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Rare Providers

by Ariel Marken Jack

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I like to hunt in the campground that sprouted from the outskirts of our town before we lived here. It’s hard to tell just where the town ends now that the world has grown wild, but there’s not much beyond the campground apart from trees and the scrub and grass growing up through the broken roads. We’re lucky we found a town that hadn’t invested in strip malls or stamped-out housing developments. People here must have liked parks more than parking lots, because the green came back fast once everyone was gone.

Sometimes when I go hunting, I find bones. I don’t know who they were, but they hid in the outhouses, cabins, and trailers, squeezing under the tables in the burned-out picnic shelters and the crawlspace under the camp office cabin. Hiding didn’t save them from whatever happened here, but I respect the effort. I’ve tried to imagine what they were like. It’s a nice town, what’s left of it. Some of them might have been nice people.

I find Lana rolling out pie crust when I get in. My pack is brimming with glossy nuts, orange-gold chanterelles, and a brace of the fat grey squirrels that swarm the oaks when the acorns start to ripen. Her walnut-black hair is piled on top of her head, a few loose strands coiling around the side of her neck. She doesn’t look up when the door creaks, so I track my muddy boots onto the linoleum. I like the way she blushes and squeaks when she wants to pretend she’s too angry to laugh at my mischief.

“Christine!” She shrieks like the tiny brass bird that perches on the spout of the tea kettle I scavenged next door. I feel like whistling myself. If she can get this mad about mud, it’s one of her good days. “Get out of my clean kitchen, you monster!”

She brandishes the marble rolling pin. The force of her outrage resembles a steam train more closely than a kettle. I backtrack and shuck my boots off on the porch. I leave the rest of my hunting duds out there too. She can’t mask her face well enough to hide how the outrage transforms to interest when she sees I’m not wearing anything dirty anymore. I dodge her floury hands and make a break for the bath.

It’s been sunny for days, and the sweet rainwater steams coming out of the tap. I treasure these late-summer evenings when the tin tank I painted black and put up on the roof can soak up enough rays to simmer the day’s work off my skin. I hope it rains again before the tank runs dry. I can’t be happy without my baths. The little pleasures in life mean more now that we can’t take them for granted. I soak until the water goes cold, reading one of the tattered Westerns we found in the house across from the church. The redolence of baking fruit wafts upstairs like a blessing. I never got the appeal of these stories, but Lana adores them. I think it’s something about the grimy heroes, all stylish boots and moral justification. I wonder if she’d prefer a cowboy or a mountain man, or an Old West lawman with a shining star-shaped badge. Maybe it’s the way they’re all such rare providers, at least for the one good woman each book is allowed to hold. Maybe it’s the way they’re all so quick on the draw, always ready to protect that good woman from interlopers. I wonder if she sees me like one of her Western heroes. I don’t know if bringing home squirrels lives up to that fantasy.

The pie turns out to be rhubarb. It’s long out of season, but the attic is brimming with jars of dried fruits and vegetables. I built a solar dehydrator last spring, and Lana put it to good use. She always wanted to be the kind of person who put food by for winter. In that respect, our new life is her dream come true. She filled the cellar with canning our first two years here. She was so proud of herself I could barely stand how happy it made me feel. Then we ran out of canning lids. I searched, and found a few more, but I had to get creative to keep her from crumbling. It’s best for her if she keeps busy. I’m the same way, but it’s easier for me. There’s always something to build or scavenge or stalk. I don’t need to think about things the way she does. “Good pie,” I say. She knows, but I try to make sure she feels appreciated. “Is that squirrel fat in the crust?” She shakes her head. “Lard from the tin you found a few months back. It’s all gone now.” I take another bite. The pie is delicious. I wonder if I should explain about the lard, but she worries so much. What she doesn’t know doesn’t have to hurt her.

If I’m honest, it wasn’t hard for me when the world got emptier. It was a relief. I’m not like Lana. I’m more like the seeds she saves when I forage through our town’s old gardens gone wild. People talked about what was happening like it was the end of everything, but for me it was a beginning. Any seed would know, if seeds knew anything, that being saved isn’t enough to survive. You need the right soil if you’re going to put down roots and learn to grow.

