Here are this year’s winners of Flagpole’s Scary Story Contest. The voting among them was close. First place goes to Erin Lovett for her surrealistic tale of campaign postcards gone wrong. Jim Baird’s chilling account of infected cell phones edged into second place barely ahead of Philip Weinrich’s dark tale of bloody political debate. We had 10 entries in all, not as many as usual but all strong. All the stories are posted here for you to read and judge for yourself. As usual, former Athenian Jason Crosby supplied the illustration. Thanks to everybody who participated!

The Copies

Cal Chapman knocked politely on the door of a slanting old mill house in New Town. He was near the end of his door-to-door circuit for the day, which he completed on foot, handing out information and trying to win over one of Georgia's most liberal counties.

Chapman was a tall but unimposing man. His face was kind, and he exaggerated his smile when he campaigned. He knew this would be his year. America was fed up with Obama and the liberal agenda, and he saw himself winning the State Rep race as clearly as he could see Romney being sworn into the presidency. The end of the campaign road was near, and Chapman held a stack of glossy postcards that bore his photograph and campaign logo in vivid color.

He had just had the cards printed off that morning, trying Bel-Jean first but finding the store oddly dark inside and the front door locked; unheard of on a Monday. He was about to head home when by happy coincidence he suddenly noticed a second copy shop, which he had somehow managed to ignore in his two decades of living in Athens, GA. Nestled between Bel-Jean and a brightly-colored taco joint, the storefront was scarcely the dusty shadow of a copy shop—butcher paper over the windows, and an odd chemical smell coming from within—but he was so relieved at his luck that he didn't once question the sudden appearance of the dimly lit shop. In fact, as he left with his stack of campaign postcards under his arm, he didn't even notice the lights inside Bel-Jean as they flickered to life, the employees hard at work as if they'd been there for hours…

A young man answered the door at the slanting mill house, looking as if he had just woken up, though it was late afternoon.

“Hello!” Chapman began, “I'm Cal Chapman, and I'm running to be your state representative! Can I tell you a little bit about my campaign?”

The boy looked uneasy and mumbled something about being very busy. Not completely losing hope, Chapman at least managed to pass him one of his postcards. The young man glanced once from the real Chapman to the photograph on the card, as if to verify, before closing the door in his face.

Once inside, the boy sloppily tore the card in half before tossing it in the trash. It was more or less like that all day on the New Town circuit. A few houses down, a woman handed the card to her toddler, who began gnawing on the bottom half. A group of giggly girls began to scribble on the card with a leaky ballpoint pen, blacking out Chapman's front teeth to create a hillbilly caricature. All over town, Chapman's smiling face was vandalized, ripped, tossed and forgotten.

“I should have expected as much,” Chapman thought to himself as he trudged home through downtown. The sun was setting, painting the skyline the deep purple of a new bruise, and Chapman stopped in front of City Hall, the very building that had inspired him to go into politics, as he felt a sudden cramp in his side. He cringed as the pain tore through his side, and took a seat on the hall's stone steps to rest, but rather than subsiding, the pain shot down Chapman's leg, his left foot throbbing so badly that he had to take off his shoe. As he did, he found his sock soaked in blood.

“What the he--” he began to curse, when a force like a bolt of lightning knocked his head forward. Chapman spit up blood and watched his two front teeth clatter down the steps before him like two crooked, bloody dice.

“WHU THE FUH?” he cried, his mouth swollen and bleeding. He looked down at his arms, on which black ink was seeping from his pores like blood. He tried to stand, and his legs collapsed as if his bones were soggy paper, sending his body toppling down the granite stairs. He screamed out for help as everything suddenly went black.

“Am I dead?” he thought. Then an awful thought occurred to him, and he reached, trembling, up towards his eyes...

A week later, at his wake, Chapman's friends and family stood stunned around his closed coffin. No one could explain his gruesome death, but they all agreed that it was a shame. So young, and he had put so much of himself into his campaign...

Erin Lovett

A Shakin’ Wake

We, the last we know of the not infected, are huddled here beneath a ghostly moon on the rooftop patio of the Georgia Theatre, the door down barred and the elevator wedged shut, listening to the echoes of desperate footfalls of the last of the unfortunate on the deserted streets and sidewalks below.

It is the night of the recently traditional “Wild Rumpus” along the Athens streets, and this night is more eerie and frightening than anyone would ever expect.

The 2012 election cycle turned at an increasingly dizzying pace until, like the tigers circling Sambo’s tree of refuge, the events churned into a buttery blend that might be just right for a stack of post-Halloween flapjacks, had it not gone rancid.

