It all started about a decade ago with that massive petrol rig explosion that darkened the skies over the entire hemisphere for about a month. Actually, it had started even before that, thought Dom, but I was too young to realize what was really happening. Still, that substrate conflagration set off a chain of events from which the world never recovered, depositing the ocean floor into the sky and in the process putting an end to any thought of life continuing on as it had somehow done before.

The years that followed were hard on everyone, but especially people like Dom. Severe food shortages, toxic airborne particles and pathogens, martial law imposed by military forces in most cities, acute changes in weather patterns, a deep economic downturn, consolidation of emergency political powers…. Dom couldn’t remember the exact order of these things, but they all rolled out over the decade.

I guess the food crisis was really the trigger, Dom said aloud to no one in particular, since they were alone in the bunker as usual. When they were a kid, before the world reduced itself to ashen rains and brute force reign, Dom once heard an adult—maybe a teacher or a preacher—say that society was only a few days of food being available on supermarket shelves from total collapse. People had lost the ability to feed themselves, and it was essential.

When the sun blotted out and the rains were poison, agriculture of all varieties began to wane. There just weren’t enough greenhouse veggies and cultured lab meats to feed everyone. Farm animals sickened and died off slowly. No one could be outside long enough to cultivate things, even when the sun started to peak out again. While wind patterns kept much of the immediate shock in the northern hemisphere, over time it spread everywhere around the world. And even before that point, the economic freefall and military deployments impacted nations everywhere.

Dom was one of the “lucky” ones who managed to find a place to hole up as the combination of social and environmental freefall took hold. It turned out to be a smart move to listen to those old tales Grandpa used to tell about the Cold War and fallout shelters, in particular the one up at the farm where he lived and died when Dom was just a kid. He had kept it stocked up with all kinds of survival stuff—enough to get Dom through almost everything they faced.

Everything, that is, except the loneliness. It turns out that humans are indeed social creatures, and that no one can live on bread (or canned and dried goods) alone. Given the state of things out there—which Dom often silently mused was one of the only things Hollywood got right about the end of the world, with its incessant zombie apocalypses and devastated world premonitions—it was a wiser course of action to stay close to “home,” such as it was. But then again, Dom had never really seen much wisdom in this warped world anyway.

*           *           *

I can smell them, he thought, blood beginning to boil and saliva welling up in his throat. The hunt was the only thing worth living for anymore, if you could call this living. Yet the thrill of tracking prey, assembling a strategy and sense of direction from a seemingly random array of subtle clues, was unmatched. A bent branch, a snapped twig, matted grass, a waft of pheromones, the sweet musky scent of fear—all of these and more were like a dynamic jigsaw puzzle in which the end product wasn’t just a static picture: it was survival.

Funny thing, he had never been a hunter during the before times, actually being a reasonably dedicated vegetarian for many years after college before drifting a bit back toward fish and sometimes poultry. But the idea of red meat was basically novel to him, as was any conception of instilling fear in others. The journey from mild-mannered book nerd to apex predator wasn’t exactly something he anticipated.

Thoughts of the old world weren’t helpful now, he reminded himself. This wasn’t about being lawless for its own sake, whether it was manmade or deified laws, or finding some ritualistic thrill in the letting of blood. He wasn’t Hannibal Lecter, after all, killing for sport or power, but was merely adopting means to the end of survival. There simply weren’t any other ways to get precious calories sufficient to live, once all the usual sources of raided markets and looted pantries had dried up.

No, this wasn’t a case of remorse, or pity, or doubt, or exhilaration, or anything except doing what needed to be done. It was clinical, efficient, neat. He wasn’t a sloppy killer like bears, leaving entrails everywhere; every usable morsel was gathered in his pursuits: tools, weapons, clothes, shelter, and of course meat. He was never much of a Darwinist in theory, but the times called for practicing survival of the fittest—or hungriest. If he could have out-farmed everyone to live, he would’ve done it.

So he hunted, anything and everything that moved (and even some things that didn’t, if they were at least recently deceased). That included rabbits and deer, mice and rats, birds and cats, gophers and moles, snakes and snails, turtles and fish, raccoons and skunks, lizards and buzzards (which helped eliminate the competition), lions and tigers and bears (which weren’t really around these parts, outside of zoo areas), and of course … people. I eat people, he thought to himself and possibly said aloud. Just another animal, mere calories, protein.