I’ve put down more roots in this town than I expected. I think I’ve grown a lot since we moved in. I’ve grown a lot of secrets, too. There’s no one here to tell, apart from Lana. I tell her what makes sense for her to know, but there’s some knowledge she doesn’t need. Like the lard. Like the fact that I was about to break things off with her when the world started shifting so fast that no one with the power to do anything about it could keep up. I loved her back then, but it felt like something was missing. I was only waiting because I couldn’t bear to hurt her. I waited so long that everything around us fell apart, and then I had to find her a safe place to live before I left. We hiked for months, hiding from strangers because we couldn’t tell who we could trust. Everything got easier after most people were gone. By the time we found the perfect town—isolated, largely undamaged—I couldn’t remember why I had wanted to leave.

I’m about to beg for more pie when someone knocks at the kitchen door. We don’t get many visitors. Our neighbours are owls, raccoons, feral cats. Maybe this used to be the kind of town where people drop by unannounced to borrow sugar, but those days are gone. This is our town now. My town. I worked too hard to get us here—to keep us alive on the road, through all the cold nights, blistered feet, starvation, and terror—to let anyone try and take it away.

Lana gets up to answer the door—it’s reflexive, she can’t help herself—and I motion for her to wait while I get in position. We have a deal. I let her be hospitable, and she lets me make sure it doesn’t come back to bite us. My shotgun lives in the living room closet. I found it at the campground office. It doesn’t have shells, but the action still pumps. The sound should be a deterrent. I hang back behind the big armchair and nod for Lana to do what she has to do.

She steps closer to the door. “Who is it? Friend or foe?” I like the way she always says that—it’s cute—but I wonder if she thinks a foe is likely to be straightforward about their intentions. “Friend.” A man’s voice. I don’t like that. “May I come in? I’m all out of water.” He must have seen the smoke from our chimney. We’re lucky we found a house with a wood-burning cookstove and a working fireplace, but I hate how visible they make our life.

Lana looks to me for permission. I shrug. It’s up to her. She opens the door, careful to stand aside. He comes in slowly, empty hands spread wide. The fact that he thinks about showing he’s not a threat makes me trust him less. “Hi, I’m Tony. Thanks for letting me in.”

She shuts the door. I don’t think the stranger sees me. He looks around, but the living room is dark, and I’m crouched low behind the chair. She stays out of reach—good girl—as she points him toward the table. “Have a seat.” He does what he’s told, keeping his hands above the table. I can’t see a weapon, and he doesn’t look strong—he looks dehydrated, exhausted, as run down as we were when we found this town—but looks can deceive.

He beams when Lana asks if he’s hungry. “Starving.” She gives him a big smile back and gets him a glass of water and a plate of squirrel and onions. He eats like someone who hasn’t seen food in a while. It’s petty, but I’m pleased when she doesn’t offer him pie.

I don’t like how Tony stares at Lana once his bowl and glass are empty. I can’t interpret the stare. Maybe he’s just excited to talk to another person, one who isn’t either dying or trying to kill him. Maybe he’s not that innocent. I don’t want him thinking she’s alone. I sidle into the kitchen, cradling the shotgun. He looks surprised, but he doesn’t get up from his chair. “Hi there,” he says. “I’m Tony. I guess you were making sure I didn’t hurt your friend. That’s good. Friends should look after each other. This world is so rough.”

“My wife,” I say. She isn’t, but she likes it when I stake my claim. He looks a little more surprised, but he doesn’t seem shocked. A point in his favour. We could have gotten married, before—it had been legal for years—but there were always people who would have opposed it. A disappointing number of them survived. At least for a while. I lower the shotgun.

Tony likes to talk, but he doesn’t have anything new to tell us. All road stories sound the same. We let him ramble until I see Lana swallowing a yawn. “Well, past our bedtime,” I tell him. “You can sleep in the guest room, if you don’t mind being locked in.” I don’t want him in our house, but I also don’t want him wandering around where I can’t keep track of him. “Not at all,” he says. “I understand. Women alone—you are alone, aren’t you? I’m sure you’ve got to be careful.” I don’t like that question, or his assumption that being out here without a man means we’re alone. I also don’t like not knowing if he’s really on his own. I keep Lana behind me while we show him to his room. The shutters outside the windows are locked, so he’s not going anywhere unless he axes the door. We take the shotgun up to bed with us.

I have a harder time than usual getting to sleep. It’s been months since our last visitor. I slow my breathing so it won’t keep Lana awake. I can feel her doing the same. I try not to say it—I know she doesn’t want me to—but my mouth doesn’t want to stay shut. “You always seem so happy when someone new stops by.” I sound resentful. I wish I could keep quiet. “I have to be a good hostess,” she says. “You know how I was raised.”