It turned out that the denial of a proposed bio-terror weapons facility near Athens was skirted by planners who, having failed at daylight approval, surreptitiously built and installed the facility anyway. They had learned from Iraq’s Saddam Hussein how to build mobile facilities to pursue their heinous ends, disguising a fleet of minilabs as fairgrounds funnelcake wagons that dished the sweets out the front and death and destruction out the back and sides.

For years, certain rightwing researchers aligned with the lab had been seeking to imprint a virus with a DNA sequencing that would impose on the specimen a cold and hard-hearted, avaricious and vengeful view of the world around it, a squint-eyed and pursed-lipped pointyfacedness, carefully engineered by a cadre of conservative “think-tanks.”

During the last year, their research took an unexpected lurch toward more evil ends, resulting in an odd leap of mutation from bio-to-techno that baffled the best minds.

Strangely, the virus transmits by means of cell phone signals. The mutated virus escaped from one of the wagons on a dark night at one of dozens of operative sites, thought to be in or near Athens. Within the month or so between fair time and election time, it infected almost every person in the nation. The infection replaces all properties in an individual genome that define one as “human,” with replicant ones describable only as “zomboid,” along with the typical insatiable appetite for human flesh.

Besides that feature, the virus enables every device it infects with the capacity to call forth all of the device owner’s ancestry, back to our founders’ times, from the very grave itself, and inculcates in every risen corpse or fragment thereof a desire to cast a vote for Mitt Romney.

When early voting began, polling stations all across the United States were suddenly inundated with a sickening tsunami of necrosity, a walking, lurching, staggering and stumbling dead and soon-to-be-dead parade, clamoring to vote for the party of the dark side, like passengers on a sinking ship gathering on one edge so as to guarantee a capsize.

The nation’s highest court, all members and staff of which were infected as well, leaped, nimbly and quickly as the mythological Jack himself, to add fuel to the fire. In a hurried midnight ruling, the court decreed voting rights would be enjoyed and exercised by the dead as well as the “living” and, in a sweeping gesture, also by the unborn, whose political fortunes had already been on the upswing. They extended the unborn category to include even the twinkle in

daddy’s eye as well as every egg generated by every ovary. The result was a complete breakdown of the election system due to its incapacity to deal with the incalculable numbers.

The sudden zombie demand for human flesh and the collapse of the market for fresh foods triggered a nationwide stoppage of food distribution and a concurrent shelf-emptying shortage of weapons of every variety, from guns and knives even unto table cutlery and gardening implements, even chain saws and blunt instruments.

As fell the electoral process so fell the social order, with an empty anarchy casting a cold gray dawn on an after-party world where the icy chill of fear equaled the chill outside.

The non-device few of us, having made it this far, hope to outlast the grisly endgame below. Dead blows by necrotic fists thud now on the stairwell door, keeping time to a muffled chorus of shrieks, groans and a cacophony of hollow ring tones.

Jim Baird

The Debate

“Mr. President, you’re entitled to your own house and your own airplane, but not your own facts,” blared the TV above the bar.

“You tell ‘im, Mitt!” Van roared at the screen, slamming his drink down for emphasis. Turning to his right, he said, “Your guy’s going down, Renny.”

The debate wasn’t just on the television.

“You mean as far as Romney’s down in the polls?” Renny fired back. As he sipped his beer, he looked over his glass at the man at the end of the bar, who had taken a particular interest in their discussion. He sat in the shadows, as if he lived there.

“It’s no secret the liberal media makes those up,” Van retorted, oblivious to the eyes watching him.

“Just like it’s no secret what’s in Romney’s tax returns. Oh, wait… ”

“Shut up about his returns! He’s released all he’s required to,” Van yelled at Renny, pointing at him with one finger while the rest curled around his beer.

Renny pressed his advantage. “Romney’s good at releasing things, like all those people when he was at Bain…”

“I’m sick of listenin’ to your left-wing… ”

For the kill, Renny cut in. “Then run away, Rethuglican.”

Van’s response was swift and predictable. He grabbed Renny from his seat and shoved him backwards, to the astonishment of most in the bar, and the delight of one.

“M’outta here,” he mumbled, as he staggered out.

Renny watched as the man in the shadows finished his drink and made his way towards the door. He slipped a hundred into Renny’s shirt pocket and whispered, “Keep the change,” as he passed, patting him on the shoulder with a shriveled, bony hand. The way the pointed fingernails slid across his neck always creeped Renny out, a subtle reminder of their bargain. The door never closed fast enough for him, and his hand trembled as he gulped down the last of his beer.

