Read Online Dislocated by Max Andrew Dubinsky - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Max Andrew Dubinsky
Tags: Horror
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need someone to teach me how to use these opposable thumbs first.
It appears I went to sleep on the floor. I haven’t blacked out like this since Valerie left.
Valerie.
I dreamt of her death. Of everyone’s death.
What a brutal nightmare.
My head is lead, but I find the strength to lift myself with the help of my elbows. My shoulder screams at me to stop. Seeing the torn flesh, the blood, I nearly black out again.
No. No. No. No. No. No.
This. Cannot. Be. Real.
I can’t move because I’m bleeding out, not because I’m a drunk. Well, maybe a little because I’m a drunk.
I’m lying in a warm thick, liquid. My shirt soaked. The hairs on my legs feel glued to my skin. I touch the hardwood floors and bring my hand to my face.
I blink through the tears I can’t help but shed over the realization that these are my last, pathetic moments on earth.
It’s white. Not red.
I sob anyway.
Whoever coined the term, “There’s no point in crying over spilled milk,” obviously never woke up in a gallon of it mixed with his own blood and piss, lying next to a man in a gas mask.
Seeing Roderick triggers the surge of adrenaline my body needed to get off the floor, and I find myself slipping through milk, falling into the open fridge, and skittering like a crab to get as far away from this place as possible.
I decide the living room is as good as “as far as possible” and collapse again.
“Hello?” I call out. “Are you okay?”
The body doesn’t move.
“Hello? Can you hear me?”
Still nothing.
I pull myself to my feet, take two steps forward.
The shotgun sits another two steps away. Four more steps total to get back into my room.
I reach the shotgun. I have to get down on one knee to retrieve it without passing out. I seem to have developed a serious case of vertigo.
“Hey!” I yell, gun raised, hands shaking. “Hey!”
No response.
I finish the journey back into the bedroom. I kick my friend in the side. “Wake up!”
It’s like kicking a bear. I imagine. I’ve never kicked a bear, but the way things seem to be going today, I won’t count the opportunity out.
The glass over his eyes reflects only me.
I’m a ghost. An alien from another planet.
I read the name on his jacket aloud: “Roderick.”
I kick his leg this time.
Still nothing.
I scan the floor. I’ve never seen a tranquilizer dart, but I imagine it looks just like the long pointed piece of silver with a red tag on the end of it right here next to my feet. I touch my uninjured shoulder. It feels bruised. As does my back.
I close the refrigerator door, but not before taking out a warm beer. I pop the tab, take a drink, drop to my knees next to Roderick.
I set the gun on the floor, and rest my left hand on his chest. I drum my fingers against his green military jacket.
I’ve spent the majority of my adult life living in denial, so it shouldn’t be too hard to pretend this isn’t happening.
I beat my fist against his chest.
“Wake up!”
I hit him again.
“Come on!”
And again.
“Who are you?” I demand of him.
“What happened to everyone? Why is everyone dead? Why am I the only one alive? Is this some kind of test? Biological warfare? Am I immune? Am I super hero?”
Sitting in the warm, curdling milk, I look back and forth between Roderick and the empty carton.
I believe I just killed the only other living person I’ve encountered today.
I’ve never seen a dead body before. I skipped all four of my grandparents’ funerals. With the mask on he doesn’t seem real, but rather just like the mannequin from Mr. Jones’s apartment. I leave it on him while I go through his pockets.
First, I find a gun. I don’t know much about them, but this one appears to shoot bullets, not poison arrows.
He has no wallet, credit cards, or cash.
Every inch of skin is covered.
The only piece of identification or helpful information I discover on his person is an iPhone. With zero expectations, I press the power button.
It appears I went to sleep on the floor. I haven’t blacked out like this since Valerie left.
Valerie.
I dreamt of her death. Of everyone’s death.
What a brutal nightmare.
My head is lead, but I find the strength to lift myself with the help of my elbows. My shoulder screams at me to stop. Seeing the torn flesh, the blood, I nearly black out again.
No. No. No. No. No. No.
This. Cannot. Be. Real.
I can’t move because I’m bleeding out, not because I’m a drunk. Well, maybe a little because I’m a drunk.
I’m lying in a warm thick, liquid. My shirt soaked. The hairs on my legs feel glued to my skin. I touch the hardwood floors and bring my hand to my face.
I blink through the tears I can’t help but shed over the realization that these are my last, pathetic moments on earth.
It’s white. Not red.
I sob anyway.
Whoever coined the term, “There’s no point in crying over spilled milk,” obviously never woke up in a gallon of it mixed with his own blood and piss, lying next to a man in a gas mask.
Seeing Roderick triggers the surge of adrenaline my body needed to get off the floor, and I find myself slipping through milk, falling into the open fridge, and skittering like a crab to get as far away from this place as possible.
I decide the living room is as good as “as far as possible” and collapse again.
“Hello?” I call out. “Are you okay?”
The body doesn’t move.
“Hello? Can you hear me?”
Still nothing.
I pull myself to my feet, take two steps forward.
The shotgun sits another two steps away. Four more steps total to get back into my room.
I reach the shotgun. I have to get down on one knee to retrieve it without passing out. I seem to have developed a serious case of vertigo.
“Hey!” I yell, gun raised, hands shaking. “Hey!”
No response.
I finish the journey back into the bedroom. I kick my friend in the side. “Wake up!”
It’s like kicking a bear. I imagine. I’ve never kicked a bear, but the way things seem to be going today, I won’t count the opportunity out.
The glass over his eyes reflects only me.
I’m a ghost. An alien from another planet.
I read the name on his jacket aloud: “Roderick.”
I kick his leg this time.
Still nothing.
I scan the floor. I’ve never seen a tranquilizer dart, but I imagine it looks just like the long pointed piece of silver with a red tag on the end of it right here next to my feet. I touch my uninjured shoulder. It feels bruised. As does my back.
I close the refrigerator door, but not before taking out a warm beer. I pop the tab, take a drink, drop to my knees next to Roderick.
I set the gun on the floor, and rest my left hand on his chest. I drum my fingers against his green military jacket.
I’ve spent the majority of my adult life living in denial, so it shouldn’t be too hard to pretend this isn’t happening.
I beat my fist against his chest.
“Wake up!”
I hit him again.
“Come on!”
And again.
“Who are you?” I demand of him.
“What happened to everyone? Why is everyone dead? Why am I the only one alive? Is this some kind of test? Biological warfare? Am I immune? Am I super hero?”
Sitting in the warm, curdling milk, I look back and forth between Roderick and the empty carton.
I believe I just killed the only other living person I’ve encountered today.
I’ve never seen a dead body before. I skipped all four of my grandparents’ funerals. With the mask on he doesn’t seem real, but rather just like the mannequin from Mr. Jones’s apartment. I leave it on him while I go through his pockets.
First, I find a gun. I don’t know much about them, but this one appears to shoot bullets, not poison arrows.
He has no wallet, credit cards, or cash.
Every inch of skin is covered.
The only piece of identification or helpful information I discover on his person is an iPhone. With zero expectations, I press the power button.
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