The Best Bizarro Fiction of the Decade

by Aimee Bender

  Nigel Nine Toes must sense it too because he kicks spastically, contorting his body in anticipation. For the briefest of moments, his arm leaves the water. The withered limb is nothing but a shriveled birch twig. He thrusts it back in, his eyes wide. When he speaks, each word is a tiny earthquake.

  “I’m sorry, Sheila,” he says. “Please.”

  She surveys Nigel Nine Toes like a saddened parent, then gives a private shake of her head. She whispers to MilaGino who reverently place her back on the disc before turning to Nigel.

  Despite the thrashing and screaming, it only takes a moment for MilaGino to cut the rope around Nigel’s ankle. At first I think he will refuse to move, but Nigel gets to his feet wailing endlessly. His bare legs are nothing but charcoal down the front. The crying doesn’t stop even as he stumbles away from the hole, away from the camp, away from the Nub Hut. He disappears across the ice into the darkness until he is nothing but a beast howling in the distance.

  MilaGino reaches under my armpits and lifts me, careful not to touch the dead limb. My entire left side hangs slack. Dynamite detonates throughout my body.

  “Welcome,” Sheila says finally. She smiles from atop her cushioned throne. Sheila the sacrificer. Sheila the leader. Sheila of the Nub Hut.

  But the smile can’t disguise her disappointment. This wasn’t the plan. She wanted Nigel. To her, I’m the also-ran, now substituted as a last-minute replacement for the Nub Hut.

  “We need to set you down for a minute, Alan, so we can get Sheila back,” MilaGino says, lowering me. “After we get her inside, we’ll—”

  They slip like before, teetering on the hole’s edge, but this time there’s no quick recovery. Their arms flail, and there’s a moment where I know I can reach with my good hand to steady them. Instead, I let MilaGino tumble into the hole. The splash is a muted explosion. They scream in harmony before the water immobilizes their bodies and drags them under.

  Moments pass before Sheila finally says, “Take me back inside, Alex.” She wants to sound commanding, but her voice waivers. She can’t keep my eye. Sheila can’t even get my name right.

  But I couldn’t care less. Because now I am engulfed in the transformation of the Nub Hut. The change is nothing physical; it’s more a clarity of purpose. Is this what Sheila felt when she first conceived the Nub Hut? Is this what surges through her when she selects new citizens? Maybe. It doesn’t matter anymore.

  I watch the water until its surface is a glass-topped table. Sheila begs for help, but whether it’s the wind or the music drowning out her cries, no one appears. When she finally quiets, her change is also complete. No longer is she Sheila of the Nub Hut—she’s simply Sheila with the scar-carved face.

  I pull her towards me, then use my head to bump the sled the remainder of the way to the hole. Then I begin the long crawl home. Up ahead the Nub Hut awaits.

  PUNKUPINE MOSHERS OF THE APOCALYPSE

  DAVID AGRANOFF

  Year 35

  Dressica Killmaiden held a stick over the fire and watched the bottom of her marshmallow blacken slowly. The fire snapped, and she felt its warmth on the clean-shaven sides of her head. An old man looked across the fire and smiled at her. His features were as weathered as his leather jacket; there was no one older back in town. More than just the wise old farmer on the hill, he was her Uncle Max. The other children had fallen asleep more than an hour ago in tents set up on the edge of a corn patch, but Dressica wanted to talk to her uncle.

  “You need to sleep,” he said.

  Dressica shook her head. “Not tired.”

  Most of the other children were afraid of the old man, but the school made them visit him to learn the basics of farming. Max was a mystery. He rarely came out to shows, still wore the skin of animals and seemed to want no part of life in the city.

  Max popped a handful of nuts in his mouth and chewed. “Kids never admit to being tired. Why is that? You want to be a grown-up right? Grown-ups like to sleep.”