He left the bar, forced his still shaking hands to light a cigarette, then zipped his jacket against the cool night air. It was similar to the night they had first met, when the stranger appeared out of the shadows as Renny walked past the Lustrat House on North Campus. “I watched you argue with those men at The Globe,” he had said. “You have a knack for pushing people’s buttons.”

“I can usually read people pretty well,” Renny said, startled as much by the man’s sudden appearance as he was by his own inability to grasp anything about him. It was almost as if he wasn’t physically there, but the way the stranger’s eyes pierced him removed any doubt Renny had about how real both the man’s presence and his own danger were.

In a voice as smooth and calm as a leopard stalking his prey, the man said, “I have a business proposal for you.”

Until that moment, Renny had never fully understood Don Corleone’s “offer you can’t refuse” statement. He knew the man could have easily caught him had he tried to run, but he felt caught already. Something about the man’s gaze held him fast, as if he was a fly trapped in a spider’s web.

“When you’ve been drinking blood for as long as I have,” the stranger began, letting the words sink in slowly, “you find that the taste is… well… boring. You desire something to ‘liven it up’, so to speak. I have found that, by adding some alcohol, a little adrenaline and a hint of testosterone, it becomes quite… tantalizing. You have the skills to create the right mix for me, and I would pay you for your trouble. If the idea bothers you, just think of yourself as a bartender.”

Renny took one last drag on his cigarette, then flicked it away. That had been almost two years ago, and business had been good, especially now with the election so close. A few minutes reading CNN’s comments section gave him all he needed to get either side fired up. What was getting harder was justifying it. Phrases like, “What’s one less college Republican?” didn’t bring as much comfort as they used to. They were increasingly being replaced with, “There are worse ways to pay for grad school, aren’t there?”

It was late, and Renny had an early economics class. He kept looking over his shoulder, half expecting to see his “associate” coming to sever their “partnership.” He quickened his pace, unsure if he was trying to outrun his conscience… or his fate.

Philip Weinrich

Honorable Mention Stories

The Vampire and the Zombie

The old vampire brushed ash from his sleeve.

“There’s nothing supernatural about us at all.”

His skin was like ivory and leather, his voice was a velvet drone.

“It’s an alternative lifestyle,” he said, crushing the glowing end of his cigarette between his finger and thumb.

“Or maybe a medical condition.”

He flicked the cigarette into the heart of the fire.

The two men sat on oak logs at the edge of light and darkness, between the fire and the surrounding night. The musicians and partiers had gone back to Athens. The stars in the night sky were cold and bright.

Jesse cleared his throat and spoke up.

“So, you’re like super-old, right? Live forever?”

The heat from the fire made his voice sound thin and weak.

The old one smiled, a slight shifting of his lower face.

“Some of us have been around awhile. I’ve lived in Athens since before the war—Civil War.”

He looked up and pointed overhead.

“Mirach, Almak, Hamal: the names of the stars haven't changed.” The smoke from the fire had a peculiar odor. “I saw Julius Caesar once, in Egypt.” He shrugged. “Just another politician.”

Jesse slid his feet back and forth in the dust, hearing the fire in the sudden silence, hearing the thousands of whispers and cracks as bits of wood were broken and consumed. He felt restless with his secret, his murderous plot to kill this ancient creature across from him. His partner Clint should be ready by now. He had to keep the old guy talking, distracted.

As though anxious to oblige, the vampire continued. “It begins as an infection, from a bite or some other exchange of bodily fluids. For those who survive, after a month the transformation is complete.”

“Do you have to drink blood?”

“As long as it’s human—skin, flesh, bone—it’s all good. As for flavor, the stronger the emotion, the better.” He moved his arms and legs a bit, unfolding. “You must understand: we are those to whom much is given, and from whom much is asked in return. We have great strength, the ability to change our appearance, and the power to make others do our will—our zombies. But,” he shrugged again, “we have no passion beyond our appetites; the daylight is uncomfortable, and we must be circumspect in our feeding arrangements.”

He seemed larger than before, or at least longer.

More of a bonfire than a campfire, the hunter thought. He wondered where Clint was with his crossbow and his half-inch diameter, 15-inch ash bolts to drill a hole through this old geezer’s chest.

“We are the original humanitarians. Our goal is the health and safety of the human herd.”

The hunter looked at him across the fire, and the flames rose up as he started to speak, hiding his view of the other’s face. The strange-smelling smoke grew stronger.

“Are you trying to take over the world?”

