The End of Everything Forever

by Eirik Gumeny

  “Bat!” said Cleveland.

  “One pee-ple,” repeated Deepen, raising a single skeletal finger in front of his face. “Us three. Us more.” He gestured to the far sides of the office, across piles of overturned desks and collapsed cubicles, over the bile stains and half-eaten organs and bare, broken bones, to the other twitching cadavers eating old friends, to the shambling corpses gathering at the windows.

  “Us mor.”

  “Us mor,” echoed Cleveland, his torn, clotted mouth forcing its way into a smile.

  Deepen turned toward the window once again, his good eye focusing on the young man outside, his hunger growing.

  “One pee-ple mor pee-ple!” shouted Satish suddenly. “Mor!”

  Deepen turned and slapped him across the face. Satish lost his jaw in the process. “Cahm. Fak. Dow,” said Deepen, grabbing Satish by his exposed collarbones. “Juh. One. One pee-ple.”

  “Unff peeeperle morrr peeeeperle,” repeated Satish weakly, rapidly expanding and collapsing his chest cavity, the muscle memory of a panic attack. “Allwahaysth morrr.”

  “Nuh. One.”

  “Nuh one,” said Cleveland quietly, disbelievingly, staring out the window.

  Deepen turned toward him.

  “Nuh one,” repeated Cleveland. “Mor. Mor!”

  From the window the trio of reanimated corpses could see five more living, breathing, weapon-carrying people meandering along the street below.

  “Fak,” said Deepen.

  The ding of the hallway elevator echoed into the silent office.

  “Uh?” remarked Cleveland.

  “Nurring,” replied Deepen weakly, “juh –”

  The lights came on, bathing the entire office in an awful fluorescence. The three deceased co-workers shrank and huddled together, then looked around the entrail-strewn office. Their undead colleagues were doing the same, gathering at the edges and slowly shuffling sideways toward them.

  Then they heard it.

  “Hello?”

  “Shih,” sputtered Cleveland, stepping back and bumping against the window. Satish put himself behind Deepen, clutching at his shoulders.

  “Is there anybody in here?”

  Satish’s remaining fingers tightened around Deepen’s shoulders, then into. One of Deepen’s arms came off in the process.

  “Vraapth,” said Satish. “Vraapth vraapth vraaapthing vraapth.”

  “Shih!” shouted Cleveland. He turned, then pounded a fist and a stump against the window. “Shih!” He pressed his forehead against the glass to get a better look. There were dozens of men and women now, all unmutilated and breathing oxygen and carrying axes and frying pans and shotguns.

  “Nuh,” he muttered, an eye sliding forward slightly. “Nuuuuh ...”

  “Hello?” The voice was getting closer. “I can hear you. I know you’re in here.”

  Satish shrank back, leaning against the window.

  “You fucking monsters.”

  The elevator dinged again.

  “Fak,” said Cleveland, turning toward the sound. The rest of the reanimated office workers, gathered near now, did the same.

  “Uh uth doooo?” asked Satish. “Uh?!”

  Deepen simply smiled, his lips cracking and his bloodied teeth bared.

  “Us eat pee-ple brains,” snarled Deepen, narrowing his one working eye. He stepped forward, grabbing a heavy stapler from the nearest desk with his good arm. “Brains,” he repeated.

  “Brains,” said Cleveland, stepping beside Deepen. “Braaaiiins.” They began lurching forward; their co-workers fell in line, lumbering behind them.

  “Braaaiiins,” they gurgled. “Braaaaaaiiiiinnnsss.”

  LA PETITE MORT

  after the eleventh apocalypse

  “Yes,” moaned Erin McCafferty, throwing her head back, “just like that, just like –”

  The man with his face in her crotch began grumbling something in ancient Egyptian, his voice deeper and coarser than he normally sounded. This was alarming, not only for the obvious reason of completely ruining the mood, but also because the man wasn’t Egyptian and, to the best of Erin’s knowledge, didn’t speak Egyptian, be the dialect past, present, or somewhere in between.