  His dreadlocked mohawk was gray at the roots. His walking sick was almost six feet tall, wrapped in vinyl stickers for bands his niece knew only as legends: Circle Jerks, Black Flag and Bad Religion. He didn’t give a shit what anyone thought. He was Max-imum Damage, punk vocalist and mosh pit gladiator who had survived more shows than anyone had a right to. But he had left it all to grow salad greens and ginger root, only coming into the city to sell his crop at the market.

  Dressica turned her eyes away from the fire. The lights of Crassville shone across the high desert. This was the farthest she had ever been from the city in her six years. She knew there were farms and smaller villages throughout the land of Dischargia but had never seen them.

  Uncle Max’s farm was as far as she had dared to go.

  “Uncle Max,” she asked, “can I be honest with you?”

  The wind turned the fire and lifted her uncle’s hair. “About what, love?”

  Dressica didn’t trust her mother, didn’t know who her father was. Teachers seemed more interested in engineering, farming, guitars—anything but history. “I think you adults are lousy liars,” she said, finally.

  “Is that so?” Max snorted and took a drink from his canteen. “The Punks got old, just like everyone else. Adults sometimes feel they must lie to kids to protect them.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  Max stoked the fire with a stick. When the flame lowered, the old man had a sour look on his face.

  “Your mother told me you have been asking about the nether-lands beyond Dischargia,” he said. “No such lands exist. They’re nothing more than myth.”

  Max had been Dressica’s only hope. She wanted the truth from him, yet he sat across the fire and lied through his broken teeth.

  Dressica kicked the fire pit. “Bullshit!”

  Max sighed and patted the ground. His niece walked around the fire and sat next to him.

  “I didn’t lie, but there are things you must understand. If I tell you, it must remain our secret,” Max said at just above a whisper.

  “I swear I won’t tell anyone.”

  “What year is it, Dressica?”

  “Thirty-five.”

  “Here in Dischargia, yeah. Beyond the red line, however, it is the year twenty-twenty-two.”

  Dressica’s mind boggled just thinking about so many years.

  “In the year nineteen-eighty-seven, there were many tribes with massive cities, and they waged a great and destructive war. So, you see, I didn’t lie. The great lands of old are gone.”

  She felt dejected. She had always hoped there would be life beyond Dischargia.

  “They can’t all be gone.”

  “They are, and it’s a good goddamn thing, too. The world of old was driven by greed and hatred.”

  Dressica shivered in the cold and moved closer to the fire. She watched the flames. “Sounds scary,” she said.

  Max smiled at her. “You like the music in the city?”

  She thought of the bands at school. Raging punk rock. The children of Dischargia received their first guitar and drum lessons at five.

  “You like your clothes? Your piercings?” he continued.

  Dressica looked at her holey jeans and played with her nose and lip rings. She didn’t understand why Max was asking her this.

  “If you like the way of life we have here in Dischargia, then you’ll never cross that red line on the map. Because if anyone is still alive out there...”

  Dressica waited for him to finish.

  Max looked up at the night sky and back down at her. “Go to bed.”

  “But Uncle Max—”

  He stood up and turned away. Never did he bring up the subject again.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Year 45

  Dressica tightened her grip on the microphone and took a deep breath.

  “One, two, three, four!”

  The band launched into a blast of high-speed punk, and the circle pit swirled in front of the stage like the outer edge of a hurricane. Dressica l
eaned over the crowd, spitting her lyrics. Blood splattered across her face and, for a moment, she dropped the mic to wipe away the blood. Bodies rammed into one another and fists were thrown. Legs stomped to the beat.

  Reality Asylum was a huge venue that had the meanest pits in all of Dischargia. When Combat Vehicle hit the stage, the chaos was at an all-time high. Looking out into the crowd, Dressica saw a figure skanking his way across the floor. The pit cleared like the Dead Sea. He was Razorback—Raz to his friends. Three long blades protruded from his back. Two smaller blades were attached to his arms. He swung those arms as the beat of the music slowed down to a groove.

  A drunk mosher pumped his fist at the front of the stage. He didn’t see Raz circle the pit behind him. The blades slid across his back, and the man shrieked. His blood drenched the stage monitors.