A great horned owl flew silently down to the ground beside them. A fox trotted into the light and sat nearby. At Jesse’s feet was an enormous toad, the largest he had ever seen. He wanted to get up but couldn’t move his legs.

“Take over the world?” The old one showed some teeth. “My boy, that happened long ago.” He looked past Jesse into the dark. “Here is your friend. We are all here now.”

Clint walked into Jesse’s view, crossbow in hand. His face was blank, impassive. His eyes never left his master.

“We recruited Clint some time ago, and he’s proven to be a very effective hunter. You see, a zombie like Clint has surrendered only his will, not his ability or character. You’re not the first one he’s brought in, nor is this the first fire big enough to cook on.”

Jesse was unable to move or speak.

“And now,” said the vampire, “for reasons relating to enhanced nutrition, as well as food presentation, we are going to hold you by the arms and legs and thrust your head into the hottest part of the fire. To end our talk before you go, let me ask you this: who do you want to be President, the vampire or the zombie?”

As they took hold of him, as the animals watched, his face was turned toward the darkness, and the night sky above him was endlessly deep, littered with promises that could never be kept.

John Gaither

The Game Changer

“Thank you for seeing me sir. I know you’re extremely busy this close to Election Day.”

“What can I do for you, Ron?”

“Mr. President, I was very upset after the primaries. Even after I handed those buffoons their asses during the debates, my own party refused to acknowledge my votes at the convention. I realize that the G.O.P. is dead wrong and don’t value the people’s will. You’re neck and neck with Romney. I want to help you win.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“I won’t pretend that I agree with all of your policies, but we’ve seen eye-to-eye on many issues. Pulling troops from Iraq and Afghanistan, repealing Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, refusing to mandate rules on marriage and abortion: these are things that I absolutely agree with. If Romney wins, all the progress you’ve made will disappear. That’s why.”

“And how’d you intend on helping me?”

“With this. A sonic preference enhancer. It emits a sound that boosts the listener’s passions on issues. Voter apathy is a major problem in this country. If 100 percent of the people who support you voted, you’d win in a landslide.

“How would we expose them to your sound?”

“There are places where millions of Americans gather every weekend. Install this device in a P.A. system, and it will work.”

“Where are you talking about?”

“College football games, of course.”

Nearly 100,000 fans had descended on Sanford Stadium to watch red and black versus white and blue. The Bulldogs were beating the Ole Miss Rebels 31-17, when the P.A. announced a third down. Suddenly, a man stood up. However, instead of cheering for the Dawgs, he started loudly screaming “Obama, Obama.” Others stood and joined in the chant as the jumbotron replayed the last down.

A woman next to him abruptly stood and began yelling, “Romney, Romney!”

“Gee Ron, I wasn’t expecting to see you after the convention. Hearing the woman, the man grabbed her by the arm and threw her from the third level, where she plummeted to her death.

“Mitt, we’ve had our differences, but I still believe the best course for this country is the one laid out by the Republicans.”

Chaos erupted. Fans from both sides began throwing punches. A blonde girl in a red and black dress removed a heel and plunged the stiletto through the eye of the man next to her.

“Obama wants to hinder free markets with his regulations. He wants to offset taxes based on income. He wants to make it harder for businesses to prosper. We can’t have that.”

As the crowd went back and forth with screams of “Obama” and “Romney,” a clarinet player shoved his instrument into the abdomen of a trumpeter and used it to throw the guy over his head.

“Obama must be defeated. If your people install this device into the video feed at college football games this weekend, your base will be riled and will fight to ensure that you win the election.”

Whole rows were cleared as fans joined in the melee. Students were strangled with their own ties; down markers were turned into javelins that pierced the skulls of unsuspecting referees. People fought for their preferred candidate with all the rage within them. Blood flooded the grasses between the hedges.

No one lived to see the fourth down.

“My fellow Americans, it pains me deeply to have to address you under these tragic circumstances. Two days ago, nearly a million of our fellow citizens died, with countless others injured while attending a cherished national pastime. Evidence collected at the scenes reveals that the instigators were the very people in whom you bestowed your trust. Democrat and Republican campaign staffers tried to sway voters through subliminal messages. These kinds of terror tactics have been used by the two party system for generations and it’s tearing the country apart. It’s time to reject these tactics. It’s time to reject these institutions. It’s time to reject the two parties!

“It’s time to put your trust in a public servant who has worked tirelessly his entire life to serve you—one who can take good ideas from both sides of the aisle while rejecting the ones that have got us in this mess, regardless of party platform. I hope you will trust me to lead you as we step into this new future. Tomorrow, cast your vote for me, Ron Paul. Thank you.

