The Avenues Cemetery
Federal Heights, Salt Lake City, Utah
“Woompf!” the Remington 30-06 thundered for the fourth time that morning.
Four shots and three deer down. Jimmy couldn’t be more pleased with the results, even as he knew it couldn’t go on forever.
After killing the doe in his neighborhood the night before, he had remembered the small deer herd living in the cemetery a few blocks up the street. With help from a couple of buddies from his ward elder’s quorum, Jimmy mounted an expedition to harvest as many deer as possible before the cemetery herd was killed off or headed for high ground. The herd of deer had probably lived in the local cemetery their whole lives, but Jimmy felt certain being hunted daily would send them to higher altitudes.
He and his buddies returned home with three deer, enough to feed the neighborhood fresh meat at least for a couple of days. His previous concerns about the ward judging him for poaching had dissipated as other men jumped on board. Hunting made sense, and all thoughts of game laws and poaching disappeared like tales of old. In the eyes of the neighborhood, Jimmy rose to the level of a mythical figure. There would be another street barbecue this evening, and he would receive dozens of back slaps and high fives.
Not bad for a novice.
Later that evening, Jimmy gnawed on a mule deer rib, his belly full. He found himself eating every last bit of meat, even the connective tissue. Heck, he had never even thought to eat the sinewy ribs of a deer. They’d barely seemed worth the effort. Now he couldn’t conceive of wasting meat of any kind.
When he finished the rib, he looked at the bone, sure there was still nutrition there, but unsure of how to get it. The bone would go bad in a day, so he tossed it to a dog.
Jimmy stood and joined a group of neighborhood men. He noticed his status had shifted. The real men stood with him now. The rest of the neighborhood guys, the ones still wearing loafers without socks or spotless tennis shoes, drifted among the women or pooled together in loose conversations of their own.
Those other guys, drifting about, were like “satellite bulls” in an elk herd. Jimmy had hunted high country elk with his brother once and he learned a lot more than he had anticipated about breeding behavior. The satellite bulls were the males who couldn’t hold a herd of females because they were too young, unskilled or too unhealthy to fight off other males. Of course, the neighborhood hadn’t resorted to collecting harems of females, and that wasn’t going to happen for a hundred reasons. Besides, not even the horniest male would want more mouths to feed right now.
Even so, Jimmy was beginning to see why the Lord might have commanded the Law of Plural Marriage back in the early days of the Latter-Day Saints. Strong men, like those he stood with, could support more women. They guaranteed survival in a harsh world. Not only could they support more women, but they would be driven—even entitled—to breed with them. After just two days of hunting and providing, that drive didn’t strike Jimmy as so alien anymore.
Of course, he would never take another wife, not unless the Lord commanded it through His anointed leaders. Jimmy’s sex drive didn’t run toward womanizing. However, he had noticed a couple of the sisters from the ward looking at him differently.
He had worn his camo and leather hunting boots all day. The rough clothes made more sense, since all he’d done that day was hunt and butcher. Plus, he had to admit, he liked the way the camo felt, pegging him as a provider. He earned the distinction.
Standing with the “herd bulls,” Jimmy could feel the eyes of his wife. Something had turned inside her, too, altered with that first deer kill. She hadn’t henpecked him once today. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was looking at him with some primal respect, like she was fortunate to be with him. It had been a long time since he’d felt that sensation in his marriage.
What a difference a day makes…
Brother Campbell, standing next to him, gestured out to the valley. “Where’s all the gosh-darn food? What about the storehouses and distribution centers?”
“You know,” Carl Redmund, a non-member, jumped on the question with his customary preamble. Carl had played football for the University of Utah twenty years back. “The stores these days practice just-in-time inventory. That means there aren’t any big warehouses full of food anymore. Everything’s controlled by computers. Every can of food you buy is replaced with one can of the exact same food, quick as a whistle, coming in on a semi from the distribution center down in southern Utah. Almost every bit of food in Salt Lake was already sitting on shelves when the market went to crap. Grocery stores don’t have stockrooms anymore.”
“Yeah, but where’d all that food go?” Art Campbell followed up. “It couldn’t have just disappeared.”
Jimmy jumped in. “I was at Costco the morning after the market halts began―the Costco over on Three Hundred West and Seventeen Hundred South. There were thousands of people in the parking lot. They were ready to storm the place. I’m sure they’ve stormed it by now.”
“If all the food was evenly divided between every family in Salt Lake City, we would have had three, maybe four days’ worth of food for everyone.” Redmund was obviously pulling from something he’d read or heard. “Three days’ worth of food—that’s all any city really has on its shelves. But that food didn’t get divided evenly. It got hoarded.”
Redmund paused for effect. “That food got hoarded by the sons of bitches who hit those markets first. They bought up everything they could. Probably stole it, in fact. Didn’t pay on their way out. Then they piled it in their minivans and to hell with the rest of us. That’s where the food is―hoarded by selfish sons of bitches. Forty-nine out of fifty families got nothing, and one out of fifty families is living high on the hog. That’s why folks are hungry just a week after the market goes to hell.”
It was a lot of swearing for this crowd, and Jimmy could see the Mormon guys glancing about uncomfortably. Jimmy jumped in to smooth things over.
“I’m guessing you’re right, Carl. In any case, I’m positive Costco is as empty as the tomb of Jesus on Easter morning. Right now, our best bet is to stick together and follow the Brethren.”
Carl snorted, not offering a comeback. It had been a long time since he had given a darn about what the Brethren had to say. “Well, gents, I gotta go figure out how to get some water outta my kids’ swimming pool. It’s already turning green, and I’ve gotta find a way to clean it. Otherwise, we’ll all have the trots around the Redmund house. Thanks for the barbecue.” The former football player turned away from the group. Jimmy could feel the tension melt as Redmund left.
Jimmy turned to Brandon Lister, his backyard neighbor. “So, Brother Lister, are we going hunting this evening?”
“Sure thing. Where you want to try?”
“Let’s hit the cemetery again. See if our luck holds.”
“You got it, Jim. See you at three-thirty at the gates?”
“Sounds good.” At that, the small knot of herd bulls broke up and headed back to their families.
Utah State Prison
Bluffdale, Utah
Ole man trouble, leave me lonely.
Go find you someone else to pick on.
Without thinking about it, Tom Comstock had been humming the Otis Redding tune all day. In fact, he’d been humming it all week—a habit he’d picked up from his old man. His dad had also been in law enforcement. He would have been proud to see how far Tom had risen.
Prison warden.
Yes, his dad would have been proud, had the cancer not taken him first.