  Dressica finished the song. She looked at her band mates. John, her guitar player, hit a few notes and started tuning. The crowd waited impatiently for the next song to begin, milling around on the blood-slick floor.

  “How you doing tonight? We’re Combat Vehicle!”

  “No shit! Really?” Raz called out and laughed.

  Dressica moved nearer to him and stared. Raz smiled wickedly at her. His hair was done up in liberty spikes so tall he needed to duck into every doorway he entered. The crowd was thick with spiked mohawks. It was the genetically engineered razors protruding from his back and arms that made Raz punk as hell.

  “So, Raz,” Dressica said from the stage. “Why didn’t the engineers give you a dick when they gave you those razors, huh?”

  The crowd oohed as Raz held up a middle finger. John hit a note that told the rest of the band he was ready. Raz pumped his fist.

  The band started playing their next song as Raz got the chant going.

  “Stage dive! Stage dive! Stage dive!”

  Everyone in the crowd ran at each other. A riot of bodies, the sound of bones breaking was almost louder than the band.

  Dressica had had enough. “Fuck you, Raz!” she shouted.

  But people were happy. They came to see Combat Vehicle to experience uncontrolled chaos. Dressica jumped off the stage. The crowd cleared as she landed in the middle of the pit. Putting her right thumb and pinky together, Dressica felt a burst of energy travel up her spine. Almost instantly, long and sharp metal quills burst through the skin on the nape of her neck. She extended her arms, and the quills snapped through the back of her shirt and down the length of her legs.

  The music shook her quills. Dressica spun through the crowd like a windmill, her fists and legs pumping to the beat. She was queen of the pit. If any moshers were to run into her, their bodies would be utterly destroyed.

  The show was over. Dressica touched her thumb to her index finger. The quills receded, and she allowed herself time to relax on the couch set up off-stage. She examined the tattered remains of her shirt.

  John pushed a large amp past her and winked.

  “Great show!”

  She waved at him. Her hands were covered in blood and shaking. She wiped the blood on her shredded pant legs.

  At that moment, another voice called out to her.

  “Hey, Dressica!”

  It was Dez—a great engineer. He had rebuilt the city’s solar panels. In his spare time, however, he worked for her, engineering Dressica’s modifications because he had a crush on her.

  She looked him over. His dyed green hair and spike belts looked fresh. Apparently, he had gotten dressed up for a night on the town.

  “You should see your face,” he said.

  “It’s not my blood, dude. The quills worked perfectly, but they could have been a bit longer.”

  He stood over Dressica and shook his head. Pulling out an electric clipboard, he used his thumb to scroll through his notes. “If I make them longer it will cause internal scarring, or worse.”

  Dressica knew her quills had achieved maximum-length. Still, she felt she needed something extra to remain competitive.

  “Who’s engineering for Raz?”

  Dez looked up from his pad. He seemed concerned. “I doubt they’re from Crassville. Maybe Blitz,” he said. “Whoever it is, they’re good. You keep getting in the pit with him, you’re going to die.”

  Dressica had heard this warning before, but she lived for the pit, spent every quiet moment thinking about the rush she got when she danced her way through the madness.

  “Come on, Dez,” she said. “You can walk me home while you lecture me.”

  They stepped out into the cool night. Two shows broke up in different venues along Rimbaud Avenue, where street vendors sold bootleg cassettes and food. Dozens of people were lined up for grilled soy products at the tofu dog stands. Street barbers were dying hair and cutting fresh mohawks—so many barbers that they sounded like garden crews mowing lawns. They had used up all their solar power and had assistants who worked pedals to generate energy.

  It was a typical Friday night in Crassville.

  Dressica led Dez to a food stand without a line. A woman sat behind the stand. Her dreads were tied back and her feet up on a chair as she read from Crassville’s peace punk newspaper.

  “What does a pit gladiator need to do to get some food around here?”

  The woman glanced up from her paper, looking past Dressica’s eyes to the cuts on her forehead. “I have potatoes,” she said. “Home fries with rosemary ketchup.”

  Dez made a sound of approval.