The people cheered, though they didn’t know why.

Adam Rainville

A Rumble at the Triangle

Halloween, a most ominous time of year. Athens is a scary place, and many visit here for the thrills and exhilaration. Imagine my surprise when presidential hopeful Mr. Romney and his clan arrived on that day.

The festivities started early, way before dark. There was a street party downtown; everyone in costume. Romney and his clan participated. Of course, Mr. Romney dressed as Superman and his clan ranged from Iron Man to the Green Hornet. They were quite impressive roaming the streets of downtown Athens. The party spread toward Weaver D's, where the fried chicken and chitterling plates attracted the first mob. The gaiety then progressed to Dudley Park and spread further still, east.

Inadvertently, they ended up on the "Iron Triangle" at Nellie B and Vine, and this is where the trouble began.

Now, I know you have seen the various Bulldogs dressed up in theme attire all around town. Even they were making way to the Eastside. The Georgia Power Bulldog decked out in his work gear was climbing utility poles and checking wires along the way. The BB&T Bulldog was throwing money here and there; and the mob of people was growing around him. This was becoming a dangerous situation.

Hark! What light through yonder window breaks?! The residents of the notorious "fence on vine" noticed Mr. BB&T. The crowd thickened!

About this time, Mr. Romney's entourage arrived on the Triangle. They were tussled left, they were tussled right. I took a deep breath to await their debacle.

Wait! Who is that? He was a slight man dressed as The Incredible Hulk! He tossed the mob about like matchsticks. He was joined by a horde dressed like Boy Scouts. It didn't take long; order was restored! I finally exhaled; only to take a breath deeper still! I didn't know that Superman was Mr. Romney until now! The Bulldogs had stiffened yet again. The mob was thinning, but the biggest surprise of all was that The Incredible Hulk turned out to be President Obama, and the Boy Scouts were “Athens’ Finest,” the police.

They later succeeded in disbursing the crowd. In a hour or so, the Triangle was again calm (as calm as it can be).

Superman and his clan migrated over to the Incredible Hulk and the Boy Scouts to express their thanks. Out of respect, everyone removed their masks. A hush fell over all that were still there. I almost fainted! President Obama and Mr. Romney on the same side! Will wonders never cease? I shook my head.

Only on Halloween, only in Athens, Georgia would a miracle such of this take place.

Booooooo!

Carolyn Hitchcock

L'eggo My Family

Barack Obama’s campaign bus broke down on South Milledge Avenue in Athens, Georgia on October 20, 2012 at 11:42pm. Obama had a speech scheduled in Florida the next afternoon, but the only mechanic available so late was an ardent member of the Tea Party who urged the President to “pick himself up by the bootstraps” and manufacture a new transmission by himself. A junior staffer showed the Obamas an available house just up the street and Michelle pointed out the sturdy willow tree she could knock out a few hundred chin-ups on. Sasha and Malia begged for a place to refill the goldfish bowl they had won at the Virginia State Fair, and Obama agreed to stay the night.

The house was a creaky, dark two-bedroom, which hadn’t hosted a tenant in seven years. “Bad luck,” the landlord shrugged. The girls ran inside and Malia set their goldfish, Gibby, onto the dresser and admired the Target Dorm Room Essentials décor. Obama set his phone and wallet on the nightstand and sat on the edge of his bed. He heard a creak and jumped. “Shh,” said Michelle, rubbing the President’s shoulders. “These are getting soft. Try six sets of ten lateral raises.”

At 3:13am, Obama woke to his keys smacking the floor. He leapt to check that his phone was still there, which it was, but he opened his wallet and was missing his credit card. A Secret Service agent assured him that the perimeter was clear and suggested that perhaps Sasha and Malia were having a little too much fun in the App Store.

“Girls,” said Obama, flicking on their room’s light. “How many times must we discuss the freemium app model?” Sasha and Malia were on the edge of their bed, sobbing. Their goldfish bowl was empty; Gibby was swimming in a red plastic cup. A harsh wind howled outside. The shutters slammed into the house. Obama smelled something off, like the pungent musk of Joe Biden’s office. Was it kerosene? Raw ethanol? “Michelle,” he said. “Baby, come in here and smell this.”