I do know. The opposite to how I grew up. I was a free-range granola kid, despite my joke of a name. I had a pocketknife, a field guide collection, and parents who never cared if I came home for dinner. She went to Jesus camp, Sunday school, Bible study. Her cousins married out of high school while she was praying to shed her sin so she could stop looking at other girls and wondering how they tasted. She hadn’t spoken to any of them—her family, or the girls she used to look at—in years. She never will again. I hold her tighter. “I can’t imagine what Mama would think if she saw how I live now,” she says. “But I know my grandma would be proud I haven’t forgotten all she taught me about hospitality.”

We make Tony breakfast and fill up his canteens. It’s obvious he’d like to stay longer, but we like our peace and quiet. We stand in the doorway and watch him walk off. I wonder where he’s going. I wonder when I’ll find out if he plans to come back. “Good luck out there,” Lana says, waving goodbye. He waves, too, but he keeps walking. I watch until he’s out of sight. It’ll be a while until he’s out of mind, but I hope we’ve seen the last of him. I don’t like most strangers, but I really don’t like the ones that try to stay.

“Maybe I’ll stick around today.” I’d been planning to forage more acorns while the weather is nice. They’re bitter as hell if you eat them raw, but we learned to soak them in water to leach out the tannins. Roasted and pounded into meal, they make great pancakes and pie crust. Ideal sustenance for anyone who loved reading survival manuals as a kid. I wonder if my parents ever dreamed all the field guides and wilderness camps might one day save my life. “No, go on,” Lana says. “You’ll just get in my way. I’m going to do laundry while the sun’s out. You hate laundry.”

I do hate laundry. I’d wear dirty clothes for weeks—for months—to avoid the scrubbing and wringing. Maybe I miss laundry machines the most. I pack the leftover squirrel and onions for lunch and grab my real gun. It’s not the deadliest weapon—practically a toy, a spring piston air rifle I robbed from the gas station once we were sure no one was around to care what we took—but it’s accurate enough for small game. I’ve found a treasure trove of lead pellets in various houses. A few other air guns, too, but this one shoots the straightest. Thank goodness—or badness—for small, rural towns where kids were still playing with guns. Never would have been grateful for that before. It’s been a solid month since we finished the meat I brought home along with that tin of lard. I have to make sure we get enough quality proteins. Might as well thin out the competition for acorns while I’m at it.

It’s dark when I get home. The woods were golden and lovely, and I took my time. My pack is so full I can barely lift it. I’m as rare a provider as any cowboy. I whistle as I repeat my muddy boots on the kitchen floor routine. I’m so busy feeling pleased with myself that I don’t smell what’s cooking until I realize Lana isn’t hissing or squealing over my sins. “Smells great,” I say. “Where’d you find the meat?” “In the freezer in the, um, the yellow house,” she says. “I went for a walk. I think it’s pork.” She’s looking everywhere except at me. I slide my boots off right there. “You okay?” She stirs the stew and stares down into the pot. “Yeah. Just tired.” She dodges my hug and goes to lay the table.

I don’t feel so keen on a bath tonight, but I know she prefers it when I wash up for dinner. She only likes grimy heroes in her yellowed paperbacks. “I’ll just wash my face and put on something clean,” I say. “I’ll be quick. I’m looking forward to hearing about your day. She doesn’t respond.

We eat the stew over wild rice. We gathered that rice together, so it tastes extra good. She doesn’t usually come on foraging trips, but I knew she’d like the marsh. It’s lovely there, full of herons and rustling reeds. Eating that rice reminds me of every perfect day we’ve shared since the world went away. I wonder where she found the meat—she’s never been a hunter—but I don’t really care. It’s delicious. I can taste apples, onions, dandelion greens. I want to lick my bowl, but she doesn’t like that. She’s still too quiet. I won’t tease her tonight.

“You want more?” I serve myself seconds. I worked hard today. I deserve it. She shakes her head. I lick my lips. “How do you make everything taste so good?” She doesn’t answer. I take another bite, chew, swallow. She dissolves into tears.

She won’t let me put my arms around her. “Just let me be, Christine,” she says when I try to stroke her hair. “I don’t want to talk about it. Please, just leave me alone.” I sit beside her and wait for the tears to dry. She makes an awful choking sound and runs upstairs. She knocks her chair over as she goes. She doesn’t stop to pick it up. That scares me. Lana can’t abide untidiness. She’s proud of how perfectly she keeps our house in order. I think about the delicious meat. I think about how we both know there’s nothing worth eating in any freezer in town. There hasn’t been electricity in years.