  “Dez,” said Dressica, “I’d like you to meet my cousin, Isa.”

  Dez couldn’t help but stare at Isa’s right arm. It was mechanical, hidden by a sleeve. The engineer in him was impressed. Her flesh and blood arm had been lost in one of the most famous pit maulings in all of Dischargia. It happened during a Combat Vehicle show down in Blitz. The legend was that, by the time the song was over, Isa was screaming on the floor and Dressica had used her cousin’s severed arm to chase Raz out of the club.

  Isa worked the serving tools awkwardly. She was still new to the cybernetic arm.

  “I wondered why you weren’t at shows…” Dressica pointed at the peace punk paper lying on her chair. Isa ignored her and scraped the taters from the pan. The tension was so thick Dez took a step back.

  Dressica narrowed her eyes. “So, you’re some kinda of peace punk now?”

  Isa’s mechanical arm creaked and wheezed unnaturally as she held the paper container of potatoes out for her cousin.

  “Just take them and go.”

  Dressica put her mutual aid credits on top of the newspaper. The credits acknowledged to the Dischargian council that Isa had traded community aid. When they sat at a table and opened the container, Dez still had one eye on Dressica’s cousin.

  “Didn’t Raz do that to her?”

  “Eat your potatoes,” Dressica said as she unfolded the fork on her multi-tool.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Max walked across his field. On his belt, a small radio played “Wild in the Streets” by the Circle Jerks. He didn’t like the stuff kids today called punk rock. Even in the field at night, he could hear faintly the shows down in Crassville.

  He had fond memories of shows before the Great War, when punk was rebellion, not culture. They happened in rented warehouses, abandoned buildings and all sorts of funky places. Often, cops would step in and break them up. Max thought about cops and laughed.

  Once, he had understood why the council had decided to make shows so violent, fatal even. There were, after all, only limited resources in Dischargia. But years of pit fighting had worn him down. Now, it all seemed senseless to him.

  He simply had to make a break from a culture he no longer recognized.

  His soy crop bent with the wind. He would have to harvest it in the next week. He would also have to trade food for some workers. That meant going into the city. Max sighed in frustration as he walked up to his wooden irrigation control. He expected he’d have to brush away mosquitoes, but the air was clear of them.

  Max grabbed the wo
oden handle and lifted the latch, but the water didn’t pour out as it always did. Only a tiny drop of water, more like a tear, rolled out and hit the ground. Max climbed up the structure. There was no water coming down from the river that headed into town.

  Using his walking stick to balance himself, Max swung to the ground. When he stepped onto the riverbank, he saw the extent of the problem. The river was usually the width of a basement venue’s stage. Now, only a small stream trickled between the large rocks in the empty riverbed. The water had flowed normally when he’d been here just hours before.

  He looked upriver to the mountain in the north. The mountain was more than a hundred miles away, beyond what the council had determined to be the red line. As far as the younger generation was concerned, it was the edge of the world. Thirty years had passed since anyone had crossed that line.

  Max squeezed his walking stick and walked toward the city. He knew what was required: a town meeting.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “If you want to speak, enter an agenda item on your clipboards, or raise your hand and the moderator will put your name on the stack.”

  Dressica heard the voice call out from the speaker system outside the great hall as she and Dez approached it. The great hall had been built to seat over a thousand people, but it wasn’t mandatory that the public attend its meetings. The proceedings were broadcast live across the city.

  Looking inside, Dressica saw Uncle Max sit down in the third row of seats. She stepped into the chamber.

  Dez followed her like a puppy. “Are you sure you want to sit through this?” he asked.

  She did not reply.

  Eve-al, the second longest-serving member of the council, was moderator. Like all council members, she had multi-colored hair and wore spiked and studded clothing held together with safety pins. She tapped her gavel as members of the community continued to pile into the hall.

  Keith Tesco, a councilor from the north side of town, rose from his seat. “I donate my position on the stack to Max—former vocalist of Max-imum Damage and a farmer from my district with excellent mutual aid standing.”