“Baby?” Obama entered his room and found Michelle wearing a baggy t-shirt and black leggings. Her face was wrapped tightly in a floral-print Lily Pulitzer dress that muffled her screams. Obama pried at the dress, tugging with all his strength but its grip only tightened. A dim growl burbled from the kitchen, rasping and gurgling like a motor boat engine. “Girls…” it moaned. “DT…” Sasha and Malia ran into the room. The lights flicked on and off. Picture frames smashed into the floor and neon-colored head bands swirled in the air, smacking the girls and pinning them to the wall. Obama tried to yell for yelp, but he found his mouth stuffed with a gritty powder and he could only mumble. Michelle’s eyes bulged and rolled backwards just as Malia’s phone went off, blaring Kesha’s “Die Young.” Suddenly the howling winds and gurgling moans stopped. The dress released Michelle’s face. Obama took a deep breath and hugged his family. Michelle kissed him and said, “When did you eat dry waffle mix?”

Just before leaving, Sasha and Malia took a photo of themselves standing in the front yard and posted it online. On the bus, Obama reviewed his speech notes when a staffer asked him about the two bottles of tequila charged to his credit card. Puzzled, Obama tried to find his words when Malia screamed and ran down the bus aisle holding her phone. “Look at our picture!”

 She held up the photo of her and Sasha posing in front of the house, but between them was a tall, thin blond girl sipping a straw from a big fish bowl. Her face was checker-boarded with dark scars, like she’d been trampled. She had tagged herself: “Totes, The Ghost of Abby Wyndham.”

 A senior staffer got on the phone with the landlord.

“Right,” he said. “As I recall she was straightenin’ her hair in a waffle iron for some Chimneysweeps-and-Broomsticks party when she saw her boyfriend making out with a doe in the woods, so she slammed her face onto the grid. Remember, y’all didn’t purchase no haunting insurance.”

 That afternoon in a hotel lobby, a Floridian breakfast magnate asked Obama to humorously pose with his head between the jaws of a waffle iron. A chill went through the President’s spine and he politely declined, for on the fateful night he spent on Milledge Avenue, Barack Obama vowed once and for all to take a firm opposition stance to putting his head into extremely hot kitchen appliances. 

Matt Burns

Feast

It has been quiet the last two days, the scratching and bangs from behind the locked double doors at either end of the hallway growing less frequent. Even the moans seem to be fading. Still there, of course, still loud enough to make some of the other survivors weep, but quieter with every passing hour. Partially smothered by the desperate growling of our hungry stomachs.

We’re starving, scared and exhausted. But alive. I don’t know what’s become of the world outside of our school hallway, but no one who’s left has come back. Help has not arrived. And we are getting weaker.

Everything imploded during voting. Putrid, shuffling corpses burst through windows and the open doors at the front of the school, and began devouring screaming citizens—Democrat and Republican alike. A bipartisan zombie feast.

Somehow we found this haven, six lucky people (four now, after two left to reunite with families or seek aid) who only wanted to vote and get on with their day. At least, I did. There was a bar downtown serving discount drinks for those with ‘I Voted’ stickers. I planned on drinking without shame before noon for performing my quadrennial civic duty. Now all I want is spicy bar wings and a vat of ranch. Maybe some sunshine after this windowless prison.

There’s a water fountain, at least, but we’ve started to succumb to starvation.

And then the fat man, the contentious, corpulent fellow who has done nothing but bash the government for letting this happen while at the same time insisting that the military will come and blow those drooling bastards away any moment now, you just see, asks the question one should be too polite to query at a polling place, and in less than one hour I will be the only one left alive.

“Who were you gonna vote for?” he questions the elderly woman to his left. Despite her fatigue and horror, she gives him a withering look for daring to ask such a rude question. It doesn’t faze him, however, and he barrels on without restraint.

“Hope no one voted for that foreigner. A non-American in the White House. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was responsible for this.”

The man has his head turned towards the woman, but it’s clear he’s addressing the suited individual across from me. He’s young, I would say in his 30’s, and he lets out a snort of derision.

“Freaking birthers,” the suit mutters. Fat man smiles, and now turns completely away from the woman.

“One of those hippie liberals, huh? Shoulda known. How does it feel to know you helped wreck this great country? Lost my job because of that Muslim.”

Suit takes the bait.

“That wouldn’t have anything to do with your complete lack of education or intelligence, I’m sure,” the suit replies, and even I want to wipe the smug look off his face. “I suppose that was your pickup truck with the Confederate flag in the parking lot.”

Fatty growls.

“I’m proud of my heritage!”

“Racist mother f – “ the woman shouts, and suddenly everyone is screaming. Everyone but me.

I just want some buffalo wings. I was going to get wings on election day. They would have tasted delicious with a beer buzz.

