by David Bruns
He keyed the worn mic again.
“My friend and me,” he paused. “We found the past.”
A Word from Nick Cole
Nick and Harry.
My first published novel is a book called The Old Man and the Wasteland. It’s part Hemingway, part Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, a suspenseful odyssey into the dark heart of the post-apocalyptic American Southwest. Here’s the description:
“Forty years after the destruction of civilization, human beings are reduced to salvaging the ruins of a broken world. One survivor’s most prized possession is Hemingway’s classic The Old Man and the Sea. With the words of the novel echoing across the wasteland, a living victim of the Nuclear Holocaust journeys into the unknown to break a curse. What follows is an incredible tale of grit and endurance. A lone traveler must survive the desert wilderness and mankind gone savage to discover the truth of Hemingway’s classic tale of man versus nature.” I wrote three books in this series, and they’re collected in The Wasteland Saga. This short story is set in the same world, and if you look closely, you’ll find some characters mentioned that recur in the Saga.
I really loved engaging with this story because I enjoy telling stories inside the post-apocalyptic wasteland. The Man and Dog story is a classic, and especially so in the post-apocalyptic genre; images from Fallout the video game and The Road Warrior came to mind. I wanted Dog not just to be a companion, but a friend. A friend to someone who needed one very badly. I think we’ve all had those moments.
If you’d like to check some of my other post-apocalyptic writing, go to NickColeBooks.com and pick up some of my other novels. I’ve even got a free one over there for you called Apocalypse Weird: The Red King. And I’ve just recently released a new novel The End of the World As We Knew It. It’s basically The Notebook meets The Walking Dead. Hope to hear from you and please say “Hi!” if you get a chance. Also, join my newsletter; I sometimes give away advanced reader copies of my latest works. Thank you so much for reading this story, and I hope you enjoyed it.
Pet Shop
(an After the Cure short story)
by Deirdre Gould
She didn’t know how long it had been since the little man who owned the store had shut off the lights and gone home. That was the last time they’d been properly fed. A few days ago? A week? Surly Shirley the parrot wasn’t certain.
They were in the deepest corner of the large mall with no window to the outside world. Surly’s experience of time had depended on shopping hours for over a decade. But the bird seed was almost gone. When she licked frantically at the small metal ball in her water bottle, not a drop rewarded her. She could hear the kittens crying in their box and the puppies scrabbling against the sides of theirs. The other birds had been silent for a long while. The animals around her were starving.
Even Princess, the pot-bellied pig, looked skinny. Humans had always coddled Princess. The pig, like Surly, had been at the shop for years because she was the owner’s favorite, and he couldn’t bear to sell her.
That was not why Surly had stayed in the shop so long. Princess was polite, well groomed, a pleasing, blushing pink. Surly Shirley was bedraggled at the best of times, her gray feathers always uneven, her yellow eyes cold and beady. Nobody talked to her. Nobody liked her. No one played with her or challenged her. Surly Shirley was bored. And boredom made her mean.
Even the owner had forgotten her original name, and Surly upheld her moniker with all the nastiness she could muster. She didn’t miss the humans at all, at first. But the dwindling bird seed and empty water bottle made her rock on her perch, nervous.
She’d figured out the latch on her cage years ago, much to the shop owner’s dismay. Surly let herself out and tried to check on the others. She landed on the cockatoo cage, carefully pecking open a bag of seed that lay on top, and letting it rain down on the sleeping birds. They squawked but began moving. There wasn’t much Surly could do about the water. They’d have to find a way out.
She knew she wouldn’t be able to save the others alone. As much as she loathed the pig, Surly knew she needed Princess’s help. So she flew down to the shop floor.
“Princess is a pretty piggy,” she squawked and clicked her claws on the cat carrier. Princess grunted. She knew when she was being made fun of.
“Pretty pig,” insisted Surly, “pretty Princess.”
The pig stared at her in the dim light. Surly tapped her beak on the box. The kittens began to meow softly.
