A Very Dystopian Holiday Reader

by Dan O'Brien

  “Someone out there?”

  A shuffle of boots and a wet cough replied.

  He took a few heavy steps forward and gripped the bars of the enclosure. He pressed his face against the bars and tried to hear more clearly the shuffling footfalls that might announce an explanatory orator of his present circumstances.

  An outer door creaked and the silence of the dim interior of the buildings seemed haunting to Randy for the first time. A scraping sound joined the aqueous cough that echoed in the emptiness…

  The End of the World Playlist

  Track 1

  Have You Ever Seen the Rain?

  T

  here was a cabin deep in the woods. Inside that cabin sat a young man at a table. He was the very description of an average man: brown hair, brown eyes. He smoked a cigarette like it was the greatest thing ever, as if he were enjoying a fine wine or admiring a fine painting.

  He is William, or Wills; perhaps even Captain as he had people call him on occasion. Will coughed hard, the sputtering, wet variety that usually signals a not-so-good-for-the-well-being chain of events recently transpired.

  Moving in closer, it is easy to see that the scene is not hopeful. It is the other kind: the kind that starts and ends with obscene action. Leaning forward, he looked deep into the fire.

  Light crossed his face, revealing heavy lines of sleeplessness that are dwarfed by the caked blood and dirt that hide his youthful features. A dark stain has begun to spread across his gray shirt. But young William’s story began earlier in the town of River’s Bend.

  Track 2

  Riders on the Storm

  T

  he town of River’s Bend was silent. The streets were empty, but a dull rumbling in the distance electrified the air. Tall, ugly buildings––built and never repaired years ago––waited patiently as the sun passed overhead, straining through cloud cover.

  The rumbling intensified.

  It was the sound of an engine.

  A brown-top Chevy Nova screamed into motion. Tires squealing, it wheeled around a building and smashed through the front of an adjacent, abandoned shop. Bodies flooded behind the car in a mass of ragged, wild arms and snarling, mangled faces: zombies.

  “Run, you fucking deadheads. Z-Day, baby,” spoke a man who looked as if he were an unkempt replica of a giant.

  “Just drive the fucking car,” spoke the smaller man.

  “But today is Z-Day…”

  “Every day is Z-Day,” scolded the smaller man with a grim smile.

  Long lines of paint tagged the side of the beaten car. Upon further inspection, it was most definitely blood. Streamers waved atop the vehicle.

  Correction: those are human arms.

  In any case, they used to be human arms. Stiff and fading flesh revealed them as the arms of the zombie army, deceased. The car swerved––as if on cue––and took out a long line of running zombies. They were smashed underneath heavy tires.

  Looking in through a dusty window, two men sat in lawn chairs admiring the scene below. Kenny was large and wide-shouldered with a lopsided grin and heavy blue eyes; a buzz cut framed his massive head.

  Beside him was Dan; the brown hair at his shoulders was pulled back. Wearing a light beard splotched gray in places, his icy eyes watched the scene without emotion.

  “I love it when they run in front. Crunching them underneath is the best part.”

  Dan watched with little interest. The automatic rifle in his hands was held with the precision of a man waiting for monsters to leap out from the darkness. This––to some extent––was simply an effective posture.

  “Bring them down 8th, past the parking structure. That should give me enough time.”

  “Enough time?”

  “To grab some supplies. The gun store and then past the lush palace.”

  Kenny snickered.

  “What are you, a child? Just drag those dead fucks around the bend, and then we are out of here,” continued Dan with irritation.

  A chainsaw lay next to Kenny. Just to the other side of it was a heavy shotgun that had a belt of shells perched on top of it.

  Dan carried two handguns at his waist, a long, black sheath along his back, and a variety of knives tucked neatly into sheaths. Hanging the assault rifle around his neck, he grabbed a riot shotgun and its bandolier of shells.

  “You want me to keep watch?”

  “Is that a rhetorical question?”

