A Very Dystopian Holiday Reader Read online

  A Very Dystopian Holiday Reader

  A collection of short fiction

  Dan O’Brien

  Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as “unsold or destroyed” and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.

  A Very Dystopian Holiday Reader is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 Dan O’Brien

  Cover Photo © 2013 Jesse O’Brien

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN 10: 1493691732

  ISBN 13: 978-1493691739

  For more information visit:

  http://thedanobrienproject.blogspot.com/

  Summary of Contents

  Mondays with Mephistopheles: 9 am––Rhys: Abraham Rogers has an unusual psychotherapy practice: monsters. This first installment is a session with Rhys, the IT vampire who can’t quite connect with the modern world the way he would like.

  Hobbes Family: The world had ended abruptly and without warning. How will a family navigate a world that seems bent on destroying them? Follow them in this exciting new serial adventure.

  Water: The next installment in the B-Sides series follows a father and son living out a quiet life in northern Arizona. A strange occurrence at the border, and a series of events that turns the world upside down, plunges society into a spiral from which it might not be able to recover. Having to flee from their home with a band of unlikely friends in tow, the open road beckons. Can they survive?

  The End of the World Playlist: The world as we knew it had ended. Deep in the mountains of the west coast, six men survived. In the town of River’s Bend, these six friends continued on with their lives as zombies inherited the Earth. As they navigated the world that had been left behind, the soundtrack of life continued on.

  The Twins of Devonshire and the Curse of the Widow: A plague has covered the land, a single word on the lips of the frightened masses: the Widow. Washing a wave of terror over the countryside and then disappearing like a thief in the night, the Widow holds a kingdom in the palm of her hand. The eyes of Chaos have settled on Prima Terra and heroes must rise. Xeno Lobo, enigmatic and cryptic, hunts the Widow, seeking an object taken from him years before. Will he be able to stem the tide of violence and horror that sweeps the land?

  Mondays with Mephistopheles:

  9 am – Rhys

  A

  braham Rogers had become a psychologist for a variety of reasons, chief among them that he was uncomfortable with the rigidity of psychiatry as a profession and its propensity to solve psychological issues with pharmaceuticals. He had his clients call him Abe, as he felt the Doctor moniker was too heavy handed for his type of treatment.

  He fancied himself a proponent in a long line of humanistic psychologists who offered unconditional support for anyone who needed to work through personal or professional issues.

  As he sat in his dark office, shades drawn and lamp set to its lowest setting, he ruminated about the use of the word human.

  His practice had suffered as of late.

  The market had become saturated with recent graduates and despite a growing despair on the horizon, his billable hours began to decrease.

  He had to consider a new kind of client.

  The buzzing sound from the intercom on his desk woke him from his thoughtful pose. Standing, he depressed the button.

  His secretary’s voice did not match her appearance. The brusque tone suggested a woman solidly built with a perpetual scowl. Eve was the very picture of carefree youth: bright blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair.

  “Dr. Rogers, your 11 o’clock appointment is here. Should I send him in?”

  Abe liked to meet his clients in the waiting room.

  “I’ll be right out.”

  Taking the three long steps from his comfortable seat to the thick oak door, Abe smiled––though managed little more than a self-conscious smirk.

  Rhys was a mere specter of a man. His porcelain skin was accented by a burgundy shirt and dark pants. A pair of polarized sunglasses hid his eyes as he turned his head to the approaching Dr. Rogers.

  “Good morning, Rhys. Shall we?”

  Rhys stood with a smooth and effortless movement. His lean frame was hidden beneath layers of superfluous clothing despite the humidity outside of the office.

  Abe had become accustomed to the strange turn his life had taken. Every academic had to specialize at some point in their career. Abraham Rogers’ practice had become a respite for the strange.

  As he took the seat across from the couch, Abe gestured with his hand. There was something to the necessity of pleasantries in his particular profession.

  “How are you doing this morning, Rhys?”

  The leaner man seemed not to acknowledge Abe’s presence in the room; instead, he seemed keen on a sliver of light that emerged through the thick drapes behind Rogers’ desk. “Can we do something about that light?”

  Abe nodded and attended to the drapery, tugging and moving it until the shaft of luminance was expunged from the room. “Is that better?”

  “Quite,” came the terse reply.

  With a huff, Abe was seated once more. He crossed one leg over the other and placed a tattered notepad on his knee. “Where would you like to start today?”

  “Must you use such a raggedy journal, my good doctor?”

  “Abe.”

  Rhys waved a dismissive hand, his pale fingers tracing the air irritably. “Of course, we must maintain a conversational tone here.”

  “Would you prefer to call me Dr. Rogers?”

  Rhys exhaled and adjusted one of his legs underneath his body. “I would prefer to accomplish something during this session, Abe.”

  Abe knew that Rhys grew impatient with a surprising quickness, though the vexation passed after a moment if allowed to marinate in the darkness.

