Once Upon A Dystopia: An Anthology of Twisted Fairy Tales and Fractured Folklore

by Heather Carson

  "That's not even the worst of it, dear," he said with a warm smile, squeezing her hand. "At least with those folks, you have some idea where you stand. When the cops are corrupt, that's when—"

  Sudden loud rapping at the door startled them, but Roland most of all. Sweat beaded around his forehead as he swallowed an audible gulp. He grasped hold of Robin's hand and squeezed.

  "Stay here."

  "Who is it?" Roland shouted as he ambled toward the pounding door. He stopped at the table in the entryway, opened a drawer, and pulled something out. "I have a gun!"

  The pounding stopped. Robin snuck a peek out of the dining room door, glimpsing her father grapple the stainless-steel Eiffel Tower paperweight he brought back with him the last time they had traveled with their mother. He put it in there after their mother passed. He could not bear to part with it, but he couldn't bear to look at it daily either. The heavy thing now served as some kind of protection.

  He peered through the peephole before reaching for the knob, keeping the chain latched. As he turned the knob, the door burst open, breaking the chain lock and knocking him to the ground. He squealed in pain as he covered his busted open nose, spraying blood all over him. Through his fingers, he counted eight boots stomp inside, marring his precious marble floor.

  "What do you want?" he asked, trying to stand.

  "Oh, I think you know what we want, Mr. Locke," answered a tall man, wearing a black ski mask and staring at Roland with piercing, blue eyes.

  Robin watched the whole thing from her vantage point in the dining room. Her eyes widened and breath quickened. She slid out of view next to her sister. Randi shivered, holding her arms around her knees. Robin placed a tender hand on her knee and whispered, “As quietly as you can, go up the back stairwell and call for help."

  Randi nodded and crawled away, creeping out the backdoor of the dining room. With her sister safely away, Robin stood and retrieved the knife she used to cut the ham only moments earlier. Then, she snuck out of the dining room, trying to make a better assessment of the situation.

  No guns, she thought, examining the four men. They all wore the same black clothes and masks. One of them held a chain, another had a 2x4, and another had a black bag in his hands. The leader had one hand on her father's shoulder and the other around his right wrist. He seemed to be questioning her father, but she couldn't make sense out of the noise in her head. Then, the man smashed her father's face with his fist, and she ran.

  She rushed the first man in her way, stabbing wildly as she screamed, "Leave us alone!"

  KARAACK. Everything went black.

  As she came to, she discovered herself to be tied to a chair, facing her father. Two of the men scoured the room, knocking things over and making a mess. Her father's eyes filled with regret and guilt gazed at her. Behind him, the tall man stood facing the front stairs.

  "Found it, Guy," echoed a voice from the hallway.

  "What did I tell you about names?"

  "Sorry, Guy," he apologized. "Sorry. I mean. Sorry."

  "Well, they've heard my name now," Guy said, spinning around with her knife in his hand.

  Without any warning, he lunged forward, yanked Roland’s head back by the hair, and ran the blade across his neck. Robin screamed as her father’s warm blood sprayed upon her. One of the men bashed her head from behind again. Everything darkened as her eyes glazed over.

  "Check this out, Rowdy," a voice from behind her said to the other, tossing him a framed photo. "There's another one."

  "Ya know what that means, Flicker?"

  "What?"

  "You can have this one," Rowdy snarled. "I'm gonna find little sister."

  Robin wrestled against her ties, trying in vain to stop Rowdy from stalking toward the stairwell. Flicker's warm breath sent prickles down the back of her neck.

  "RUN!" she yelled. "Randi, Run!"

  "Crank, go!" Guy ordered, grabbing the stack of files from Crank's hands.

  Rowdy bolted up the front stairs, while Crank rushed back down the hall to the back stairwell.

  "You bitch!" Rowdy hollered from upstairs. "She's got a phone."

  "Well, I guess the fun's over, boys," Guy said, sauntering toward the door. "Time to light'er up."

  "Bummer," Flicker whispered into Robin's ear, tugging back on her hair with one hand and cupping her breast with the other. "I was gonna show ya some fun."

