Untamed
Flash Fiction inspired by the track "Barking at Thunder," by LAYZ and Vastive
For day 7 of the Madness & (May)hem challenge, I asked writers to pen a story or poem inspired by a music track.
This is my entry, and you can find my chosen song at the end, along with links to the other stories set in this world where Burnout is never far.
CW: Gun violence, blood and gore.
I do not believe we are not born with the capacity to hate. Instead, it is given to us. It runs like rivers of lava across the surface of our souls, leaving tracks where the shine has melted away. It harms us as much as it harms others.
And we remember that pain.
Knowing full well this truth, you still chose to drown my mind in the seas of your propaganda.
You pummeled my senses with a constant and unrelenting stream of visuals and sound. You took away my ability to see other human beings.
Instead, I just saw targets. Obstacles in my path.
You balanced the torture and the indoctrination with moments of bliss. You reduced me to nothing more than an animal.
One that knows it will have its treats if it sits like a good boy.
And I’m not the only one.
I may be your latest experiment, but this cycle of pain, rage, and hatred was set into motion the moment we humans took our first breath.
The Burnout was always the logical conclusion to this roller coaster we call civilization.
It was always going to end in fire.
The coarse black bag came off my head, and brilliant light assaulted my vision. I felt hands crawling across the chains that spanned my body.
I heard the clicking of keys sliding into locks.
When I could move freely, I stepped down and out of the direct light. Colored spots filled my vision as someone handed me a pump-action shotgun.
They slid bandoliers over my neck and shoulders, each of them filled with reserve ammunition.
An announcer’s voice rattled through an intercom above me.
“Here he is, folks! The man you’ve been waiting for! The one, the only, Burnout Billy!”
That wasn’t my name. That was the title they gave me. They loved their alliteration.
Almost as much as they loved their new bloodsport.
“Now, I know you folks have paid a lot of money to be here for tonight’s event. You want to see the Burnout first hand! Thanks to our various observation booths spread across the property, you’ll be closer to the action than ever!” the announcer said.
I was barely paying attention. I had become a spectator in my own life. I was nothing more than a tool for the rich to roleplay as the righteous hammer of justice they believed they were.
They had their reasons to hate those who weren’t like them.
They just weren’t good ones.
And to them, those reasons justified slaughter. Did I agree? Of course not, but a tool doesn’t get to choose how it’s used.
“Alright folks, get settled in. It’s time for your daily dose of BURNOUT!”
Music replaced the announcer’s voice on the intercom as I felt a sharp pain on the side of my neck.
What had once been something that could happen to anyone, at any time, was now a switch you could flip with a syringe and the right amount of money.
And just like that…
Everything went red.
I moved through the labyrinth of carefully placed rooms. My steps were steady, my pace consistent.
I am rage given form. The perfect predator.
When I saw them cowering in the corner, I felt the eyes of observers behind their bullet proof glass. I saw their martini glasses and their plates of half-eaten appetizers.
I witnessed the bloodlust in their eyes…
And I gave them the show they’re looking for.
The shotgun in my hands exploded with heat and vengeance. Bodies tore open, sending blood and gore splattering across the windows separating me from the observers.
Dopamine flooded my veins as I reloaded. My heart thundered in my chest as a survivor fled into the next room.
The thrill of the chase.
CRACK goes the shotgun as I readied another volley of righteous fury.
What sins have these souls committed? What have they done to deserve such spite?
Such questions are not mine to ask.
The Burnout drives my mind. It controls every step of my feet and every pull of the trigger. I am a dealer of death. A demon that seeks only carnage.
And the observers relish in the sight of it all.
I spot movement in the next room, arranged to look like a quaint dining room. The survivor flipped the table, sending plates shattering across the floor. I let loose a volley and watched as splinters dance through the air.
The survivor fled into the next room.
The longer the hunt, the more satisfying the kill.
I felt the eyes of the observers staring through thick panes of glass embedded into the walls of every room.
They love to watch me work.
The next room was filled with weights and workout equipment. It felt entirely out of place, but the heavy items made for glorious killing implements on nights when I ran out of ammo.
Tonight, though, my gun still sings.
I spotted the survivor on the other side of the room. His wide eyes bulged at the sight of me. I raised my gun as he threw one of the weights through the air.
