Welcome to
Carnage House

– this is your trigger warning

The Last Neighborhood

by Lindsey B. Goddard

I LISTENED TO Hayley Jensen whimper through the wall of the shed, and I wished I didn’t have to kill her. I clenched my jaw and hoped this one wouldn’t be as messy as the last—how many days ago had that been?—when I’d plastered the sidewalk five houses down with bloody bits of Anton Palmer’s brain. Palmer hadn’t been the most charming neighbor, but I never wanted to see the inside of his skull. Sometimes, you don’t have a choice.

My ear still pressed to the splintered wood of the shed, I envisioned Hayley’s family—Danny, Rachael, and Hunter—signing for the girl to “shhh” with trembling fingers placed over their lips. I frowned, wishing I didn’t have to kill them, either.

And as trivial as it was in comparison, I wished the rain would stop. I pulled my hood down over my forehead and wiped the water from my beard. The end of civilization was depressing enough without existing in this constant state of wet. You’d think the torrent would wash away the gore that oozed from my neighbors who lay rotting where they’d fallen (because nobody could lay them to rest without putting his own neck at risk). But the rain only made things worse. And the mud emitted a foul stench that mixed with the rot in the air.

Mud and guts. That’s what this neighborhood had become.

Thunder cracked overhead. I raised my gun in response, then quickly lowered it, feeling stupid. If I survived the day, I knew there’d be dry clothes waiting for me at home. Even with the electricity and water shut off, Remmy managed to wash and dry something from the growing mound of dirty clothes each day. That man could stretch a bottle of water, a dab of soap, and a scrub brush farther than anyone I’d ever known. Resilient as ever, he was my rock.

A blue streak of lightning sliced through the afternoon sky. Danny called out from inside the shed. He sounded as tired as I felt. “Ray. Listen, man. You don’t have to do this.”

I let out a sigh that sounded more like a death rattle, gripped my Beretta tighter, and said, “Don’t make it sound like I have a choice. That’s not fair.”

The girl sobbed. I wondered who was holding her. Rachael? She was a good mom, albeit a young one. Or maybe it was Hunter who cradled his half sister, soothing her. To all four of them, I said, “This doesn’t have to be painful. Just take the medicine I slipped under the door, say your goodbyes, and go to sleep.” My throat tightened around those last words.

“We’re not taking your drugs, Ray!” Rachael screamed from inside the shed. She barely sounded like the woman I knew, the one who’d asked for my potato salad recipe at the summer block party. All the softness had left her voice, and there was only edge. “I’m not feeding my children poison!”

“If you don’t take the pills, I’ll be forced to shoot you.”

Five-year-old Hayley Jensen let out a wail that seized my heart, and I thought I heard Hunter, who must be fifteen by now, join in. I almost cried, too. I closed my eyes and considered pressing the Beretta to my own forehead, pulling the hammer, and letting one fly between my Beautiful Blues. That’s what Remmy called my eyes. The thought of Remmy, his Soulful Browns in contrast to my Beautiful Blues, and our daughter, Brianne, beaming her toothless grin, pulled me back from the brink of self-destruction for the millionth time.

I opened my eyes and focused on the mirror propped against a pile of junk on the back porch. Had the Jensens been planning a yard sale before all this? My reflection had scared the shit out of me when I first saw it moments ago, but the longer I looked, my fear morphed into sorrow. I didn’t recognize the man standing there. He was a stranger, a wounded man in torn clothes, trembling in waterlogged socks under a sky of endless gray.

How did it come to this?

Overpopulation was the blanket term they used in press releases. Truth was, with overseas relations in the dumper, the United States didn’t have enough internal resources to sustain its own people. Forced pregnancies due to abortion restrictions set in place in the first quarter of the century didn’t help. By the time the average citizen realized the shortage of essentials was snowballing out of control, the Feds had already cooked up a plan.

When the U.S. government announced a mandate for its military forces to barricade citizens in their neighborhoods in a drastic effort to halt the growth of its burgeoning populace, at first, nobody thought it was real. These days, fake news is as prevalent as facts. Nobody can tell the difference. But soon, it was all anybody could talk about.

Entire neighborhoods had been blocked off by Army tanks. Soldiers allowed residents to enter, but nobody could leave. Appointed officials danced around the question of “Why?”

The entire country had reached its boiling point, and I felt the tension, like rolling water, ready to pop, pop, pop.

I was still working as a veterinary technician when I realized the country was spiraling into dystopian-level madness. Airports were shut down. Riots raged. Fires burned in the streets. My veterinary work had degenerated into an onslaught of euthanasia appointments as people realized they couldn’t care for Fido anymore. It seemed the end was nigh, so I decided to stock up on every resource at my disposal. I brought home the xylazine, thinking a potent tranquilizer might prove useful if the rumors were true—rumors that in other states, neighborhoods had been sealed off and families forced to fight to the death.

