Fiction by Jason Szymanski
By Jason Szymanski
Strictly
speaking, you don’t meet many vegans during an apocalypse. Everything is
leather this and fur-lined that, and most wasteland bandits will eat
anything with a heartbeat. But not me. I have a miniature pot-bellied pig with
skin the color of eggnog. She’s fastidious, domesticated, comes when she’s
called, and her name is Velveeta.
Last night, she was pignapped during a greenhouse raid. How could I have known
that fifty ill-tempered thugs had already set up shop in the abandoned home
improvement store? Velveeta was nosing through a heap of potatoes when they
nabbed her. I warned her to be mindful of her surroundings. She gets so
focused. I barely escaped the gunfire with a perforated bag of vegetables and a
broken heart.
Now, I’m looking at the empty sidecar attached to my 1973 hog where Velveeta used
to ride shotgun. It’s a lonesome ride back to the bandits’ hideout. Of course,
I’m gonna rescue her. I have been saving an ear of corn to go with my apology
for leaving her behind. What was once Dayton, Ohio, now looks like an urbanized
version of Death Valley. A pitted highway opens before me––an endless expanse
of blown-out strip malls and rusted cars.
Better make this fast, I think uneasily, as the irradiated noonday sun bakes
the pavement. I gun the bike’s engine and barrel through a blockade protecting the
garden center’s fenced-in yard. After the dust settles, bandits pop out of
hiding like prairie dogs. A man built like a pro-wrestler with steel spikes glued
to his shaved head—mohawk style—cradles Velveeta under a beefy arm sheathed in
tattoos.
Velveeta squeals when she sees me. Yeah, I missed you, too, darlin’. I
point a finger at Spikehead.
“Give me back my pig!” He and his men laugh.
“Or, what?” he challenges. “Think you can get past all of us?”
“Give me back the pig or river-peanut-eggshell-Tuesday,” I say with sincerity. The
skin on Spikehead’s forehead rumples like an unmade bed. He looks to his men for
an explanation. Heck if I know what it means, but it confuses them long enough
for the bombs I set around the perimeter to detonate. Boooooom! It’s
doomsday all over again. Velveeta kicks free and runs toward the garden
center’s warehouse. I whistle. She stops and looks at me like I don’t know what
she’s thinking. We live to plunder, and vice versa.
“Go on then,” I shout. “I’ll catch up in a spin.” Her wet little nose works the
air before she darts through a darkened doorway. Then the bandits want to disco.
I tase a thug clad in steel-plated football gear, then brass-knuckle another
whose fashion sense is limited to chains and a creative use of rubber tubing. Spikehead
hurls a cinder block at my face, which I easily sidestep. It takes out a bandit
about to stab me from behind with something likely to cause tetanus. The last
of my bombs explode, clouding the yard with smoke. I follow Velveeta indoors to
a makeshift kitchen, stepping into a horror show; an assortment of knives, pitchforks,
and chainsaws decorate the walls. And god-knows-what is chopped up on the table
with a mix of vegetables. For a moment, I think I’m seeing double. Velveeta stands
snout-to-snout with a pink potbellied-pig penned up in a dog cage. He has a
tuft of black hair between his floppy ears.
“Isn’t he a little old for you?” I ask, but I’m just teasing. I spring the
latch and they’re all squeals, oinks, and nuzzley noses. We squat by the exit. Out
in the yard, dozens of armed bandits gather around my bike. Velveeta blows me a
disapproving snort.
“I’m going to pretend like you didn’t say that. Of course, I remembered to set
the defenses. Watch this.” A bandit with a carrot-orange safety helmet attempts
to start my bike. Blue sparks shoot off the battery as the man convulses. It’s
not a lethal dose of current, but enough to straighten the man’s shaggy beard. I
smirk. Gets ‘em every time. Velveeta grunts, approvingly. Spikehead shoves
the juddering man off the seat, cuts my battery cable, and kick-starts the
engine.
“Well, so much for Plan A,” I murmur, but think about charging out there anyway.
I can probably resurrect another motorbike, but my “Go Vegan or Die” bumper
sticker plastered to its gas tank is somewhat of a rarity. I scoop up the
piggies and haul tail for the exit. Along the way, I knee a bandit blocking the
backdoor and headbutt another guarding the parking garage. Oink! Oink! Velveeta’s
new boyfriend calls my attention to a skunk-striped 1970 Chevelle with a row of
spikes bolted to the roof—mohawk style.
“Son,” I tell him. “You’re gonna fit right in.” We hop in the car and motor to
the highway. Vrooooom! I kick on the Nitro, introducing my lips to my back
molars. Just when I think we’re in the clear, a couple of thugs catch up to us
riding my motorcycle full throttle, black cyclones bellowing from its tailpipes.
An uninvited grappling hook latches to the Chevelle’s steering wheel. Then there’s
Spikehead crunched in the hog’s sidecar, reeling me in like The-Catch-of-the-Day.
Before I can give the Chevelle some left rudder and run them off the road, a
truck to my right sidewalls us. Two bandits leap off it and pounce on the car’s
hood, using large magnets to hold on. While I’m distracted, Spikehead’s massive,
tattooed arm reaches in and wrenches me halfway out the window by the throat. His
grip feels like rough granite.
My foot slips off the gas and the Chevelle loses speed. I’m praying it stops near a drainpipe where Velveeta and her new beau can hide. Being sideways out the car door has one advantage: I can almost reach my bike and the severed battery cable, that when reconnected, will deliver an unhealthy dose of electricity to Spikehead. I extend my arm as far as it will reach. My fingertips graze the cable. I try again and miss. A dark wall slowly encroaches from the recesses of my vision until all I can see are Spikehead’s chin, neck, and tattooed bicep. I read the words inked into his skin and they finally register: the greenhouse, the chopped vegetables, the bandits’ choice of inorganic textiles—it all makes sense. They weren’t planning to barbeque Velveeta. They were protecting her!
I feel for the motorcycle’s gas tank and find the raised edge of my “Go Vegan
or Die” bumper sticker. My hand drums against it until Spikehead turns and
finally sees where I’m banging. As my vision fades, all I hear is laughter. Spikehead
releases his grip, but it’s too late. Before I lose consciousness, I croak out the
words tattooed on his arm written in black filigree: “Vegan for life.”
Six weeks later, I’m looking at the sidecar where Velveeta rides shotgun—flaxen
ears flapping in the breeze. She wears a little pair of aviator goggles and a
studded collar—a gift from Lawrence, formally known as “Spikehead,” who pulls
up beside me and grins. A legion of modified vehicles trails behind us with “Go
Vegan or Die” black flags bolted to their frames. On Lawrence’s lap sits Floyd,
his miniature pink pig and Velveeta’s new husband (the other bandits insisted
on a ceremony).
With forehooves propped up on the sidecar’s windshield, Velveeta squeals a battle cry, echoed by thousands.
- Jason Szymanski holds a master’s degree in geology from the
University at Buffalo and is a science professor by day, storyteller by night.
Through the absurd and extraordinary, his fiction explores the human heart
while confronting social inequities and global issues. He lives in Rochester,
New York with his wife and three children.