Survival: Collected Short Fiction

By Howard Schneider and Mizeta Moon

Survival is a collection of sixty-two very short stories (50 by Mizeta, 12 by Howard), some less than a single page, and three longer works. The collection leads off with Howard's post-apocalyptic story "Survival", a multi-chapter tale set in the year 2084 on the northwest coast of Canada. The final story, also a longer one by Howard, is "Dark Mountain", an adventure tale set in current times in the Colorado Rocky mountains where innocent mushroom hunters become entangled with a drug cartel gang and have to fight for their survival. The third longer piece is a futuristic time-travel story by Mizeta, "Long-Term Investment", with some unexpected twists and turns.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543931426

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Copyright © 2018 by F. Howard Schneider and Redwood La Chapel

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

ISBN: 9781543931426

Published in the United States by SpearPoint Publications, Portland, OR

2018

Cover created by Zap Graphics, Portland, Oregon

Table of Contents

Preface

Survival

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Seeking Romance Online

At the Return Counter

Intervention

Land

Gut Check

Peace at Last

Kicked to the Curb

Hitching a Ride

Alone Now

Detained

Final Contact

Infection

Cyborg Dating, Inc.

Delivery

Winner, Winner, Chicken Dinner

Dark Heart

Hanging On

Epilogue.

Out for A Ride

Dead Coyote

Deluxe Cruise

New Girl at the Bar

Obviously Confused

Perceptions

The Bargain

Dead Man’s Junction

Reunion

The Blind Bus Driver

Who Did You Used To Be?

Long-Term Investment

Tree Talk

Abandoned

Chasing Shadows

At the Bazaar

Death’s Poet

Electricity

I Need a Ride

Absolute Joy

Cooking With A Vengeance

Confession

Welcome Back

Missing You

Revenge

Warmth

At the Old Folks’ Home

Email

Razor Wire

Her Serenade

Two-Dollar Jim

Neighbors

Out of Room

Not Good Enough

Relativity

Murderess

Random Shot

Strangers

Train Wreck

Undeserved Rewards

Victim of Self-Abuse

Will it Ever Stop?

Her Time

In The Basement

Sheppie’s Walk Time

Dark Mountain

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Preface

We want to express that we are not monothematic and restricted to any single genre

Our minds are go to so many different and corners of imagination and reality as reflected in the diversity of our stories

It so our hope that each reader will find something on this collection that will interest them.

Survival

Prologue

This tale of survival takes place on the northwest coast of the North American continent in the year 2084. It begins in what remains of the town of Prince Rupert, British Columbia, which had been a thriving port of 24,000 people in the years before the Great Catastrophes—nuclear wars that affected the entire planet. Chaos caused by the wars, magnified by unrelenting global climate change, was unmanageable, and civilization as known up to that time came to an inglorious end. The five percent of humanity that survived the radiation effects, flooding, riots, looting, mass starvation, epidemics, and local conflicts gradually banded together in small communities that cobbled together resources and social structures sufficient for basic survival.

On the Pacific coast of Canada, where geography and abundant natural resources had allowed indigenous peoples—the Haida, Tlingit, and Tsimshian—to live idyllic lives for thousands of years, many of the native people who survived the catastrophes exchanged their former existence in the white man’s world for the traditions of their ancestors. Returning to ancient knowledge and skills, they lived peacefully in small villages scattered along the intercostal waterways and inland rivers. It was as if time had reversed itself and transported the tribal people back to a better way of living, existing in harmony with their surroundings and one another.