  Kenny snickered again.

  “Un-fucking-believable. We are up to our balls in deadheads running around here like they own the place, and you are still cracking up like an idiot kid,” admonished Dan.

  Kenny looked slightly forlorn as he concentrated on the street below, moving the remote in his hand with a deft movement. “Sorry, boss.”

  “Knock that boss shit off. Just do what I said and meet me in front of Crazy Mike’s.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Repeat what I said.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me, numbnuts, repeat what I said.”

  “Watch. Kill. Meet at Mike’s,” replied Kenny with a smile.

  The door to the roof closed as Dan departed. Kenny continued to look down at the street below, a wicked smile on his face.

  Dan emerged from the front of the building and put on a pair of reflective sunglasses. Holding the assault shotgun in a ready position, he walked down the street.

  The streets were empty, but an eerie type of desolation that marks the end of the world hung in the air. He rounded the side of the street, leveling the shotgun to knock down whatever would come his way.

  Ignoring the sidewalks, he walked in the road. A single zombie ran out. Arms flailing, flesh and blood drooled from its open maw.

  A shotgun blast caught it across the face, ripping its feet from the ground and sending it spinning backwards. The sound echoed in the empty town off the brilliant spray-painted murals littered across many buildings.

  Dan bent down to inspect the zombie.

  There was no face.

  Open, dead flesh oozed a thousand putrid colors. Standing with a grimace, he surveyed the rest of the street: nothing.

  Moving forward, he walked to a building with an amber-colored window. He pushed open a dull silver door at the front of the store. A chime echoed in the store, accented by a throaty groan.

  A zombie stood behind the counter.

  Dan approached it.

  Letting the shotgun fall beside his leg, he took off his glasses. The zombie had its mouth wired shut, and dark sunglasses covered its eyes. The mesh hat on its head was a bit odd, nearly falling off the slowly decaying scalp of the zombie.

  “Hey, Bob.”

  Bob the Liquor Store Zombie groaned hungrily.

  “Any suggestions? The boys can be quite specific sometimes.”

  Bob the Liquor Store Zombie lunged forward, but heavy silver bolts held its hands firmly to the counter.

  “We talked about this aggression, Bob. Once upon a time I might have been able to help you, but therapy is long behind me.”

  Bob groaned again, though this time because Dan leaned on the counter. His heavily covered arms hid tattoos and a lifetime of scars.

  “The whiskey still next to the cooler?”

  Bob groaned. This one seemed less intense, almost as if it were giving up.

  “Right, in the back.”

  With a smile he smacked the table and moved deeper into the darkened store; light from outside flashed in uneven beams of sunlight. Turning around halfway down an aisle, Dan waved his shotgun. “Now don’t be going anywhere, Bob. I have eyes everywhere.”

  Dan rolled his shoulders as if shivering and flicked his hands like spirit fingers. Moving along the rows and rows of liquor, he passed massive gaps here and there where the effects of five years of consumption had taken its toll. The back wall once held frozen beverages, but now only empty rows of racks that had long since been plundered or destroyed.

  “Now what was it that he had wanted? JD I b
elieve.”

  Reaching forward, Dan grabbed four handles of Jack Daniel’s. As he turned, it was the groan––not the sight of Bob––that startled him. Swinging the whiskey hard, the amber liquid smashed against the side of Bob’s head, stunning it for a moment. That moment was sufficient for the shotgun to find its way in the center of Bob’s face, and then it was Bob’s face no longer.

  Looking down at what had once been Bob the Liquor Store Zombie, Dan grimaced. “Now that is a damn foolish thing to do there, Bob. We had a nice thing going.”

  He stood over the zombie, his chest heaving––slowly at first and then building. The warm whiskey covered the floor, saturating both Dan’s heavy boots and Bob’s twice-dead body. “We had a good thing going.”

  Dan bounced the shotgun against his leg steadily, his eyes steeling. “You motherfuckers. You motherfuckers.”