From inside the old barn-style shed, Danny pleaded. “Listen. I have an idea how we can get out of this. We just need to talk, face to face, and I’ll explain it to you.”

I huffed, spraying droplets of rain. “I do that, and I’m a dead man! Take the medicine. It won’t hurt.”

“No, no, no. Listen! I’ll leave my gun in here with Rachael,” he said. “Just let me come out and talk.”

Thunder rolled in the distance. Where I gripped the pistol, my palm was a clammy bog of rain and sweat. So were my armpits and boots. I was wet and tired, and tired of wet. If Danny wanted to come out, at least I’d have a clear shot at him. I was getting nowhere with my pleas for them to take the drugs. So I found myself saying, “Okay. Come out, Danny, but keep your hands where I can see them.”

I kept my Beretta trained on the door as Danny pushed it open enough to slide through. He stepped into the gloom of the rainy day, both hands held midair. I couldn’t see Rachael or the kids from my angle, and for that, I was thankful. I needed to stay focused on Danny. When he looked at me, I could see how frightened he was. Could he see the same in me?

When he spoke, he sounded like a hostage negotiator. “Ray, what are you doing? This isn’t you.”

“I’m keeping my family safe, the same as you.” I thought of Remmy and Brianne, at home in the kitchen with our makeshift barricades at each door, Remmy gripping his pepper spray lanyard at every little noise, a knife in each pocket and boot. “The world is a different place now,” I said.

Danny looked from my eyes to my pistol, then to the billy club at my side. Horror flashed across his face. His voice shook. “Was that you who killed the Andersons?” His eyes accused me, brows slanted. “They were good people, man. Our good friends.”

I shook my head.

“Was it? Because what I saw over there,” he said. “Their faces, beaten to a pulp. Every goddamn tooth, broken. Their eyes exploded out of their sockets, just dangling there like paddleballs at the end of strings. Man. I can’t.” He jerked his head slightly. “I can’t stop seeing it.”

Danny looked like he’d love nothing more than to rub his eyes and force the imagery away, but instead, he hung his head and kept his hands where I could see them. “It wasn’t me,” I said. “I don’t know who did it. But none of us had a choice.”

“But maybe we do,” he said, looking up.

My arms were sore from holding my position, and I raised one eyebrow in a gesture that said, Get to the point.

“Only one family can win. Okay. We can be that family. All of us, together.” I shook my head, ignoring the heartstrings Danny was attempting to pluck. “When we first moved in, you didn’t know how I’d respond to you and Rem because, shit, you guys never know how anyone is going to respond. But, how did that go? Do you remember?”

I nodded, remembering. “You offered me a beer. We accidentally had five and got bitched at by Rem and Rachael for being drunk by the time they reached for their first.”

He smiled. “See? We’ve always been friends, you and me. We can work this out. This neighborhood was good people. We held out for so long. We may have even been the last neighborhood to start playing their sick game, even when we were down to our final rations and they shut off our water and electric. It was hunger and desperation that caused us to turn. But there are good people. We’re good people. And nobody has to die today. We can show the Feds that families are what you make them, and that we stand together.”

I wanted to believe his words. With all my heart, I did. All I’d ever wanted was a home, a place to raise a family where we could be safe, happy, and accepted. It took Rem and me fourteen years, a stack of adoption denial slips, and a highly paid surrogate mother to become parents. The sense of belonging Danny offered was a wishy-washy goal we’d been on the verge of achieving not long ago.

Problem was, the Feds knew who lived in each household, and nobody would succeed in bending the rules. I was certain the One Percent watched surveillance footage from the neighborhood drones like cheap entertainment, broadcasting to their wall monitors twenty-four seven. They were probably already laughing at Danny’s proposal.

Besides that, Danny had lied to me. In the reflection of the mirror behind him, I could make out the shape of a gun through his white T-shirt, tucked into the waistline of his pants at the small of his back.

“There are no good people left.” I said. “Only survivors.”

I pulled the trigger, and Danny dropped.

“No!” Rachael screamed, and the sky grumbled its reply with a slap of thunder. “No, no, no!” she repeated, rushing out of the shed to kneel beside her husband in the mud as he died. Hunter and Hayley followed.

I had urged them to go peacefully. I had urged them to take the pills. If only they had listened.

This wretched game had reached its boiling point, and I felt the tension, like rolling water, ready to pop, pop, pop.


About the Story:
A man who had fought the odds to accomplish his dreams now watches them crumble before his eyes. But he’ll do what he must to protect his own. No matter the bloodshed.