Ax -- A Short Story

[mcslaughter 14]

I'm an amateur writer who enjoys taking inspiration from the games I play. DayZ is no exception, and I have written a short story in honor of the game and the hatchet. (I call it an ax, though, as Gary Paulsen beat me to the title of "Hatchet.") I hope you enjoy.

Ax

You never really expect yourself to grow up to be an ax murderer. Then again, no one ever really expected an apocalypse that toppled humanity, either, and look where that’s gotten us. But really, I never saw someone take an aptitude test and get “ax murderer” as their suggested career plan. No one ever walked out of American Psycho and decided they needed to get themselves a chainsaw and go to town on some pretty blondes. Nobody ever woke up one morning and resolved that the only feasible thing they could do with their life was to chop people up into tiny giblets.

And yet here I am, not even thirty years old (I think) and hacking away at vagabonds and passerby at this bridge like I’m getting paid to do it. I can’t say that it’s what I imagined myself doing after graduating from BYU with a degree in socioeconomics – whatever the hell that means – but if I said I didn’t enjoy it I’d be lying.

There’s just something really satisfying about slicing away all that flesh and bone. I was always squeamish as a boy, never relishing the thought of blood and gore and all that. I guess people’s tastes change once they grow up. Don’t confuse me for a cannibal though: Those people are nuts, and I am happy to inform you that I don’t discriminate when slashing throats with ol’ Bonnie.

Now I could sit here and try to defend myself, making some claim about being the judge, jury, and executioner for the poor people that pass through here, but I’ll save you that righteous Hollywood antihero bullshit. I’m not a good guy. I know that Nietzsche said that good and evil are subjective and all as an excuse to justify all the obscene things that occur in our world, but I don’t think anyone could really call me a good guy after seeing the heap of bodies that has accumulated under this bridge. If it wasn’t for the ocean breeze everyone would smell the death a mile away.

There is a story behind all of this, I can assure you. It’s fairly grisly, but I feel we’re all pretty desensitized after seeing our loved ones torn apart and our world fall to pieces so I suppose the contents that follows won’t be too shocking in light of these dark times. If you’re reading this, I’m almost certainly dead. The only other two possibilities are that I’m out hunting or you’re in a place you’re soon going to regret being in. For your sake I sincerely hope it is the former.

It’s no secret that a few years ago the world went to shit. It was all very confusing for us at the time: Sporadic reports of plague, sensationalist headlines heralding the end, people not showing up for work anymore. No one was entirely sure what was going on, but everyone was sure that everything was going to be okay. You are one of the not-so-lucky ones who know that everything turned out to be far from okay.

Once the dead stopped dying and started waking up, that’s when I knew that we were royally fucked. That was an obvious sign from whoever’s in charge that they’re no longer very pleased with us and have opted to use a much more effective alternative to flooding. People didn’t know what to do. Friends and family were dead one minute, and the next they were gnawing and biting at anything they could get their disgusting teeth on. Everyone panicked, and most people were killed in that initial shock. It was a nightmare. Those left woke up to find themselves in an unimaginably worse nightmare: A world where evolution finally gave humanity the shaft and overturned control to decaying flesh.

Me? I was out getting drunk. I figured there was nothing left for me, and being that I wasn’t a stock broker and thus didn’t have the genes to jump from a tall building, I waded my way past the wretched screaming and the thick haze of smoke to Reggie’s bar. Despite all of the death and looting that surrounded me in that doomed city, everyone at the bar was in high spirits. Everyone was merry and we drank like there was no tomorrow. They were either resigned to death like me or they weren’t entirely aware that the world was ending yet. Literally, that is.

The next thing I remember was waking up in the cellar with the door locked and the lights out. It didn’t take me long to realize that I wasn’t alone down there, but I was the only one who was feeling the hangover. The others were dead, but I was sure they wouldn’t be for long. I groped around in the dark for what seemed like an infinite amount of time in some sort of customized Hell, praying to whoever was listening that I would live to see the sun again. Then I found Bonnie: Red and slender, like some beautiful girl from my wildest dreams. I can’t say with certainty what happened next, but I don’t think if anyone else had been alive in there at that point they would have been much longer after that.

I stumbled out onto the street, the sun blinding me with its optimistic shine like everything was the way it had been yesterday. I would have almost believed it, too, but the streets were devoid of life. Ruin was the only thing that was left. In the movies everything is only decrepit and lifeless years after everyone’s dead and Will Smith is the only one driving a sports car through the streets of Manhattan. It only took a day.

I wandered around in awe, not fully capable of grasping what was unfolding before me between the shock of Armageddon and my hangover. No one was left except the crows. They spoke in tongues, asking each other where the good food was to be had. They stared with derision, guffawing at the absurdity of my existence. “What’s he doing, walking around? Doesn’t he know he’s supposed to be dead like the others?” I almost felt obligated to them, like I had to offer a good enough excuse as to why I was still standing, like I had to explain why I wasn’t their midmorning meal.

Then I saw him. Or rather, he saw me. He cried out to me, begging for help for something or another. It could have been about his dying wife, or it could have been about baked beans. I don’t really know. I walked over to where he was lying in the dust, Bonnie in hand, and just stared at him. He opened his mouth as he looked up at me with his pleading eyes, asking again for me to be a Good Samaritan and help him with his woes. I helped him. He didn’t ask again. Neither did the crows. I gave them their answer and their midmorning meal.

I don’t remember everyone I’ve killed. I’ve murdered innocents and I’ve executed demons. I’ve massacred families and I’ve gutted loners. I’ve killed men and I’ve slain women. I’ve slaughtered children and I’ve dispatched the elderly. I am not a good guy. If you are not fortunate enough that I am dead and out hunting, you are going to soon find out for yourself that I am not a good guy. Do not call me any such thing when you set this down and turn around. If anything, please, call me Clyde.

[Chiefrazor 4]

That was great! Very well done! I dont quite understand why clyde had the sudden urge to kill everyone after waking up from his hangover though lol

[mcslaughter 14]

That was great! Very well done! I dont quite understand why clyde had the sudden urge to kill everyone after waking up from his hangover though lol

While writing it I thought about having the main character extrapolate on his reasoning behind beginning to kill people, but I felt what is unsaid might serve better than the stated. I think the intended message here is that the protagonist couldn't really tell you why he does what he does, it's just a matter of fact that he can't change.

From a realistic, non-literary standpoint, he probably just started killing due to being thrust into a strange psychotic condition in lieu of everything in existence crumbling and being dramatically reshaped overnight.

[mcslaughter 14]

Would anyone else like to say anything?

[peliluola@gmail.com 28]

Guffawing, gotta remember that.

Great text, submit that to some other websites where people go to comment and rate short stories.

[mcslaughter 14]

Guffawing' date=' gotta remember that.

Great text, submit that to some other websites where people go to comment and rate short stories.

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I've been posting it around, but I've yet to go to any places that are designed with the full intent of simply analyzing a piece for all its technical aspects. Those places are either too daunting or too constrictive. Honestly, I'm glad forums for peer-to-peer creative writing criticism weren't around fifty years ago as I'm sure many of the great writers who developed their own style outside of the "norm" would have been shot down at the time. (Kurt Vonnegut comes to mind.)

That's not to say I'm comparable to those authors (I'm not), but I feel that everyone in today's writing world has adopted a sense of criticizing to death rather than conversing to death a piece of writing. If that makes any sort of sense.

[mcslaughter 14]

Would anyone else like to say anything?

Reposting, as I'm still curious as to what anyone with interest has to say.