Read Online Dislocated by Max Andrew Dubinsky - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Max Andrew Dubinsky
Tags: Horror
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The tiny white apple with a bite taken out of it appears on the screen.
A working phone.
I set it down on Roderick’s chest. It could be a trap.
“Come on, come on, come on.”
The phone vibrates.
Roderick has seventeen new notifications.
There are no apps on his phone.
Just clocks. Rows and rows of clock icons.
Each notification is an alarm which has already sounded.
Each one titled, “Controlled Burn in…” followed by a number.
I say the words out loud. “Controlled Burn?”
There is a timer counting down in place of where the actual digital clock should be at the top of the screen.
I ask the masked man on my bedroom floor, “What is a controlled burn?”
He has nothing to say, but I demand answers.
“Who are you, Roderick? Huh? Answer me!” I scream at him. I grab at the snout of his gasmask, ripping it from his face. I hurl it across the room, and look down at the rhino from the bar who mistook me for Adam the other night and nearly killed me with his fists.
I change my clothes. I’m starving. There’s nothing in this place but spilled milk and warm beer. I grab a duffle bag from the closet, throw in some shirts and jeans and few pairs of clean underwear. I place the pistol and the box of shotgun shells on top. I leave Roderick to spoil along with the rest of this town. The closest major city is Pittsburgh. It’s an hour drive, maybe thirty minutes if I can take to the roads at 100mph. I will drive until I find life, until I find answers.
I open the door, bag over my shoulder, shotgun in hand, and there’s a dead wolf in the hallway.
In the front yard, the birds have finally found something better to do.
They’re dead.
Every last one of them.
It feels as though thirty years have passed since I’ve been outside. The temperature has dropped twenty degrees. It no longer feels like summer. I notice steam rising out from the sewers carved into the curbs. I walk into the street and try to see inside. I take out Roderick’s phone hoping to use it as a flashlight. The timer in place of where the clock should be has twenty-eight minutes left.
I arrive at my car, but the vintage 1970 Lamborghini Espada in Mr. Waterman’s driveway catches my eye. I don’t know much of anything about cars, but I’m an expert with this particular vehicle given the number of times Mr. Waterman has pulled me aside to tell me all about the stupid thing. I take a brick from his landscaping and hurl it through a bay window. The alarm wails at its best attempt to thwart me. Mr. Waterman is at his kitchen table, his face resting on the sports section of the newspaper. His pants are soggy. The entire place smells of shit and piss. The keys to the Lamborghini hang on hooks next to a calendar with the same damn kitten on it that Mr. and Mrs. Phelps have on their wall. I jiggle the keys in front of Mr. Waterman, ask if he minds, thank him, then take a knife from the kitchen counter and jam it between the kitten’s eyes.
My apartment is less than a mile from the zoo. I go out of my way to drive by. Here I stop and stare at the mass execution of wildlife. The elephants. The alligators. The monkeys. Their lifeless bodies lay about the entrance. The place is a haunted battlefield. Whatever killed off the rest of this town must have had a much slower effect on the animals.
I roll down my window and lean my head out to look up at the sky. What I am looking for exactly, I cannot say. Hope? Maybe.
I drive over to the Yankee Kitchen at mach speeds. An insatiable hunger has developed within my guts. The front door of this town’s finest breakfast establishment, naturally, is locked. Next door at Furniture World, they leave their discounted items on the sidewalk all night. I grab a wooden dining room chair and throw it through the front window of the restaurant. I fall into it a bit, glass spraying against my face and clinging to my hair, but I survive unscratched. I could get used to these dramatic
A working phone.
I set it down on Roderick’s chest. It could be a trap.
“Come on, come on, come on.”
The phone vibrates.
Roderick has seventeen new notifications.
There are no apps on his phone.
Just clocks. Rows and rows of clock icons.
Each notification is an alarm which has already sounded.
Each one titled, “Controlled Burn in…” followed by a number.
I say the words out loud. “Controlled Burn?”
There is a timer counting down in place of where the actual digital clock should be at the top of the screen.
I ask the masked man on my bedroom floor, “What is a controlled burn?”
He has nothing to say, but I demand answers.
“Who are you, Roderick? Huh? Answer me!” I scream at him. I grab at the snout of his gasmask, ripping it from his face. I hurl it across the room, and look down at the rhino from the bar who mistook me for Adam the other night and nearly killed me with his fists.
I change my clothes. I’m starving. There’s nothing in this place but spilled milk and warm beer. I grab a duffle bag from the closet, throw in some shirts and jeans and few pairs of clean underwear. I place the pistol and the box of shotgun shells on top. I leave Roderick to spoil along with the rest of this town. The closest major city is Pittsburgh. It’s an hour drive, maybe thirty minutes if I can take to the roads at 100mph. I will drive until I find life, until I find answers.
I open the door, bag over my shoulder, shotgun in hand, and there’s a dead wolf in the hallway.
In the front yard, the birds have finally found something better to do.
They’re dead.
Every last one of them.
It feels as though thirty years have passed since I’ve been outside. The temperature has dropped twenty degrees. It no longer feels like summer. I notice steam rising out from the sewers carved into the curbs. I walk into the street and try to see inside. I take out Roderick’s phone hoping to use it as a flashlight. The timer in place of where the clock should be has twenty-eight minutes left.
I arrive at my car, but the vintage 1970 Lamborghini Espada in Mr. Waterman’s driveway catches my eye. I don’t know much of anything about cars, but I’m an expert with this particular vehicle given the number of times Mr. Waterman has pulled me aside to tell me all about the stupid thing. I take a brick from his landscaping and hurl it through a bay window. The alarm wails at its best attempt to thwart me. Mr. Waterman is at his kitchen table, his face resting on the sports section of the newspaper. His pants are soggy. The entire place smells of shit and piss. The keys to the Lamborghini hang on hooks next to a calendar with the same damn kitten on it that Mr. and Mrs. Phelps have on their wall. I jiggle the keys in front of Mr. Waterman, ask if he minds, thank him, then take a knife from the kitchen counter and jam it between the kitten’s eyes.
My apartment is less than a mile from the zoo. I go out of my way to drive by. Here I stop and stare at the mass execution of wildlife. The elephants. The alligators. The monkeys. Their lifeless bodies lay about the entrance. The place is a haunted battlefield. Whatever killed off the rest of this town must have had a much slower effect on the animals.
I roll down my window and lean my head out to look up at the sky. What I am looking for exactly, I cannot say. Hope? Maybe.
I drive over to the Yankee Kitchen at mach speeds. An insatiable hunger has developed within my guts. The front door of this town’s finest breakfast establishment, naturally, is locked. Next door at Furniture World, they leave their discounted items on the sidewalk all night. I grab a wooden dining room chair and throw it through the front window of the restaurant. I fall into it a bit, glass spraying against my face and clinging to my hair, but I survive unscratched. I could get used to these dramatic
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