by Eirik Gumeny
ALSO BY EIRIK GUMENY
QUINTOLOGY OF QUALMS
WE’RE GOING TO DIE HERE, AREN’T WE?
DEVIL WENT DOWN TO JERSEY
SCREW THE UNIVERSE (with Stephen Schwegler)
by Eirik Gumeny
For Monica,
until the end of the world
“What’s with all the screaming?”
– “Skullcrusher Mountain,” Jonathan Coulton
TABLE OF CONTENTS
FOREWORD
BY ANY OTHER CLOCK
LAST MINUTE
THE BRIDE AND THE DOOM
NIGHT OF THE LIVING
LA PETITE MORT
CRY HAVOC, AND LET SLIP THE WAFFLES OF WAR
REVENGE OF THE SUPPER
CHINESE TAKE-OUT, by Stephen Schwegler
THERE’S ALWAYS ROOM
FREE-RANGE AND GRASS-FED
GREAT BALLS OF FIRE
THE PHILOSOPHER AND THE LIZARD
THE EXPONENTIAL APOCALYPSE HOLIDAY SPECIAL
CALAMARRHEA
BED, BATH, AND OH, GOD, RUN
DON’T GO ‘SQUATCHING MY HEART
HOLD ME, THRILL ME, KISS ME, KILL ME
MY WHISKEY WITH SIMON
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
FOREWORD
I first met Eirik Gumeny nearly a decade ago at a diner in Verona, New Jersey.
I was there to give him a copy of my first novel, Love Me, which at that point, was still unpublished. You see, Eirik had agreed to help me put this book out into the world. When you’re just starting out in the writing game, you’re greeted with all kinds of closed doors. Rejection after rejection; it comes with the territory. That had been my luck for the ten years prior. All I ever heard was “no.” But not with Eirik. Eirik was the first person to ever say “yes.”
So I went to the library and printed the entire manuscript out, all 150 pages of it, because I wanted to physically hand to him. Yeah, all of this could’ve been done through email, but I thought it would be more poetic this way. It would feel more real. Plus, at the time, I didn’t know many other writers and I wanted to make a friend. I mean, here was a guy who was getting things done: he not only ran his own lit mag, but he had started his own small press, and had also written a book himself, called Exponential Apocalypse, which I had read (and loved) the year before.
Needless to say, I was nervous.
When discussing Exponential Apocalypse, people tend to throw the Hitchhiker’s Guide comparison around a lot. And with good reason. If a book is genre and it’s humorous, then every review will read “it’s like the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy meets [whatever else the book is tangentially like].”
But I think this does Mr. Gumeny’s work a serious disservice.
Sure, Exponential Apocalypse is also a series of five books that’s as satirical as it is laugh-out-loud funny. But it’s also full of insane and original characters doing insane and original things, while still being a joyful ode to his New Jersey roots – heavily steeped in trash jobs and slacker culture. It’s unpredictable, and far-out, and cathartic in so many ways. I mean, this dude was taking the piss out of Thor years before it was cool. That’s how close to the edge this book felt. It spoke to me. It was exactly the kind of thing I wanted to do with my own writing; to encompass the world as I saw it around me and filter it through my own weird, warped lens.
Listen: Eirik Gumeny is not the next Douglas Adams. He’s the first EIRIK GUMENY, damn it! There is no swapping one out for the other. He’s truly a pioneer, at least in my world, forging his own path through this murky business. It was a path he blazed before me, and on which I happily followed. Needless to say, there’d be no Danger Slater if not for Eirik Gumeny, and I’m forever indebted to him for that. I suspect that statement could be true for a bunch of other writers out there too. Eirik opened the door for a lot of folks, the maddest of Pied Pipers, and we all came in behind him.
We’re both still out here, he and I, writing new stuff, attempting to carve our names onto the face of the moon, surviving whatever apocalypses the universe keeps throwing our way. That’s what it’s all about, folks. Perseverance.
If this is your first foray into the world of EA, then buckle up, because the world’s about to end, again and again and again and again, but clearly that’s not the end of the story. Like every new day, it’s only the beginning.
Turn the page.
Enjoy the ride.
Danger Slater
September 2019
BY ANY OTHER CLOCK
the first apocalypse
Erin McCafferty, wearing her headset and tethered to her phone, put a knee on her desk and pulled herself up to the top of the flimsy cubicle wall separating her from the rest of the office. She peered over it and across the call center floor. She’d found that if she stretched her back and tilted her head juuust right, she could catch a glimpse of the corner of her supervisor’s office window.
It was gorgeous outside.
“This has got to be illegal,” she said, to both no one and everyone.
“Only four more hours,” replied Jorge Reyes, leaning back in his chair and speaking up into the ether.
“Why?” asked Jessica Paige Proctor, the co-worker on the opposite side of the cubicle wall over which Erin was currently staring. “You guys leaving early or something?”
“Isn’t it one o’clock?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t we leave at five?” asked Erin.
“No.”
“You’re going to need to explain that one,” she replied.
