and a hot shower?”

  Across the highway, we watched a second vulture take a seat on the cross beam. It seemed Mr. Bailey and I were the best show in town.

  “How did you get that scratch on your neck?” he asked.

  I felt a stab of dismay. I thought the collar of my shirt covered it. It stung a bit from the rivulet of sweat that slid from my hair just then.

  I was beginning to get uncomfortable with the conversation. Did Mr. Bailey have a theory for my current state, my choice of vehicle, and my reason for being in the New Mexico desert? Or was he using me for his personal entertainment? The occasional customer surely brought a welcome diversion to what must be a remarkably boring life. Maybe this ‘amateur detective’ bit was just a game he played with everyone who stopped for gas.

  I hoped so for his sake.

  “Mr. Bailey, you are a man with a keen eye. Are you simply making observations or have you a formulated a theory to explain all my seeming anomalies?” I let my eyes twinkle in amusement, which took some effort since I’d begun to have genuine feelings of unease.

  A third liquid deposit in the coffee can, followed by a very long pause.

  “Let me ask ya question, Mr. Parker,” the emphasis on my hastily created alias was derisive. I felt my amused smile slip as I considered the precipice on which I now imagined Mr. Bailey to be poised. “What happened to your taillight?”

  And there it was – the question that would expedite Mr. Bailey’s sudden departure from the safety of the cliff’s edge.

  That taillight would vex me. I knew it the minute I saw the damage when I pulled off the interstate and onto a side road. The noises coming from the trunk had turned distinctly non-vocal in nature by then. It was a pounding of some sort, no more muffled moaning and sobbing hysterics. The new sounds seemed purposeful and were therefore cause for concern. It had taken me ten minutes to find an isolated location away from the prying eyes of fellow motorists. By the time I opened the trunk to deal with its occupant, the taillight was cracked and askew – noticeable from the outside to anyone who looked at it.

  Mr. Bailey had been looking.

  I feigned surprise. “Goodness. Look at that.”

  I stood and walked toward my vehicle, hands on hips, gazing at the troublesome taillight as if I’d never noticed it before. As if I hadn’t just spent the last twenty miles worrying about it.

  I popped the trunk, hoping Mr. Bailey would take the bait. He would want to see inside, and I wanted him within easy swinging distance when I retrieved the tire iron. The moaning, sobbing, purposeful noises had been silenced earlier by a good whack to the head and twelve inches of New Mexico top soil.

  I had counted only two cars pass by during our conversation, and I figured my odds of silencing Mr. Bailey without being seen by non-vulture eyes were excellent. I smiled as I imagined a neon ‘vacancy’ sign lighting the interior of the Mercedes’ trunk.

  I heard his chair crunch on the concrete as he stood. I kept my gaze on the trunk as my fingers encircled the tire iron. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a third vulture had joined the party on the telephone pole.

  The footsteps stopped about ten feet away. I wanted him a little closer to make less work for myself. Previously, the maximum dead weight I had lifted was in the one-fifteen, one-twenty range. Mr. Bailey was well over two hundred pounds.
He would not only be the heaviest occupant my trunk had held, but the first male as well. Under normal circumstances, I preferred my victims lighter, softer, weaker, and less smelly.

  “Mr. Bailey, would you mind taking a look at this? Maybe we can rig it somehow until I can get to an auto repair shop. I hate the thought of driving without a working taillight.” I risked a quick glance at my adversary to gauge his position.

  He stood where I expected him to be. I did not expect to see the revolver though, held with familiar ease by the grubby fingers.

  At that moment, I experienced an unwelcome epiphany. The vultures’ presence was no coincidence. This wasn’t the first show Mr. Bailey had performed for them. I now recognized the glint in those watery blue eyes. It was the same as the one in mine when I wasn’t wearing my poker face. It was the cold, detached look of a killer.

  “Get your hand off that tire iron, or whatever weapon you were thinking of using. Right now, or I’ll blow your head off.” He might have been remarking on the desert’s annual rainfall or the mating habits of the indigenous coyote.