  Randi screamed, but it stopped abruptly.

  "Leave her alone, you sonuva—"

  Flicker kicked her head, knocking her to the floor. Then, he grabbed a bottle of lighter fluid out of the black bag and sprayed it all over the room. Crank barreled down the steps, shaking his head.

  "He didn't hafta do that," he muttered as he retrieved another bottle and headed to the dining room.

  "Rowdy!" Guy called, taking out a final bottle from the bag. "We gotta make moves, big guy!"

  "Coming. I'm coming," he responded, making his way to the top of the stairs. He stood there with a blood-splattered shirt, buckling his pants.

  "Here," Guy said, tossing the bottle up. "Cover that area."

  "You sure he's gonna be cool with this?"

  "I'll handle it," answered Guy. "Just do what I say.”

  "Catch you later, sweet thing," Flicker said, sliding back over to Robin. He kissed her cheek before standing up and stomping on her head. Darkness came again.

  The burning flames burned bright behind her eyelids. She fluttered her eyes open, rolling them around, trying to regain consciousness. The heat seared, and fire crackled all around her. It spoke to her in a foreign language, like it was alive. A reeroo-reeroo of a firetruck siren blared, coming nearer and nearer. She closed her eyes again as burning smoke filled her lungs.

  When she opened her eyes, she found herself in the arms of a firefighter carrying her out of the inferno. She rolled her head back, catching sight of the fiery stairwell.

  "Randi," she coughed.

  The firefighter placed her on a stretcher and returned to the blaze. Paramedics attended her, measuring her vitals and applying oxygen, but she kept her eyes on the front door of her home. No one brought her sister out.

  ***

  "Welcome to Sherwood Home for Girls," the monstrous giant with the mountain-man beard said to Robin as he opened the door for her to enter. "You can call me John, or Mr. Little if you're formal."

  Still in an opioidic daze, Robin nodded hello, handing him her chart. She spent weeks in ICU and months in recovery before being placed in a group home. John reached out to touch her shoulder. She recoiled.

  "Don't worry, Jane," he said, glancing at her chart. "You're in the right place."

  Jane? she thought, trying to grasp memories of her recent trauma, but it only came to her in bits and pieces. My name's... what is my name? Why am I here?

  John guided her through a large room where several girls sat around doing homework. Then, they entered a hallway with numbered doors lining either side. He opened the one marked 4. Inside the room, a tall, waifish brunette and a slender ginger sat on separate beds with an empty bed between them.

  "Mary. Scarlet. This is Jane. She's your new roomie. Please make her comfortable."

  "Sure thing, John," Scarlet said, saluting John and jumping to her feet. "We'll show her the ropes."

  "Thanks, girls," John said, closing the door.

  "So, Jane. Where'd John find you?"

  "The hospital."

  "Which one?" Mary asked. "He picked me up at St. Martha's... a drug rehab."

  "I'm not sure. The big one."

  "The big one?" Scarlet cut in. "Like Mercy? Were you sick?"

  "Head trauma," Robin answered, tapping her forehead. "I can't remember who I am, but my name isn't really Jane."

  "Crazy," Mary replied with greater interest, sliding off her bed. "Maybe we can help you figure out your name."

  "Maybe," said Robin. After a few seconds of silence, she asked Scarlet, "Where'd John pick you up?"

  "He saved me from sex t
raffickers."

  "Whoa! How old are you?"

  "Fifteen or sixteen, I think. I'm not really sure."

  "So, he's a good guy?" questioned Robin.

  "He's the best," they responded in unison.

  With a few more months of therapy and physical recovery at the Sherwood Home, Robin finally regained her memories and confided with her roommates. After hearing the gruesome details, Mary said, “You need to come to art therapy. It's not an official program for Sherwood, but most of the girls do it."

  "Art therapy? I’m not good at drawing or painting or anything like that."

  "Not that kind of art," Scarlet clarified. "Martial arts. Self-defense training. Weapons use. He says we were victims once, but he's going to teach us how to never be helpless victims again."

  "You're right, Mary. I do need a little art in my life. I'm in."

