by Eirik Gumeny
She adjusted the blanket again.
“I was about to take a shower and try and wash that nightmare away,” the hotel employee continued. “Right up until some mannerless tool barged in on me and made me rethink my need to deadbolt the door, that is.”
Once more, she adjusted the comforter.
“Why the hell are you here?” asked Catrina. “You look like shit.”
“My apartment now has a lovely view of the Hollow Earth,” he answered. “I needed a place to crash.”
“Well, why the fuck didn’t you knock?”
“Why would I knock? This floor’s been empty since I started working here. Besides, I’m not exactly thinking about my manners, OK? I woke up in a hole, Catrina, a fucking hole, and I had to kill so, so many Hollow Men ... I think I might’ve committed genocide, honestly. And then I had to ride a giant mole ... to ... to the surface ...” Thor drifted off mid-sentence, his eyes glazing over. He wobbled slightly.
“Yeah, OK, I got it. Sucks to be you,” said Catrina. “401 is mine, OK? Go get yourself another room.” She adjusted the comforter again. It was proving to be less comfortable than its name implied. “Down the hall or something,” she continued, “so we don’t share any plumbing.”
It was then that Catrina realized Thor wasn’t paying any attention. He appeared to be staring at the mirror to the right of her. She turned her head. Apparently, the last readjustment of the comforter had readjusted a little too much. Her rounded butt was square in the mirror, framed with ornate wood like a classical masterpiece of ass portraiture.
“Fuck!” she said. “You son of a bitch!”
Catrina stepped to the nearby table and grabbed the coffee maker with both hands, completely losing control of the blanket in the process. She turned and hurled the appliance at the former god’s filthy head.
Thor fell to the ground with a smile on his face.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
There Are a Lot of Dead Acrobats for Some Reason
Chester A. Arthur XVII and Queen Victoria XXX sat in the reinforced sedan in a comfortable silence, the charred and decimated surroundings that blurred by becoming more and more familiar with every passing mile. The CD player made a stilted ka-chunk as it shifted through each empty tray, eventually settling on the same dollar-bin disc that had been playing in an endless loop for the last few hours.
“You know, this wasn’t a bad CD for a dollar,” said Queen Victoria XXX.
“Yeah, I kinda like it,” replied the repurposed genetic copy of Chester A. Arthur.
The vaguely folksy music continued to fill the car at a pleasant volume, and the two went back to sitting in relative silence: Chester A. Arthur XVII behind the wheel, bleary-eyed and determined; Queen Victoria XXX staring out the passenger window in a drowsy daze.
The president cleared his throat.
“Hmm?” asked Queen Victoria XXX.
“Nothing. Just had a –”
“Oh. Sorry.”
The quiet descended again, this time not lifting until the pair pulled into their apartment building’s parking lot.
“Kind of an uneventful trip,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, shifting the car into park.
“Yeah,” agreed Queen Victoria XXX, placing her hands against the ceiling and stretching her back.
The cloned president turned the key and removed it from the ignition. The CD stopped playing. The engine sputtered and died.
“Made pretty good time, too.”
“We did,” replied the reconstituted monarch, “especially considering all the shit that went down after we got lost.”
“Yeah,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII. “I can’t believe those –”
“Seriously. And then they made you marry –”
“I don’t – I’m really not ready to talk about that yet.”
“And then, when we –”
“And you had to –”
“Oh, god!”
“Yeah.”
“That poor horse,” sniffled the queen.
***
“Billy,” called Chester A. Arthur XVII, nudging open the door to the apartment with his foot and entering the kitchen, piled cases of alcohol in his arms, “we’re back. We got beer.”
“Lots and lots of beer,” said Queen Victoria XXX, following the president and similarly laden. “Get off your ass and help us bring it in.”
“My dear lady,” said William H. Taft XLII, walking into the kitchen from the living room, “my posterior has been aloft for quite some time.”
“That ... doesn’t seem right,” said Queen Victoria XXX, tilting her head.
It should be noted that the clone of the country’s fattest president was walking into the kitchen on his hands.
“OK, whoever’s controlling Billy needs to leave now,” ordered Chester A. Arthur XVII. “I’m not above injuring his body grievously to help him.” To reinforce his point, Chester A. Arthur XVII waved the cases of beer he was carrying in a threatening manner.
“As you wish,” vibrated the vocal chords inside of William H. Taft XLII, the hefty frame surrounding them falling back to its feet, “but I feel you should know, this was entirely his idea.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Hobo State
Will Shanks, the high-minded drifter, and Quetzalcoatl, former Aztec god of various things, stepped from the van, in front of a run-down bookstore in the middle of a bombed-out section of an abandoned town in a once-quarantined county in the middle of a state that was disowned by the government and handed over to hobos in the hope that they’d either stop being hobos or die.
“This way,” said Will, leading Quetzalcoatl into the building. “Mind the broken glass.”
Hippies, stoners, philosophers, English majors, coffee shop baristas, and all manner of unemployable or otherwise destitute types flocked to the Hobo State almost immediately after it was established. Some came to liberate themselves from the shackles of authoritarianism or the patriarchy, others were there to peddle various illicit wares. Some simply adhered to more bohemian ideals about hygiene. A few had gotten lost. None of them paid rent.