Lana’s crying in our bedroom. She doesn’t unlock the door when I knock, so I know she really doesn’t want me in there. If privacy is what she wants, I’d better let her have it. I put the leftovers down in the cool cellar, so they’ll keep, then get my candle lantern and head out.

The moon is bright enough I don’t need the candle. A small relief. Light sources are precious. I feel the loss every time we use one up. The unlit lantern’s weight is comforting. It swings from my hand while I stroll to one end of the street and then the other, switching sidewalks to make sure I don’t miss any clues. I’m think I know what I’m looking for, but I don’t know for certain until I reach the church.

The grass grows tall in front of the narrow white building. Someone must have mowed it, before. It’s a tangle of wildness now. I like it this way. I’ve never felt confident that tidiness and godliness have that much in common. The summer-gold stalks and seed heads rattle and whisper in the nighttime breeze. A diagonal swath of flattened plants runs from one corner of the lawn toward the old oak doors. Something heavy’s been dragged through there.

I creak the unlocked doors open and light the candle. There’s a trail of size-five footprints creeping along the dusty vestibule floor, alongside a strip of unexpectedly gleaming floorboards. Whatever was dragged through there must have picked up some dust. I follow the trail back through the sanctuary and wind up in the kitchen. The footprints stop at the walk-in refrigerator where they must have kept food and beverages for church events. I take a deep breath and crank the doors open.

Tony doesn’t look good. He’s missing a leg. Something hit him upside the head much harder than any person could survive. The walk-in’s insulation keeps the worst of the summer heat out, but he won’t keep for long in this weather. I’ll need to deal with the rest of him soon. I scowl at the dead guy—we didn’t need this—and then I head back home to clean up his mess.

Lana’s still crying upstairs. Sobbing is probably better than silence, but it hurts to hear her feeling messed up over a creep like Tony. I knock and wait. “Go away, Christine!” I lean against the door. “I found Tony.”

The crying subsides. I guess the worst part is the fear of being found out. At least, I imagine that’s how it would be. I never had that problem, but then I knew I was doing it to protect the person I love. No one teaches girls that it’s also okay to protect ourselves.

“Lana, I need to show you something.” Silence now. I can’t even hear her breathing. “Please come out.” She sobs again. “Go away!” At least I know she’s listening. I take a deep breath and try to compose a speech. I need to say this right. I need to say what she needs to hear. I need her to hear me, and I need her to understand.

“I’ve been reading your Westerns,” I say. “I’ve been trying to figure out what you like about them. What it is you dream about when you gaze out the window. I’ve tried to imagine being one of your cowboy heroes. Tried to understand if that’s what you want me to be. I know you worry I’ve only stuck with you because you’re here. I know you feel like you have to spoil me with pie and pancakes so I won’t pick up and leave. I see you doing your hair and mending your dresses so there’s no chance I’ll ever see anyone prettier passing through.”

I should have said all this before. I shouldn’t have tried so hard to keep it secret that there was a time I planned to leave. It’s not like she’s stupid. It’s not like she didn’t know.

“Lana.” I hope she’s listening. “I’m not a cowboy. I’m not inclined to roam. It’s been years since I dreamed about hitting the trail. The best thing in my life is coming home to you. I don’t care what you do. I just care about you being okay. Nothing else matters.”

She makes me wait a long time. I don’t blame her. Eventually she sniffles and says “You’re really not mad?” I smile. “Just come out, sweetheart. Everything will be okay.”

The moon’s still high enough to light our way as we walk. I hold her hand, and she doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t ask where we’re going, either, but I can feel her surprise when we don’t stop at the church. I lead her across town and into the campground. She doesn’t like it here, I know. She clings to my arm when the moon disappears behind the clouds.

I’m only in the shed for a minute, but when I come out the moon is back. She’s staring at the light, tears rolling down her cheeks, shining like precious stones. I need to find that girl a diamond. She’ll feel better with my ring on her finger, even if no shows up for our wedding. I never thought to look for jewels when I was ransacking empty houses for tools and candles. That was a mistake. I’ll try to fix it as soon as I can.

When she’s done looking at the moon, I show her what I got from the shed. She looks at the yellowy skull and then at me. “Lana,” I say, “This is Brian. At least it was.” She looks at the skull again. “We met a Brian,” she says. “Our first summer here.” I nod. “You remember how that summer I found a stash of pork that hadn’t gone bad? Even though the power was already a thing of the past?” She goes quiet again, then sighs. “Oh.” I nod. She’s starting to smile. “We ate Brian chops,” she says. “Brian schnitzel. Roast leg of Brian with new potatoes and peas.” “Lucas chops too. Pea soup with Edgar ham. And I smoked up some Julian bacon after we found that book about do-it-yourself butchering. You remember, we had it with acorn pancakes for our anniversary, with the maple syrup we’d boiled down in the spring. Remember how proud of ourselves we were? How we felt like pioneers, like in your books?” The diamonds on her cheeks have dried, leaving only the faintest shimmer of salt on her skin. I put Brian back in my trophy shed and take her home.

