Possum Stew (And Other Apocalypse Recipes)

Disaster has struck New York City and if that wasn’t enough for world-class chef Scott Bryant, now he must face his most difficult task: surviving on junk food in New Jersey. Will sub-par cooking ingredients and canned foods be enough to keep Scott from killing himself or can a vial of saffron be enough to make him want to live?

Enjoy the story on its own or as a collectible experience (12K-word novella + 10-panel comic adaptation + 1300-word deleted scene).

For fans of "The Last of Us" meets "Kitchen Confidential" – with Jersey attitude.

Free 1000-word preview below:

POSSUM STEW (AND OTHER RECIPES)

a short story by Eric Locsh

PART 1

7 DAYS AFTER THE STORM

Scott Bryant could not see through the cloth bag over his head but the nose-tingling spiciness of hot sauce and rusty scent of blood soaked through. He looked down just under his nose where some light was coming through. In the red mix were herbs and egg yolks, creating a snot-like mixture that dripped through steel grates leading down into the abandoned subway. The air was thick and heavy. Scott labored underneath the bag and contorted his zip-tied wrists. Silt and dust deposits layered on his neck under his suit jacket and under his cuffs. A fair amount of flour had also. Another man who would not stop whimpering was kneeling next to Scott. He tried to focus on anything else around him but the gargling, throaty gasps coming from his dying sous chefs was all he could hear.

“Keep it together, Ted,” Scott whispered to the whimpering man. “I have a plan.”

The sound of footsteps approaching grew louder. A pair of snakeskin boots stopped in a heap of flour. Scott’s heart pounded inside his chest like a techno drumbeat.

“What’re you gonna do with this one?” a boorish voice asked from a few feet away. “The one next to ‘im looks all business, still has his tie on ‘n everything.” The voice’s attention now turned to Ted. “What’s a matter? Still think you’re going back to work on Monday?”

The man with the boots in front of Scott remained eerily silent. Then came the sound of a blade being unsheathed from its holder. Ted’s whimpering turned into babbling.

“Damnit, Ted,” Scott said. “Why didn’t you follow my order? I told you to remember to close the walk-in. I told you, goddamnit.”

“I’m sorry,” Ted cried harder. It was strange hearing someone who so often greeted diners with an unbreakable cheerfulness in the midst of a full breakdown.

The man in the boots turned toward Ted and took a step forward.

“Hang on a second guys, we can work something out here,” Scott pleaded.

The man remained quiet, but he was still now. A good sign.

“Do you know who I am?” Scott laughed nervously. “Guys, I am a renowned world-class chef. Seared scallops with guanciale, charred zucchini with lemon basil confit, creamy polenta . . . doesn’t that sound good? When the grid goes down, how will you cook your food? If there’s no refrigeration, how will you keep your ingredients from spoiling? How will you know which berries are safe? Or mushrooms? Insects? Animals? All of it needs to be considered or you run the risk of dying. Do you own a thermometer? Can you tell the inside temperature of a piece of meat just by looking at it? If things get any worse, you’re going to have to contend with challenges you’ve never faced. If you kill us, you won’t last a week.”

Scott tried to look through the blood-soaked bag, but all he could make out were faint pinpoints of gray light and spots blocked out by the man’s figure.

“He’s got a point, boss,” the brutish voice said. “I’ve only grilled one time in my life and that was for my little cousin’s graduation party. Hamburgers and hot dogs.”

The boss slid his blade back inside its sheath. Ted’s whimpering turned to a less offensive sniffling, his breath quavering. Scott’s heart slowed down. He could at least save his business partner.

“Y-yeah,” Ted muttered. “Y-you need us b-both, alive.”

There was a rumbling in Scott’s stomach, a sensation worming through his gut, burrowing into his bowels.

The boss turned around and began walking away, but, then, he stopped. He turned to his right and took a few more calculated steps before turning back to face Ted. He unsheathed something from a belt which was followed by a click. Before Scott could make sense of anything, a wet explosion of blood and brain and shattered fragments of Ted’s skull smacked him on the side of the face, warm and sticky. A sharp, piercing ring blazed through Scott’s ear canal from the blast of smokey gunpowder. The shock of the moment made him flinch and fall over on his side. Voices around him became muffled and inaudible. Next thing he knew, he was being hoisted up by two muscular men on either side and dragged across the sidewalk. His knees trailed through a soupy mess of Ted’s liquified head matter. Underneath his nose, he saw an eyeball and a cracked bloody pair of glasses.

“Come on,” a muted voice came through. “Let’s get ol’ chef Boyardee inside. Let’s have him make us a stew.”

• • •

36 DAYS AFTER THE STORM

Scott Bryant clenched his stomach, heavy eyes locked on the cabin in the middle of a swampy field. The dusty skyline of New York City crept up behind him. The wind howled, whipping thick, unkempt hair across his face, the ends of which were burned. A gust blew underneath him, lifting his coattails and kicking up gray dust that covered the tall grass. He curled his other hand into a fist, digging his nails into the palm of his glove, crushing a Whopper wrapper. He tossed the paper to the ground and wiped away ketchup from his bottom lip. A bubbling gurgle rumbled in his stomach and he let out a groan.

“Oh God . . .” he hiccupped.

The cabin was roughly a hundred yards away. Half of the awning above the front porch had caved in, the windows shattered, and vegetation was creeping up the foundation. The Storm had formed a layer of dust two inches thick around the entire house, creating a sheen that reflected the light from the sun just so it hit Scott’s glasses. He adjusted the thick black frames on his nose.

The cabin was like a bag of frozen vegetables in his Michelin-starred restaurant. Nauseating, but technically containing nutrients.

“It will have to make do,” he said.

The contents of his stomach churned like a rowboat caught in rough seas. He tightened his overcoat across his chest, pulled the strap of a burlap bag over his shoulder closer, and hurried toward the house.