But he knew it was different, taboo, a sin. Still, he understood there were cultures that practiced forms of cannibalism, either literally or symbolically, and that extreme times called for extreme measures. He’d even read and watched enough end-times sci-fi to know that this often was part of the deal when the apocalypse inevitably came raining down. But it made him uneasy anyway, especially that first time, which he keeps trying to forget (the screams, that face, the salty taste). Which is why he took the name Dahmer, to remind himself it was horrible even if it was necessary, and shouldn’t be enjoyed on any level.

Plus, this appellation made it really hard to make friends, he mused, reminded of that old joke about the cannibal having friends for dinner. What have I become, he wondered? Alive in a world of death, he responded. That is more than most could say. And whatever reason fate had chosen for him, he intended to keep it that way for as long as possible. There had to be something else out there, he hoped, beyond mere survival.

*           *           *

Everyone is a psychopath, at least a little bit. We can’t smell our own body odor so we think we smell better than other people. We can’t hear our own voices so we think other people sound weird when they talk and that our singing is actually pretty good. We think we’re right and others are wrong, about almost everything worth debating. We strive to gain the upper hand, seek advantages and comforts for ourselves, and step right past the misery of others when it’s inconvenient to care or costly to help out. We root for the good guys and excuse their violence.

This is all within the range of so-called “normal” behavior, even if it isn’t always a flattering picture of humanity (or the relative lack thereof). It may show the selfish or hard-hearted tendencies in all of us, but that’s not the same as witnessing a true psychopath close up. Those folks are almost another breed, with little to no empathy or remorse, unmoved by the suffering of others in almost any context (even those usually thought of as “loved ones”), capable of bold lies and blatant subterfuge without hesitation, and generally immune to any of the checks and balances that most people have. And they are also very rare.

Which is why, Dom concluded, it must be some sort of a sign, or maybe a curse, that they had found one. In this toxic denuded hellscape of a world, where other people were as scarce as fresh fruit or indoor plumbing, somehow a psychopath had moved in right next door. Well, not actually next door, but within the region that Dom had come to think of as their domain, covering maybe a few square miles of scattered ruins, overgrown hillsides, and a handful of abandoned buildings—but absent any signs of people for a long time.

Until about a week or two ago, when Dom noticed subtle footprints on the trail that connected the small forest near their bunker to the intermittent creek that flowed past the old Johnson ranch after it rained, which was about a half mile away. Dom set up a trail cam after finding the faint tracks, using the solar-powered camera and receiver setup that their grandfather had left among the array of gadgets and tools in the shelter. Dom occasionally used this for nature observing or tracking deer, making for an interesting diversion in a life with very little to do.

Now, there was a sense of urgency more than just mere entertainment. Dom hadn’t seen another human being for many months, nearly a year. The last ones in the area had either died while on an excursion for supplies or moved on to another area, Dom surmised, since they seemed to disappear without a trace. The last person they had seen even from afar was the oldest Johnson kid, who Dom vaguely remembered from those infrequent visits up here to see their mother’s parents. After the collapse, Dom avoided most people like Grandpa had urged.

This latest sighting was scary and exciting, thought Dom, and the information gathered over the past few weeks only reinforced both sensations. This person, this creature, this interloper, was a chimera, some sort of feral protohuman, a master hunter and stealthy predator. Dom watched its encounters with various forms of wildlife with wonder and horror, admiring the efficiency of its killing capacities while recoiling at its clinical, remorseless approach. This guy, Dom mused, was like a cereal killer without the milk (they had ascertained its biology, at least, as male).

All of this was fascinating, until the other day when the camera went dark. Dom thought it might just be a connection issue, or a battery recharging, but it was concerning. Still, Dom was well-protected in the bunker and felt a sense of safety courtesy of a grandparent who seemed to think of everything. So there wasn’t complacency, not in this kind of world, but at least a feeling of being as secure as possible under the circumstances.

Until, that is, there came a firm knock on the door.