The man in the flannel led the former Aztec god in the kilt past empty, broken bookcases and overturned tables, across a floor covered with stacks and stacks of weathered books and decaying magazines.
“This is our theater, our arena ... our home,” said Will. “Well, ‘ours’ in the sense that our collective resides here most often. We do not own the building, per se, but then ownership is such an ... ethereal thing.” He stepped over a pile of sleeping, scraggly cats. “Everyone is downstairs.”
Will and Quetzalcoatl walked through a doorless doorway and into what appeared to have once been the break room of the bookstore. The grungy philosopher continued straight through the room, to another un-doored doorway and a set of stairs leading down to the basement. Quetzalcoatl followed him inattentively, instead admiring the asymmetrical distress of the room. There was a broken table, a ratty couch, two microwaves blinking different hours, and a corkboard still covered in safety notices and employee incentives dated three years ago.
Due to this acute and totally precedented fascination with the disarray of the room, Quetzalcoatl’s skull collided violently with the drop-ceiling above the stairway.
“Watch your head,” said Will.
The former god responded to Will’s advice by collapsing and falling down the stairs.
“... oh, shit.” Will ran down the stairs after Quetzalcoatl, only reaching him after the Mexican man’s body had stopped tumbling and lay on the cold concrete floor of the basement, the kilt riding up and revealing Quetzalcoatl’s affinity for 1970s’ pornography trends.
“Mr. Sausage King!” said Will, lifting Quetzalcoatl into a sitting position. “Mr. Sausage King ... are you all right?”
Quetzalcoatl stood up slowly and dusted himself off.
“Please,” said Quetzalcoatl, shaking his head and getting his bearings, “call me Quinn.”
“You’ve got a nasty bruise o
n your head, Quinn,” said Will. “And I doubt the fall ... helped remedy the situation. Are you sure you’re OK?”
“Biscuits and gravy, colonel,” said Quetzalcoatl. “Biscuits and gravy.”
“Wonderful,” replied his host, trusting entirely the cryptic medical assessment of the crazy man with potential head trauma. “Then I’d like you to meet some of our members.”
From the shadows of the dimly lit basement emerged a trio of amorphous shapes. Stepping into said dimly lit light, they revealed themselves to be three nearly identical thirty-something men. Judging by the glasses and the facial hair, Quetzalcoatl assumed they had all been liberal arts professors.
“Quinn,” said Will, “meet Bill, Syl, and Phil. They are the senior most advocates of our ... aggregate of minds.”
“Bawdy jewelry, gentlemen,” said Quetzalcoatl, curtsying.
“Bill, Syl, Phil,” continued Will, “I’d like you to meat Quill – I mean Quinn. I ... discovered him this afternoon, lecturing to a family of more ... conventionally-minded folks. The exchange took a slightly ... violent turn, but that, my fellow fellows, is precisely why I recruited him. Our collective has been ... less than forthcoming with any ... tangible results.”
“How” asked Syl, “can one expect to grasp an idea, though? By definition, our ... assemblage is one of ... minds and ideas, not actions.”
“Do not be snide,” said Phil. “You know full well the ... intent of Will’s statement. Let the man continue with his introduction.”
“Of course, Phil” said Syl, “my apologies, Will.”
“It’s all right, Syl,” said Will. “And thank you, Phil, but, truly, who am I to ... commandeer anyone’s right to speak as they see fit.”
“Please, Will,” said Syl, “continue.”
“As you wish,” said Will, turning his attention to Quetzalcoatl. “As I have previously mentioned to you, Quinn, the ... machinations of our group have been somewhat ... less than effective, all things considered. While we by no means harbor doubts that an idea can change the world ... can save it from itself, even ... we have come to realize that said idea requires ... implementation ... of a sort we are incapable of. Our ideas, sadly, must be converted into action ... into a ... result that can be seen, touched, tasted ... into something less ethereal, that is, if it is to have any hope of being reflected within society at large.”
“And that,” said Phil, “is our failing.”
“We are not able to ... instill our ideas,” continued Bill, “upon the common man. Our ... designs are too many, our scope is too vast. We have, so far, been unable to ... distill these notions into a single plan, a single stratagem.”
“And it is my hope that you, Quinn,” said Will, “with your ... unique perspective on the world ... will be able to ... descry the more visceral components of our ideas ... and affect them to the varied masses.”
“Are you sure,” asked Syl of Will, in front of Bill and Phil, “that he is up to the task? That any one person could truly hope to –”
“Up, up and away, ladies,” interrupted Quetzalcoatl, holding up his hand and bowing his head. “I’ll fuck your mothers.”
The leaders of the clandestine cabal of philosophers smiled almost giddily, taking tremendous satisfaction from the statement.
Quetzalcoatl broke out laughing.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
For Science!
“Do we have results on subject 37-E yet, Dr. Ramos?”
“Same results as subjects 37-A through 37-D, Dr. Meola. It broke free from its restraints, damaged the holding cell door, assaulted three interns, then killed the intervening security guards and wore their entrails as clothing.”
