72 hours to animal, p.1
72 Hours to Animal, page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
A Tale of Survival
A Tale of Survival | by | Wayne Kyle Spitzer
A Tale of Survival
Other Tales from the Flashback
A Tale of Survival
OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR
Legends of the Flashback, Books 1-3
X-Ray Rider and Other Dark Rites of Passage
The Devil Drives a ’66 and Other Stories
The Place: Stories from the Region Between
The Witch-Doctor Diaries
Beyond the Black Curtain
Napoleon
A Tale of Survival
by
Wayne Kyle Spitzer
Hobb’s End Books • A Division of ACME Sprockets & Visions, Inc.
Copyright © 2025 by Wayne Kyle Spitzer. All Rights Reserved. Published by Hobb’s End Books, a division of ACME Sprockets & Visions. Cover design Copyright © 2025 by Wayne Kyle Spitzer. Please direct all inquiries to: HobbsEndBooks@yahoo.com
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this book is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
For my sweetheart, Trinh. And for my father.
Author’s Note on the Flashback Stories
These are stories of the Flashback, the time-storm that vanished most the world’s population and returned the earth to primordia, and thus are all connected. What they are not are chapters in a novel—even though they follow an approximate sequence and all come together in the end (and along the way). All of which is my way of saying that if you treat this book like a novel you will almost certainly be disappointed. If, on the other hand, you are able to take these stories as they were intended; i.e., separate but overlapping tales which share the same universe and eventually merge—I think you’ll enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them (in what has been a 30-year passion project). Either way, know this: I’ve given you my very best. Take heart, take care, and as always, thanks for reading.
—WKS
A Tale of Survival
Jesus, here we go again, thought Zola, as Handsome Dan fiddled with the in-council player and the rotors went whump-whump-whump and Gloria Gaynor started singing “I Will Survive”—for the twentieth time, at least—until, unable to take it any longer, she reached over and switched off the stereo.
“Enough,” she said.
He shot her a cold glance and she looked away—down through the glass inset at her feet—at the ice-crusted skids and the snow clinging to them like puffs of lint; at the formerly beautiful city of Phoenix, Arizona—whole sections of which were now burning.
Whump-whump-whump. Nobody said anything; not even when he switched the stereo back on and Gaynor picked up exactly where she’d left off, singing about lonely nights and being wronged, learning to get along, until Pappy leaned forward from the backseat and said, “We should fill that extra gas can before leaving Phoenix. No point in playing with the Sonoran. Redhorn says there’s a heliport at Papago Military Park; just east of us. They’ll have the right fuel.”
Handsome Dan turned down the music, glanced over his shoulder at Redhorn. “Is that true?”
Redhorn took a drag off the road flare he was holding and pretended to blow smoke. “True as smallpox. Did all my weapons training there for the tribal police; meaning there’s lots of other things around, too—thing’s we could use, like Pappy’s peashooter.”
Zola frowned, recalling how frightened she’d been when they’d first picked Pappy up—a man with an AR-15, for Christ’s sake, a man who, by his own admission, had been open-carrying before the Flashback. A prepper from Tucson who, despite her objections, had turned out to be worth his weight in gold. “We don’t need more weapons; what we need is to get to Yuma and the FEMA camp at San Luis, and as quickly as possible.” She unbuckled her safety belt and swivelled to face them. “You both understand that, right?”
“No worries,” said Pappy. “We’ve still got three hours to go.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, look at it this way: It’s been about two days since you and your erstwhile flight instructor, Handsome Pilot Guy, picked Redhorn and I up; and almost three days since the start of this, this whatever it is, this so-called Flashback. I.e., about 69 hours. And so far, aside from all the looting and some generally destructive tomfuckery—like starting fires—people have remained relatively civilized, wouldn’t you say? I mean, look at us. We’re not exactly eating each other. Add 3 to 69 and what do you get?”
Zola appeared pensive. “Seventy-two. Seventy-two hours. But seventy-two hours to what?”
“It’s just an expression we use in the prepper community; hyperbole, I suppose, for what happens 72 hours after the grid fails, and people start getting desperate. Seventy-two hours until wandering survivors become roving packs. Seventy-two hours until the veneer of civilization just completely vanishes. Seventy-two hours to animal.”
She didn’t know how to respond to that, other than to look from him to Redhorn, who just smoked his road flare and quickly raised his eyebrows twice, as if to say, Won’t it be great?
“You know, I had a brother once who used to smoke M-80s—you know, right before they went off. Do you know what eventually happened to him?”
She saw his expression faulter even as Handsome Dan interjected: “We’re coming up on it, I think.”
She faced forward as they passed over what seemed like a sea of apartment buildings, their rooftops rapidly accumulating snow, until she noticed a range of small, rocky mountains on the horizon—hills, really—against which lay a series of rectangular paved areas which she at first took to be tennis courts—until she saw the choppers roosting on them with their long tail booms and spindly rotor blades, like dragonflies.
