A Very Dystopian Holiday Reader

by Dan O'Brien

  He ran a hand over his mouth.

  “Should I?”

  Nodding, he pressed the numbers quickly: 9-1-1.

  The tone rang several times, and then came the automated voice. Though it was not the message he had expected to hear. “All lines are busy. If you are experiencing an emergency, barricade yourself in your home with your phone and do not answer the door until you can reach emergency services or officers arrive at your home. If this is a medical emergency…”

  James shut the phone, looking wide-eyed into the darkened porch of his father’s home. Was his father hurt? Was the house being robbed? Reaching into the back seat, he grabbed the tire iron.

  He opened the door of the jeep quietly.

  Ducking just below the hood of the jeep, he breathed out, almost like a whistle. A sound echoed from deeper within the house––something crashing to the ground. He moved around the car with purpose. Pushing through the screen door, he gripped the front door handle.

  And that was about when he heard the cocking of a shotgun. The explosion opened up a plate-sized hole in the door. James had leapt back at the sound and now sat beside it, flat on his ass.

  The tire iron was still gripped tightly in his hands.

  “Dad, are you okay?” he yelled.

  There was more movement.

  A shell discharged from the shotgun. He could hear the cartridge roll on the linoleum of the kitchen floor. “Jimmy? Is that you, Jimmy?”

  “Yeah, you okay? Is there someone inside?”

  The outside light clicked on and the front door snapped open. His father stood there, his face twisted in irritation with the shotgun in his other hand. “Christ on a crutch, what were you doing out here, Jimmy? I could have killed you.”

  James got up slowly, laying the tire iron on the hanging swing just the side of the door. “Clearly. I would say I’m very aware that you could have killed me just then.”

  His father grabbed his arm roughly and looking down, James saw why. There were splatters of blood and ash. Parts of the splintered door and some of the grain of the cartridge had raked across his skin.

  “Seems like you got scratched a bit. Does it hurt?”

  Pulling away his arm, James grimaced.

  “Only when you press on it. What in the hell were you doing firing on me like that? Why did you have out the shotgun in the first place?”

  Before his father even answered, he imagined it had something to do with the behavior at the store earlier. His father looked at the hole in the door with dissatisfaction. “Now I’ll have to get a new door. I think they’re having a sale on doors and frames down in Phoenix.”

  James looked at him incredulously, the craziness of the moment forgotten for a second. “You want to drive near five hours for something you can get right around the corner?”

  His father shook his head. “This is why you never have any money. It’s all about finding the bargains.”

  With a sigh, James walked into the house.

  “There is a line between being frugal and being mental. I think I just heard you cross it.” Looking around the house, he saw that all of the lights were shut off and there was pile of things in the living room. “What the hell happened here? What’s in that pile?”

  Shutting the door behind them, his father moved into the living room and clicked on the lamp near his favorite recliner. The heap was no mere collection of things. It was a survival mound of epic proportions: camping gear, rifles, stacks upon stacks of water containers, and other various Armageddon-type preparations.

  “What’s this all about? You thinking of starting a war?”

  His father sat into his recliner, though did not engage its leisure function. “It’s coming, son. The world is falling down around us.”

  Throwing up his hands, James turned the light on in the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, searching for something to eat. It was unsurprisingly empty.

  “Where’s the food?”

  “I packed what I could in ice. I loaded the cans and non-perishables in boxes and stacked them at the front of the garage for when we leave.”

  James poked his head from over the refrigerator door.

  “Leave? Where are we going exactly?” And then moving from the refrigerator into the hall that looked into the living room, he leaned against the wall. “Shouldn’t we talk about this?”

  Robert grabbed the remote and turned on the TV.

  The volume was already quite high, but it did not need to be so to hear the desperation in the announcer’s voice. “In just the span of 24 hours since we aired the situation at the border, we find ourselves in a very difficult place. This is live footage from across the nation. Those of you with young children or weak stomachs, I would ask you turn away from your screens now.”

  James moved into the living room, arms crossed over his chest as he looked down at the screen. “There has been a rash of urban violence, looting beginning in many cities across the nation. Attacks on water treatment plants, bottled water companies, and as well hijackings of transportation vehicles carrying bottled water have occurred. These images, though startling, represent a growing trend.”

  The resolution was grainy, as was the case for many handheld cameras. Bouncing and jarring, it appeared at first to only be the store front of a water facility. The great panes of glass were painted with bright, blue water droplets that smiled to pedestrians.

  Glass shattered suddenly, the pane giving way too easily. Shadows leapt through the gaping hole, disappearing into the darkness of the store. The cameraman dare not get closer. The long shot of the store was shaky at times. Time passed slowly, seconds seemed like hours.

  People walked past, some looking into the broken window. Others simply passed by without taking notice, lowering their heads and quickening their step. There was another crash. The sound was muted, but the pictures told the story nonetheless. A shadow bounded out, armfuls of water bottles and packaged goods.

  James moved closer to the screen.

  Another body came through, no hood, no dark clothing. Middle-aged, gray hair in shags about his face, his glasses hung from one ear––the frame bent. His mouth opened, words screamed from him. But it was denied by silence, the anonymity of the camera.