“Rush started,” said Jessica. “Mandatory overtime. We’re all here ‘til six.”
“That started today?” asked Jorge.
“Yup.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“Thank you for calling Parkman Publishing,” added Erin, climbing off her desk.
“You’re not just messing with us?” Jorge continued.
“I’m not messing with you,” said Jessica. “I don’t like it any more than you do.”
“OK, but you hate it less.”
“That’s not – no, OK, that’s true.”
The conversation having thus reached its conclusion, Jorge and Jessica drifted back to the metaphorical islands of their cubicles, each staring at their clocks and absentmindedly daydreaming about the world beyond their squishy beige half-walls.
“Because we don’t own FedEx, ma’am.”
Erin, meanwhile, was starting to get loud.
“What do you want me to do, ma’am?” she tried not to shout. “If you want your books they have to be shipped to you and that means they’re going to need to be packaged and sent out on a truck or on a plane and that means you’re going to have to pay the shipping comp– Look, lady, until magic becomes a viable method of transportation, that’s your only option.”
Jorge couldn’t stop himself from cackling with delight.
“Did you just cackle?” asked Jessica.
“What’s wrong with cackling?”
It was then that Erin growled. It was adorable and kind of effeminate, but it was definitely a growl.
“Oh my God,” she said, “I hate everyone.” With significantly more flourish this time, Erin climbed back up on her desk and craned her neck toward the window once more. “This job sucks.”
“Thank you for calling Parkman Publishing,” said Jessica.
***
“There’s no sugar.”
“I’m sorry, what?” replied Erin, woken suddenly from her reverie. She had been staring at nothing in particular, for no reason whatsoever.
“There’s no more sugar in the kitchen,” said Jorge, staring at the tiny counter taking up half a wall in the storage room. �
��How am I supposed to drink my coffee?”
Erin’s phone began ringing; her desk was only about fifteen feet away. The ponytailed redhead promptly and professionally ignored it.
“Uh, black?” she answered.
“What am I, some kind of animal?” Jorge responded.
Erin’s phone rang again.
“Isn’t there that fake sugar stuff?”
“There’s the blue ones and the pink ones.”
Erin’s phone rang a third time.
“So use one of those.”
“I really only like the green ones, though.”
Erin’s phone did not ring a fourth time. They both looked toward the door.
“Huh,” said Erin, tilting her head and making a face.
“That’s weird,” said Jorge, furrowing his brow.
***
It had been fifteen solid, silent minutes since anyone’s phone had last rung. Even the guy Jorge had been keeping on hold had hung up. The entire Customer Service department was beginning to get worried – and, more importantly, bored. Fifteen minutes in a call center was an eternity by any other clock. The muffled sound of ambient, idle chatter was growing in volume.
“Holy crap,” said Jorge, standing in his cubicle, his headset around his neck, “I can hear people other than you two.”
“I know,” said Erin, “it’s spooky, right?”
Jorge and Erin listened as the sound of distant, indistinct speech slowly began to change into discrete, defined voices and words ... and conversations.
Erin shuddered. “That is so creepy.”
***
Sheila Yang, the department manager, began making her rounds a short while later, filling in her employees with what little information she had.
That information was this: There appeared to have been some kind of “incident” at Parkman Publishing’s corporate headquarters, the undefined calamity crippling the phone and internet capabilities of all their satellite offices, the call center included. This complete inability to actually do their job notwithstanding, no employee was allowed to leave early. Employees were, however, allowed to use their cell phones freely, a flagrant reversal of standard company policy.
Then again, given that the call center was situated in a former fallout shelter composed almost entirely of concrete, and located just to the left of the middle of nowhere, and juuust barely eked out crap reception on a good day, the employees therein took this more as a taunt from Corporate than a concession. Sheila herself only received the message when she went onto the roof to smoke.
“You smoke?” asked Erin.
“We have access to the roof?” asked Jorge excitedly. The prospect of the call center being comprised of anything besides the parking lot and a sea of cubicles was legitamately something he hadn’t considered.
“Only when I’ve been drinking, and no, only managers,” replied Sheila, standing in the aisle, between the entrances to Erin and Jorge’s respective cubes.
“Can I be a manager?” asked Jorge.
“No.”
“Is everyone OK?” asked Jessica from beyond the wall behind Erin’s desk. “Did they say what was going on over there?”
“They seem to be handling whatever it is pretty well,” answered Sheila. “There was very little screaming in the background.”
There was no audible reaction from Jessica, but everyone assumed she was staring at her beige divider in shocked disbelief.
“It was a joke,” said Sheila.
“Oh,” replied Jessica. “I don’t really think we should be joking about this.”
“Eh.” The manager shrugged.
“People could be hurt. We don’t know what happened, what if it was an earthquake? Or –” Jessica lowered her voice. “– terrorists.”
“I don’t –”
“I’m just not comfortable with you being so callous about this is all.”
“Seriously, Sheila,” Jorge scolded. “I don’t think you understand the gravity of this situation.” He was leaning his arms atop the cubicle wall, staring at her intensely with his deeply brown eyes. “We are all,” he said, “getting incredibly bored.”