Suit throws the first punch, and in his haste to retaliate, Fatty manages to give the elderly woman a bloody nose.

Huh. That kind of looks like buffalo sauce.

See, there’s something magical about the perfect combination of tang and heat that comes with a well-made wing dipped in ranch. Or whatever your preferred combination of spice and sauce. Coupled with the bite of good, cheap beer?

Like I said, magical.

And that woman has been hoarding all this delicious sauce. It’s running through her veins, the greedy old miser. I bet they all have it.

I use the tiny pencils and button pins to tear past the fleshy barriers and get to the sauce. Their screams barely register for me. I’m just focused on finally getting some buffalo wings. Plus, the renewed noise from our hallway sanctuary has made the monsters outside the locked doors moan louder than they have in days. And I’ve always slurped pretty noisily when eating wings. Have to lick your fingers clean for the whole experience, no napkins necessary.

I open the doors and let my brethren eat the leftovers. I’m sated and craving a good beer.

Jamie Fenton

October Surprise

What was left of the sun was just coming up over Sanford Stadium. Oh, baby, I thought, gonna be some good explosions today. 

Maybe mine, too. What a rush that'll be. There probably aren't enough registered voters left in Athens to fill the 40 Watt, but both candidates promised a visit today. Atlanta was already obliterated and the party machines really needed those Georgia undecided votes now.  

The half-sun was only giving out partial heat, and the floor was kind of chilly these October mornings. I saw the hummingbird frozen to the feeder. Oh, OK. Colder than I thought. Global warming, ha. Democrats could see the end coming, but they got THAT wrong. And the displaced earth orbit, too. 

WUGA was playing John Cage's 4'33" performed by the last remaining musician from St Martin in the Fields. 

A massive explosion as London disintegrated in my ear. Then some real cool silence.

"Ashes to ashes, baby," I murmured. Brits never did understand America's manifest density. Or was that destiny? Can't remember. Too bad about losing DBT in the blast, though—gonna miss the boys touring. I munched on the last Magna-Pop from the fridge. If I think real hard, it almost didn't taste like oil at all. Hold on—hourly transmission in my head from the G.O.P.

 “… under OUR God… “ got it. Yada yada. Damn, doesn't that Romney recording ever quit? Amen.  

Glad that's over. I really don't know how the prayers from wannabe President Polident are doing any good. Sun's gonna blow 'n we can kiss all our asses goodbye. Gotta love it—it’s the end of the world and I feel, um, fine. We're here to see it! Hell yeah, America: we're going out in style! I remembered the old joke:

How many Americans does it take to screw up the universe?

Just one. Followed by eight zeros! Ha ha. 

Let's see who I can get to materialize on the America First and Last Channel; President Obama showed up in the kitchen thanking me for my support and invited me to join him and the First Lady for ice skating at Legion Pool. He was wearing mittens and a sherpa cap. I wasn't in the mood, somehow. I slapped him for not being more aggressive in the first debate. Suddenly I felt, uh, whatsit? Yeah, sad. Mostly for Michelle, though—gee, I'm really gonna miss her. 

That's when I saw the piece of sun spin off and head toward earth. Oh, damn, here it comes. It was barreling toward Athens like the Megabus up 316.

I checked the stock market open on my phone. BPPPP Oil was up.

A tear slid down my cheek. Eight and a half minutes to live, and I'd slapped the President. On the plus side, I'd made an extra twelve twenty five this morning from the BPPPP rig on the Moon.

Well, we all gotta go sometime—Dawg help us all.

Mark Bromberg

The Presidential Election

“Gooood Morning ATHENS! We are broadcasting LIVE from downtown as citizens anxiously await the final Presidential Debate. I have with me local business owner and mother of two, Jess Reel. Jess, what do you think about the candidates being here?” The interview blares from the radio as I near consciousness and try to shake the tinge of familiarity. What day is it? I have the biggest headache from last night—“Just in: citizens report”—I bang at the radio while I drag myself out of bed. It’s freezing. I finally make it to the bathroom and start throwing up. I’m really getting too old for this. I lean back against the tub, but I miss. It’s further away than I thought. I should head to work. I have a long day ahead of me. After taking what seems like forever to get to , I’m greeted by a pack of kids.

“Is it Bring Your Kids to Work Day?” I hear from somewhere over my shoulder. It’s Tabitha. I suspect she hates children.

“Actually,” another voice intervenes, “only the boy is mine; the other two are my nieces. I’m heading to meet my sister if that’s all right with you.” I notice Tabitha flashing an insincere smile before walking away.