  “Have you given any further thought to the treatment we discussed?”

  If Rhys had wanted to speak about a course of treatment, it was not revealed in the pursing of his pink lips. “I understand your propensity to use the flavor of the day, Abe, but I fear my affliction cannot be overcome with simple exposure.” He paused for effect. “It is that precise contact that causes me harm.”

  “Do you feel like you are afflicted, Rhys?”

  Rhys took off his sunglasses, revealing equally pale eyes that swam in shadow. “Do I not appear afflicted to you?”

  “Who has burdened you with this affliction, Rhys? Who do you hold responsible for this suffering?”

  Rhys’ long throat did not pulse, nor did his heart beat faster. One would have to have the appropriate equipment to have elevated blood pressure.

  Vampires lacked the requisite parts.

  “Are you trying to pry out blame? Find the golden egg of my psyche for which the morose bell tolls? I can assure you that my mother has little to do with my affliction.”

  Abe touched his pen to the notebook and scribbled a few illegible lines. “Tell me about your mother, Rhys. What kind of woman was she?”

  “What would my mother have to do with the creature I have become?”

  “Your affliction, as you are so fond of calling it, is something with which you must live each day. While there are hurdles for you to overcome, you are still defined by where you have come from.”

  “My mother did not make me the beast I am today.” Rhys seemed distracted. “She was a sad woman, prone to flights of dramatics. When my father left, she only becam
e more beleaguered. My rebirth as this thing was more than she could bear. Her life, though filled with sadness, did not need the added burden of a child crawling into the darkness.”

  “So she took her own life?”

  Rhys looked at Abe with a dry look. “Why would you assume that? Did I say she took her life?”

  “Was her life taken?”

  There was a pregnant pause as Rhys looked away toward the wall of books to the right of the window. “Are you certain that window is closed? I can almost smell the light….”

  Abe sensed that Rhys wanted to move on from talking about his mother. He made a quick note to broach it during a later session.

  “I recall from a previous session that you despise the myths perpetuated by pop culture. Is this aversion to sunlight not the exact type of pandering that vexes you?”

  “It is not the myths that irritate me. It is the purposeful reinvention of my kind to fit whatever pop sensibilities are en vogue during a particular age. Many of my dark brothers and sisters spent the better part of a century carving out a place in the night. The light holds no sway over us. It is unpleasant for the oldest among us. We do not relish in its vast nutrients as the living do.”

  Abe pressed the issue despite the pontification. “Why then do you seek the darkness? If it is not fear of injury, then what?”

  “The light brings out the melancholy in me. I find it difficult to bear. I have no energy to go about the day.”

  “Why do think that is, Rhys?”

  Rhys sighed.

  His eyes remained unblinking.

  Abe knew that Rhys suffered from Seasonal Affective Disorder, though it was more likely a bout of generalized anxiety tied to some kind of recent drama.

  It had taken Abe several sessions to become accustomed to the idiosyncratic behavior of the moody child of the night. As a psychologist he was supposed to remain composed, but the first few sessions bordered on frightening.

  Rhys had on more than one occasion threatened him with bloodletting if he continued down a particular course of questioning. This passed as the vampire soon revealed his aversion to the sight of blood and the passion with which he dreaded violence.

  “What of social engagements?”

  Rhys collected himself before speaking. “In 400 years I have bedded many women, but Eileen was different. She was unfettered by my flights of sorrow. At first she thought it was going to be blood and bondage, but she soon saw that we are just bored with this world.”

  “We have not spoken of Eileen in some time, Rhys. Have you done what I suggested?”

  “Go out and meet people. Are you quite mad?”

  Abe and Rhys came to this point often. “You came to me because you wished to overcome some of your fears, some of the things that were holding you back. You asked me to treat you as any other patient because the alienation and loneliness was at the very center of your concerns.”

  Rhys nodded and motioned with his hands. “Do not get flustered. I recall what I said.”

  “Very good. So have you?”

  “I created a profile on one of those computer dating sites. That is not how a man met a woman in my time.”

  Abe smiled. “Things have indeed changed.”

  “I get these messages from women wondering if I am a goth or if I am an Anne Rice fan. I find the process disgusting.”

  “Disgusting how?”

  “I am not a literary character beholden to some novelist somewhere.”

  “Do you take offense to the portrayal of your kind in the media? In fiction?”

  Rhys leaned back into the couch, his reed-like frame consumed by the cushions. “Not all of them. Stoker did not terribly displease me. I prefer Mrs. Rice’s portrayal of my people, even if we are not as refined and romantic as the masses would hope. These sparkly, brooding types obsessed with teenagers paint us as horny men incapable of satiating our lust for youth. A terrible literary metaphor if I have ever seen one.”

  Abe shifted in his seat as Rhys continued. “As if after hundreds of years we only wish to brood and lust for awkward teenage girls. What about knowledge, the wonders of the universe? You humans do not think we have time to absorb the great knowledge of our time? Idiots.”

