Slashvivor, p.1
SLASHVIVOR!, page 1
Sinister Grin Press
MMXVII
Austin, Texas
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Opening Scroll
Cold Open
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
One Month Later
STINGER
Thank you
Acknowledgements
About the Authors
Sinister Grin Press
Austin, TX
www.sinistergrinpress.com
August 2017
“SLASHVIVOR!” © 2017 Stephen Kozeniewski & Stevie Kopas
This is a work of Fiction. All characters depicted in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without the publisher’s written consent, except for the purposes of review.
Cover Art by Zach Mcain
Text Design by Travis Tarpley
Stevie would like to dedicate this novel to the underdogs.
Stephen would like to dedicate this novel to his stupid sister.
Opening Scroll
In 1983, a Soviet military officer named Stanislav Petrov failed to ignore orders, and launched a nuclear attack based on what was later discovered to be a system error. The “mutually assured destruction” which followed proved to be a lot less mutual than anticipated. At every turn, it seemed that American countermeasures triggered too late, or failed to trigger at all, and Soviet attacks landed where they were not anticipated, or at unexpected times. The resulting exchange left the Soviet Union relatively intact, while the United States, as a functioning society, ceased to exist. It turned out nuclear war was not such a great idea.
Less than 1% of the U.S.’s former population of 234 million survived to eke out a hardscrabble existence in the irradiated desert. Those that did often suffered from mental and physical illnesses. Mutation was widespread, and crime ran rampant. An unusually high number of colorful and seemingly unstoppable serial killers, known as slashers, devastated what little remained of the populace, before a loose patchwork of warlords and gangsters managed to impose some form of law and order at the end of their gun barrels.
In the Geiger Lands, life is brutish, cheap, and short. Plagued by madness and the ravages of radiation, the survivors labor each day in the wasteland, hoping only for some clean water and a crust of bread. They live for only one thing: a welcome distraction from their grueling lives…
Cold Open
A silverfish-like creature with legs as long as spaghetti strands scurried up Rudy’s wall. A well-aimed mud-encrusted boot flew through the air and smashed it into a lump.
“Fucking bugs,” Rudy grumbled, settling back into his couch.
The old Rubin-brand TV set flickered, bathing the room in an eerie glow. A hairline crack deformed the lower right hand side of the screen, but for most shows it didn’t bother him much. Right now, a bald, emaciated man in a cheap suit was shouting at the viewers.
“Do you live in the Geiger Lands? Do you have trouble getting around? Do you find yourself picking your way, step by brutal step, across the ruins? Do you find yourself slip-sliding away on fields of glass?”
The salesman wheeled his arms wildly and there was an obvious jump-cut to him sliding across a showroom floor. As he passed by compact, jury-built vehicles, he pointed them out while the stagehands continued to pull him along as though he were sliding.
“Then come on down to Albino Al’s Discount Surplus! We’ve got 4-wheelers! We’ve got ATVs! We’ve got choppers, hogs, crotch rockets, and even the occasional motorcycle!”
The sliding conceit ended and Albino Al was suddenly standing again, wearing a bike helmet and a grin as wide as his face.
“But if you’re more security-minded and you’ve got the gold, then we’ve got the big guns!”
The camera panned out and revealed Al was standing on top of an antique tank. It was stamped with the letters USA, and was obviously pre-war, but Al had gussied it up with more modern salvaged Soviet parts.
“Come on down! It’s not illegal. In the Geiger Lands, nothing is!”
At the bottom of the screen a chyron read “Soviet and Cuban citizens should consult local laws before purchasing goods from Albino Al’s Discount Surplus.”
Rudy grunted.
“Fucking commercials.”
The news came back on. Situated where he was in the panhandle, Rudy had the best of the best when it came to channel line-ups. Not only did he have access to the standard Russian stations, but he could also get both the Spanish-language stations from Cuban-occupied South Florida as well as the Geiger Lands ones that were typically no more than half-assed commercials and piss-poor renditions of pre-war soap operas. Rudy thought the Russian stuff had a little more polish, though.
A severe woman in an achingly drab, grey suit was rattling off headlines in her native language, while the words scrolled along the bottom of the screen bringing him up to speed.
“President Baio attended state dinner in Moscow this evening to mark the twentieth anniversary of Soviet victory over the…”
“Fucking news,” Rudy grumbled, and flicked to the next channel.
Normally the station was just static. Not now, though. Now, a grinning skull and crossbones was staring back at Rudy. A jolly roger. A pirate flag.