The pig groaned as she got up from her pillow. She trotted over to the thin plastic cat carrier and sniffed it.
“Pretty pig,” squawked Surly again. Princess squealed at the box and then flopped against it, squishing it toward the wall. The kittens yowled, but the box’s flimsy top popped off as the container slowly flattened and they jumped out. Surly worked at tearing open a paper bag of cat food with her beak while Princess repeated the process with the larger puppy box.
“Princess is a pretty pig,” squawked Surly and flew back to her cage, closing herself in again, to think. She’d done what she could. Now she had to plan. The owner wasn’t coming back, that was clear. They had to go. Had to find fresh water. Light. Fruit.
Surly remembered fruit. It was rare that she’d ever gotten any. She’d usually had to steal it. The owner used to drink tea with a wedge of lemon in the morning. Surly had dreams about lemons, and the owner had caught her once making one of them come true.
“That’s why you’re such a sourpuss,” he’d scowled, but he sometimes gave her the wedges after that anyway.
She missed lemons. Maybe if they left the shop, she’d find some more. Surly Shirley ruffled up her feathers and shut her eyes to think as Princess turned over the large plastic container of dog treats and the puppies barked for joy.
It didn’t take long for the food to run out, except for some cans that the puppies chewed on but never got into, and a few sacks of birdseed that Surly pecked halfheartedly at. The kittens alone seemed satiated, eating the rodents that multiplied constantly. Surly Shirley had her own battles with the mice and rats over the bags of birdseed in the shop. And the lack of water remained. What little the animals could scrounge—from bottles left by the shop owner and the toilet the puppies dug their way into—was almost gone. Surly knew they couldn’t stay much longer. The problem was finding an open exit.
* * *
Surly was sitting on the shop’s cash register, staring out the window at the thick dark doors that led to the parking lot when the humans returned. The shrieks of someone enraged bounced down the hallway and echoed around her. Then she heard the boots.
“Welcome to Paws and Claws,” she said and whistled as she flew back to her cage. Princess looked up at her. The shrieks mixed with the deep shouts of several men, and the puppies ran to the door and began wagging their bony tails. A large group of people filled the hallway and tromped past. Surly squinted and pulled the cage door closed. The kittens stalked around their empty food bowls, meowing loudly.
“Hello, Paws and Claws,” she warned them again, and then immediately puffed her feathers and narrowed her eyes to small slits, pretending to sleep. A few of the men peeled off from the group and pushed on the pet shop door. It was locked. Two of the men picked up a heavy bench from the hallway and heaved it through the plate glass display window with a crash that scattered the loose animals. An arm reached gingerly around the jagged shards left in the frame to unlock the front door.
The bells bounced against the door as it opened. “Gah!” came a voice. The sharp yips of the dogs overwhelmed it. Surly opened one eye all the way, suspicious. The human was reeling back, its arm shielding the bottom of its face. “Something’s died in here,” he called back to his fellows. “Forget it.”
Surly appreciated the sentiment so much that she lifted herself up and added another dropping for emphasis. That’d convince them to leave, she thought. Her dislike made her temporarily forget the dire situation she was in.
“We need those tools, Walt
. We have to at least look.”
The first human took a reluctant step into the store, kicking aside the tattered remains of a treat box. “This place is a wreck. It’s just a pet shop. What are we going to find here besides dead goldfish and dog crap?”
“Dental pliers,” replied the second man, pushing him forward. “And those claw trimmer things.”
A larger man drifted in behind them, holding up a bulky flashlight. He leaned down to pet one of the puppies. “Always hated this plan,” he grumbled. “They’re people. Can’t do this to people.”
“Really, Joe?” asked the second man, snorting and then spitting on the floor. “Next apocalypse you can decide what to do. Wasn’t my fault that bitch flaked out on the bounty. We had to do something with all those Infected, couldn’t let them run rampant the way they were.”
