Tales of Random Beasts
Tales of Random Beasts
It was early morning, and somehow, the world managed to look darker than it did a day earlier. Winter had arrived a few weeks later than expected, making up for its delay with a penetrating, bone-chilling vengeance. The sun was gone. It wouldn’t return for months. The seasonal radioactive weather was back as well, shaking a blanket of gray clouds and ash into life, or death, depending on which side of the wind you woke up on.
Days and nights, much like the wind around them, could not exist without the ashes. I mean, what else are streetlights supposed to shine against? Even darkness paled in comparison to what it had been once. Forget about pitch black, what you had to fear was pale gray, where intermittent beams of light pointed the way to safety. A safehouse here. A marked doorway there. Death everywhere in between. We were so used to it that the events of that late February day (or was it night?) didn’t surprise us at all. At least not at first.
In hindsight, we should have known… the signs of its return were all there, but time and memory had died long ago in the absence of sunlight.
Oh, what a day… or was it a night?
When the streetlights along Collins Avenue went off, between 71st and Indian Creek, something macabre growled as it galloped in the shadows. The minor outage lasted less than thirty seconds, more than enough time for the beast to grab its unsuspecting victim by the back of her neck, neither one of them ever to be seen alive again.
Days later, people asked whether either one had been alive at all. A valid question. That poor lady was on her way out already. Her fragile silhouette, trembling against the light, could very well have disappeared without any help. And the beast… the beast had long ago deserted the ranks of the living, even if it was not what you would call dead. Still, her family’s insistence on an investigation was warranted. The sole witness of that pale night’s events had to be questioned.
It had been centuries since the beast was last seen. Were it not for Mr. P, it would have remained the stuff of legend for at least another hundred years, but luck still played a small role in that world of ours. Whether you are inclined to think he was lucky, unlucky, or a weird combination of both, Mr. P just happened to be at the right place at the right time… or the wrong place at the wrong time. Again, it’s up to you.
The place in question was apartment 1411 at the once iconic 401 Blu condominium towers, a typical 13th floor studio overlooking the plains that had once held an ocean two blocks away. The time, 11:30pm. The occasion, smoking his nightly joint away from the rest of the world. The events that unfolded around him, went more or less like this:
Collins Avenue was about as empty as you would expect. The sickness had been around for a few months. A lone car would drive by every ten to twenty minutes. At the wheel, a lustful lover willing to risk it all for a stain of love.
One scene was repeated beyond every dimly lit window. A family, or its remnants hiding inside, staring at the screen in disbelief while reading the latest stats. There were no news anchors anymore.
One hundred dead.
Five hundred dead.
Eight thousand dead.
Below, the old lady pacing down along Collins. Lights flickering. Wind pushing radioactive ash. A dry ocean two blocks away. The sudden blackout. An ancient, nameless howl. The shadow of a shadow flying by. No more lady anymore.
Mr. P wouldn’t last much longer after that night. There was blood on the tissue he used to blow his nose, which by then everyone knew to be an early symptom. Too bad for the poor guy that it wasn’t disease that took his life in the end.
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LOL, OMG, WTF
Amelia and Tracy had been streaming an overly rehearsed dance routine to a boy, who was a senior at their school, when it happened. They were already used to the internet coming and going with a will of its own. Or to boiling water before drinking it. Or to not having seen any of their friends since schools across the country closed down to reduce the spread of disease.
The stream was supposed to be perfect, and it went well almost to the very end, right until Amelia’s left knee landed with a thud on her friend’s face. Boom! Blood! Screams from both victim and unwilling aggressor. Amelia went straight for the cam. Priorities, you know? She hoped in silence that the lovely senior was not recording. Next, she apologized to Tracy, trying in vain to stop the blood gushing out her friend’s nose.
Hold up! Fuck! You’re bleeding, let me get some ice. Oh my god, I’m so sorry!
On her way to the kitchen, Amelia could feel the world around her coming to an end. She had just knocked out her friend on video. Her very popular friend. Their bloody dance routine was bound to be the talk of the school when class reconvened via Zoom next Monday. Fuck indeed.
In a way, Amelia was right. There would be no more Zoom classes, nor work meetings or cybersex rendezvous ever again. The internet wasn’t coming back. Electricity was gone as well. The world did end on her walk to the kitchen, right as she opened the fridge and leaned forward to reach the few ice cubes left. On and off power meant there weren’t many. That’s what saved her.
She didn’t remember who, or what broke down the door at her parent’s small suburban house. Whatever it had been, it left its dark mark all over the walls and ceilings, along with the bits and piece of Tracy that survived the onslaught. Years later, that image still haunted Amelia. The couple who found her trapped inside the fallen fridge said she was lucky.
It wasn’t disease that did it for your friend, baby girl. The beast took her, along with pretty much everyone else those days. Motherfucker was hungry. And you know how it likes to hunt.
We’re lucky it can’t see though lead, otherwise you’d be a goner too. Ain’t that many of us left anymore, but wherever there is one, the beast will follow.
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Lead the Way
Most of us were asleep when the bomb dropped, but it wasn’t the blast or its shockwave that shook us out of our sleep. Unless you were at ground zero. In that case, waking up wasn’t really an option. It’s our phones that did the job, beeping and lighting up to the tune of a sudden million deaths, which most of us found a way to make about ourselves. Clickbait of the works kind. The kind we love to cry about, camera pointing to our face, teary eyes fixed on the views and likes and shares.
To everyone’s surprise, the nation proved somewhat resilient at first. Sure, anything west of Texas never recovered, but for the rest of us, a nuclear strike in our backyard was unforgiveable. So, we celebrated a new cause for unity. We gave more power to the powerful. We fell in line and sang our songs prouder than ever. Too bad cardboard patriots have such as short shelf life.
Soon, something more sinister arrived at our shores. An invisible shadow that brought along disease and suffering without a loud boom to bring us together. Sickness struck hard and fast. The death toll went from hundreds to thousands and hundreds of thousands in a matter of weeks, and yet some of us refused to believe. “Ah, it’s just another plot by that pesky opposition,” they’d say. “It’s all the government’s fault… they’re in on it,” the other side replied. Most of us perished in disagreement and denial.
As it turns out, radioactivity and disease were the easy way out. A tumor, it would seem, grew in our crumbling civilization’s underbelly, waiting to pop at the worst possible moment. It was in the darkness of radioactive winters that the beast struck. Most of us were dead by then, or asleep yet again. Not for long.
Days and nights were now alike. The end was near. The beast had returned, invisible up to the last second of our lives, when its treacherous bite took the last of us to down to hell, which couldn’t be any worse than what remained of our world.