The indigenous peoples were not the only post-catastrophe inhabitants of the region. A small number of non-indigenous peoples also survived the calamities and resulting social collapse and adapted to life in these new times. Some lived in small fortified communes or barricaded dwellings in partially destroyed cities such as Prince Rupert. Others lived outside of the towns, in small forest communities far removed from the villages of indigenous people. This non-indigenous population resorted to whatever it took to stay alive: they revived old crafts, scrounged, salvaged, hunted, fished, and farmed or gardened to provide food, clothing, and shelter. There were also those, small in number, who were predators preying on the weak and vulnerable, considering stealing or killing to be not only necessary but even acceptable. But the price predators paid for their occasional rewards was high— uncertainty, risk, and violence. Whether due to racial prejudice, long-established animosities, or simply mistrust, the two populations, Indian and non-Indian, remained apart, rarely venturing into one another’s worlds. Except, that is, until two disillusioned predators set off from Prince Rupert in a stolen rowboat with the hope of finding a better way of living somewhere else.

Survival

Chapter One

Day One, Prince Rupert

When a man standing in the shadow of a dilapidated brick building heard a door slam shut he strained to place the direction the sound came from. His alertness heightened when hurried footfalls approached from his left, around the corner from where he hid a few feet into a rat-infested alleyway. The sound of steps told him that whoever it was would cross the alley’s entrance with their back to him—perfect for what he intended. He stood unmoving, waiting with the patience of a skilled predator.

A moment later, an elderly man appeared, an unfurled, ragged umbrella in one hand and a worn tote bag in the other. He cast a cursory glance into the darkness of the alley as he walked by. Before the old man was past the entryway, the predator sprang forward and smashed his hardwood club into the side of the victim’s head. The unsuspecting man’s limp body collapsed onto the wet concrete.

The predator grabbed the man’s wallet, ripped an old watch off his thin wrist, and jerked a simple, silver ring off his bony finger. He then removed the victim’s ancient gumboots and scruffy pea coat and yanked the knitted scarf from around his neck. The rest of the old guy’s tattered clothes weren’t worth bothering with. He stuffed the items he wanted into his rucksack and put it back on. Grabbing the man’s tote bag, he looked both ways along the street, and seeing no one, retreated into the alley. Soon he was out of its other end and on his way to another part of town.

As he cautiously made his way along boarded shopfronts, ruined buildings, abandoned houses, and scattered rubble, he wondered for a moment who the victim might have been, and who might be awaiting his return, whether he was alive or dead, but quickly disregarded such useless thoughts and continued warily on his way.

Crossing the mostly deserted areas was not as simple as it might seem since he had to be alert for others like him, hunting prey as he did. He and those like him were both predators and victims. Being out at night presented grave danger whether to an innocent citizen hurrying to the safety of a barricaded dwelling or a predator targeted for the stolen goods he carried. It was Darwin’s survival of the fittest at its most frightening and lethal level, the stark reality of those barbaric times.

He kept to the shadows whenever possible as he made his way toward what sixty years earlier had been a thriving town square. Now it was a maze of small, makeshift shelters and a half-dozen communal huts, all of which were surrounded by an impenetrable wall constructed from the hulks of abandoned vehicles, an unbroken ring of rusted car, truck, and bus bodies salvaged from former times. These relics were stacked closely together to form a barrier with only two entry points, each guarded by armed men or women and their savage dogs.

But as one of the privileged inhabitants, he expected to be allowed entrance. He was a predator, trained from an early age in the skills of hunting, fighting, and killing, thus entitled to special privileges, such as his own hut and more choices of food at the communal table. But the price of such privilege was high. Each nightly foray into the outside world had to yield high-value goods, such as food, medicines or weapons—the price of re-entry. He and others like him had to stay outside until they had that price of readmission.

He approached the guard post assuming the contents of the tote bag he had taken from the old man would get him back in. The bag contained two dozen green apples—mealy and worm-infested, but he thought still edible, and four loaves of black bread.

Who’s there? a familiar guard yelled as the predator emerged from the dark night and neared the entrance.

It’s me. 4595. I’m coming in.

A guard with a dog on a leash stepped forward and waved him closer. Back early, huh? You must have done all right tonight.

Yeah, pretty good. Apples and bread, 4595 replied, setting the tote bag on a table under a faded tarp stretched over the narrow entryway.

The guard took out an apple and peered at it for a second. It’s rotten! he said, tossing it back into the bag.

Just a few worms, that’s all.

