Thanks to my friend Nici for being responsible for this lovely little story! Originally it was slated to be entered into a contest for Doomsday Diary on Vocal. However, I didn't realize that Vocal requires a subscription in order to enter their contests. So now it's a story for you!
This is a Post Apocalyptic story that is less than 2000 words long with one requirement. It had to include a locket. I decided to make something that is only relevant for this time. A casual little story for the here and now .
The United States had little left. By 2028 the west coast was a heap of a disaster zone. Most of it uninhabitable, the population fading. The rest of the country wasn't much better. As tragedy ravaged our nation, we slowly lost communication with the rest of the world as we lost our grip on technology. We had only ourselves to blame really. Our one hope was to get ourselves together before our population dropped to zero. Yep, Get it together and create something from nothing.
The figure in the mask and Nomex suit entered Bandits with the carelessness all prospectors had. The ashy dust from outside drifted off thick leather boots as they were scraped there a few times. The figure advanced noting with satisfaction that the tables were at least fifteen feet apart. Not that there were enough people left to fill the tables, but it's good to be careful. No use drowning in your own lung juice when some caution would prevent it.
"Whadda you want?" came the sour, unimpressed voice of the barman. He too, wore a mask, though it was only double cloth and his Nomex hung on a tab near the door.
The muffled voice of his patron caused him to sigh exaggeratedly.
"Come on now! Speak up!"
"I said, I'm here for the tourney!"
The man grunted at the roughened voice issuing from the full firefighter's gear.
"Entry fee is fifty vials. Thirty will serve as your ante. The first and second person to go out will have their vials divvied up as the next ante. Dinner's included. No face gear during the game. We'll have barriers up."
"Fifty? For a city of only five hundred people? You certainly seem to think highly of your chances to win a spot among the mighty."
The barman shrugged, "The middle of Oregon from Klamath to Portland, hell that's nothing but a firepit now. We're as good as anyone."
His wrinkled cheeks tightened in a scowl.
"Unless you think you're too good for us? That's no way to prospect."
The figure dug carefully for the coolbox in her pack. She counted out fifty tiny vials of vaccine. The essence of wealth, the ability to keep people alive in this ravaged landscape, that's what the vials represented.
"I've already won four counties, mister. It won't matter what I think when the food crates start getting delivered. Will it?"
Carefully not responding, the barman settled twenty vials into his fridge and set thirty into the mobile cooler on the table. The truth was painful to his ego.
"Where can I change?"
The barman waved toward the back carelessly. The Nomex and mask vanished by the time the entrant returned, but there was still nothing to distinguish this person from the three now seated at the large circular card table, vials with their contents glittering on shelves in the middle. Clear plexiglass separated the competitors. They all wore classic western dusters and low-brimmed hats. Pockmarks decorated their skin from the violent weather. The barman set bowls of dirty rice in front of them as they introduced themselves to each other by way of first names only.
"Klim."
"Recker."
"Gray."
The last entrant houghed into a handkerchief before answering.
"Haven."
The deck of cards was duly examined by each entrant for the verification sticker before the barman sliced into the thick plastic in front of them. The auto shuffler, also verified, duly whirred as it performed its function.
"Rules are rules guys. One round of seven-card stud Jokers wild. Your antes are in the box. Any bet is allowed as long as there is a clear winner in the end. Vials, food, property, drugs, whatever. It's up to you. Troutdale will certify the winner as Multnomah County's prospect for the election. Everybody ready?"
Nods all around. With no other preamble, the barman in his Brixton Joe Jeans, button-down shirt, and worn scarf loosely tied around his scarred neck flipped out two cards face down to each player and then gently laid one card face up for each of them.
Klim flicked a grin at his face-up Queen, Recker, and Gray didn't bother to twitch at a nine and a two each. Haven carefully put a finger on the face-up King and slid it aside, by itself, as it should be. All of them peeked at their face down pair. Haven immediately put up three more vials at which Recker's jaw tightened. Haven looked at him carefully. Nothing, she thought. An idealist. Worse, a GAMER. Her stare hardened and he flinched, then threw down his cards and got up. His hole cards showed a three and a five.
"I never liked this game anyway," he responded hotly at her.
She raised her eyebrows as if in surprise. No one touched his ante. Klim and Gray matched her bet. The next round of cards came through. The bets became soft. Haven pulled out a box of chocolates, causing wide-eyed disbelief. So what if they were just as much a bet as the game itself? She made them from Carob. It was chocolate-like. Wasn't it? Six of the delicacies went onto the table in little cups of their own. Of course, no one was allowed to touch the bets until the game was complete. Klim flashed another grin and from a vest pocket he pulled out a small clear plastic bag of white powder. He conspicuously showed it to the barman who inspected it.