I wasn’t fast enough to dodge it. The cold metal collided with the side of my face and I fell backward. My red vision pulsated with renewed vigor.
I heard a loud impact, followed by another, and another. I reoriented myself, steadying my aim, only to see the survivor smashing another one of the weights against a glass window nearby.
The windows were designed to resist all manner of bullets and beatings, but that one had not been replaced in some time.
It had seen its fair share of blood.
Cracks began to run through the surface. As the glass shattered, I felt another sharp note of pain in the side of my neck.
“DEPLOYING EMERGENCY LOCKDOWN,” a mechanical voice said from the intercom above me.
And just like that, the switch is flipped again.
My vision returned to normal. My waking thoughts came back. I was in control of my body once more.
“Hey, are you still burning out?” the survivor asked.
I blinked several times and shook my head.
“Good, because I need your help,” he said.
I couldn’t remember the last time someone spoke to me, let alone the last time I had an opportunity to speak to someone else.
I could barely form words. For countless years, my life has been a cycle of darkness, brainwashing, and violent bouts of Burnout.
The cycle has finally been broken.
The survivor placed his hand on the barrel of the shotgun and looked up at me with his blood-splattered eyes.
“I know what they’ve done to you. I know that your rage is fueled by the Burnout, but I need you to tap into a different source of anger now. I’ve opened the path. Now, it’s time for you to take your revenge.”
He’s right. The path to freedom is in front of me.
I will pave it with their bodies.
I leapt through the broken window into the observation room. The viewers had already fled, leaving broken plates and tipped over chairs.
I kicked open the door at the far end of the room and stepped out into a long hall. I heard panicked screams echoing from my right.
I followed the sound, ready to do what I do best, only this time it wasn’t the Burnout driving me.
It was justice.
I turned a corner and saw them. Dresses sparkled beneath the harsh lighting, alongside suits that cost more than most people make in a year.
Their wrinkled skin and beady eyes shook with fear as they all pushed toward a door that had been locked.
So, they’ll abandon their own if it means saving themselves?
Some of them dropped to their knees and begged me for mercy. They wanted the mercy that their victims never received.
I had none to give.
I pulled the trigger and watched as their blood, filled with spite and hate, decorated the walls. I fired again, and again. They had nowhere to go.
Like shooting fish in a barrel.
Their cries fell on deaf ears. I felt no remorse, and I didn’t need the Burnout to justify my actions. No, I wanted to do this.
Because they deserved it.
Soon their designer clothes were soaked in blood and shredded gore. Their precious jewelry sat upon severed fingers.
Their minds that they thought were superior to all others were spread across the walls and the ceiling. It was a start, but they were merely players in a larger game.
“Holy shit, I’m gonna be sick.”
I turned around as the survivor vomited on the ground at the end of the hall. I walked over to him, lowering the gun as he caught his breath.
“Not bad. It’s a start I suppose,” he said, wiping the bile from his lips.
I had become desensitized to it all, but seeing the way the carnage affected him, it triggered a part of me I had thought long dead. An emotion emerged that was welcome, but strange.
Is this…empathy?
I reached out and placed a hand on the survivor’s shoulder. He looked down at my hand, and then back up to me.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
I wanted to speak. I wanted him to know I felt his pain.
“I…am…sorry,” I said.
The survivor raised an eyebrow. “Holy shit, I didn’t think you could speak. Maybe there’s still a piece of you left in there after all.”
He laid his hand onto my own, “And hey, for what it’s worth, I don’t blame you.”
The survivor grabbed the barrel of the shotgun and held it upright. “What matters now is that we take the fight to them. This thing, this gun? It’s the only language they understand. Are you with me?”
I nodded.
I am no longer chained to their whims. So much of me is gone. My humanity was replaced with unbridled and misplaced hatred.
But now, I am healing.
I can feel myself coming back. Like a seed that has just begun to sprout. A part of me still lives beneath all the pain and the scars.
I am untamed. A beast of their own creation.
And now, it was time for the monster to turn on its masters.
Thanks for Reading! Here’s the Track That Inspired This Story
Dive Deeper into The Burnout
Check out these other stories to learn more about this world of Burnout.
WOW this was insane!
You paced this perfectly, and the change within the character is so well done! It's crazy how it really just takes a switch, I love that detail so much.
Because they deserved it. 💎