  I retracted my hand and turned to face him, my arms outstretched, empty and Christ-like. I gave him the most charming smile I could muster, but didn’t have much hope that it would work. This was not Mr. Bailey’s first rodeo. But then, neither was it mine.

  The Indian corn grin appeared in response. Despite the stained and missing teeth, Mother would have thought it familiar.

  “Just take it slow and easy, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll get outta this alive.”

  “Really? I rather thought you might have other plans for me.” I glanced toward the vultures. There were five up there now. I suspected they had enjoyed more than a few meals, courtesy of Mr. Bailey and his revolver. And if he got his way, they were about to enjoy another.

  I intended to deny them their evening repast.

  The grin widened. “You know, it’s a shame I have to kill ya. You were starting to grow on me.” He raised the gun so the barrel was level to my chest.

  “All this just for a car?” I asked. “I have plenty of money. Why not just let me go and I’ll transfer cash into your bank account.”

  “That’s too complicated. You’re a shady feller and you’re up to no good. I could tell that right off. Killing ya does two things: number one, it makes me richer, and number two, it gets rid of garbage like you so’s you can’t keep doing those no-good things. Oh and there’s a third thing. It gets me hard. The missus kinda likes that.”

  Without taking his eyes off me, he motioned backward with his head. I glanced toward the doorway where a woman appeared, holding a shotgun. Her bleached blond hair was heaped and pinned to the top of her head, a follicular tumbleweed balancing on the skull. Half a Walgreens’ worth of makeup attempted to cover the facial wrinkles but only emphasized them. She wasn’t smiling. As a matter of fact, she looked pissed.

  “Get it over with, Ed. I don’t have all fucking day,” she said, her raspy voice an homage to Philip Morris.

  Something crashed into my chest with incredible force. My legs began to crumple, then my head hit the rim of the trunk. On the way to the ground, I saw bright spots in my vision, and also a long auburn strand of hair that was caught between the metal and the rubber seal of the trunk. Time, movements, thoughts, became heavy and laborious. I wondered if the tar pit dinosaurs might have felt the same.

  I hit the ground, trying to focus on the exquisite pain in my chest. Was it a kill shot or had it missed the major organs? I lifted my hand, which must have been chiseled from granite judging by the weight, and felt the bullet wound. Warm blood oozed out, but not at an alarming rate. Perhaps there was still hope for me and the dinosaurs.

  I heard footsteps and turned, contemplating the old cowboy boots, then the grimy pants, the filthy shirt, and finally Mr. Bailey’s grinning face.

  “I got my orders.” He pointed the gun at my head. I never heard the shot.

  ***

  The woman walked up to examine the body. She seemed satisfied with what she found.

  “Get him in the trunk and dump him farther out this time. Past where you dumped Shelton. I’m tired of looking at those fucking buzzards. And another thing, if you ever call me a stupid whore again, I’ll shoot your balls off.

  “And Ed...when you get finished with the body, take a goddam BATH!”

  Feral

  “You have to move slowly, in a nonthreatening manner. Like this.”

  The man who spoke could have been a California surfer dude, with his blond hair and tan face. But he wasn’t. He was a former computer programmer who spent his time, not in the Pacific Ocean trying to catch the perfect wave, but here on the decaying streets of Springfield, trying to catch ferals.

  “Slow, steady steps. If you move fast, they get spooked,” he said to the pretty girl standing by a rusting Chevrolet pickup. She was impressed, and not just by his fluid movements. He was one of the good guys, which was saying a lot these days.

  He placed the Havahart humane trap about twenty yards from the vehicle where it was parked at the alley entrance. He arranged the bait and set the spring-loaded door in the up position. When the feral entered to get the canned tuna fish, its weight would spring the door. It might hate being inside the cage, but it wouldn’t be injured, unlike traps used by other people, which were designed to maim or kill.

  Gretchen couldn’t wrap her brain around that. Yes, the ferals were a problem. Their population had exploded after the Collapse of 2023, their proliferation no longer held in check by government-funded spaying and neutering programs. No one had the resources to house or feed them, nor the means to stop them from breeding.

