I recently submitted to an anthology called Playlist of the Damned, the premise being a hiker finds a cassette tape in an abandoned mine reading DO NOT PLAY, a playlist of unfathomable evil, decadence, and horror is unleashed featuring the 25 songs no human was ever supposed to hear.
While my flash was not selected for publication, I received a friendly rejection letter letting me know I was in the top half of the submissions with feedback on how to improve my piece. How awesome is that! I will definitely submit to Weird Little Words in the future.
Please note: this piece contains graphic violence and should be read at your own discretion. I’ve included the track that inspired this flash.
What song do you think should appear on this playlist?
Death, Be Our Shore Leave
“Getting slayed on foreign soil won’t save our homeland,” Callihan says. He revs his metal beast, barely visible below a camouflage of stickers.
“A soldier must skewer his enemies in order to do that.” At this, the commander raises his polearm, and we follow suit. Fifty or more rings jangle around Callihan’s weapon. Each one represents survival.
The motorbike brigade rides in rows of ten. Each man on a steel steed stirring only when the pedal is pressed.
“Welcome to Hell!” Callihan ignites his pole, and we follow his lead. He’s no devil. No, that isn’t his domain. Across the valley lies that cursed place filled with the devil’s playthings.
“Abaddon, come here.” I grip my handlebars and roll slowly towards the commander. I’ve never been called to service before. “Will you ride as my second?”
“With red-blooded honor,” I reply, and there is a drumming of the poles.
I’m not sure I should do this. I’ve been the bad guy all along. For basic training, I burned a national forest of trees by accident. Killing those trunks hurt a lot worse than burning human flesh. What’s worse than helping to kill the planet that birthed you?
The foreigners we were slaughtering today would be taken soon, anyway. Malnutrition, measles, or some new strain of flu. We were beating nature to the punch.
Black midi pumps into our barbed-wired helmets. It’s time to ride. Callahan strums down on his bike like the lead guitarist, and we fall into formation. I ride at his flank.
We speed past red stop signs, ignoring the horns that blare. We roll beside emerald fields barreling towards brown bodies, which, from a distance, appear useless. Weeds planted in the wrong soil. Stalks of various shapes and sizes awaiting their masters. The machines gutted them long ago and now they live as reanimated slaves.
I’d seen a man dissected by a machine once. Humans, see, we’re all oblong: fingers, footprints, open mouths. Circles within circles within circles.
The brigade reaches the first crop of flesh early. An easy mow. They’re still shut down, which means no screams.
“Keep the rubber side down,” Callahan cautions, reminding us that the machines we ride are man-made. When the music returns, it mutes all else. I will myself to descend into its madness.
An hour later, I’ve mowed down more reanimates than I thought possible. A burnt arm sticks on the end of my pole. I try to scrape it off on the side of a slave’s back.
When a stray stone connects with my helmet, the barbed wire screams.
I’m a mad dog let loose in the fiery pit, swinging my polearm left and right, slaughtering reanimates on both sides. When I can’t lift the weapon another second, I do a donut to clear some space.
The Black Drongos want no part in this skirmish. They’ve banished themselves to the wires overhead. When I look up, a line of red eyes watches us wage war.
Higher ground is a field of foreigners away, I tell myself. Reanimates, I correct myself. They have submitted; they are pawns of the machines. They are enemies.
Callahan’s warning signal interrupts the squeal of tires.
I watch as he goes high side. His body lies motionless before his bike. Suddenly, I’m in command. I throttle hard to make it through the smoke and ash and take lead of the pack. Overhead, the clouds resemble a white bosom. I pray to god when I reach heaven, I get to bury my face in that beautiful chest and scream and scream.
Before I can reach the lead, my front wheel loses traction, and I low side into the dirt. A reanimated arm grabs my leg. The severed limb writhes like a brown worm. Within seconds, I’m overrun by them.
Zap to the skull. Zap to the chest. I’m stunned, but I won’t be taken.
I turn my fiery mast upon myself. “Death, be our shore leave,” I say, setting fire to my face to sound the squadron retreat.
©2023 | K.F. Hartless
Artwork: Fernando Correa
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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