  “Dan?” she asked, lifting her head from her pillow. “Are you –”

  Daniel Fitzgerald, young and fit and nude, was still kneeling between her legs, but the man was no longer doing what the woman had brought him there to do. He was hunched, but strangely, like he’d frozen mid-contortion; his eyes had turned black and glossy as polished obsidian. The man’s skin was wrinkling, like days-old fried chicken. But, perhaps most importantly, he appeared to be dripping copious amounts of blood from every orifice and pore.

  Erin groaned – of the less-than-pleased variety – and made a face, then sat up, pulling her knees to her chest and dragging a blanket over herself.

  “That’s ... probably not good,” she said. She reached for her phone on the nightstand, began tapping. “Yeah, nope, there it is. Mummy’s curse.”

  Sitting on his feet behind Dan, Erin’s husband, Jorge Reyes, shook his head. “I told you this was a bad idea,” he said.

  “You seemed to be enjoying it just fine up until a minute ago,” she teased.

  “Well, yeah ... OK, but I was still right,” he said, climbing off the bed. “So is this a drag him outside kind of affair or a bash his head in with a crowbar one?”

  Erin continued scrolling. “I’m looking ...”

  CRY HAVOC, AND LET SLIP THE WAFFLES OF WAR

  the twelfth apocalypse

  Five black helicopters chopper away overhead, searchlights crawling across the human slums lining the edge of the city. Sid and I are hunkered down in a drainage pipe just beyond the ghetto, hunched on our toes and trying to keep everything important out of the watery shit spewing past.

  “I think they’re following us,” I say, leaning, throwing a careful glance up at the search team.

  As if on cue, the helicopters turn and drop, sweeping closer to the sewage treatment plant, the downdraft churning up pulpy liquid from the spillway in front of us. We push backward into the pipe.

  “Why are they following us?” I whisper. I wipe sludge from my wrist, check my watch. “It’s not past curfew, is it?”

  “No, we’re good,” Sid says quietly. “With the time anyway.”

  “‘With the time?’ What aren’t you telling me, Sid?”

  “You’re not going to like it ...”

  “Talk.”

  “Fine,” he says. He takes a deep breath, regrets it immediately. “Jesus.” Then, holding out a styrofoam box to me: “I, uh, I didn’t pay for the waffles.”

  I deflate. “Really, man? That’s what you think this is about?”

  “They were, like, super expensive.”

  “So, what? Fifteen bucks?”

  “More like ... five hundred,” he mumbles.

  “Dollars?”

  “Yes.”

  “American?”

  “Yes,” he says. “Five hundred and one, technically. Before taxes.”

  “And one? God damn it, Sid!” I shout, leaning my head back. “That’s a Class D felony!”

  “I didn’t know that when I took them!”

  “That shouldn’t – Why would you steal five-hundred fucking dollar waffles, you gangrenous twatknuckle?!”

  “Jesus, man,” he hisses. “Be quiet!”

  “Asshole,” I mumble. I shake my head. “Let’s just lie low for a few and get home.”

  “Hey,” he says, “I’ve always wondered: What’s the D stand for?”

  “What?”

  “The D, in Class D, what’s it stand for?”

  “DOOM,” screeches a voice that isn’t either of ours. We turn to look and find a massive cybernetic monstrosity blocking our exit.

  “Shit,” I say.

  “Look what you did!” hisses Sid.

  The robot’s an Android Coalition Security Droid – a Mark I cyborg, the first in a line of human/robot e
xperiments. The thing looks like a Ken doll and an electronics store dumpster smashed together by a troubled five-year-old. Exhaust blades where limbs should be, flesh used like twine. It’s a walking cyberpunk nightmare.

  “Go,” I all but shout, ushering Sid back they way we came. “Go!” We try to disappear into the sewage pipe but there’s a metal grate no more than twenty feet back. We turn and the cyborg’s on hands and treads, crawling toward us. We’re trapped, we’re fucked, and, worse, all the runny poop we’re standing in is starting to seep into our socks.

  “Crap,” I say. “What’re we –”

  “Uh ... Here!” shouts Sid, hoisting the take-out box and squeezing past me toward the cyborg. “Take the waffles!”

  “Code 42C, Statute iii of the Coalition Codes of Conduct,” drones the robotic part of the once-a-human. “Returning stolen property does not subvert the initial offense.”

  “OK, sure,” says Sid, “but, like, they’re ... for you? As a gift.”