*           *           *

Dahmer of course had noticed the signs of another person in his vicinity, finding the tracks near his tracks intriguing. They were smallish, deftly strewn about so as to confuse a novice tracker. This was someone smart and cautious, probably holed up in the area for a while and familiar with its contours but only outside infrequently at best, most likely when some need warranted it. The lack of a clear trail back to their lair told Dahmer that this would be a challenging hunt. Indeed, he already held an admiration for this prey.

He didn’t spot the trail camera right away because it was carefully concealed by a tuft of leaves and was the same color as the bark of the tree it was nestled within. It did, however, emit a very faint humming sound, or more so a vibration perhaps, at a frequency very few humans could hear. Dahmer’s senses were keen, almost canine- and feline-like in the best possible combination of those natural antagonists. He could sense danger and had at least nine lives.

Food was plentiful in this hill-and-valley area, populated as it was by myriad creatures that flew, walked, crept, and slithered. Whoever else lived nearby, they were not primarily a hunter. Dahmer guessed that they must have had a stockpile of goods and occasionally raided homes and shops in this remote region; maybe they even grew food with lamps and indoor hydroponics, and foraged for edible plants as well. Dahmer could piece all of this together from just a few skewed tracks and the limited impact observed.

Since he didn’t need the extra calories yet, Dahmer chose not to expend any energy on this new prey, instead just going about his methodical business of culling and cutting any protein he could find that moved. Some of his more flamboyant kills were done right near the trail camera, which had been set up in precisely the most frequented spot in the area, where trails converged and forest met prairie. He didn’t try to conceal his methods, on some level enjoying the fact of having his work appreciated by a future meal.

It also gave him a chance to track the tracker back to its place of origin. He filed this away for the appropriate time, namely when he had exhausted all of the easier options for nourishment. Meanwhile, there was plenty to tide him over—that is, until a string of unbearably hot days and a parallel drying of the creek chased off many creatures. When he had finally reached the limit, Dahmer decided the straight up approach would be right in this case. He respected this prey and thought it deserved to at least look into the eyes of the one taking its life.

So he walked right up to the front door, or whichever door he could find, and tapped out a basic rhythm, with conviction: bop bada bop bap, boom bap. To his surprise, the door actually began to creak slowly ajar. This will be fast and painless, he thought charitably.

*           *           *

Dom had thought about it for a moment, but only a moment. There were a hundred reasons not to open the door, and only one in favor of doing so. But that one was more powerful and compelling than all the rest, which were variations on the themes of fear and safety. Dom had enough of living like that, bunkered in and hunkered down for all of these half-dead days. The reason to open the door was to feel alive again.

Yes, it’s ironic, thought Dom, since I’ll probably be killed by this manic primal hunter. The door cam relayed to Dom’s low-res screen a wild figure with matted hair, talons for nails, dried blood on its chest, and a penetrating gaze in its darting eyes. Yet in all of that Dom could also see the remnants of a human being, another soul desperately trying to survive in an impossible situation, one without the benefit of a close relative with foresight and survivalist impulses.

Dom, for lack of a better way of describing it, decided that this was perhaps their last best chance to be human again, even if just for one final, fateful moment. This wasn’t capitulation or suicide—Dom would still stand strong with weapons in hand and defenses intact—but more so a desire to feel something, anything. And that included extending that most basic of human traits, namely empathy for a stranger in dire straits, to whomever walked up to their doorstep.

Of course, Dom had no illusions that this abject creature would show empathy in return, based on the predatory behaviors it had displayed. But Dom also understood the danger inherent in trying to diagnose someone from afar, especially under aggravating circumstances. So Dom reasoned that their own humanity was on the line in this moment, that it would be better to confront their fear than to hide from it, that there were worse things than being killed in a world that was already essentially, and perhaps irretrievably, dead.

*           *           *

Dahmer froze for an instant, caught off guard by the door slowly inching open. He had expected a fight, at least in terms of figuring out a way through the door. Was this a trap? A surrender? An accident? It had been a long time since Dahmer had to reason anything out in humanistic terms, or to feel much of anything even resembling human reason, since the collapse. Reason was the problem in the first place, Dahmer decided early on, trying to impose order on a warped world.

