Release date: May 4, 2016
Subgenre: Post-apocalyptic science fiction
About The Death of the American Dream:
They came out of nowhere to attack America’s towns and suburbs: Giant
mutant crabs and other creatures, grown to enormous size due to nuclear
radiation and bent on destroying the American way of life. But while
many fall to the monster attacks, an advertising executive finds the
unexpected strength to survive and fight back for the sake of his
family…
This is a short story of 5300 words or approximately 20 print pages.
Excerpt:
I was there, you know? I was there on the day the creatures came,
right there at ground zero in the middle of the danger zone. I saw it
all with my own eyes, the creatures and the destruction they wrought. I
was one of the lucky few, one of those who got away and survived to tell
the tale.
It was just an ordinary day, almost deceptively ordinary like the
moments just before the world irrevocably changes so often are.
Like every other day, I arrived at the office at half past eight. I
sat at my desk, dreamed up an ad for lipstick and another for diet soda,
drank five whiskeys, smoked ten cigarettes and took two
Aspirin
to deal with the side effects. I also spent my lunch hour fucking my
current mistress. And then, at half past six, I took the train back
upstate for dinner with my family, a good-night kiss for the kids and
maybe a bit of dull married sex with my wife.
In short, it was just an ordinary day, like a thousand others before it. And yet it was the day that everything changed.
I’d just reached my stop and got off the commuter train. After a long
day at the office, my briefcase felt heavy in my hand, my tie was too
tight around my throat and I sweated in my grey flannel suit. But
nonetheless I did not resent the business uniform I wore, for it was the
badge of my success, proof that I’d finally overcome my humble origins
and joined the great American middle class.
Like every evening, I walked across the concrete wasteland that was the combined parking lot of
Shady Acres Mall
and the commuter train station that adjoined it, separated from each
other only by a mesh fence. I was headed towards the second greatest
achievement of my life to date (next to my perfect blonde wife and my
adorable children, that was), my silver blue
Cadillac Eldorado.
No, scratch that. The
Cadillac was my greatest achievement.
Cause any halfway handsome and competent man could acquire a wife and
father some children, though acquiring a respectable wife of quality
took a bit more effort. But a
Cadillac, now that was something
you had to earn, had to earn with hard work and clever strategising on
the job. And I had certainly earned mine. I bought it the day I made
partner at the advertising agency, an outward reflection of my new
status, a sign that I’d finally made it, that I was one of them, one of
the great American middle class.
I didn’t pay much attention to my surroundings. I was tired, not to
mention a little hung-over from the whiskey, the cigarettes and the
Aspirin. And since I always parked my
Cadillac in the same spot, I could have found the car in my sleep.
The screams were my first indication that something was wrong. Cries
of pure panic, echoing across the parking lot, followed by the shrill
wailing of a dozen car alarms going off all at once.
At first, I thought there was some kind of crime in progress. A
mugging or a carjacking, probably due to the street gang that had
started hanging out around the mall of late.
When I first moved here with my family, Shady Acres had been a good
place to live, a nice middle class suburb with nice middle class people.
But of late, the place had gone downhill. The wrong sort of people
started moving in, if you know what I mean. And once the wrong sort of
people moved in, crime swiftly followed, as it always did.
But I wasn’t like the other husbands of Shady Acres, those soft
insurance brokers and office workers who bent and broke when faced with
even the slightest hint of adversity. No, I was strong, tough. After
all, I’d started my life on the wrong side of the tracks, far on the
wrong side. I’d been in the Army, I’d fought the Reds, fought America’s
sworn enemies. And I sure could handle a couple of youths bent on
causing trouble.
A businessman ran towards me, his tie askew, briefcase and one shoe missing.
“Help,” he cried, “Help. They’re coming!”
I looked after him, puzzled. He seemed vaguely familiar, like someone
I’d met on the train before, probably even exchanged a few words with. I
often talked to the other passengers on the train. It was a good way of
connecting with the great American public, of gauging their dreams and
hopes, their likes and dislikes. And I needed to connect to the great
American public in order to do my job and sell them whatever my bosses
wanted me to sell.
Another businessman ran past, screaming incoherently, his clothing in
disarray. This man I definitely knew. He was an insurance salesman who
often tried to recruit new customers on the commuter train. Most of the
passengers had learned to avoid him or at least avoid his sales pitch.
He also tended to be utterly unfazed by any but the rudest of
rebuffs. Hell, I’d even seen this man get up after being punched in the
face, only to promptly to inform his opponent that given his anger
management issues, he might want to purchase legal expenses insurance
and that
Mutual Society Insurance had just the right policy.
Annoying as the insurances salesman was, I could only admire his
tenacity. So if something had him terrified, it had to be really bad.
Not to mention absolutely immune to any sort of insurance sales pitches.
My gaze followed the life insurance salesman as he ran away in panic.
I watched him trip over a pothole in the parking lot and fall flat on
his face and tried not to smile. Besides, he probably had accident
insurance anyway.
Behind me, I heard a strange, scuttling sound, followed by the
screech of tearing metal. My head whipped around and then I saw it.
It was a crab, with a red shell and a white belly and two claws and
eight legs, just like those my children had chased across the beach
during our family vacations in the Hamptons or on the Jersey Shore.
However, this crab was not a small thing barely the size of my hand
like those I’d seen on the beach. No, this specimen was enormous,
towering above
Shady Acres Mall as it came strutting towards the parking lot.
It had almost reached the edge of the mall grounds by now, tearing
through a billboard advertising nylons — coincidentally a campaign I had
created, starring a model I had slept with — like the plywood and
cardboard that it was.
More people ran past me, businessmen and mall shoppers, men and
women, whites and blacks, Mexicans and Puerto Ricans, all united in
screaming panic.
It vaguely occurred to me that I should run, too, but for some reason
I stood rooted in place, watching the monstrous creature before me in
wonderment. I watched claws the size of cars clicking menacingly. The
creature’s black eyes darted across the parking lot, looking for prey,
and its mouth, twice the size of a manhole maybe, steadily moved in an
insatiable hunger.
I watched and wondered and marvelled where this creature had come
from, how something like that could even exist. I’d heard the stories,
of course, silly rumours and conspiracy theories about how radiation
leaks from the new nuclear power plant at Indian Point had caused the
local wildlife to change and mutate.
There had been sightings, too. Stories of giant tentacles or claws
suddenly shooting out of the water to grab a playing child or a couple
strolling along the beach. Late night motorists speaking of creatures
the size of a house that suddenly crossed the street just before them
and caused them to drive their cars into a ditch. But those were just
stories, lies told to turn the gullible against the scientific marvel
that was nuclear power. I should know. After all, telling lies was my
business.
Yet here it was, the evidence to back up all of those tall tales and
lies, strutting through the mall grounds and chasing people across the
parking lot, ripping through fences and billboards and power lines as it
went.
About Cora Buhlert:
Cora Buhlert was
born and bred in North Germany, where she still lives today – after time
spent in London, Singapore, Rotterdam and Mississippi. Cora holds an MA
degree in English from the University of Bremen and is currently
working towards her PhD. Cora has been writing since she was a teenager,
and has published stories, articles and poetry in various international
magazines. When she is not writing, she works as a translator and
teacher.
