Mandatory
By Jon Hansen

red pushed his wheelchair back from the kitchen table and rolled over to the fridge. One single can of Red River Ale, a crappy local brand that tasted like cat piss, but the only thing he could afford on disability. Outside, the pickup truck rumbled in the driveway like an impatient bear. He took a swig, made a face. Cat piss. Hell with it.

He looked up. "I'm not going."

His nephew Tucker looked up from where he'd been hovering near the door. Every inch of him hummed with the need to move, to run. "Uncle Fred, the Governor said on the TV that everyone needs to leave. It's mandatory." He over pronounced the word as if he'd just learned it.

"Tucker, I'm not going." Fred held up his hand. "This isn't some kind of 'last stand' fantasy. I'm being practical. You've always been good about making sure I'm all right, even when I'm being a pain in the ass. But this is different." Fred pointed over at the door, to the pickup beyond it. "Angie's out there with your boys, my nephews, sitting on her knees. There's no room for me." He raised his voice, cutting off Tucker's next words. "And I am not riding out in the truck bed, bouncing around with that dog of yours. Don't worry. I've got my shotgun and a full box of shells. I'll be fine." Neither of them openly acknowledged the lie.

Tucker started to argue, but instead his mouth just flopped open, hanging there. Fred raised his head. He could feel it, the vibrations rising up through his wheels to set his back quivering. They looked at each other. "There isn't any more time," Fred said. "Go."

From outside the truck horn started up. Tucker turned and ran out the door. A moment later the engine faded. Now, in the new silence, Fred could hear something else. They were coming.

His heart beat a little faster as he rolled over to the front closet. Inside, the shotgun sat, propped up behind a forgotten pair of snow boots, along with a box of ammo. He set it in his lap, along with a double handful of shells, then opened the front door. Outside the summer air smelled of smoke and blood and death.

They were in sight now, crossing over the Wilkins' fields towards his house. A cloud of dust rose in their wake, obscuring everything behind them. Didn't matter. He wondered how much of the Wilkins' place still stood. He'd seen the news footage. They were like beautiful locusts, trampling and destroying everything under their silver hooves, a demented eight-year-old girl's version of apocalypse. Sunlight sparkled on the gleaming horns that spiraled up from their foreheads, but there was blood drying in the grooves. He knew it.

Calm filled him, the same as it had the night he had been shot in the spine. He could see the unicorn herd stampeding towards him, rolling along in an irresistible wave. From the way they tossed their heads and bared their teeth, they could see him too. He started chambering in the shells.

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