  “It sounds like you think people treat you like you were uneducated. That perhaps you are prone to your baser instincts. How does that make you feel?”

  “How does that make me feel? How do you think it makes me feel? Miserable. Like a troglodyte who can’t keep it in my pants. This is the merman problem all over again.”

  “The merman problem?”

  Rhys waved his hands as if he were a conjurer. “Women want all these myths and fairy tales. A merman is half-man, half-fish. So either they got the right equipment and a fish head, or they got a human torso and fish parts, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow…”

  Rhys interrupted, becoming irritated for the first time during the session. “I’m undead. Not one of those drooling groaners, but not exactly going to be warming folks by a fire. Need a beating heart to work the equipment women are interested in.”

  “Perhaps you are generalizing a bit. Not all women assume that a vampire equates to fantastical romance.”

  “Find me one woman who loves vampires and doesn’t think they are those brooding and beautiful blokes with the spray-on abs. The reality is quite a bit different.”

  Rhys motioned with his hand to himself.

  Abe tapped the pen on the notebook in contemplation. The vampire had not been this riled in some time. There was clearly another motivation at work here.

  “What happened today, Rhys?”

  “What makes you think something happened?”

  Abe gestured to the defensive posture and pensive––more pensive than normal––look on the vampire’s face. “Your demeanor and outburst would suggest that there was an incident.”

  Rhys sighed. “Nothing gets past you. Can’t we just have a normal conversation without you confounding what I am trying to say?”

  “This is my job, Rhys. I have to help you confront and move past the hurdles in your life so you can be a happy and productive member of society.”

  A brief pause grew between them. It became a staring contest with the loser bearing the impetus of the narrative. Rhys rolled his eyes and tucked his feet under the cushions.

  “Very well. It all started when I was watching one of those shows again. The dialogue is atrocious. It is as if they write the exchanges how your kind wishes you spoke. No sense of cadence and intonation, just snarky. We are all tortured souls looking for love according to your melodramas.”

  Abe scribbled on his notepad once more. “Do you find that portrayal particularly irritating because you feel like your life has been a comedy of errors? Is this perhaps your way of defending your sorrow?”

  Rhys looked away from Abe once more and focused on the drapery. His face remained unreadable. “It would be simpler, would it not, if I were just as transparent as one of your moody housewives? I do not believe myself tortured, but rather damned to a fate. This is not unique to my kind. Many of your species find themselves relegated to lives that leave something to be desired.”

  “Is it possible then that the fictionalization of vampires is meant to alleviate human boredom and apathy?”

  “Vampires,” hissed Rhys.

  Abe paused as he realized his error. His client had made it painfully clear that he despised the moniker and all other colloquialisms to describe his species.

  “Apologies, Rhys. I meant no harm.”

  Gray eyes had become crimson and shadowed at the word usage. His pale lips had parted, revealing razors of bone meant for tearing.

  “I find the generalizations of my brothers and sisters terribly crude. It would be as if I referred to you and your kind as naked apes. This is part of the problem. Your authors and artists have made metaphors of our animal instincts, likening bloodletting to sexual desire and eternal life to fear of death. Your lit
tle stories are built as vehicles for your idiosyncrasies, not ours.”

  Abe gathered his thoughts, knowing that his next words would determine the tone of the remainder of the session. “What is it about the terms that you find most derogatory? Is it what they imply about your kind?”

  “It is the laziness of the thought process. Implications are simply fears turned outward, good doctor. You taught me that.”

  “Quite so, Rhys, quite so. Before my verbal misstep you were explaining the series of events that led to your distress. Would you care to continue?”

  “As you wish. I could stand no more than a few moments of this show before leaving for work. Riding the tube remains one of the few modern conventions that I enjoy. The confections and odors aboard my daily commute are distinct. It was aboard my morning trek that the day went from stilted soap opera to horror show.”

  “It sounds like whatever happened on the tram was sufficient to affect you deeply.”

  Rhys shifted in his seat, fidgeting as he continued. “As I was saying. I was listening to an audio book when this woman approached me. I knew almost immediately she was not playing with a full set, but I engaged regardless. It is, as you say, important for me to get out there.”

  “I am proud of you, Rhys. That was very brave to talk to a strange person, a woman no less. That is great progress…”

  Rhys interrupted. “Your pride is of little concern to me. If you are quite done, I would like to continue.”

  Abe nodded, gesturing with his hand.

  “This woman asked if I lived around here and continued with all the normal pedantic drivel that you Americans dabble in. I have never understood the lengths to which you go to greet and say goodbye to someone. It is quite tiresome.”

  Abe raised his pen to speak, but Rhys continued, unfettered. “When she had completed her verbal dance, she asked if I would like to head back to her place for the afternoon. Needless to say, her forwardness was shocking, not refreshing. As I felt the throes of disinclination creeping up, it was as if you were sitting next to me, whispering in my ear.”