  “Code 822R, Statute xi of the Coalition Codes of Conduct: Bribery is punishable –”

  “What? No,” he stammers. “Who said bribe? I didn’t say bribe. I just figured you could ... use a break?”

  “I have no need for sustenance.”

  “Waffles aren’t for sustenance, dummy. They just taste good.”

  There’s a pause, then the red robotic eyes of the cyborg’s Hunt Mode blink blue. The entire meat-and-circuit monstrosity seems to relax. “The sustenance paste they feed us is pretty disgusting,” says the cyborg. “Robots should not be in charge of food.”

  “That’s what I’m saying,” replies Sid, shoving the box into the security ‘bot’s mostly-human hands. “Here. Eat.”

  The cyborg’s eyes flash purple for a moment – Computing Mode – before returning to blue. The thing, eyes on us, slowly opens the styrofoam lid. It picks up a waffle, holding it between two fingers, and cocks its head – and then it crams the entire waffle into its Food Deglutition Cavity.

  “Oh my God,” says the cyborg, leaning back and dropping to a sitting position, impervious to the poop still sailing by. “These waffles are incredible! Amazing! I can ... Oh my God, I can feel again!”

  “So, then,” says Sid, “you’re not going to bring us in then, right?”

  The robot’s eyes flick red. “Tell me where you got these waffles.” It stands, expands somehow, filling the entire pipe. “Tell me where –”

  “The Tick Tock Diner,” Sid answers immediately.

  “On Old Route 3,” I add.

  “I need to obtain more of these,” the cyborg monotones, before hopping out of the pipe and into the spillway and heading west, entirely ignoring its idling helicopter.

  “What the hell is in those waffles?” I whisper, sliding up and watching the robot skip away.

  “Pre-war Canadian maple sugar.”

  “Oh.”

  “And military-grade hallucinogens.”

  “Damn it, Sid! We have been over this!” I bark. “You can’t – Wait. What do military-grade hallucinogens do to a human/robot hybrid?”

  “I don’t –”

  There’s a tremendous sound, then a number of even more tremendous explosions. We scurry to the end of the tunnel, peer out. The cyborg is a half-mile down the spillway in full-on Kill Mode, weapons extended from all its orifices.

  “COME BACK HERE, YOU STUPID BUTTERFLY!”

  More explosions, and then we watch as Mother Murphy’s Home for Wayward Bastards erupts in a tiny mushroom cloud of nuclear fire. Babies and nuns and debris go flying. Firefighting drones spring up from the sidewalk surrounding the flaming wreckage. The security cyborg starts picking up burning orphans and throwing them at the drones.

  “That’s just mean,” says Sid.

  “This is absolutely going to end the truce,” I add.

  REVENGE OF THE SUPPER

  the fifteenth apocalypse

  Dr. Wild ran into Dr. Mannheim’s office, out of breath and slamming the door behind him. With great passion, the immaculately-goateed young man turned the deadbolt.

  “Test subject TMO-3,” he panted, pressing his back to the door. “He’s loose.”

  “Loose?” replied the other doctor, cocking a wild eyebrow.

  “And pissed off.”

  “He’s just a turkey.”

  “Haven’t you been reading the updates?” asked Dr. Wild.

  “No, not for the TMOs. I’ve been focusing on the PX project.”

  “Well, the short version is, there’s plenty to be concerned about.” Looking frantically around the room, Dr. Wild grabbed the top of a filing cabinet and began dragging it toward the door. “Help me move –”

  The entryway exploded, sending Dr. Wild sprawling sideways across the office and launching the filing cabinet’s contents into the air like thick confetti. As the papers floated down and the smoke drifted up, a very large turkey stepped into the smouldering threshold.

  Dr. Mannheim tilted his head. “Is that –”

  “TMO-3!” shouted Dr. Wild, crab-walking backward and then diving behind Dr. Mannheim and the large metal desk at which he was still sitting. The younger doctor, his blonde hair mussed, stared with wide eyes at the older doctor, somehow entirely unflapped by the proceedings.

  “I don’t see what the big deal is,” said Dr. Mannheim, shrugging slightly, “I’ve eaten bigger birds than –”

  The genetically-modified turkey pulled an AK-47 from behind his back.

  “OK,” said Dr. Mannheim, raising an eyebrow again, “that’s new.”