“That,” said Erin, ornamented now with a highlighter-yellow, copy paper tiara and hopping up from her chair directly in front of Jorge, “is because you’re not trying hard enough.”
***
An hour passed. There was no further information about the mysterious catastrophe that had struck Parkman Publishing’s corporate office. Sheila was doing all she could, sitting patiently on the roof with a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of emergency bourbon, and holding her phone at all kinds of crazy angles, as suggested by the manufacturer’s instructions.
Her employees had, likewise, found ways to remain productive.
“Why are you still sitting at your desk?” Erin called to Jessica. She was still in her paper tiara, and now adorned with a matching yellow Post-it note scarf. “Come over here,” she said. “I’m teaching Jorge to dance.”
“Not very well,” mumbled Jorge. He was wearing a paperclip tie and a crown made out of old invoices. His right hand was behind Erin’s back; his left hand was holding her right.
“Hey, I’m teaching just fine,” Erin countered. “Your feet aren’t learning properly.”
“I don’t think it’s so much my feet as my hips,” he replied, staring down generally, toward his belted waist and his socks.
“You are remarkably rigid, yes.”
“Well,” he said, mouth cocked, eyes narrowing, “you are holding me pretty close.”
“Hey,” Erin replied, reminding herself as much as him, “I am engaged, mister.”
“Yeah,” said Jorge, returning his gaze to his feet, to his wildly incorrect movements. “But you never talk about him.”
“Yeah ...”
“Aren’t you two the least bit concerned about what’s going on over at Corporate?” asked Jessica.
“Not really, no,” said Jorge.
“Well, I am,” she replied in a huff. “I don’t know how you two can just ignore what happened. It’s selfish is what it is. I mean, what if it was really bad, what if they’re not OK? What if we lose our jobs? What if we’re next?!”
“Oh my Christ,” muttered Erin.
“You really need to stop watching Fox News so much, Jessica,” added Jorge.
“I’m serious! Terrorism is a very real possibility!” she replied. “And even if not, how many people did you two piss off this morning, huh?”
“Oh, I don’t know, at least –”
“Just one of them needs to be crazy. Just one! And how many hundreds of orders do we take a day, huh? The odds aren’t good! They are not in our favor!”
“I’m more than willing to crawl under your desk with you if you’re afraid of being exploded, Jessica,” replied Jorge. He nodded toward the woman still pressed against him. “That goes for you too, Erin.”
“That is remarkably chivalrous of you, Jorge,” Erin replied, twirling away from him, her red hair flying, “but I highly doubt that you or that desk is going to keep me from being all exploded. I appreciate the gesture, though. The thought that counts and all that.”
Jorge pulled Erin closer again.
“I like to think I’m indestructible,” he said. “And that I can set things on fire with my brain.”
“You two are idiots,” Jessica reprimanded. “Worse than idiots.”
“I just don’t see,” said Jorge, “how my getting worried and not doing anything is any more helpful than my not getting worried and not doing anything.”
“Seriously,” added Erin. “It’s not like we’re not going to not do anything anyway, regardless of how much we do or don’t worry.”
“Well, that’s because –” Jessica started. “Actually, hold on, I gotta ... I gotta write this down.”
***
Sheila ran out of bourbon much sooner than she had anticipated. She still had cigarettes, but, since she was no longer drinking, they no longer held any appeal.
She was, however, still very, very drunk. As such, when she stumbled into Jorge’s cubicle and vomited, Sheila was not caught by surprise.
Jorge, Erin, and Jessica, however, were.
“Are you OK?” asked Jorge, still in Erin’s cubicle.
“Jush peachy,” sputtered Sheila. She had one hand pressed against the cubicle wall to steady herself – a job it was not performing particularly well. The manager’s jet black hair was falling over her face as she swayed.
“How much did you drink?” he asked.
“Everything,” she replied.
“That’s ... not really an amount.”
“Your mom.”
“That’s not either.”
Sheila vomited again.
“That probably is, though,” said Erin.
Then, at that moment, a phone rang.
“What the shit is that?” said Jorge, genuinely surprised.
“It’s ... my phone,” said Jessica, confused. “Personal line.”
“They ... They fished the phones,” said Sheila. “I got the tesht ... from the tech guysh here when ... when I was up on the ... the thing.”
Jessica put on her headset and hit the call button.
“Hello?”
“Did they get everything fixed then?” said Jorge.
“Yesh.” Sheila burped.
“To the internet!” exclaimed Erin, raising her index finger into the air. She spun away from Jorge and into her chair.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m at – What?!” said Jessica.
Erin double-clicked the Internet Explorer icon on her desktop. A new window opened, defaulting to CNN.com.
“Holy shit,” she said.
“No ...” said Jorge, leaning over her. “No fucking way ...”
“Oh my God,” said Jessica. “Oh my God!”
“Yeah, I fucking know, right?” added Sheila before vomiting again. The others could hear her stumbling to sitting on the ground. “I guesh we can go home now.”