The Soviets and the Cubans usually came down on pirate stations like a hammer, but there was one exception. One show that, every couple of months, everyone across the shattered nation was in unison about loving.
Rudy wrung his hands restlessly. Was it that time already? Could it be?
The pirate flag was replaced with a test pattern, and then a blank screen. An announcer spoke, of all languages, in English.
“From the ruins of Vancouver to the Cuban Keys, from the Allied Texas Republic to the Irradiated Plains, welcome back, ladies and gents, to the most popular show on the continent!”
Then, in unison, a pre-recorded chorus of two dozen kids all shouted: “Try… Not… To… Die!”
The chanting children were soon washed out as long-forgotten pop music faded in. The picture pixelated and the handsome face of the show’s host filled the screen. The camera panned out revealing his fancy, white suit glittering under the spotlights. He hopped around, pumping his arms in the air, rousing the crowd while big-chested Latin women danced around him. Rudy grinned from ear-to-ear, excitement building in his chest. It had been months since an episode had aired, he could barely keep himself from sliding off the edge of his seat when the off-screen announcer’s voice bellowed his next words.
“Ladies, Gentleman, and Miscreants of North America, here’s your host, Mark Winters!”
The crowd went wild and the large audience jumped to their feet all around the arena. Four projectors powered on, breathing life into the enormous screens that allowed the spectators to feel as if they were standing right next to Mark and his two beautiful cohosts, Camila and Wendy. The trio, bedazzling in matching outfits, stood on a sparkling platform suspended from the ceiling of the arena, giving them a three-hundred- and- sixty degree view. He smiled and raised his microphone to his lips.
“Geiger Lands! How we doing tonight?” His silky voice echoed in every ear and he received a loving response.
Spectators fought to climb over one another; some clawed and kicked while others pushed or punched, all trying to reach the front row. They’d do anything to get closer to the impending action. Fans of Try Not to Die weren’t the sharpest tools in the shed, though, as no matter how many times the show had aired over the years, the members of the live audience never learned.
Rudy chuckled as he cracked open a beer.
“Dumb fucks!” he shouted at the half-broken television set.
The unlucky few that had fought so hard to make it to the front row were met with 15,000 milliamps of electricity upon reaching the security fence that surrounded the event floor. The animals in the crowd, ranging in age from eight to eighty, went into a frenzy as the lights in the building flashed and the smell of burning human flesh filled the air.
Mark raised a hand to get the swelling crowd’s attention, he waited patiently for them to simmer down before bringing up the microphone again.
“Boy, have we got a show for you all tonight!” The crowd began to
In a spectacle just as absurd as the show itself, four figures emerged from the mist of a fog machine behind Mark, cloaked in red robes, their heads bowed. Music began to blare and fireworks exploded from the left and right as The Producers ripped the hoods from their heads and tossed their robes off the platform. The screaming crowd actually drowned out the music as the red robes floated down to the filthy arena floor.
The Producers smiled and waved to the crowd, dressed in designer fashion of the old world, unashamed to flaunt their illegal wealth. They were well aware that neither the Cubans nor the Russians would step foot in the Geiger Lands to seize what remained of their old American currency.
Mark introduced each of the four:
Marisol Martinez, clad in head to toe red with her billowing, regal robe, the Queen of The Allied Texas Republic; her husband beside her, Derron James, last living citizen of whatever remained of Arizona; Amy Green, the mysterious and deadly arms dealer; and finally, Jacob Graves, the only fat man on a continent facing an epic food crisis.
These were the people who made Try Not to Die possible. The wealthy few who kept what little remained of the North American people entertained and the maximum population levels in check when necessary.
The Producers took their seats after their elaborate introductions and Mark once more settled down the crowd, telling icebreaking anecdotes and finally leading into one of the most important parts of the evening.
Rudy pissed into his empty beer bottle, refusing to peel his eyes from the television set. He turned the volume up as Mark said the words that he, at home, along with the live audience, had been dying to hear since the start of the show.
“It’s time to meet our participants!” Mark pointed to one of the gigantic screens as the crowd roared, and a countdown began from the number five.
The lights in the arena dimmed and the off-screen announcer’s voice boomed.
“Tonight, on The Selection…”
The voices of the crowd dimmed to a dull roar. Scum they might be, and lunatic scum at that, but they still had some sense of the difference between the sacred and the profane. And for them, nothing was more sacred than this.