  “No,” whispered James.

  A young woman, blonde ponytail bouncing against her back, emerged. A shadowed assailant walked out through the broken window, a gun held in his hand. With a brazen shot, he struck the old man across the face. Slumping against the ground, the man raised his hands in protest.

  His protests were his last words.

  The gun recoiled only slightly as the gunman turned to the blonde woman, her eyes closed. Her mouth twisted in fear as another of the thieves grabbed her by the back of her hair.

  “That was a graphic display of looting in Philadelphia. We are receiving these kinds of videos from all across the nation. With the proclamation from the White House that this is indeed a national disaster, panic has become widespread. Our hearts go out to those families affected by the looting.”

  The commentator looked haggard.

  A day’s growth of a beard haunted his face.

  “The President has advised all Americans residing in Arizona, Texas, New Mexico, Southern California, and western Louisiana evacuate to another area, preferably to the north. He went on to advise that some states have closed their borders and interstate highways have become congested. Travelers should seek to leave in a calm, decisive manner. During this tough time, he wants to remind Americans that our behavior will be viewed on a global scale and will be judged, as we often are, as the template for the world.”

  His father clicked off the TV, his arms crossed over his lap. “Even the White House is telling people to get the hell out of Dodge. We need to be on the road yesterday, son. I have been waiting for a day like this. All the signs pointed to it. A decline in culture, times changing.”

  “Kind of a kneejerk decision, don’t you think? Suddenly you are listening to the government
?”

  “People are ugly, James. All of this liberal, white-hating nonsense in the media…”

  James moved forward, pushing off from the wall. His hand sliced through the air. “I don’t have time to update your outdated…” began James, but was cut short.

  The glass shattered in a tight cone, shards exploding across the living room. James moved without thought. He leapt in front of his father, knocking both of them to the ground. Looking out the broken window, he heard shouting. There was a heavy voice that he could not discern.

  “Get off me,” his father spoke with a labored groan.

  He let up so that his father could slide out.

  Another shot rang out, this time high into the atmosphere.

  There was no impact, just a ringing whistle into the night.

  James grabbed the shotgun his father had previously wielded, emptying out the spent cartridges and replacing them without even looking at the weapon. A backdoor led out onto a stone carport that led into the street. And then down a sandy incline that overlooked the town below.

  He slid down the sand and bleached shells that covered what would have been a lawn in a much more tropical environment. The shotgun was held tightly in his right hand, like a bludgeon. Using his other hand as a balancing point, he dug his fingers into the still-warm particulates of rocks and stone.

  Lowering himself to the ground, he duck-walked quickly. Pressing his back up against a nearby suburban, his breath came out in tight, ragged breaths. He closed his eyes, trying to calm himself as he heard another round go off.

  No impact.

  Must have shot into the sky he spoke to himself shakily in his mind. Chancing a look around the vehicle, he saw a man in the road. His half-tucked shirt and dirty flannel gave him the look of a dock worker.

  James knew better.

  Had he been close enough, he would have smelled the cheap whiskey on him. And the sadness and hate that was burrowed deep within him.

  It was Violet’s husband, or ex-husband.

  He couldn’t remember.

  His thoughts raced.

  His pulse quickened.

  The man’s name evaded him.

  Robert.

  Rick.

  Randy.

  Randy, that was it; Randy something or other. Licking his lips, James knelt, exposing very little of himself. He leveled the shotgun at the staggering figure of the drunkard.

  “Randy,” he shouted and immediately regretted it.

  The drunk swung his arm around, the heavy revolver dipping in his grip as he did so. Squeezing the trigger, his arm jumped violently and the round exploded into the open air of the night. Bystanders jumped back, shielding loved ones and children. Some watched from the darkened interior of their living rooms.

  James cursed as the round lodged itself into the rear of the suburban. The heavy whistling of escaping air in a back tire signaled its impact.

  “Motherfucker, stupid, piece of shit,” mumbled the drunk as he pressed an off-colored bottle to his lips. Looking down, he saw that it was empty and threw it aside with a grunt. It bounced at first and then colliding into the curb, it shattered. “Who the fuck is that calling my name?” he called, slurring his words.

  James swallowed hard.

  His mind went to Violet and her daughter.

  If he was here, then what state where they in?

  “James, James Foster. I work with your wife.”

  The drunk snorted, nearly falling as he took a drunken step forward.

  “Sometimes I babysit your daughter, Julie. I have been to your house a few times, dropped off your wife when her car wouldn’t start.”

  There was a moment of confusion on the drunk’s face. But suddenly his eyes brightened, as if some sudden realization had illuminated his mind. “You fucking my wife?” he roared, his voice cracking. It was followed by a dry heave, his body bending forward.

  James tried to mentally count the rounds Randy had fired.

  He heard two in the house and two in the street. Peeking around the corner of the suburban once more, he saw that Randy struggled to remain upright in the road. Taking a few steps forward, the drunk fell against a parked car. The drunkard was carrying a silver revolver.