Everything looks better in morning light. Lana’s eyes are a little red, but I make a point of telling her she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life. It might not be completely true—if you’ve ever seen sunrise over a marsh, you know there’s no person on earth half so lovely as the dawn light painting the mirror of still water framed by lilies and reeds—but she’s the most beautiful person I’ll see in whatever remains of this life. She might as well know it.

Eventually we make it out of bed. I brush her hair. I try to braid it, too, until she giggles at my clumsy hands. She didn’t find them so clumsy half an hour ago, but laughter always helps her pull herself together. She puts her hair up high in a sleek knot that makes me want to pull it all right back down. She reaches for one of those little dresses she likes to wear around the house, but I hand her some jeans. “It’s gorgeous outside,” I say. “Why don’t you come look for acorns with me?” I’m sure she’s got chores, but I can’t leave her alone today. Fresh air will do her good. “Really? I won’t slow you down?” I should ask her to come with me more often. She puts on the jeans and a big sun hat and packs a picnic.

It takes her longer to ask than I thought it would. “What happened to Brian?” The knapsack is full of acorns, and we’re looking for a good picnic spot. I didn’t bring the air rifle. There’s plenty of meat down at the church. We’ll smoke it before it spoils. No sense in wasting it. There’s no knowing when another stranger will come to play.

“I didn’t like the way he looked at you,” I tell her. “I couldn’t have him coming around again when you might be alone.” She bites her lip. “Tony came back.” I’d figured he must have. Lana wouldn’t have gone after him. “Did he hurt you?” She shakes her head. “He said he forgot something. He—he wanted to come back in. He wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise. I was so stupid. I should never have unlocked the door. I ran. I didn’t know what else to do. He caught up with me by the church. And I was still holding the rolling pin. And—and I hit him. And he just fell down.”

I sit on the soft moss and reach for her. She doesn’t pull away. “I didn’t know what to do,” she says again, voice muffled, face pressed into my shoulder. “Shhhh. It’s okay. You did okay. You did fine.” “He just,” she says, “He wouldn’t stop talking. I know it’s wrong but I’m not even sorry.” I pet her hair. I’ve never felt so proud. “We can’t trust anyone these days.”

“He went down so fast, Christine. I only hit him once. And I saw him lying there, and I started thinking about how anemic you got when we tried to be vegan, you know, back when we could pretend there was one way to live right. And…” She stops. I know the rest. I squeeze her so tight I hope she can tell I never want to let go. “We have to eat,” I tell her. “We have as much right to live as anything else.” She sniffles, but it sounds like a token effort. “He just wouldn’t stop talking.” This time she sounds indignant. Probably a good sign.

We take an evening bath together. The rain tank’s running low, so it’s best to economize. She lets me wash her hair while she muses aloud over how she could make a savoury squirrel pie with an acorn-meal crust. “That’s dark,” I say. “Cook ‘em right in their favourite food. I’m for it.” She giggles. I rinse the soap from her hair and find other spots that need my attention. The water goes cold sooner than I’d like.

I’m ravenous when we finally make it downstairs. I fetch the leftover stew from the cellar before I think to wonder if it’s too soon. I pause at the top of the cellar stairs with the pot in my hands. “Is this—do you want me to make something else?” She sighs and shakes her head. “It’s okay, Christine. I guess I always knew what we were eating. All those times some guy came through and then you found meat.” She looks so determined I have to stifle a smile. I head for the stove. “You sure?” “I’m sure. You always say we can’t waste good food. We’re not wasting any now.”

We eat quietly. I still want to lick my bowl, but I won’t tease her. She’s doing so well. I wish I’d already found her that diamond. I’ll go on a quest. I’d like to see it on her finger. I want to see the look in her eyes when she finally believes I’ll never leave her. I scrub the dishes while she cuts the last piece of pie in half. The crust is getting soggy, but it still tastes good.