  ***

  A frazzle-haired, unkempt homeless woman lounged on a park bench, tapping a syringe filled with bright pink liquid. A black-suited man stood in front of her, carrying a black bag.

  "What is it?" she asked.

  "Merriment," he answered. "It's brand new. It'll make you euphoric."

  "You what?"

  "The world will be all bright and beautiful. You'll feel better than you ever have before."

  "HAH. Beautiful? Look around."

  The man surveys the tents sprawled out in the park and the many homeless men, women, and children wandering around. Everything was dirty and old, and everyone was tired and sick. White vans bearing an NP logo circled the camps, dispensing food and drugs.

  "Did I mention we'll pay ya for trying it out and giving us feedback?"

  "Well, that's different. Where do I sign up?"

  ***

  Months passed by, Nottingham re-elected Mayor King, and more people lost their homes, moving into tents around the town. Signs with the mayor's face covered lawns all over town, as houses sat empty. Men wearing all black herded the people like cattle into overcrowded slum neighborhoods and camps while distributing Merriment to one and all.

  Over time, the free trials ran out, and the poor people needed to pay for their fixes. Unable to afford the price but unwilling to live through withdrawals, they negotiated with all they had left. So, every day, the men in black recruited volunteers from the camps and ushered them into the white NP vans. Some never returned. With their parents gone, children ran wild, looting and vandalizing the area.

  "This is awful," Robin said, peering out the window of John's truck. They were on their way to the grocery store to get supplies for the Sherwood home.

  "Gets worse every day," Scarlet replied from her middle seat.

  They passed a Sheriff's car with a deputy inside, drinking coffee and eating a donut.

  "Why don't they do anything?" Robin asked.

  "The Sheriff's bought off," John answers to Robin's surprise.

  "How do you figure that?"

  "I used to be a deputy."

  The answer didn't beg for more conversation, and neither did John. As they drove by Huntington Court, Robin stared wide-eyed. The homes were leveled, and barbed wire fences surrounded the neighborhood, bearing a logo she had never seen before, an N and P smashed together with signs saying, PROGRESS IS COMING SOON.

  “NP. What’s that?”

  “What? Nottingham Pharmaceuticals?” answered John. “Some new outfit building facilities all over town. Supposed to be putting people to work.”

  “These people?” she asked, pointing to all the tents.

  “Hope so.”

  At the grocery store, Robin followed John and Scarlet up and down the aisles. It was her first time back in the city since the attack. As she strolled through each aisle, memories of her family filled her head, and her anxiety increased. She tried to fight back against the burgeoning wave of emotion when she heard Guy’s voice playing in her head.

  She closed her eyes and breathed three deep breaths, trying to banish him from her thoughts, but he would not go. Instead, his voice became so clear that goosebumps prickled up and down her arms in a shiver. Then came the voices of Flicker, Rowdy, and Crank.

  They're not haunting me. They’re real, she thought, leaving the cart mid-aisle to search for their source.

  "We just don't have it all right now," the manager pleaded. "We need more time."

  Four men in black suits loomed over the manger. The tallest one closed in, saying, "If you don't pay us, then we can't give you the protection you need. You understand how this works, doncha?"

  The three men behind him tossed nearby shelves, saying, "Oops," and "That's a hazard," as they scooped up bags of chips and drinks in their arms. One of them grabbed some candy bars and shoved them into their pockets.

  Robin scanned around, searching for a weapon. She spotted a fire-hydrant on a pole. As she reached for it, John grappled her arm. Robin whipped around, ready to fight, but John caught her hand and whispered, "Are you trying to kill yourself?"

  She wriggled away from John and maneuvered closer to the men, trying to survey their faces and memorize little details particular to each one: a severed ear top, a dragon tattooed up the neck, a scar across the face with a discolored eye, and a massive yellow happy face tattooed on the back of a shaved head. The happy face turned to face her, but John stepped forward, blocking the view.

  "You need to be careful, Robin," he whispered, snagging a box from the shelf. "Go find Scarlet."

  As Robin hurried away, John turned to catch the man, still staring. John gave him a swift nod as he tossed the box into the cart and scooted away.