  Two more rounds: a gamble. Did he draw out two more rounds or approach him with a loaded weapon?

  Clearing his throat, he yelled as loud as he could across the open road. He hoped that Randy at least had enough sense to recognize the location of his voice. “Randy, are Violet and Julie okay? Did you hurt them?”

  A round impacted the front side of the suburban. James could feel the heat and power of the round. It passed through the frame and the engine block of the SUV.

  One left.

  “Are they at home? Are they injured?” James called again.

  His feet moved underneath him, readying himself.

  The drunk vomited.

  The sound was like a broken sink as it sputtered out iron-wrought water. James heard him pull the trigger, the round made slashing, slithering sparks down the road. It disappeared into a cloud of rock dust some distance down the darkened lane.

  James moved forward, the shotgun positioned against his shoulder. He watched the drunk carefully. James’ legs were sure beneath him, his steps calculated and even from years of martial arts and hours spent in the gym pushing himself.

  Adrenaline coursed through his body.

  He could feel his heart beat faster and faster.

  There were sirens in the distance.

  He couldn’t be certain if they were coming or going.

  There was no time to waste.

  James had to subdue the man.

  Leveling the weapon and moving forward, his voice was a bark. He barely recognized it as he heard it in his own mind. The night was filled with deep reflections of celestial bodies and gawking homeowners who had shut off their lights when they heard the gunfire. Now, as if conducted as a visual symphony, they flickered back on in rhythm.

  Their voices were cluttered.

  James moved toward Randy with purpose.

  “Put down the gun,” he spoke clearly.

  The drunk had stumbled and sat against the car with which he had previously collided. His head wandered. The sporadic dance of intoxication and his head’s orbit made its way past James once more. He leveled the gun at James and pulled the trigger.

  Even though he knew the weapon was empty, James jumped. His face became ever grimmer as he adjusted the weapon in his hands anxiously. “Throw the revolver aside, Randy. I am not playing. I will shoot you dead right here if I have to,” James pressed.

  He would not shoot a man with an empty weapon.

  But, he would certainly scare him into doing what he wanted. Randy shook the weapon in his hand. His face contorted into what must have been an attempt at mockery.

  He pressed it against his skull.

  Tears streaming down his face, he pulled the trigger. The empty click was startling if nothing else. He groaned. Throwing the revolver at James, though failing in his aim, he cursed incoherently once more.

  Not wanting to show that he had been holding his breath, James coughed. Lowering the shotgun from his shoulder, he did not yet take his attention away from the drunk.

  “Where is Violet? Julie? Did you hurt them?” he repeated.

  The drunken fool looked up, his eyes glazed from intoxication and the madness that pressed on his limited mind. The spit that erupted from his mouth was not the fixated mass that one calculates, but rather the erratic spray of the unwashed.

  James stepped away, allowing the refuse to pass him by. He glared at the slightly older Randy. A wavy, almost perm-like mullet was slicked back against his tanned skin.

  James knelt, holding the butt of the shotgun against his hip as he surveyed the drunken man. People had started to make their way toward the scene, watching what it was that James would do next. “The police are coming, just tell me that they’re okay. I need to know that nothing has happened to them.”
/>   He did not wish to sound as though he was pleading.

  The drunk watched James with a vacant stare.

  “I killed them,” he spoke.

  James could not hold back his disdain and surprise. Standing up suddenly, he gripped the shotgun in his hand. “No. That can’t be true. Why would you say that?”

  Randy turned his head and spit into the gravel, his face slack. “Why the fuck do you care? Who are they to you?”

  The younger man’s face blanched.

  He could not believe what the man was saying.

  There was something ugly about who he was, rising from behind the dull eyes. The drunk was a void, an empty vessel who no longer seemed to be a person capable of caring.

  Reaching down, James grabbed the man hard by the neck, pulling him despite the size difference. Their faces were inches apart, the rank, drunken breath poured from him powerfully.

  “They’re your family,” he near-growled, shaking the man for good measure. “What’s the matter with you?” James let the drunk back down, his free hand shaking with anger.

  The drunk resituated himself, both in posture and in a very rude gesture. His eyes seemed to focus, a glimpse of clarity. “That little whore and her daughter aren’t my family,” he spat, kicking out with one of his dirty boots. “They’re dead to me.”

  James stood, his free hand running through his short hair. “Won’t you fight for them? What’s wrong with you? How can you cast out these people who look to you?”

  Randy pushed himself up as much as he could.

  He beamed with as much pride as he could muster. “This is America. I can choose to cast off who I want. They hold me back. Keep me down,” he slurred.

  James felt rage boil in him, a grand surge that tore him from deep within. “They keep you down. The people who tolerate the cruelty that radiates from you like shit from a pig. You’re nothing.”

  This enraged the drunk.

  He tried to stand, reaching out and grasping James by the shirt. “You can’t talk to me like that. I’m a person. I have rights,” he screeched.

  James struck him across the face with the butt of the shotgun. The man slumped, his face broken and a rushing deluge of blood crept and flowed onto his dirty shirt. The action gave James pause; waiting for a moment, he looked down at the broken man.