Featured poet: John Patrick Robbins

Good morning and today we have another returning poet! John Patrick Robbins is an exceptional writer, he was one among the first to send work for my first anthology, October Stories and will be within the upcoming collection, as well. Check out his story below.

Trust In Us

Virginia Beach, Oceanfront.

July 3, 2055.

“Noah, you have to stop being so negative. Not everything or everyone is against you, baby. Please, this is a real opportunity for us,” Sara said with tears in her eyes, placing Noah's hand upon her stomach.

Noah remained silent.

“We have to at least try for him, baby. He deserves something more than this. Anything is better than this!”

Noah looked at the beach. Littered with tents, it was a wasteland with an incredible view of an ocean that had become too toxic to fish from—let alone take a dip. He knew Sara was right, but he could just not bring himself to believe in something too good to be true—let alone trust the government.

They had been hyping it for months. A chance at a new life somewhere in Montana. A chance for the homeless to escape the city slums and be in a new community. It was a so-called fresh start—or so they promised.

Noah saw it for what it truly was: a chance to take out the trash; as in the delusions of the elite. They believed once the nuisance of the street trash was gone, then they could turn this place back into its former tourist trap glory. They were as delusional as that third-generation prick in The White House whose place was granted by birth, not democracy.

Everything had turned to shit ages ago.

Noah knew it was hopeless. But for Sara, he was willing to at least pretend he would give it a chance. He tilted the semi-warm can of beer to the sky, killing it in hopes to destroy some brain cells. At least that way he could slaughter the rational thought that led him to see this idea had bad news written all over it.

“Jesus, baby, slow down.”

“What, honey? I'm celebrating early for tomorrow’s lovely cross-country trip to paradise. I mean, hopefully, they won't sit us next to some wino with the DTs, shaking like a leaf and smelling like he just shit his pants,” Noah replied as he tossed the can at his feet.

Sara knew it was pointless to try to argue how great this relocation program was going to be. As long as he was going with her, she wasn't going to complain.

“That ride’s going to suck.”

“Yeah. You think it's bad for you, try being pregnant and trapped in a bus next to your whining ass the entire trip. Maybe I should get drunk along with you.”

“Or we could just get drunk and stay here. Maybe I could get a gig and I could save up enough for a van. Then drive out to this so-called Shangri-la ourselves—unless you got some weird fetish for old hobos or something.”

“I mean, yeah, who doesn't? I mean, I'm with you, babe, and we all know you’re a hobo-sexual.”

Noah looked at Sara. She had a shit-eating grin on her face. Noah shook his head, looking puzzled.

“What’s that even mean?”

“Oh, it just means you’re a bumfuck, honey. But don't worry, I still loves ya,” Sara replied as she burst into laughter. Even Noah had to crack up at that one as she leaned in for a kiss.

They watched the ever-approaching sunset over the ocean, and for a moment, everything seemed normal; like how it used to be. Not great, or perfect; that word was a dinosaur, as nothing was even close to perfect these days. But Sara was his hope. She was everything to him. This bullshit trip was for her and nobody else.

That morning of July fourth was odd to say the least as the Virginia Beach police force gathered in The Scope: an old and semi-decrypt events hall. Captain O’ Neil surveyed the room as he stood upon the podium.

Mack couldn't understand why they had dumped so much money in fixing this old dump just to end up probably demolishing it months later.

But nothing these days made sense anymore.

“Listen up, people!”

“I know what we are asking of you is insane, but it's our job, and this is what has to be done.

You don't have to like it or agree with it, you just have to do it. That's it. Progress is never pretty. Make no mistake about it, this will be carried out—with or without you!”

As Captain O’ Neil shouted at the group, Mack noticed the kid standing beside him.

His hands were shaking. He was filled with fear. Mack knew this was not the time or place to show fear.

Mack leaned in, grabbing his arm as he tried to whisper in his ear. “Tighten the fuck up, kid, or they will be throwing your ass in this shitstorm with the bums! And, trust me, there is no loyalty behind the Goddamned blue shield, okay! So just bury that shit wherever it takes to get through it all right!” Mack snapped.

The kid just nodded.

Michael Atkinson was beyond cold, and built like a Mack truck. Hence, the nickname. He didn't know where he had developed his icy demeanor, he just knew he ceased giving a fuck a long time ago. He didn't worry about the consequences of tomorrow or what awaited him in the afterlife. He lived in the moment, and whatever stood between him and whatever he desired would quickly be run over like his nickname.

Mack knew what the force was asking of him and he knew he would deliver. it was always life or death with Mack, and he knew he would always come out on top.

As time rolled quickly by and all the bullshit was said, the busses began to arrive. Traffic was backed up for miles. Mack stood outside as he smoked a cigarette, laughing to himself.

If only these dumb fucks knew what was awaiting them, they would scatter like roaches when you turned on the lights.

But people were pathetically stupid and when it came to hope, even if only a glimmer, they would risk life and limb to grasp onto anything … for it was better than the continual struggle of nothing.