  His voice was barely a whisper.

  Leveling the shotgun at Bob, he shot again. The blast lifted the body from the ground, igniting some of the whiskey in a soft flame. He did it again––this time into the zombie’s chest––nearly ripping Bob in two. He stood and watched Bob come slowly apart. It was the crackle of the radio that drew away his maniacal stare.

  “Boss?” It was Kenny. Dan continued to stare at Bob the Liquor Store Zombie. “You alright there, boss?”

  Licking his lips, Dan’s voice croaked.

  “I thought I told you to knock that boss shit off.”

  “I heard shots…”

  “It’s nothing. I will tell you at Mike’s. Get off the fucking radio.”

  The crackle disappeared.

  Stepping over Bob, Dan reloaded––leaving behind the mess. He moved past the counter and saw the dark streaks and silver bolts that had held Bob moments before. Dan ignored the problem and pushed open the door.

  He felt the sunshine on his skin again. The sun was high in the sky, but there was nothing happy about the day. “Fucking deadheads. Never do what they are supposed to. Gotta tell them a thousand times.”

  Walking down the street, he held the shotgun tightly in his grip. A big heavy sign announced a bright purple building as Crazy Mike’s. It should come as no great surprise that a redneck town like River’s Bend would have a mammoth gun depot the size of most department stores. The “open” sign was smeared with a bloody hand. The glass door was caked with brains and various zombie remains that had found its way onto the storefront over the years.

  As Dan walked to the door, he saw his reflection in the glass. “Old man,” he whispered. His long hair was scraggly, and the gray in his beard seemed to grow each day.

  The world had not been kind.

  Hitting his chest with a fist, he shook his head.

  “Can’t beat time.”

  Walking through the open door of the ammo store, he turned toward the counter. As one might expect, there was another zombie. This one had on a bright orange hunting vest with a red flannel shirt beneath it. Big, black-rimmed glasses hung from its sagging face.

  And again, the jaw was wired shut.

  “Bob, how’s business, you old ball-buster?” exclaimed Dan with enthusiasm.

  It looked as if Bob the Gun Store Zombie once had gray hair, as there were remnants on its diseased scalp.

  “Anything new?”

  With a big smile, he laughed.

  “Just kidding, you old bastard. Just here for the essentials, ya know.” He turned as if to move and then stopped, looking back at Bob. “Have you talked to Bob lately?”

  Waving a hand in dismissal, Dan continued. “Of course not. How silly of me. Well, I have some bad news.”

  Dan paused for the drama of it all.

  “Bob is dead.”

  Dan liked to think that Bob the Liquor Store Zombie and Bob the Gun Store Zombie were brothers. Not blood brothers, but by marriage. “I realize that you guys had not been speaking.”

  Dan looked at Bob with genuine sorrow. “I remember, you don’t want to talk about that. I will be on my way, just wanted to give you the bad news.”

  Moving farther into the store––past an overturned, stuffed black bear––Dan opened his backpack and began to deposit various boxes of shells.

  A screech erupted from outside the depot.

  It was the sound of brakes and tires.

  Returning to the front of the store, Dan paused in front of Bob. They stared at each for a moment until the horn blared again, jarring Dan’s attention. Stepping out into the open air, he looked at the heavy steel of a Ford Bronco. Apocalypse Please was scrawled in heavy red letters across the side. A wood chipper was placed in the back, and a heavy steel snow plow was attached to the front. There were two severed heads where the headlights should be. Their wide open mouths and empty eye sockets expelled blue floodlights.

  “You get what we need?” called Kenny.

  Dan threw the backpack into the Bronco and grabbed the edge of the door, opening it without a word.

  Kenny sat back into the seat and gripped the wheel.

  “What’s up, boss?”

  “Had to kill Bob.”

  “Bob the Liquor Bob or Bob the Gun Store Bob?”

  “Liquor Store.”

