I don’t remember what the assignment was here, but I know I wrote it for a class. It could’ve been a really vague assignment like “write a 1500 word story with first-person dialogue.” I really don’t know. All I do know is that it was inspired by events going on at the time. 9/11 occurred just a few years before this was written, and we’d only been in Iraq for a year or two. One of my classmates that reviewed the story felt it was a completely unrealistic story, and I’m sure they are right. But cautionary tales aren’t supposed to be warm, fuzzy, and realistic. They’re supposed to be terrifying. It should also be noted that I wrote this years before the World War Z movie had zombies piling on top of each other to get over a wall, so the “human ramp” idea was my own. Not to say that the filmmakers took the idea from me, but I just want to be clear that I didn’t steal it from them.
The assignment was to write about a serial killer doing something mundane, like shopping. I just can’t help but think of things in the future, so the sci-fi aspect is supposed to be incidental. The main concern my class had was how I wrote out the dialects phonetically, especially Zam’s Lebanese accent. This was at the height of the Iraq war, and I took the point. I toned Zam down so his accent is described rather than spelled out, and I kept the phonetics for Melissa, whose accent is just regional flavor.
I should kill you.
Mr. Reman allows the thought to slip harmlessly from his subconscious. The man holding the lobby door open is wearing two different shoes, and probably does not know.
“Good evenin’, sir,” says the man.
“Mmyes,” he responds, gliding by the small man. He knows it is customary of the people to greet people like Mr. Reman. He was their overlord, and he did not fraternize with helots.
As he steps into the gray New York City streets, the sounds of the city roar at him. Cars accelerating, horns honking, people yelling, church bells, police whistles, cell phones, and music. Tasteless music. His steps are farther apart as he approaches his limousine, which hovers stolidly, as it should. Charlie, his most recent limousine driver, opens the monolithic, wheel-less craft, and Mr. Reman slips inside with one graceful move. The vehicle hardly moves. Finesse is key. Charlie shuts the door—
And the roar of the city is gone. Mr. Reman sighs heavily, closing his eyes. Charlie is inside and waiting patiently behind the wheel before Mr. Reman has time to relax. Moments or minutes later, he is ready to leave. Charlie was a good driver. He hadn’t so much as said a word. Who knows how long he’s been waiting.
“Charles,” Mr. Reman says, “let’s go.”
“Yesir,” Charlie growls. His voice was foreboding, but soft. Like a killer. Mr. Reman liked that.
The complete story appears in the 2026 revised edition of Ten Terribly Terrific Tall Tales Trying to Trip the Triune, coming soon.