“There,” said Dan. “See that small, metal roof that’s separate from all the others? That’ll be your fuel island. Normally, of course, we’d pump from one of the trucks, but since we’re filling a can, I’m going to set us down right next to it. My personal standard is to try and make an entry at between 30 and 50 meters.”
She watched carefully as he worked the sticks.
“Reduce collective ... pitch up to neutral ... and remember, as soon as you cross over the asphalt you’re gonna get that rotor and ground effect which is going to cause a really funky cushion. And now we’re going to hold ourselves just a few feet over the ground, we’re going to further reduce the collective ... and settle onto the tarmac.”
And then they were down—in a whirlwind of snow—and Pappy was clambering out with the fuel can as Redhorn followed and Handsome Dan swiped off his aviators and just looked at her.
“Listen, Zo, I ... Look, I know—”
“I have to pee,” she said, cutting him off, and quickly climbed out—and was instantly greeted by a blast of cold air. She scanned the heliport: There, she thought, eyeing an area between two buildings where, in one of the more curious aspects of the Flashback, cycads and other ancient vegetation had appeared almost overnight; but it wasn’t until she had hidden away there completely that she was able to admit—even for a minute—that he had probably only been trying to help. At least that was her best guess as she squatted and sighed and watched crimson piss spread across the pavement. That was her blunt assessment as the tips of her fingers came up bloody and she sensed someone watching and she looked up to see the dirty little girl with the dirty little face just staring at her through the fronds. Just staring intently before catching her eye and shrinking away—almost losing her footing. Just lost as a ghost before taking off and running across the fields.
Fortunately, Dan had left the engine running, nor were Pappy an Redhorn still fiddling about but had already filled the cannister and were reseated in the chopper when Zola scrambled back into the cockpit and slammed the door.
“Take us up, Dan. And take us up as fast. We’re not alone.”
“Wait, what is it?” It didn’t feel as though he’d touched the throttle at all. “Did you see someone? Something? What?”
“Just take us up. I’ll explain it in the air.”
The helicopter vibrated as he rolled up the throttle. “Yes, Mom.”
She shot him a lethal look—just lethal—as the chopper climbed and they were once again airborne.
Redhorn pointed between them. “There! Footprints at 3 o’clock. And, wait a minute, yes, an actual person. You see it?”
“I see it,” said Dan. “And am following ...” The nose tilted as he leaned on the stick. “My question is: why? So we have a survivor—so what? We know people have survived; who the hell do you think is doing all that looting?”
“She’s just a little girl, Dan,” snapped Zola. “She couldn’t be more than, say, ten. And she’s pretty clearly lost. Just stay wit h her.”
“Look, babe—Zola—this is a helicopter. Not an SUV. There’s only so much room. Plus, there’s overall weight to think abou—”
“She can sit on my lap. And a little girl like that isn’t going to weigh anything. What? Fifty, maybe 60 pounds? Just do it. Please.”
“And we’re losing the light,” said Pappy. “Pretty fast, if you want the truth.”
“We’ve got that borealis for light,” clipped Zola. “That illuminated cloud, or whatever it is. Besides, it looks like she’s headed for that large, flat structure—some kind of warehouse, or big box. Like a Saveco, or a ...”
“It’s a Saveco,” said Pappy. “I can see the red stripe.”
“If she goes in there you can forget it,” said Dan. “We don’t dare go in after her. I mean, I could try to set us down in front of her, if you want.” He frowned. “But we’re running out of space even for that.”
“No, it’ll just scare her off,” said Zola. “Besides, she’s almost there. Just—just circle around and set us down by that tractor trailer. If she’s gone in by then—I’ll go in after her myself.” She looked at him disapprovingly and then over her shoulder at Pappy and Redhorn. “Unless of course either of you gentlemen care to help a girl out? Two girls.”
Neither man said anything while Handsome Dan just shook his head. “Look, you can’t expect us to risk our lives just to save some kid who might not even want to be saved. And who says I have to—”
“They’ve got liquor,” said Zola.
Pappy and Redhorn exchanged tentative glances.
“Sure; Scotch, whiskey, bourbon, rum. Tequila.”
Dan laughed. “Oh boy, you’re really something.” And more pointedly: “Look, these guys aren’t just going to—”
“Well now, wait a minute, wait a minute ...” Pappy focused back and forth between the two. “The truth is I do need socks. No, seriously.”
“And I can always use a 1.50 hotdog,” said Redhorn.
Zola beamed. “Well, there it is, then. It’s decided.”
“It most certainly is not decided.” Dan took a deep breath and seemed to count to ten. “Look, you all know as well as I do what has happened here and what kind of things are moving around down there. And you seriously want me to just park us in the mid—”
“Put us down, boss,” said Redhorn jovially.
“Look, goddamit, we’ll be wide open as hell if we park it in the field and I’m not even sure that roof will support a—”
“I said put us down. Now.”