“I guess,” said Joe, “but what about that cure the trader told us about? Maybe we should check it out. Then we won’t have to—to declaw them and rip their teeth out.”
“That cure is a myth, Joe. Think about all those people hanging onto Infected they know. Like moms who can’t accept their kid is a zombie. The people who thought up this cure story are just trying to get people to willingly turn over their Infected. Pretend they’re going to get better and they can get some dangerous zombies off the street without a fight. But it’s a waste, killing all those Infected. They could make good workers. You don’t want to have to kill all those people do you, Joe?”
“No, Gray, course not. But it seems cruel to pull their teeth out—”
“I know, I know it does. But we got to keep our clients safe. If the Infected can’t bite or scratch, then if they get loose, they won’t hurt anybody, right? We’re just taking precautions.”
“Maybe we should just go ask about the Cure. I could do it. I could find out without anyone knowing about the herd—”
“Look, Joe, we don’t know anything about those people. Maybe they’re mad men. Maybe they rob and kill anyone that gets close. Maybe they have some kind of zombie army. I’ve kept us going this long. We both know I’m the leader and you’re the labor. Let’s just stick with what’s working. We just have to deliver the herd and we’re going to be set for life. Trust me. Now let’s find those tools and let the others know we’re ready to start the processing.”
Joe nodded hesitantly and placed the flashlight on the counter. The men began looking around and pushing empty shelving units to the sides of the store. Surly Shirley wasn’t going to stand for her home being invaded. She decided that was her chance. She slammed against the unlatched cage door, launching herself into the air.
“Paws, Claws, Paws, Claws,” she screeched to the others, exultant in her flight. She was a gray, sleek bullet aimed above Joe’s shoulder, a parrot superhero, leading the charge.
Except the others didn’t follow. The puppies barked frantically and Princess just grunted, sniffing at Walt’s pockets hoping for a treat.
Joe squinted and held up his arms, not certain what was going on. Surly crashed into his chest, then pushed up with her claws and flapped away. She flew around the store, trying to get another angle. She swooped low over his head, raking his hair as she passed, then landed back in her cage, which swung with the impact of her anger. She watched the men from her rocking perch, expecting them to leave in the wake of her furious territorial claim.
“What was that?” asked Walt, pushing Princess away.
“Bird,” said Gray. “Maybe we can have a chicken dinner tonight.”
“Or bacon,” said Walt brightly.
Joe shook his head. “Thought we were just looking for tools.”
“C’mon, Joe,” said Walt, “we haven’t had a decent meal in days. It’s been slim pickings since we started meeting other people. You going to turn up your nose at the nice fat piece of pork right here?”
“But it’s—that’s someone’s pet,” he protested.
“Not anymore,” said Gray, “it’s just a pig. Probably wasn’t anyone’s pet anyway. Wouldn’t be here in the pet shop otherwise. These were probably all the rejects.” He nudged one of the dogs away with his foot. “They were destined for the pound Before, and we all know what would have happened to them there. At least this way, they’ll serve some purpose.”
Joe picked up one of the smaller puppies as it tried again to appeal to the other men. “You can’t mean the dogs too—”
“Why not? They’re no different from the pig. Bit gamier maybe.”
“But it’s—it’s a dog.”
Gray shook his head in disgust at Joe. “It’s better than starving. We need meat. Unless—you want to do what the Infected are doing?”
“I’d rather be Infected,” scowled Joe. “At least I know some people that’d deserve to be dinner.”
Walt shrugged. “So don’t eat ’em. Plenty of cans of cat food left over for you.”
Gray picked up the flashlight and swept its beam over the store. “Go on, Walt, check in the back. There’s probably some cleaning stuff back there. If we’re doing the dental work here, we gotta clean it up so our stock don’t get an infection.” He turned to Joe who was snuggling the puppy in the crook of his arm. “Never known you to turn down a pork chop,” he said, poking him in the stomach. “C’mon, Joe, it’s just a pig. Just like every other pig. It’s going to die in here anyway or get eaten by the Infected on the street. Right?”