Come on, man. You have to do better than this. The committee’s getting tougher on the kind of loot you hunters have to bring back.

Yeah? Tell them to come with me one night and see how hard it is to find anything worthwhile. We’ve just about plundered everything there is to plunder.

That’s not my problem. I’ve got my job and you’ve got yours.

There’s bread in there, too, 4595 said, taking a step closer and pointing at the open tote.

The guard took out one of the loaves and examined it, then shook his head. It’s moldy. No good. Come back when you’ve got something better. The guard tossed the bread onto the table and turned back to the gate from which he had come.

Wait! I’ve got some clothes and a wristwatch.  A finger ring, too, 4595 said, a hint of desperation in his voice.

We can’t eat old jewelry. These things are worthless, the guard said after examining the old man’s threadbare coat and rotting boots. It sure as hell can’t make up for the garbage you tried to pass off as edible," the guard said, turning to face the predator with rising agitation.

Glancing at the big dog straining at the short leash the guard held close to his side, 4595 nodded and retrieved the bag of unacceptable food. He stuffed the coat and boots into his pack and retreated into what had suddenly become a raging rainstorm.

The first thing 4595 did was hide the tote bag to reduce his chance of being spotted by other hunters as a high-priority target. A nearby sparsely wooded park offered a few dry spots, a couple of which he had used in the past. Then he headed to the waterfront where the paltry remnants of what decades earlier had been a small but thriving fishing fleet would be arriving soon with its previous day’s catch. Even though the dock area was usually guarded, there was sometimes the chance of a slip-up and an opportunity to steal a fish or two. Although marine life from the harbor was polluted with toxic chemicals, it was willingly consumed by some out of desperation. Fish from further out in the costal waterway were less contaminated and could serve as valuable currency to pay his way back into the commune. He braced against the blustering wind and torrent of cold rain and headed toward the waterfront.

He stayed in the woods to avoid dangerous streets and alleyways and made good time on the well-worn trails down the slope to where forty years earlier the single remaining dock had been relocated a half-mile inland to escape rising sea levels. He reached the edge of the woods a few blocks from the waterfront and remained hidden in shadows of trees that formed the park’s perimeter. His inner sense of time told him it would be an hour or so until the fleet returned. He pulled his rain jacket tight, settled out of the wind behind a fallen log, and took a wormy apple out of his pocket.

An hour later he heard distant sounds of boats bumping against the dock stretched along the new waterfront and heard fishmongers starting to hawk their catch. He knew he had to get closer to take advantage of any opportunity that might arise and cautiously started toward a narrow alleyway leading to the water. But when he noticed a figure emerging from around a nearby corner, he ducked back into his hiding spot. A rain hat hid the face, but from the long hair and body size he judged the figure approaching to be a woman. Strapped to her back was a bulging rucksack. He waited and watched.

She passed seemingly without seeing him and continued toward the dock, staying in the shadows of a row of derelict buildings. Unwilling to allow a target with potentially valuable plunder to escape, he slipped out of his hiding spot and ran after her, intending to club her from behind, search her pockets, and steal the pack.

Within a few feet of his striking, she suddenly spun around and intercepted his attack with a forceful block of his arm, then followed with a crushing kick to his chest that stopped him cold. Before he could catch his breath, she hammered a smashing blow to his jaw that knocked him sideways. Stunned, but still standing, he prepared to counterattack, but this dervish of a woman was nowhere to be seen. He then collapsed to the ground when his feet were swept out from under him by a side kick from behind. When he started to get up, he froze on feeling a sharp blade pressing against his throat.

Looking up at the woman straddling his chest, he recognized her instantly. Her long blond hair obscured part of her face, although not enough to hide her identity. Hey! Hold on! It’s me, he screamed.

Robert? What the hell? What’s going on? Why did you attack me? the woman asked angrily, pressing the eight-inch blade of the ancient hunting knife hard enough to draw a trickle of blood.

Ceeba, I didn’t know it was you. I’d never hurt you. You can take the knife away. I’m not going to try anything.

