Somehow, Malcolm had held on to his faith that eventually the pendulum would begin to swing the other way. It hadn’t happened, and his deflating hope made him feel like a stock trader watching shares of a dying company slowly depreciate until there was pointlessly little value left.
Malcolm realized that his hope had been foolish. It was surprising really, how quickly civilization had collapsed in on itself. It seemed as though it should have taken longer. Electricity, the internet, and running water were all conveniences that had been around for longer than he’d been alive. It seemed counterintuitive that they could be permanently cut off overnight, even after the fact. What was left of the oil and gasoline had been hoarded by the constantly warring gangs, at least in Vanderbrook and the surrounding area.
Malcolm finished resetting the trap. He tucked the weasel into the length of twine that now served as his belt, and headed further into the woods. The brook was up ahead, and it had reached unseasonably high levels, making it deep enough for him to occasionally catch a fish or two.
Malcolm had a couple of basic traps set up alongside the brook, but nothing comparable to the sophistication of his log trap. They were mostly basic twine nets designed to trap fish within little inlets he’d dug along the bank until he could arrive and collect them. They only rarely ever worked, but were easy enough to set up, and only took him a glance to check.
Today was his lucky day. A long, silver scaled fish was in one of the traps. It looked tired from struggling against the net, and only gave a small thrash as Malcolm took it in his hands and pulled it loose. He gave it a small thwack against the rocks and carefully threaded it onto his belt.
After making sure the traps were in place to possibly catch him more fish, he turned around and started back toward Vanderbrook. He considered, as he often did, whether it would be smarter to abandon his base in town and move into the outlying forests.
Towns and cities were not safe places anymore. Malcolm had learned that lesson within the first couple of days after Second Wind’s ascension to demonhood. Gangs ruled the streets, some of them armed with guns, some of them backed by monsters, and most of them with nothing to lose. The gangs fought each other for territory and resources, and anyone caught in the warpath was given as much consideration as a squirrel on the highway.
Malcolm’s gun was probably the most valuable thing he owned. The three bullets he had left were a close second. He also had a taser, useless to him now that he’d exhausted its battery, and a medium sized hunting knife. He wasn’t stupid. He avoided the gangs like everyone did, and because of that, he was still alive.
A branch cracked just beyond the trees to his left. Malcolm froze, slowly dropping to the ground and sliding up against a large tree. He waited and listened, and then watched as a figure came into view. It was a demon, a tall one with unusually lanky limbs and deep green skin. The demon sniffed the air for a couple of seconds, stared at where Malcolm was in his hiding spot, and then headed off in another direction.
The dip I took in the brook last night might have just saved my life. Score one for hygiene.
It felt odd to remember that there’d been a time when Malcolm would have had the option to face off against one of the monsters. Now, he treated them like he treated the gangs, avoiding even the demons and sprytes he’d known from Terri’s Tavern. Avoiding all of them… except for Rose.
He still looked for her, though it had been weeks since he’d had any real hope. Thinking about her, the pain he’d caused her, the intimacy they’d once shared… It hurt Malcolm in a way that few things could. It made him feel hollow and pointless, like he was past the part of his life where any real enjoyment could be derived.
Thinking about Rose was a reminder to Malcolm that he was the kind of person who could do horrible things. He’d killed Brenden, her deranged fiancé, though it had been in a life or death struggle. He’d kept Brenden’s story to himself, the story of how Rose had accidentally killed her own daughter. He’d done it because he thought it was for the greater good, sparing Rose from a memory that could do nothing but hurt her.
Those had been Malcolm’s choices. In a strange way, they seemed a reflection of the widespread chaos his copy, Second Wind, had wrought upon the world. He’d taken to calling himself Zeus, though many people were too scared to speak his name openly.
Zeus. He thinks he’s a god. And since nobody is strong enough to challenge him, why wouldn’t he?
Malcolm waited in his hiding spot until he was sure that the demon had disappeared into the distance. Then, he slowly rose to his feet and continued on, back to what remained of his former hometown. The town he hadn’t managed to protect.
CHAPTER 2
The sky was choked with grey clouds overhead, and the air smelled of dust and smoke. Most of Vanderbrook’s outermost neighborhoods had been completely abandoned. The pressure of the looters had forced suburban families to run from their homes during the early days of the collapse.
Malcolm took his time moving through the neighborhoods and toward the center of town. He was careful, and he passed by the few people he saw on the way with as much caution as he could manage. Their clothes were dirty and ripped, and though Malcolm knew his own were just as bad, he couldn’t help but attribute desperation to their appearances. And desperate people were unpredictable.
A small, outdoor trading bazaar had sprung up on Vanderbrook’s old main street. It was ringed off by a wall of parked cars, useless for anything else without gasoline to feed their empty tanks. Here, there were a couple of armed guards, men paid by the traders in the area to “protect” them from the dangerous gangs in the areas.
Malcolm stepped into the circle of cars and made his way over to Greg’s trading stand. Greg was one of the few local traders willing to trade in bullets, one of the common currencies after the collapse, along with rice, canned food, and other long-lasting food staples.
Bullets were the only resource Malcolm cared about accumulating. It made him feel cold and heartless to value them so highly, but being heavily armed was now a necessary part of his survival. Especially given the amount of traveling outside of Vanderbrook he did, searching for Rose. His gun was the only hope he had at keeping himself alive.
“Malcolm,” said Greg. “Good to see you. Plenty of food out in the woods today, I take it?”
Malcolm nodded.
“Take your pick,” said Malcolm. “You can have one or the other. The fish is the meatier of the two, but weasel’s pretty tasty. Tastes like chicken.”
Greg forced a laugh.
“I’ll take the fish,” he said. He reached down under his rough, wooden trading counter and pulled out a single bullet to set on top of it.
Malcolm frowned at him. “Come on. One bullet?”
“Margo’s gang had a shootout with Bicep and his guys the other day,” said Greg. “The value of bullets has gone way up. Take it or leave it.”
Malcolm groaned. He pulled the fish loose from his belt and passed it over to Greg without meeting the man’s eye. It was necessary for him to collect all the bullets he could, even if it meant making bad trades to obtain them. And eating weasel for the night.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” said Greg, with a nod.
“You know, I’d call you a cheap ass swindler if you weren’t so polite,” said Malcolm.
“It’s a good business strategy, given the circumstances,” said Greg. “It’s why I have repeat customers.”
Malcolm picked up the bullet and slipped it into his pocket. He lingered in the bazaar for a few minutes longer. The spectrum of items for sale was limited to the stuff of survival. Clothes, food, weapons, candles and fuel for those lucky enough to be able to afford them. Clean water in jugs. Malcolm got his from the brook, as did most others brave enough to venture out of Vanderbrook and into the woods.