Surly Shirley stared at Joe from her perch. His head drooped as he stroked the puppy’s fur. At last he nodded. “Yeah, Gray,” he said, “you’re right.”
Gray pulled the puppy from Joe’s arms and placed it gently on the floor. “So that’s how we’re going to look at them all. They’re livestock, Joe, for as long as we’re here. We’ll keep them fed and watered, we’ll give them a good, solid existence, and in return, they’ll keep us alive. No naming them. No playing with them. They’re just like cows and chickens. You wouldn’t snuggle a cow or sleep curled up with a chicken, would you?”
Joe shook his head. Gray smiled, satisfied. “Good, I’m glad we don’t have to fight about that. You know I don’t like fighting with you. These animals will probably go right back to their cages if we lure ’em with a little food. You got those fancy candles from that artsy-fartsy card shop down the way?”
Joe nodded and pulled his pack from his shoulder.
“Good. Set ’em up around, this place smells like death. I’ll get the tools. I want to get started. We got dozens to get through.”
Surly watched Joe set down the candles and struggle to ignite them with his dying lighter. He was harmless. She whipped her head to the side to look at Walt. Maybe he was a little more interested in eating than the other, but he was also careless and clumsy. Surly could easily dodge him if it came to that. He’d wear out before he caught her.
It was the other one that made her claws curl into her wooden perch. He was bad news. She watched Gray toss a single dog treat to the half-dozen starving puppies. He laughed as they began snarling and biting each other, desperate to reach the small bite of food. He’d never let them go, Surly knew. The best she could hope for was that he grew bored with the pet shop and abandoned them for richer pickings.
* * *
The men pushed the shelving units against the walls, making an empty square of the small store. Much of the broken window was blocked by the shelving units, but Surly thought she could still fit. She just had to wait for the right time. Her cage hung above them, but the cockatoo cage had been wedged in next to the fish tanks. Joe found more stock in the back room and emptied a large bag of dog food into the center. There was enough food that the puppies were all eating, their tails wagging furiously. Joe also put down a large bowl of water and was feeding the kittens when Walt started scolding him.
“Why you wasting food on them? We’re going to need that. We can use it for the herd.” He snatched the bag of food from Joe’s hands. The kittens transferred their meows from Joe to Walt.
“Can’t let them starve—” started Joe.
Gray had been staring out the front window. He turned toward the other two. “Let him feed them. Feeding ’em fattens ’em up for us, right? We’ll just eat ’em, when it comes to it. Besides, we only have to make do for a couple of days. The labor market’s due to open next week.”
“Are there more—uh, more vendors?” asked Walt, handing Joe the bag of cat food.
“Nah,” said Gray, turning back to the window. “Not for Infected anyway. Everyone else is too chicken to round ’em up like we do.”
Joe dumped a little pile of food at his feet. The kittens rubbed against his legs and purred before attacking the dusty pellets. “Maybe that just means they treat the Infected like humans. Labor market, Gray? Why not just call it a slave auction and be honest about it?”
Gray turned around. “How many times do I have to explain this, Joe? If we leave ’em on the street, they die. We don’t have the means to keep feeding ’em for doing nothing. They got to pull their own weight. Have a purpose. Just like these dogs. You think they’re better off dead?” He paused for a moment and pulled out a knife. “If that’s what you think, go ahead. Go take care of the herd. Be done with it.”
“No, Gray, I just…” Joe stopped, quailing under Gray’s stare. “You’re right.”
“Cheer up, Joe. They’re going to be useful. They’ll pull plows and carts, they’ll intimidate enemies, they’ll provide a way to work off tension without anyone getting hurt. They’re going to be valuable and they’ll be comfortable as long as they stay useful. It’s not a bad life. Now, planning all this? That’s hard work. Making me hungry,” he grinned, never taking his gaze away from Joe. “Walt, help me wrangle that pig.”