You’d better not. I’d hate to have to slit your throat. After all, I have such fond memories of our time together last year, even if it was brief.

Disregarding her remark about what happened last year, he said, That’s a relief. Can I get up now? He tried not to reveal his apprehension about how she felt toward him.

I’m not sure I can trust you. Especially since you didn’t show up for our planned get-together the next night after—

I ran into some problems that prevented me from getting there. Couldn’t be helped, he interrupted. I’m sorry.

You think I believe that?

It’s true. I’ll tell you about it another time.

Ceeba stared into his eyes for a moment, then stood, took a step back and watched Robert get to his feet, all the while keeping her knife pointed at his belly. You should be back in your commune by now. Why are you still out?

Had a bad night. Nothing but rotten apples and stale bread. Can’t get back in without something better. Pickings are scarcer by the day.

Yeah, I know what you mean. Same story with me. That’s why I’m still out, Ceeba said, returning her knife to the sheath fastened to her belt.

Were you headed to the docks hoping to cop some fish? he asked.

The chances are pretty slim, but I was gonna give it a try, she said.

What’s in your pack? Did you score tonight? he asked.

Clothes and personal stuff. Just in case I can’t get back in. Or don’t want to. You know, thinking ahead.

Sounds serious. Is it that bad at your place?

"It’s getting worse. More scarcity, more infighting. One of the men went nuts last week and killed our leader. Beat him senseless with a piece of firewood. Then he was killed. Total chaos. We’re running out of food, too. Not sure I want to go back."

What would you do if you didn’t? Where could you go? Robert asked.

"That’s the problem, isn’t it? Options are limited. Got any ideas?

No, I don’t. But it’s getting desperate with us, too. I’d sure as hell welcome a way out, Robert answered.

Yeah, who wouldn’t? But there’s nothing we can do about that right now. So, let’s see what we can find down there, Ceeba said, nodding in the direction of the dock. Together, they slipped into the shadows of the narrow lane and headed downhill toward the smell of fish and sound of waves slapping against the hulls of a dozen patched-up, antiquated rowboats, dories, and sailboats.

Survival

Chapter Two

Day Two, Prince Rupert

Robert and Ceeba cautiously made their way along a narrow lane leading to the dock. When they were close enough to see the tied-up boats, Robert said, Wait. Let’s see what’s going on. He and Ceeba ducked behind a mound of rubble twenty yards from where men were unloading their catch while others were haggling with a gathering crowd over prices and trade goods. A half- dozen dock guards displaying clubs and machetes were positioned along the dock. Suddenly, they all stopped what they were doing and looked up the slope to where a wide street came down to the harbor area. A swarm of screaming men brandishing clubs and knives were rushing toward them.

Stay down, Robert whispered. It’s a street gang. The guys on the dock don’t stand a chance," There was nothing he and Ceeba could do but stay hidden and hope the gang didn’t see them.

The guards and fishermen fought bravely but were quickly overcome by the gang members’ savage clubbing, slashing, and desperate ferociousness. Two of the men who had been bargaining for fish went down from knife wounds. The guards, fishermen, and other buyers, even though at first, they fought fiercely to defend themselves, soon ran off to escape injury or death. The vicious killers made a hasty search of the boats, stuffed as many of the fish and oysters as they could into their sacks and then dispersed in different directions, leaving the two bodies for the squawking gulls circling overhead. 

Robert and Ceeba waited until the marauders were gone before approaching the dock. After making sure the victims were not alive, Ceeba hurried along the length of the dock and inspected each vessel.

Can you handle a boat? Ceeba asked urgently when she ran back to where Robert was methodically checking the pockets of each corpse. We could take our pick and get away from this hellhole.

What? Are you crazy? Robert replied. We can’t just sail off. Where would we go? We don’t know anything about boats, either. He closed the blade of a clasp knife he found on one of the dead and slipped it into his own pocket.

There were a couple of old sailboats at my commune. We used them for fishing in the lake. I learned enough to get out and back. I could manage that blue one, Ceeba said, pointing at the row of tied up boats.