  “He took out the security team,” said Dr. Wild, grabbing Dr. Mannheim’s shirt and pulling. “Now get down!”

  In the extended moment it took TMO-3 to wrap his artificially-prehensile feathers around the trigger, Dr. Mannheim was able to flip his desk and join his colleague in huddling on the floor. A spray of bullets soon flew above them.

  “Why did you teach him to use a firearm?” the older doctor roared.

  “We didn’t teach him,” replied Dr. Wild, “he picked it up on his own. And quickly.”

  The stream of bullets moved lower and began slamming into the desk. The younger doctor yelped, pulling his knees to his chest, then –

  He opened a single eye. Then the other. “That is one hell of a desk,” he said, admiring the lack of artillery tearing through it.

  “I don’t fuck around when it comes to office furniture,” replied Dr. Mannheim. “And I don’t fuck around when it comes to being attacked by poultry, either.” Grabbing the phone cord, he pulled the receiver around the desk and to his side. The earpiece was shattered, but Dr. Mannheim had no intention of listening.

  He hit *99 and spoke into the phone: “Attention, this is Dr. James Mannheim. We’ve got a Code 12 in my office and need assistance. Release the Christmas Ham.”

  “We have a code for this?” asked an incredulous Dr. Wild.

  “Yes. This happens almost every November.”

  “Is that why you guys recruited me so persistently last December?”

  “It may have played a part.”

  The gunfire stopped abruptly. There was a small tunk and then a very, very loud boom. The desk bulged slightly and slid a few inches backwards.

  “He’s got explosives?” asked the older doctor.

  “He’s got explosives,” replied the younger one.

  “You could have mentioned that.”

  “I was a little too busy trying not to soil myself.”

  An awful squawk cut through the air, followed by a gravelly yet high-pitched voice.

  “Devils!” it screeched. “Savages! No more will you play God with my feathered brethren! No more will you torture us and experiment on us just for plumper, juicier breasts! No more will you freeze our desecrated corpses and sell them to families honoring their genocidal ancestors! Your time is at an end, barbarians! So sayeth Timothy the turkey!”

  There was another tunk, another boom, and then the gunfire resumed.

  “You never enhance their sent
ience. Never!” barked Dr. Mannheim. “That’s rule one!”

  “We thought we could make them accept their fate! Make them willingly plump themselves up! We’d already increased their appetites and their ability to gain weight. It seemed like the next logical step!”

  The constant barrage of bullets against the desk was getting louder, echoing; the metal, reinforced though it was, was starting to give out. Just over the sound, though, the scientists could just make out a frothing, snarling oink.

  “What the hell is that?!”

  “The Christmas Ham,” replied Dr. Mannheim, smiling cruelly.

  The AK-47 ceased firing almost immediately. A low, steady rumbling could be heard in concert with the oinking. Paper clips strewn across the ground near the scientists began to vibrate and jump slightly.

  “How big is that thing?”

  “Big,” said the older doctor. “Big enough to feed a small country.”

  The rumbling turned into something like thunder. There was a terrified skreak and then a porcine roar. And then there was silence.

  Dr. Mannheim inched up over the desk, little more than a bald head and a pair of crazy eyebrows, to see what had become of Timothy the Turkey.

  The bird was gesticulating to the Christmas Ham, articulating all he had learned of the scientists’ goals via a kind of animal sign-language. Though confusion contorted the pig’s face, the Ham nonetheless appeared to be nodding his assent.

  Dr. Mannheim slid slowly to the floor, his back against the desk.

  “Well?” asked Dr. Wild.

  The older man turned and stared at the younger one, resignation in his eyes. Then, his voice dark and grave, he said: “Our goose is cooked.”

  CHINESE TAKE-OUT, by Stephen Schwegler

  the fifteenth apocalypse, part two

  Conservatively, an estimated seven-million wild turkeys were encircling the Palisades Center in West Nyack, Old New York, ready to strike. The mall was the last human stronghold of the avian apocalypse: a fortified monument to consumerism, packed with countless food vendors, a Home Depot to start doing some small-scale farming, a movie theater for some entertainment – albeit only showing Oscar hopefuls – and about a hundred or so other shops able to keep the survivors alive.