  That night, Robin donned a green hoodie and snuck into the secret arsenal at Sherwood. She fitted herself with a short sword and crossbow, the weapons she had the highest proficiency in thanks to John's training. Armed and dangerous, she ventured into Nottingham alone for the first time in her life. Her eyes blazed red with vengeance as she stalked the city streets, pouncing from rooftop to rooftop, searching for signs of the bastards who changed her life forever.

  As she surveyed the haphazard rows of tents, she saw a man in black with a ski mask, dipping in and out of the tents. Gotcha, she thought, dropping from her perch and dashing with silent steps toward the shadowy figure.

  "Knock knock," the man said, opening a tent's veil. “I got Merriment. Whatcha got for me?”

  Crank, she thought. Maybe.

  Her mind raced and adrenaline pumped. She needed verification, so she crept closer to the tent and peeked inside. The man’s back was to her, and a woman’s arms wrapped around his waist. Robin shuttered at the sounds the woman made. She reached in and ripped the mask from his head.

  “What the—” he yelped, rolling around as he pulled up his pants and buckled his belt. “Quit playing!”

  The woman inside grabbed his bag of pink vials and scurried away. He paid her no attention, turning instead toward his attacker. Robin was gone.

  “Rowdy? Is that you?” Crank called, peering out of the tent.

  From her vantage point, she saw the protruding scar running from his forehead, across one of his eyes, and down his cheek. A bolt sank into his chest.

  “Hey. No,” Crank yelped, trying to pull out the bolt. “What is this?”

  Robin lurched forward, retrieving the short sword from the scabbard.

  "Whoa! Whoa!" he cried, turning on his heels and starting to run.

  She ran faster, sliding next to him and slicing the backs of his ankles. He collapsed in a heap on the ground, his feet limp and useless. She jumped onto him, holding his arms down. He snarled at her glaring with his mismatched eyes. She leaned forward and pulled her hood back, revealing her face. His eyes went wide.

  "You're dead," he murmured with a hard swallow.

  "No," she said. "You are!"

  The next morning, Guy arrived at the camp in a white NP van. An array of sheriff’s vehicles circled the camp, and yellow caution tape stretched everywhere. He ducked through the barriers and headed straight toward the crowd of sheriff deputy uni
forms.

  Sheriff Bill Lacey shouted orders as Guy broke their huddle.

  "What the hell is—" he started to say, but the words died on his lips as he came face to face with Crank's head mounted on a tent pole.

  The rest of Crank lay before him. His body splayed out in front of a tent with hands and feet severed. Pink liquid covered his chest, writing out the word KILLER.

  "Who did this?" Guy asked.

  "We're working on it, Guy. Just go home.”

  Guy refused. Instead, he spent the next hour interrogating every homeless addict he could find. The only clue he got out of them was someone in a hoodie killed Crank.

  "I think we've got a damn vigilante on our hands, boys," Guy said into his cellphone. "Someone's been reading too many comic books. Meet me at the camp. We're gonna set a trap."

  A reporter stood at the edge of the camp, talking into the camera, “Another death in the homeless camps, but this time the Sheriff is calling it murder. They could not share if they had any leads, but some folks in the camps say the killer wore a hoodie. Possibly a green one. More to come on this breaking story after these messages.”

  "Lionheart Industries values life," the commercial began.

  John Little clicked the remote, switching off the television and scratching his chin.

  In the other room, Robin stuffed the blood-splattered green hoodie into her hamper before heading to the laundry. Other girls were already awake, doing chores and various other tasks around the house.

  "Hey, kid," John said to Robin as she passed by. "You're looking a lot better today. You get some decent sleep last night?"

  "The best in my life.”

  ***

  That night, Robin donned her green hoodie and weapons once again, heading back to the camp. If Crank had been there, she thought. Maybe the others are involved.

  As she stealthily maneuvered through the camp, lights from a van cast her way. She ducked in time, catching the NP logo on the side of the van. Nottingham Pharmaceuticals, she thought. What are they doing here?

  She continued to creep through the camp, picking out familiar voices, but they belonged to her former neighbors, not the killers. I thought they moved away.