Where would we go? he questioned again.

I don’t know! Anywhere would be better than here, wouldn’t it?

You don’t know that! We could end up somewhere just as bad.

Maybe. Maybe not. But I’m willing to find out. You coming? Make up your mind, cause I’m getting outta here before the fishermen return. She turned and started back toward the boat.

You’re right there not being much of a future here, Robert said. They stood on the dock next to the sailboat. Fishing equipment, foul-weather gear, water containers, and a duffel bag were scattered across the bottom. A tightly rolled sail lay at the base of a single mast, and two oars were on the floor under its two bench seats. 

Staring at the oars, then glancing back along the dock, Robert said, All right. I’ve never sailed, but I’ll go with you. I can row. I’ve done a bit of that. If we’re gonna go, we better get going.

They quickly scavenged everything worth taking from the other boats, including a couple of haddock the raiders had overlooked. As soon as the boat was loaded, they pushed off and headed into the harbor. Robert’s rowing was uncoordinated at first but got smoother as he worked at it. It’s been a long time, he said between labored breaths. I can’t keep this up forever.

A few minutes later a light breeze came up and Ceeba hoisted the patched piece of canvas. When it caught the wind, they raced along much faster than when relying on Robert’s rowing. Obviously relieved by the newly harnessed wind power, he looked back to the port and thought, So long, Port Rupert. Hope I never see you again.

Where are we going? Robert asked when they cleared the harbor and entered a wide channel that meandered in a westerly direction. Although they didn’t know it at the time, the channel led west to the intercostal waterway that stretched almost a thousand miles along the northwestern edge of the continent.

Looks like we don’t have a choice. We’ll have to follow this passage and see where it takes us. Maybe eventually it’ll lead south. I’ve heard it’s warmer there, and I’m tired of this god-awful damp cold … As an afterthought, Ceeba added, Maybe somewhere we don’t have to kill to survive.

Robert frowned when she said that but didn’t respond. Instead, he focused on handling the tiller and scrutinizing the way ahead. He also kept an eye out for anyone following them, but so far no one was.

Eventually, after several near capsizings caused by shifting currents and sudden gusts, and figuring out how to tack into the wind, they got the craft tracking along the densely forested shoreline. Each near mishap taught them how to avoid repeating it and how to coordinate their efforts. With time, each maneuver became easier. As they continued down the lake-like channel, the rain stopped, the clouds thinned, and by late afternoon a rare spectacle of the sun approaching the western horizon filled them with cheer.

So, on they went, unaware that from their location, about three hundred miles north of the big island called Vancouver, it would take weeks of arduous sailing to reach the southern terminus of the intercostal waterway known as the Inner Passage. The terminus was in the country they had heard stories about. People called it America. In their enthusiasm, they were unheedful of dangers that might lie ahead, and were filled with elation at leaving the futureless, anxiety-ridden lives they were rejecting behind.

That evening, with still enough light left to see by, they made it onto a narrow, rocky beach at the base of a wooded hillside. They concealed the boat with brush at the far western end of the cove where the forest met the channel. Then they erected a makeshift lean-to to deflect a growing breeze that was sweeping away the few remaining clouds. Over a driftwood fire, they roasted one of the haddocks they brought with them and ate mushrooms and berries Ceeba found at the edge of the woods. For the first time in their recent memories they felt content, maybe even happy … and safe.

Ceeba sat with her aching back against a cedar log and savored the warmth from their fire. Becoming more comfortable with each other, they spoke of their brief encounter the previous year. Robert told her how he had been attacked by a street gang on his way to meet her that next night and was badly wounded and barely escaped. She told him how disappointed she was that he didn’t show up. Their openness suggested that a mutual trust was growing between them. With this new level of closeness, Ceeba broached a subject that had been simmering in her mind all day. I wonder what the future holds for us, she said, as Robert moved closer to the fire.