"Crushed dry antis. Certified from Merck. Acceptable?"
Gray's eyes wouldn't meet theirs. Haven knew, he was done for. She also knew how desperately the doctor in Troutdale had been to get any form of antibiotics. Penicillin wasn't useful for anyone anymore, but Merck's waste could serve the purpose. It would at least be hopeful.
"Hardcore drugs? I don't have anything like that!"
Haven laughed, "You think Antis are hardcore drugs? Do you even know what a secondary infection is?"
Gray flushed at his own public admission of ignorance. He was young. He'd probably been about ten when the real tragedy hit. Maybe lost his parents, stumbled from place to place on his own. Ruthlessly Haven and Klim stared him down until he too, shoved his cards away and left.
Klim and Haven chose their five cards and set aside their discards. Staring and posturing wouldn't do the job now. Haven looked at her cards. Three Kings, Two jacks. Automatically she controlled her breathing. There was no way she wasn't going all the way to the end with this kind of a hand. She offered up a packet of pepper seeds. Klim pulled out the deed to twenty acres inside the green zone. It was an enormous bet. She wished, too late, that she had asked for short sleeve enforcement. She knew he had something on his arm. She just didn't know what it was.
"I know what you're trying to do slim."
"That's Klim...little lady. Like the keyboard."
"You're cheating Klim."
"And those chocolates are from Belgium I suppose."
She laughed.
"Yeah. You got me there. How long have you been prospecting?"
"Oh, a year or so. You?"
"Since 2020. I was the city councilor down in some butt-ass hole in the wall that fell into the ocean. Doesn't matter. I've already got five counties under my belt."
Klim spit into a napkin and dumped it into a burn bowl.
"I heard it was four."
Haven smiled again, "I lied."
"You seem good at that."
"That's why I play. The only people I don't lie to are the people I already represent."
"And...that might be me, if you win."
"True. Are you willing to deal with that?"
More chocolates were added to the pile, a thick exquisitely tooled belt, sweet potatoes, hand sewn silk handkerchiefs.
"What kind of education do you have, Klim?"
"A doctorate of psychology," he answered facetiously.
Again, she laughed. She pulled out her own proof of degree, a little laminated card from MIT.
"I was going to be an engineer. I wanted to make sure towns didn't fall into the ocean."
"A little late for that Haven."
Klim's eyes unfocused a little.
"I was an accountant. Just good with numbers. Then I got my wife pregnant. Wound up in nowhere. She caught, you know. Yeah, just me and my daughter now."
Haven shook her head slowly, 'It doesn't have to be."
"What do you mean?"
"You could join my campaign. I could use a good number cruncher."
"Pff. I know what you're at, lady. It isn't gonna work. I'm not throwing this."
Haven leaned back, her cards face down on the table.
"Tell you what Klim. I'll put down one more bet. If you lose, you're still free to join my campaign. Understand?"
"Depends on the bet. Let's see it."
From deep inside her shirt, Haven pulled out a delicately woven box chain of titanium. Hanging from the chain swung a gold locket. Klim's eyes widened.
"Is that real?"
Without hesitation Haven held it out to the barman. Shaking hands applied a dab of acid. The gold remained as bright and shiny as it had started, even when the acid was rubbed in and polished with a cloth. Microscopic divots gave the locket a glitter that was reminiscent of a disco ball.
"Pure hand-hammered gold, Klim. And you can have it, even if you lose. IF, you join me."
Klim nodded and the barman hung the beautiful piece of jewelry between them. Now came the trick. Klim shook his arm, but Haven raised her hand to the barman when he spied it. Together they laid their cards down.
Klim held three queens, an eight, and a nine. Then his eyes traveled to her cards and froze.
"B..but you had a two..and a three! I know you kept them!"
"Do you? Are you sure?"
Haven leaned forward until her nose hit the barrier, causing Klim to automatically lean back warily.
"The person who is going to win this, all of this, is the one who can see the future coming, Klim. I'm gonna go get ready. If you want to come with me, you and your little girl are welcome. Make sure she gets that locket. It's going to open up a whole new world for her."
When she returned from the bathroom, she paused only to pick up her certificate of hire. She held up the sheet and grinned.
"Now it's five."
"You want a cold box for your vials?" asked the barman.
She shook her head as she prepared to put on her mask.
"Nah. Don't need em. You keep the bets too. It'll help you out until I can get those food boxes in."
Under her shirt, another locket with microsized needles embedded into the divots caught just the bare outer layer of her epidermis and began injecting her with vaccine and antibiotics. She saw Klim fondly stroking the first locket and behind the mask, her grin just grew wider.