“Okay, fine, dammit, I’ll put us down. But it’s going to be on the roof, so you better hope it holds—and that there’s access—and I’m staying with the chopper in order to drive getaway.” He scowled. “You know, for when you idiots come hightailing it back with fucking murder birds on your asses. Or worse ...” He looked at Zola sharply. “People.”
And then the helicopter yawed and they were circling, looking down at the Saveco’s roof as it rotated, looking down at its darkened skylights and aluminum condensing fans, its parking lot full of snow-covered cars, its tractor trailers docked like spacecraft.
“I’m not seeing any additional footprints, animal or other-wise, but if she’s gotten in ...” They circled back around to where they’d started. “And it looks like she has, something else could have gotten in too—before the snow.” He drew back slowly on the cyclic pitch stick. “Okay, we’re going in—or you are anyway. You should watch this, Zo, closely, because I’m going to sort of test the roof’s capacity by touching down in tiny increments.”
But Zola wasn’t listening, only gazing at the oddly colored borealis, that queer smudge of blue—and yet clearly not blue— that stretched across the sky like a veil, like a Christmas garland full of lights. That inconceivable mystery whose appearance had heralded the weird weather and the disappearance of what must have been fully three-quarters of the human population. That nebulous chimera which had allowed the ancient trees and beasts and primal sufferings to once more rule supreme; that had broken Time itself.
“Zo? Hey, listen, you alright?”
She looked at Dan in a daze, almost as if she were drunk, blinked her eyes. “No—yes. I mean—” He attempted to stroke her hair but she wouldn’t allow it. “I’m fine, really. I must have ... I guess I must have had a moment. Are we down? Where’s Pappy and Redhorn?”
“They’ve already gone below and are waiting for you at the bottom.” He indicated the roof access hatch, which stood open. “Look—you sure you’re up to this?”
She nodded slowly.
He exhaled. “Okay. All right.” He turned her palm upright and lay something cold against it; something steely—a pistol grip. “I want you to take this. I mean, it’s just a .25 caliber, but it’ll do the trick against anything small enough to be in that store. Watch the slide: I know you’ve shot before but this one tends to twist and will bark the skin off your knuckle if you’re not careful.”
He killed the engine, which wound down like a turbine.
“Now if you’re not back in 30 minutes, I’m coming in after you ... and I’ll be unarmed. So I’m pretty much begging you not to make me do that.”
She didn’t look at him. “Okay ... thanks. I’ll—I’ll be careful.”
He gently lifted her chin—something she didn’t resist, to his surprise. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault, you know. What had to be done. The doctors ... me ... we were right. You would have both died.”
She opened her door but paused before leaving. “Yeah—well. Maybe we should have.”
After which she sensed movement and looked to see Pappy—his head and shoulders in the hatchway—who said, simply, “You coming or what? Because you are not gonna fucking believe this.”
And she went, but not before hearing the stereo come on behind her as Dan played Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” yet again.
“That’s it, easy does it,” said Pappy as he helped her down from the ladder. “Watch the Coke machine.” He handed her a flashlight. “The helicopter only had one—for emergencies—but I found these on an end cap. They’re disposable—had the batteries already in ‘em.”
She clicked it on and swept the immediate area: saw red and white tables and umbrellas, a collection of vending machines, some half-full shopping carts. “Any sign of the girl? She would have come in near here. And where’s Redhorn?”
“Right over there, just around the corner. He’s, ah, he’s still examining it.”
“It? What do you mean?”
“It’s probably best if you just have a look yourself. But be prepared.”
Zola followed him around the kitchen area. “Yeah, well. As a 30-year-old veteran of the Flashback, I’ve pretty much seen it all.”
And yet she hadn’t seen it all, not really; at least not until they rounded the corner and she was reminded once again just how random and chaotic the Flashback had been, how cruel, how perverse. For that’s what the monstrous still-life standing before her was if it was anything at all, a perversion. A thing so distinctly wrong that it hurt one’s mind to look at it, what with its dead velociraptors merged in and out of the bulky checkout stand and its hodgepodge of prehistoric plants and that poor bastard in the red apron caught in the middle of it, his face merged with one of the animal’s. That poor bastard who had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time and now had snowflakes falling in his eyes and clinging to his bloated tongue.
She looked at the broken skylight letting in the snow—as well as the queer glimmering of the borealis—finding the scene oddly meditative, oddly tranquil. Like a showcased statue, almost. Or a shrine.
And she thought: I wonder if they make cemetery markers for kids killed by their own—
“I’m calling it ‘The Corpse Sickle,’ joked Redhorn softly. “You know, like on True Detective.” He looked at Zola. “Or is that too derivative?”
“Too derivative,” said Pappy. “Needs something more—I don’t know—more arty. Like, ‘Govedare’s Raptors.’ Something like that.”
“What?”
“David Govedare. He made things out of rusted metal: wild horses, marathon runners, stuff like that. If you’d grown up in the Pacif—”