An old American flag, pocked with holes and tattered at the edges, flapped on a crooked flagpole outside a desert way station. For a moment, the wind caught the flag just so that it was out of view, and when it returned, it was replaced with the more familiar circle and three wedges of the Geiger Lands.
“Mommy, do you think we’ll ever be selected?” a young child’s voice asked, full of earnestness.
“I don’t know, dear,” the mother replied, “I just don’t know. We can only hope.”
A slideshow began, showing the hardy faces of a variety of generic Geiger Landers. A little girl walking her coyote. A postal carrier armed to the teeth. A butcher looking up from his rats. A doctor, sawing away at a particularly troublesome third limb on an uncooperative patient.
“Over half a million people still live in the Geiger Lands. Keeping an accurate census is sometimes described as the hardest, most expensive job in the world. But the Producers do it… and they do it for you.”
Rudy looked down to see his hand was over his heart. He hadn’t done that in years. An emotion was swelling in his breast, one he didn’t feel very often anymore: pride.
He almost felt let down as the scene changed to The Producers, in full red cloaks and surrounded by an army of armed-to-the-teeth security personnel. They began walking toward a house that was decidedly not Rudy’s own bunker. At the bottom of the screen, words scrolled by reading “recorded earlier.” Of course it had been. Rudy would already be in Biloxi if he had been selected.
The house on the screen was part of a cul-de-sac of townhomes, most of which had been reduced to skeletons of scorched lumber. One of the townhouses, though, was in relatively good condition, its holes patched with sheets of scrap metal and a fence of concertina wire standing where the white picket one that had formerly occupied the space had been ripped out.
The security personnel surrounded the building, and a small team laid lumber bridges over the concertina wire to make their entrance. Shouting, “hup hup hup!” they pounded toward the door, and the leader of the team began pounding on it with the bottom of his fist.
After a few excruciating moments that found Rudy literally on the edge of his seat, the door opened wide enough to allow the barrel of a shotgun through.
“Who… who is it?”
The leader of the security goons pressed a button on the side of his helmet so that his voice, garbled as it was, would be audible.
“Congratulations, ma’am, you’ve been Selected. Please put the weapon down and you and anyone else inside come out unarmed with your hands up.”
There was the sound of shuffling inside, and then the door opened all the way, prompting the guard team to step back and level their weapons at the doorjamb. A woman with her hair in curlers and a small, ripped day-gown stood in the doorway, tears in her eyes.
“Is this real? Can it be? You’re not just marauders, are you?”
“Take a look over there, ma’am,” the leader said, gesturing at The Producers who stood just outside the wire fence.
The woman began shrieking and flailing her arms.
“Is it just you inside, ma’am?”
“Oh, yes, yes,” she replied, “I’m alone.”
“Go on ahead, then, ma’am. Congratulations.”
Flanked by severely armed and armored guards, the woman in curlers crossed the lumber bridge and stood before The Producers, her face the perfect picture of joy.
“Congratulations on your Selection,” Marisol Martinez spoke from under her large hood. “Out of five hundred thousand people, your name was one of a very special few chosen at random.”
“This is a great honor,” Marisol’s husband, Derron chimed in. “We’re pleased to have you, Dawn.”
Suddenly the woman’s smile turned to a rictus.
“Dawn? My name’s not Dawn.”
Rudy put his hand over his mouth. What the fuck?
The Producers stepped aside and huddled, only a few scant words audible from their heated exchange. Finally, Amy Green stuck her head up from the huddle.
“This isn’t 221-B Baker Street?”
“No, I live at 221-A. You have to go around back for my neighbor’s…”
The woman clapped her hand over her mouth.
“Oh no!” she screamed. “Oh, God no! You mean I wasn’t chosen? I wasn’t… no… you have to let me go! You can’t do this to me! Please!”
A few of the goons wrapped their arms around the hysterical woman, who through some marvel of medical science burst out of the grasp of the giant men and went running towards The Producers, her mouth wide, screaming at the top of her lungs. Luckily, the other security guards were more adroit, and one of them managed to bash her temple in with the butt of his gun before she got within a yard of the Producers. Still too close, Rudy could see, from the outraged poses they struck. The guards dragged the unconscious woman off and returned a moment later.
“All right, take two. Let’s see if we can get it right this time.” Someone behind the camera said.
“No, wait, don’t cut it out.” Marisol Martinez said. “The fake out will make for good television.”