And in fact, this was basically how things fell apart, thought Dahmer as he used atrophying parts of his brain. It wasn’t the actions of psychopaths and lunatics that brought the world down, he thought, but rather it was the result of perfectly sane reasonable people in suits and cubicles and conference rooms making myriad mundane decisions about capital and conflicts and crime and comity and much more. It was the cold calculations of perfectly normal people that had caused the world to overheat, figuratively and literally.

So in Dahmer’s latent mind, it was only reasonable to act unreasonably under the circumstances. Which meant being ruthless and remorseless in the face of impending death at every turn. Dahmer would live out the fantasies, or perhaps it was the fears, of those philosophers who held that people were at root untrustworthy, greedy, selfish, and brutal. Cooperation and compassion were the lot of the weak, those whose might couldn’t make them right.

All those assholes were gone now, the appeasers and communitarians and humanists. Dahmer had consumed a number of them himself, tasting the cumulative fear and weakness that infused their flesh. This is what he had anticipated he would find in this situation. Yet here was the door, open, inviting him in without a struggle. Maybe this prey was also a predator, a cunning one at that. So Dahmer entered.

*           *           *

“The rabbit pemmican looks fully cured now,” Dom shouted to the upper level, where Dahmer was squinting through the roof hatch with the old set of binoculars. “That turkey vulture you brought back the other day made a good stock for the rice pilaf, too.” Dom caught themselves sounding more like Martha Stewart than a fierce warrior. But Dahmer liked it that way, most of the time at least. Every now and then, it was fun to cook rather than catch prey.

“The pickles are ready too,” added Dom, “and I pulled a bunch of spinach from the hydroponic bay. I also managed to brew a small batch of hooch from the last of the ripe juniper berries.” This was beginning to feel like a feast, which is what Dom had intended. Dahmer probably wouldn’t have recalled this, but it was three months to the day from the opening of the door that began this phase of their odd partnership.

“I can smell the eggs in that hawk’s nest over the ridge, but it’s very high up,” replied Dahmer, in his usual non-responsive manner of responding. “I might bring the whole tree down to get at it—and we need the firewood anyway,” he added. Dahmer never really stopped scanning and scheming, learning early on in the after-time that you couldn’t take anything for granted. “I’ll be back before dusk to try your booze!”

This was how it went between them. It took almost all of their time to generate enough food even for just the two of them, thought Dom. And what if we became three or even four, in the not-too-distant future? Anything was possible, they thought. It’s strange that it took the end to find a new beginning, but maybe it makes perfect sense on some level—neither of us really fit into the old world, Dom mused.

Laying out the table, Dom remembered that first real encounter, the posturing and missives and cagey respect and, notably, the strange stirrings of their pheromones. It had been so long since either of them saw another person as more than a resource or a threat that the moment of mutual recognition they shared was almost cathartic. For Dom, that is; for Dahmer just about everything was strategic. Here was a survivor with skills, worth more alive than carved up a la carte, Dahmer had quickly surmised.

Pouring a bit of their prison gin into a tumbler, Dom felt a sense of cautious optimism in their gut. That, coupled with the potential awakening of new life in the face of near-total annihilation, was more than enough to keep going, no matter the hardships now and ahead. We might just make it after all, Dom allowed themselves to think—not just us, but humankind as a species. Dom lit a glycerin candle.

*           *           *

“Tell me aggen bout dahdah,” said Orion in their hesitant broken English. “Where diddy go?”

Dom pondered, as always. Still too soon for the full story, they thought. “Out hunting, dear,” they cooed, “on a very long journey.” Dom secretly hoped this was true but knew better. The signs of a struggle on the other side of the ridge were unmistakable, and Dahmer hadn’t been heard from in almost two years. Not since he headed out on that fateful anniversary eve.

Dom let the candle they had lit that night burn all the way down. After that, it was back to the business of survival, following the brief indulgence of a few tears. Better to have loved and lost, Dom waxed then and now. Still, anything was possible, as Dom always returned to in their mind. The future was wide open.

—

NOTE: Um, yeah, yummy fare for the pre-apocalypse since, of course, it would make little sense to share it after. But as with all things 2020s it’s supposed to be ironic since that’s all we have left anymore (with everything being done and undone already) and hey if it takes a grim tale to bring hope then so be it people. 👀