  “Conrad, you’re a saint. You know you’ll be in big trouble if you’re caught. This is against all the rules.”

  The handsome face broke into a grin, despite the circumstances and bleak environment. Nobody in their right mind ventured into this part of the city anymore; it had been a crime-ridden section of town even before the collapse. It was getting dark now, which made it even more dangerous, but dusk was the best time for trapping.

  “I realize that, of course. But I also know it’s the right thing to do. If I can save just a few of them, it’ll be worth it.”

  She nodded. He was right, but that wasn’t something you would discuss with just anyone. She only knew about the traps because she was sleeping with him and had seen them in his garage. He had six, two of which sat empty in the bed of the pickup.

  She watched with appreciation and more than a little lust as he walked back toward her. She may decide to let him impregnate her. She was only allowed one live birth, and he met all the criteria on her checklist.

  He pecked her cheek before sliding behind the wheel.

  “We’re burning daylight, and we’ve got two more to go.”

  A block over, they placed the next trap. Because it was getting so dark now, she stayed in the truck, with the window rolled down so she could see everything.

  “Do you always use tuna?” she asked.

  He held a finger to his lips, set the trap, and walked back to the vehicle.

  “We have to be quiet or we’ll scare them away. The smart ones are wary, so we have to appear as innocuous as possible, and that means talking in a soft, soothing voice.”

  “Like that old movie, The Horse Whisperer.” She was proud of herself for knowing that. She loved watching all those movies down at the community center. Unlike at her house, the power there was always running. You could go to the center to hang out when the lights were off at home. That’s where she had met Conrad.

  “Exactly like that. And the answer to your tuna question is no. I use whatever I have available from my rations, but I’ve found that the smellier the food, the better it works.”

  She nodded. That made sense.

  They stopped at the next street, and again she waited in the pickup while he set the final trap. It was fully dark now, and Conrad was down to his last spoonful of food, which he left on a paper plate in the cage
.

  “I hope it’s enough to lure one of them in. There wasn’t much in that last one,” he said.

  “It’ll be enough. They have to be starving. The stink of that fish will bring them running.”

  “You’d think that, but I’m telling you, some of them are smarter than others. They’re suspicious. They can smell the food, but they see it’s surrounded by metal. They just don’t fall for it. There’s a little black one I recognize who has watched me several times. I’ve never been able to catch it. It just hides behind dumpsters or piles of garbage and stares.”

  “Interesting.”

  “You think I’m crazy, right?”

  She reached over and gave him a lingering kiss.

  “No. I think you’re wonderful and compassionate. So now what?”

  “We wait. It shouldn’t take long. I know there are plenty of ferals out there that we didn’t even see. They’re excellent at hiding. They’ve had to be.”

  “Yes, poor things.”

  Gretchen thought it would be a kind of poetic justice if the ferals took over the city someday. There were more of them now than there were New Patriots, which were what she and Conrad and all the other blond-haired, blued-eyed citizens were called. The New Patriots were the ones who had escaped President Schmidt’s population culling. True to the blue, fond of the blond! That had been one of the many cultural idioms to spring from the mandate, perpetuated by those unlucky folks who lacked the correct genetics to qualify for the government food program. Some people had tried using hair dye and contact lenses in the beginning, but the Feds got smart. Their scientists came up with a simple-to-use DNA test. When you went to the distribution center, you had to spit on a stick. You can’t fake your DNA...it will rat you out every time.

  When the societal collapse had happened, triggered by race riots, the crash of the financial markets, and a relentless series of natural disasters – the impact of which was exacerbated by climate change – there was only so much food to go around. Schmidt and his cabinet members waited out the violent end of civilization in the President’s Emergency Operation Center situated belowground in D.C. He and a few hundred loyal friends and followers lived in relative luxury for six months, while the majority of the US citizenry starved to death, were murdered for their food, or died from illnesses or injuries for which they had no medicine. It was surprising how quickly supply chains disappeared when the fabric of society unraveled.