Lana sits at the table while I wash the pie dish. She’s wearing her thinking face. It’s one of my favourite things she habitually wears, ranking just after nothing at all. She gets up and walks around the kitchen, looking at me sideways. I wait by the sink. I think I finally understand what she likes about the Westerns. It’s not the heroes. It’s the way those people settle in lonely places and do whatever it takes to survive and find some happiness.

“Just to be sure,” she says, “We’ve never eaten any women. Have we, Christine? Not Leah who passed through last winter? Or that nice Jamie who was looking for her sister? I couldn’t bear it if we ate Jamie. You know she wouldn’t have hurt us, even if she did come back to visit like she said she might when she found Jessie. Please say we didn’t.”

I hope she can tell my wounded look is real. I doubt I’d feel bad if we had eaten Jamie, but I want her to believe I care about right and wrong. Maybe I don’t, but I do care what she thinks. I care enough that sometimes I let good meat walk away. Jamie, Ayaka, Sabrina, Priya, Julie, Nala, Debra. Oh, Debra. Debra looked so delicious, and I let her go. I hope Jamie does come back, so Lana never has reason to doubt me. I furrow my brow to deepen the scowl, for comic effect. “What do you think I am, sweetheart? A damn cannibal?”

She laughs. Good. That’s all I wanted. I’m not good at laughing, but I don’t need to be. I don’t care about the world, or anyone in it apart from her. I was never a nice girl. Maybe that makes me a monster. I’m a monster who stays alive, though, and a monster who provides.

I watch her walking around the kitchen, absorbing what I’ve said. I watch as she looks down in time to see her clean bare feet stepping into my dried-up mud footprints. I step back out of reach, just to be safe. I’m careful not to look towards her rolling pin. I’ll have to find her a new one for pies so she can save this one for emergencies. She sees where I’m not looking, but she doesn’t flinch. She just looks at her dirty feet and hands me the mop.

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Host Commentary

PseudoPod Episode 907

February 14th 2024

Rare Providers by Ariel Marken Jack

Narrated by Kitty Sarkozy

Audio production by Kitty Sarkozy and Chelsea Deavis

Welcome to PseudoPod, the weekly horror podcast. I’m Alasdair, your host and this week’s story comes to us from Ariel Marken Jack. It first appeared in Fusion Fragment in November 2022. Ariel Marken Jack lives in Kespukwitk. Their fiction has appeared in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Bikes in Space, Canthius, Dark Matter Magazine, Strange Horizons, The Year’s Best Canadian Fantasy & Science Fiction, and more. Their nonfiction writing on speculative literature appears in Fusion Fragment, Interzone Digital, and Psychopomp.com. They also curate the #sfstoryoftheday. Find their work at arielmarkenjack.com.

Your narrator is the magnificent Kitty Sarkozy whose work I am always delighted to hear. So without further ado, this story, that you can see at the other side of the field and you do not want to get any closer to you, is true.

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As is always the case there are lines that pop for me in stories like this. This is the one that got me here.

“Just to be sure,” she says, “We’ve never eaten any women. Have we, Christine? Not Leah who passed through last winter? Or that nice Jamie who was looking for her sister? I couldn’t bear it if we ate Jamie. You know she wouldn’t have hurt us, even if she did come back to visit like she said she might when she found Jessie. Please say we didn’t.”

The gradual unfolding of just what is going on here is so well done. The careful post apocalyptica of this newly quiet Earth balanced by the growing sense of threat and then the glorious, clammy handed moment of realization of just what that threat is and where it is. This is one of my favourite kinds of horror and it maps onto two of the most disturbing threats we all face from time to time. The first is the growing sense that our trust is misplaced aand that we are in far more danger than we think we are. The second is that moment captured in amber in the now classic Mitchell and Webb comedy sketch where one nazi turns to the other and says ‘Are we the baddies?’

That’s the real monster here. Not the cannibals but the fact they cling to the lies they’re telling themselves about each other. The monster here is polite, friendly. The monster is fondly reminiscing about how delicious one of your victims was and worrying you may have met a woman. Both knowing what you are and convincing yourself you could be worse. Hypocrisy as life raft and safety as a polite smile wrapped around a threat. Horrifically well done, and horrifically well read and produced. Thanks all.

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Join us next time for Bring Them All Into The Light by Dan Coxon, read by Tiernan Douieb with audio production by Chelsea Davis. Then as now we’ll be a Then as now it will be a production of the Escape Artists Foundation and distributed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Non-commercial-No Derivatives 4.0 International license. And we’re closing this week with a quote from Leave No Trace ‘The same thing that’s wrong with you isn’t wrong with me.’

We’ll see you next time. Until then, folks have fun.