Mack looked at one of the busses. A little girl smiled and waved at him. Jesus Christ, these idiots were pathetic. They were packed in those busses like fucking sardines. He could imagine the smell. Time was drawing near. Soon, they would be ushering them in for their command performance.

Noah sat in the bus next to Sara. He was anxious as he watched the pigs, who just stared at the busses with mutual disdain.

“This was a bad choice. I say we get the fuck out of here!”

“Noah! Please chill the fuck out, okay? I know this is intimidating, but please don't freak out. We’re almost done, okay?”

“Yeah, we're almost done, alright! Look at those fucking pigs! They’re all wearing tactical gear! If this is such a simple job, why the fuck are they armored up to the teeth? Baby, I'm sorry, I can't do this. I don't know what this is, but it isn't for us! Come on, we’re getting the fuck out of here!”

“Sir, please sit down,” the bus driver called out.

“Hey, go fuck yourself! Open the door! I’m getting the fuck off this bullshit bus, okay?” Noah shouted as he approached the driver, who quickly hit the panic switch.

“Sir, I know it's a bit of a wait, but I promise we are going to get you transferred soon. In fact, we will be moving you inside soon. Are you hungry? We will be serving breakfast soon.”

“Fuck that shit! And fuck you, man! Let me and my family off this Goddamned bus—NOW!” Noah shouted, grabbing the bus driver by the shirt and nearly lifting him off his feet. He heard Sara plead to him as he was pried off the bus driver, pulled backward to make a sick thump on the ground. The wind was almost knocked out of him, and no sooner had he hit the ground, the cops were quickly putting the boots to him.

It was an all too familiar feeling in Noah Larsen's life.

“Please stop! For fuck’s sake, you’re killing him! What is this bullshit? PLEASE!”

Mack made his way over to the chaos and picked Noah up off the ground.

“NOAH!”

“Somebody shut that bitch up!” Mack shouted as he and another officer carried Noah towards the arena.

Enraged, the Chief of Police approached. “Mack, what the fuck? This is not how this is supposed to go!”

“Yeah? And what the fuck did you expect, you bloated old jack ass?”

Captain O'Neil's face turned blood red. “What the hell did you say to me, you son-of-a-bitch? I’ll have you know I’m still the captain of this precinct!”

There was a deafening bang as Mack pulled the trigger. The former police chief's head exploded. People screamed.

Even the cops were in shock.

“Listen up, everyone! Plans have changed! I am now in control and this is no longer a police matter! The government has declared martial law! Anyone who objects … well, take a seat and observe Police Chief O’ Neil as an example. Now, with that said, load the civilians in the arena. This operation is officially a green light.”

With that said the wolf was finally fully unmasked. As Noah was drug into the arena along with the echoes of screaming innocent people who now understood this was not a second chance to a promised salvation but a death sentence.

Noah moaned. His head was in searing pain. His ribs ached; clearly broken as he struggled to breathe.

“Baby, please get up! I'm so sorry!” Sara said, crying, clinging to Noah.

People began to panic, stepping upon one another to get free. Trying to bust open the exit doors as suddenly the PA system kicked in:

“Citizens of Virginia! Please, may I have your attention?”

There was no mistaking the voice through the speakers. Some people actually stopped their screams and attempts at escape.

“This country faces a serious issue. No different than Europe did when it was struck with the plague. Any overpopulation is an issue that has only one real solution, and you as a people are no different than any other vermin. You made a choice to become non-contributing members of society. You are a burden to those who no longer wish to carry you … who no longer wish to have you dirty our landscape…

“You made your choice, and now I have chosen a solution. I do not take joy in this action. Neither do the men that must carry this act out. Please understand that…

“And God Bless America.”

It was then the snipers revealed their positions in the upper levels. Mack sat, watching from a box seat. Soon, the plates from the doors were removed as the flame throwers were poked through. Mack sat, an onlooker to the soon-to-be eradication of the so-called less fortunate.

Mack smirked as he clicked on his radio. “Open fire,” he said, cold as ever. He looked through his binoculars at the beautiful young woman as she stayed by that foolish young man's side. Mack turned on the music as he viewed the carnage. “Hymn of the Cherubim” played as he viewed the bodies in flame yet that woman's eyes still seemed be looking into his very soul.

A tear crept down his cheek; not at the sadness, but just how sick and yet beautiful it all was. She held the young man until a shot collapsed her skull.

The music played and Mack sat there, viewing it all.

Man's lust for power and dominance over his fellow man drove his hate beyond the varied levels of madness. Mack feared no demons, for he thrived amongst them. He was soldier and a hired enforcer. His only God was money and from here on out it was his God now that held dominion over this plane of existence.

Mack wept at the beauty of destruction, and for the beautiful eyes that, if only for a second, saw and ultimately gave a command performance for him alone.

John Patrick Robbins, is a Southern Gothic writer his work has been published in Fixator Press, Schlock Magazine, Disturb The Universe, Piker Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Spill The Words Press and The Dope Fiend Daily.

His work is often dark and always unfiltered.