Hell if I know. We’ve spent our lives in walled communes, you in your Lake Village on the other side of town, me at The Hill. We’re both trained predators. We have no idea what else the world offers, if anything. After a long silence, Robert said, How do you know it’s warmer south of here?

Stories my mother’s mother told me, when I was little. She said that many years in the past, there was a rich and powerful country to the south that was destroyed by bombs from the west, across the ocean. In the years that followed there was disease and famine, drought and rising ocean levels—flooding, too. They killed more people than the bombs did. The leader of my commune said our country, which was called Canada, also suffered from the climate change that caused the northern ice to melt and the waters to rise, and many people were lost to disease and famine. He said we live the way we do now because chaos is everywhere, and that we have to do whatever we need to do to survive.

After a long silence, she said, "There must be someplace where people are better. A way to live without having to kill to survive. Wouldn’t that be better?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. Like I said, there’s no way to know. All I know is that I would kill again if I had to, if that’s what you’re getting at. No matter where we end up, our survival will always be more important than what some fuzzy-headed dreamers talk about as morality or whatever they call it. No stranger’s life is as valuable as mine. Or yours, either. Do you really think you could survive without killing?"

"I don’t know anymore. I used to believe that it was the only way. But a while back I killed a man who fought back when I tried to take the rabbits he had trapped. After I stabbed him, two young children scrambled from under a pile of debris and went to where the man lay in a pool of blood and began to cry. When they looked at me, I didn’t know what to say, so I left them next to their dead father with no one to help them. How would they survive?  For the first time ever, I wished I hadn’t killed."

You can’t think that way! It was your life or his. Those kids weren’t your responsibility.

No! she cried. This is our chance to leave that savage behavior behind.  I don’t want to ever kill again. The life of a stranger must be worth more than a meal or two or being allowed back into a disintegrating commune. It’s not too late for us to change.

No! I can’t! I am who I am. His anger flared when he saw a hurt look spread across her fire-lit face. Your guilt can’t change anything. Forget those useless thoughts. Keep your knife sharp. And I’ll keep my club close. That’s the only way we’ll survive. Kindness is weakness and won’t overcome an enemy out to harm us.

Overcome with frustration, he jumped to his feet and strode off down the beach.

Even though Ceeba was shocked by the rage of his response to her plea, she was unwilling to give up. I’ve got to convince him, she thought, then ran after him as he merged with the rising fog.

Robert, wait! When she caught up with him, she persisted in arguing her view, as if words could wear him down and change his mind. She kept on late into the night, up and down the beach and back at the fire, using every ploy she could devise to break through his defiance. But he wouldn’t give in, maybe because he couldn’t conceive of any other way to live, to survive. Or maybe it was just who he was.

Finally, she gave up and accepted the reality that he was incapable of change. That his thinking had been hardened by years of training and using the skills he had been taught to survive as a proficient predator in the cruel world he inhabited. As much as she wanted to hold together the relationship that was developing between them, she believed nothing would come of it if he continued in the old way, kill or be killed. Sadly, but resolutely, she retreated to the shelter and the deep sleep of exhaustion.

Day Three, Channel to Inland Waterway

Robert woke the following morning to distant thunder and waves lapping against the rocky beach. Opening his eyes, he saw that Ceeba was already gone from the shelter. Maybe she has a fire going, he thought happily. He kicked away his covering and crawled toward the entryway, anxious to get on with their journey.

But there was no fire and he didn’t see Ceeba when he looked around their campsite or when he surveyed the full extent of the beach. Ceeba! Where are you? he cried out.

There was no answer.

She must be hunting for mushrooms. He hurried over to the cedar forest surrounding the beach and yelled her name again and again as he moved along its edge. There was no reply nor any sign of her.

His concern changed to worry as he walked back to the shelter. When he looked inside, he then noticed Ceeba’s backpack was gone, as was the ragged tarp she had used for cover.

Then it hit him. Oh no! he cried out. He rushed to where they’d hidden the sailboat. His fear was confirmed: it was gone. In its place was a pile of some of the supplies and equipment they’d scavenged the