  Kenny turned over the Bronco, and the diesel engine roared to life. The interior was littered with various wrappers and empty shells. The Bronco was definitely Kenny’s area.

  “That’s a bummer. You get the JD?”

  “No.”

  “What the fuck? No JD. That’s…”

  “Bring it down a notch there, Jolly Green. We still have some at the house.”

  “We can go right back,” protested Kenny, pointing back toward the liquor store.

  “No, go home. Fuck this town for today.”

  “But…”

  “Seriously, we have enough to last until tomorrow morning. For fuck’s sake man, just drive the fucking Bronco.”

  “Whatever, dude. Let’s blow this bullshit.”

  The Bronco launched into motion, burning tires and then rocketing forward. It barreled through the open streets. “We have to figure out something else to bolt down those deadheads with. They can pull out of the bolts we’ve been using.”

  “Why even bother?” offered Kenny.

  “I don’t particularly want to suck zombie dick, so we are going to continue to bolt them to the counter.”

  The Bronco bounced along, the heavy tread of the tires almost making them seem to bounce. “Wait, check it out, check it out.”

  A single zombie walked into their vision. Once she might have been an attractive woman, but now she was little more than a scabby cadaver. “Check it, Frogger with zombies, man.”

  “We don’t have time for this.”

  “Come on…”

  “Fine, make it quick.”

  Kenny smiled boyishly and slammed on the accelerator. The Bronco exploded forward, nearly lifting off the ground. Racing down the street, he turned the Bronco sideways, careening into the zombie and crushing it underneath the Bronco’s thick wheels.

  “Is that fun, or is that fun?”

  “Home. Now.”

  “You had fun, I can smell it.” Pulling forward, Kenny leaned out the window and looked back at the bloodstain across the asphalt. “Can’t hardly tell what the fuck that is, much less that it was some middle-aged zombie bitch.”

  The Bronco pulled forward again, roaring and then subsiding as they drove into the distance. As the sun drifted down, the calmness of the town felt ominous, foreboding.

  Track 3

  Behind Blue Eyes

  T

  he sun had begun to set. Darkness seeped across the grass and tree-filled horizon. Trees passed by in a flash. The engine was loud, aggressive. The stereo was cranked.

  Dan looked out the window.

  Kenny watched Dan looking out the window.

  “What’s with the puss?”

  “Huh?”

  “The sour face, whatever,” replied Kenny, pursing his lips.

  “Doesn’t matter.”


  “The fuck it doesn’t.”

  Dan looked away from the passing forest. His eyes were serious; his cheek muscles flexed angrily.

  “It has been five years.”

  “Since what?”

  “Are you daft? Since the moon landing, what the fuck do you think I’m talking about? That day. It has been five years since that day.”

  Kenny’s smile disappeared.

  “We all lost something that day,” continued Dan.

  “Yeah.”

  Dan pulled down his shirt and torso guard.

  There was a gold ring on a chain.

  He touched the outside of it gently.

  “Don’t miss the turn.”

  “This is my business, man, I know this shit. You don’t even have to stress.”

  Dan grunted and looked back out at the world. The road rose and then fell, changing into an S-turn. There was a dirt road to the right, and Kenny navigated the Bronco onto it with a surreal ease even at breakneck speed. A heavy sign painted in white, scrawling letters read: beware.

  The road was uneven and treacherous.

  Were it not for Kenny’s skillful driving, they would have crashed and burned. “Home sweet home, motherfucker,” he announced mirthfully.

  Bundles of barbed, rusted wire extended beyond the tree line. Littering the trees, heavy sheets of metal and car hoods were held up by thin wire, ready for decapitation. The dense forest gave way to an open field whose trees were cut down with precision.

  The building in the distance was a dark earthen color and without any windows or doors except a large retractable gate that thundered open as the Bronco approached. Floodlights were situated every five to six feet. They dare not turn them on at night as it might draw unwanted attention even though the compound would be very defensible if the situation called for it.