Joyride

A horror piece I'd written to submit to anthology but forgot to submit it on time.

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Everyone anticipates the future, for good or bad. We as humans strive for development. We want the biggest, the newest, the best version of everything. We grow and gorge until the body of our society becomes a bloated mess, with stretch marks so thin they almost tear under the pressure.

Perfection is not all it’s made out to be.

Every day it was bright lights and business deals. Screams and smiles. Death and order. Repression before riots. The same three songs and adverts looped endlessly over the loudspeakers. The same three colours on everyone’s clothes. No swears. No heart. No choice.

Every. Single. Fucking. Day.

Only the seven of us seemed to have any sense. We tried to save them. Oh boy, did we try. Each one came back with the same response.

“But…they wouldn’t like that”

That cookie cutter answer became aggravating. So, I treated them to a taste of how it felt. I was miles gone from the city’s borders before they found the carefully cut pieces in the oven. Stars, hearts and genderless blobs. Concepts I’m sure they couldn’t wrap around their tiny minds. As I drove into the undeveloped nothing I pondered.

I wonder if it burned the place down?

Did it take a few with them?

Did they cover the ashes or were they lost to the wind?

It doesn’t really matter. Another one, three or thirty. They’re all unsalvageable. The six other outcasts holed up in the wastelands seemed to share the same sentiments. Around a campfire and a mountain of bones and badges, I found them scheming. Their hair colours reflected brightly in the flickering light, beautiful shades of the rainbow I had never once seen in person. Each one of them had an equally brilliant reason for running as I did. Green, for example, was responsible for the massacre in media central. I was around thirteen at the time. It was a warm afternoon, but with a cold aura as per usual. I’d gone for a walk alone, suspended from school once again. This time it was for piercing a classmate’s ears with a compass. In my defence, she looked a lot more interesting. I’d escaped to the city central, planning to lose myself in the crowds.

Thirty, maybe forty heads were strung up in lines from street lamp to traffic light like birthday banners. Authorities snipped one down at my feet, where I got a closer look. String had been carefully thread through drilled holes from ear to ear. Both the eyeballs and the teeth had been forcefully removed, leaving behind only the glistening, squidgy sockets they once inhabited. Later it was revealed that the entire bloody flock were the remnants of the government division in charge of environmental issues. Things haven’t changed since they’ve gone.

The more I listened I found that Red, Orange and Yellow had been in joint cahoots involving small, targeted cases of arson. Supposedly the burnt crisps left over from their endeavour were the reason we had a ‘Black Christmas’ last year. Blue had flooded the city’s academy as a cleanse against false teachings. Indigo’s case was as of yet the smallest, though perhaps still equally as brutal. A dual murder; her parents. They were kept awake and alive for hours whilst anarchy symbols were carved everywhere across their bodies. Indigo told me she cried the whole time. I believe her. After we swapped stories I was taken in, dubbed as ‘Violet’ from then on. They dyed my hair to match.

I felt beautiful.

I still do, as my locks creep their way out from under the helmet’s edge. I adjust it as we mount our metal steeds. With nods of ready approval we rev our engines as a battle cry and storm forth.

Rubber tires lick the concrete of the road in a long, drawn out kiss. They become slathered with an amalgamation of dirty tastes; dust, chewing gum and brains. We drag it out as far as we can, a final sentiment to the streets we once loved as our crusade carries forth into the neon border of the city. Eyes forward, ignoring the lost and broken trash underfoot of the bike, I look for Red’s signal. One hand goes to my back, fingers curling around the handle of the hatchet strapped down. Just a little further now. The last standing guard at the gate is nearing my range. I see a thumbs up in red gloves. Tearing the blade from its temporary sheath, I make an arced slash. With a thud, followed by a few tumbles, the head snowballs along the road beside us. I’m quite impressed with how far he makes it. The rest of the squad disassembles. We each tear off in our own directions to spread the plague of anarchy.

I take to the alley. In one straight line down the narrow path, I ride forward like an enraged bull. The hatchet in my hand carves into skulls in place of horns. From the depths of my lungs I summon a guttural, furious growl as the further I go, the vision of the world constricts further in. Thick streams of blood slide down the visor of my helmet. I don’t need sight. Everything is red anyway. Even drenched in their gore, I’m still not as a blind as they are. I only lament that I can’t see their eyes spark as they realise the lives they’ve wasted. Only an echo of their screams speak up over the engines. Out of everything encased in the crimson tunnel, the only thing that escapes in the end is me. Circling back around, I stall the bike so as to catch a glimpse of my handiwork. Despite the eternal neon haze, this alley seems rather dark. The most I can see is the sticky pool emerging from the penumbra.

No, wait. Something’s twitching. It looks like fingers, crawling forwards. What damned soul managed to survive that onslaught?

I’d best check it out. Hopping off the bike, I trudge over towards the target. I leave the hatchet on the bike for now, using both free hands to wipe some space clean on the visor to see. Approaching the wiggling thing, it looks like a hand as I’d thought. It’s almost detached though. Holding on by a few sinewy threads, it seems the fingers got caught on a piece of trash, pulling it further apart. I may as well speed the process along. Nudging my boot closer, I push against the hand and snap it bit by bit from the wrist. Snap, snap…

Shit!

Sharp pain needles into my calf. My attention snaps immediately towards the source of it. The assailant has her teeth lodged surprisingly deep into the flesh of my leg. Her body is shredded up near to death. Yet, a semblance of a fighting spirit has somehow emerged in her time of reckoning. It could just be adrenaline. Still, I’m quite impressed. I didn’t think there were any left who didn’t feel conditioned to die. I swipe down my boot on her injured hand, severing it in one final blow. Her pupils dilate and she attempts to choke out a scream. Instead she gurgles out a bubbly red mess. With the best of my strength I then haul her body over my shoulder. She struggles a bit, though it manifests in gentle taps. Tossing her limp body on the back of the bike, I admire my handiwork. Sure, she may die soon but if she doesn’t, we could really use someone like her.

In the midst of my post-murder bliss, the distant shrieking chords of a guitar drown out the chorus of chaos. Wonderful, Indigo must have started her concert. I really don’t want to miss this. I shove the mangled hostage further back on the bike, withdrawing the hatchet to wield once again before cruising off towards the city centre. Along the way I spot the other colours. Hair still bright amongst the carnage and smiles more genuine than I’ve ever seen. However, it doesn’t compare to Indigo up upon her stage. Softly pulling in front, I remove my helmet to get a better look.

She shines like a rockstar at the front, fingertips gliding up and down the guitar in rhythm. Her groupies are strapped by the ear to every speaker. Devastating vibrations pulsate through their bodies. If they weren’t all spasming from heart attacks, I’m sure they’d appreciate the kindness this purple princess has brought with her quite literal mind-blowing music. A true master of torture she is. I stay for a little while longer. It’s been a long time since I had the freedom to just sit down and enjoy something.

It’s the little things, you know?