“Auntie Rose, how much longer?” The girl whines. She appears to be older than the boy. “Just give me a few minutes, OK? I promise we can even go get some froyo if you’re good.”

That seems to satisfy the children so she scurries off.

“Blackouts linked to the”—announces the radio in Tabitha’s office. Realizing the risk of being asked to watch the children has passed, I try to sneak into my office without being noticed.

“Rawr!” The little boy yells playfully.

“I’m going to be a Princess!” The oldest girl announces to me proudly. I feign a smile. Very original. The baby reaches up to grab my hand, and I mistakenly scratch her while trying to pry my hand from hers. She begins to wail loudly, and I decide now would be a good time to make my way to my office—quickly. Just as I’m crossing the threshold of my office, I overhear Rose nervously quieting the kids before leading them out of the building.

“Citizens are being asked to call in if they have”—the reporter continues loudly from the other room. I rub my forehead in a failed attempt to soothe the throbbing.

Sirens. I walk over to my window and begin to watch the reporter outside.

“Thanks for staying tuned in all day. The presence of the candidates has been causing chaos throughout the city: “

I should head out if I’m going to be able to make money off any photographs. I notice people running as I step outside. I follow the crowd. Darkness.

“It’s a baby!” I hear someone scream incredulously. I make my way through the crowd, noticing the horrified expressions as I go. I get to the edge of the crowd and see the same infant that was in my office earlier, lying there, covered in the most unsightly rash. The mother looks simultaneously grief-stricken and angry as she mutters, “I’m so sorry… all my fault” to no one in particular. I begin to feel extremely sick and am now positive that I recognize the mother. I begin to move—Darkness.

“Dr. Reel quarantined you last night after she noticed abnormal cells. Someone planted limes infused with an altered form of Rohypnol in some of the local bars. Do you remember anything else?”

I hear her unfamiliar voice as I strain to see beyond the blinding light. I’m freezing. I keep blacking out. I don’t have a response. The voice continues. “After breaking out of confinement, you went to your office. Your co-worker called the police to report that you’d shown up to work covered in a really bad rash, and you were scaring her and her children. Do… do you remember when you attacked the baby?”

I stared in the direction of the seemingly transcendent voice, trying to process what I was being told.

“The President was attacked by a baby; soon after he became rabid. The effect rippled as one person after another was attacked. We suspect that only the dozen or so of us who made it here remain uninfected.”

I attempt to muddle through my confusion.

“From what we can tell, it starts a process similar to rigor mortis before eventually causing hypothermia and rabi… ” Darkness.

LaShana Lee

The House of Dark

If you walked on the road that leads out of town,

where the sky at night is not black, but brown,

and the grass is so high that it comes to your knees

you could find the House of Dark if you please.

The house is crumbling, grey, and old,

and the roof is covered with odd green mold.

The bloodred door is wet, they say,

and has been since its very first day.

The driveway is made of caked red dirt,

and nobody’s finished the walk unhurt.

If you survive and stumble to the porch,

you may hide from the evil were-bears that scorch

passersby with their laser eyes.

Knock on the door, though it’ll be in vain.

All you’ll receive is an air of disdain.

Gently push on the door, with one finger is all—

you won’t go right in. I’m sure you will stall.

The house is large, with black carpet, you’ll tell,

and the walls, ceilings, and doors are all dark as well.

As you walk on bravely—you’ve swallowed your fears—

the howls of the ghosts will ring in your ears.

The floorboards won’t creak beneath your two feet,

but whisper warnings of the frightening things you will meet.

Like the room filled simply with severed heads,

or the bedrooms with bloody blankets for beds.

That’s bad enough, but if you venture upstairs…

There’s one stair that screams when your quiet foot falls,

of skeletons that chase and a zombie that mauls,

of a bit of the floor that collapses straight through,

into the kitchen—the cook pot! with you!

A witch with no hands would cackle and dance

as your hair falls out, your eyes eaten by ants.

Keeping the stair’s story at the front of your mind,

you venture on—who knows what you’ll find.

A closet filled with many unknown bones,

a jar filled with captured deathly moans,

three monsters locked in a transparent glass box

and a single room shut with a hundred brass locks.

At the end of the upstairs hall you will see

two puddles of blood, sixteen nails, and ME.

I am the thing that is under your bed,

red eyes and

fangs and

long black fur,

eight feet tall

…with bangs.

Tomorrow a new kid will accept the old dare,

and he’ll come up here without a care.

But when he reaches the end of this hall,

he sees three puddles—I have eaten you ALL.

EmilyRose Thorne, Age 13