“Only three this time?” asked Dr. Meola, punching the number into a spreadsheet on his tablet. The handful of workstations surrounding the doctors hummed slightly. “Either this one is slower than the others or the interns are finally getting smarter.”
“There were only three interns left,” replied Dr. Ramos.”
“Oh.”
“This subject seems especially vicious, actually. Faster, stronger, smarter than the others.”
“Smarter?”
“It, uh ...” Dr. Ramos cleared his throat. “It talked, Tony.”
“Talked? It shouldn’t be able to –” Dr. Meola stopped abruptly. “What did it say?”
“It, uh, well ... It said, ‘I’m a pretty, pretty princess.’ It was dancing around in the guards’ intestines at the time. It managed to fashion them into a, uh, dress.”
“I’m sorry?”
“An A-line, I’m told. The subject also shaped the damaged shackles into what Judy said appeared to be a tiara.”
“Judy?”
“One of the interns. You’ll see her at lunch,” said Dr. Ramos. “She’ll be the one with half a face.”
“This is certainly less than heartening,” grumbled the other scientist. “I’m beginning to think we may have to scrap the program entirely.”
“Maybe man wasn’t meant to play god after all, Tony.”
The two geneticists looked at one another with grave repentance on their faces. They immediately started cracking up.
“Seriously, though,” continued Dr. Ramos, catching his breath and wiping a tear from his eye, “it probably wasn’t the best idea cross-breeding a werewolf and an atomic mutant, engineering it to be excessively belligerent, starving it, and then insulting its mother repeatedly.”
“No, probably not,” said Dr. Meola. “Hindsight and all that.” He shrugged. “Might as well get George over here and have him put the subject down. We’ll perform the autopsy after lunch and then bury it with the others.”
“You got it, Tony.” Dr. Ramos turned and made for the computer lab’s exit.
“Dr. Ramos,” said Dr. Meola, looking thoughtfully at his tablet, “before you do that ... You want to get Alexi drunk and make him wrestle it?”
“Oh, hell yes.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Ghost in the Non-Machines
After Starbucks obliterated the internet in its bidding war with Walmart, society tried its damnedest to maintain some kind of a hold on the economy, while simultaneously rediscovering the basics of social interaction.
Society failed.
Oddly enough, this simultaneous collapse of commerce and basic human decency was not considered an apocalypse. The resulting riots, the swift and drastic increase in crime, the burning down of Sweden and Norway and the global Torrent War, however, ended the world for the fifth time.
Some historians lumped the whole string of events together, but some historians were idiots.
“I still can’t believe you rented your own body out to the spirit world,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII through a mouthful of meat.
“It got the job done,” replied William H. Taft XLII with a shrug. He leaned against the half-wall of the apartment’s balcony.
In the course of reinventing the internet, Japan accidentally found a way to raise the dead. While most countries would have stopped what they were doing, prayed to various deities – as religion was still valid at this point – and then shit their pants, this was Japan. They weren’t about to let an impossible nightmare slow them down.
The internet has been powered by ghosts ever since.
“Good god,” said Queen Victoria XXX, staring at the enormous hunk of ground beef in her hands. “These hamburgers are delicious.”
Due to the increasing frequencies of apocalypses, the various heavens were eventually forced to add cover charges and dress codes, as well as start patrolling their respective borders more thoroughly than before. As a result, a large number of atheists and other “undesirables” – not exactly evil enough for Hell, but not quite qualifying for this new, more stringent definition of good, either – were denied their eternal rewards and, instead, found themselves tethered to their decaying mortal frames for all time.
Luckily for them, Japan’s complete disregard for the established policies of the universe free
d those spirits from that never-ending boredom. The result being, of course, there were now a large number of vacant corpses.
With ethics no longer an issue – seeing as how souls were now not only confirmed, but, most assuredly, otherwise occupied – these empty corpses were brought to life by a rejuvenated USSR. The Soviets almost immediately lost control of the experiment, though, in a shameful incident involving a night watchmen, a hooker, a gross of novelty balloons, and two enraged elephants. This swiftly led to the Zombie Holocaust and ended the world for the sixth time.
Amidst the widespread death and undeath, the ensuing chaos, and the newfound efficiency of the internet, the idea of coupling free-ranging, mercenary spirits with the marauding hordes of zombies managed to escape the collective thinking of the world’s remaining populace.
“Yep,” agreed the reanimated, rotting cadaver of a police officer, held together by duct tape and staples and currently being possessed by the ghost of Jesse James, “they sure are.”
At least until Chester A. Arthur XVII realized there was good money to be made in it.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Expletives Ahoy!
“oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit”
“Why won’t it die? Why won’t it die?!”
Dr. Meola and Dr. Ramos ran through the sterile hallways of the research facility, scrambling across the linoleum and bouncing off of walls, desperate for an exit and, hopefully, an extension on their lives. They bounded down the main corridor of the east wing, blood-splattered lab coats flapping as they ran, heading for the double doors in front of them.
“The doors are locked,” said Dr. Ramos, shoving them repeatedly despite his statement. “The doors are locked!”
Things were not going well.
