The End of Everything Forever

by Eirik Gumeny

  Benjamin Franklin’s spine glowed blue and he belched atomic bile at the window, the radioactive fluids eating through the glass and brick and the poor bastard standing behind them.

  “Holy shit,” said Thor, staring at Benjamin “Motherfuckin’” Franklin, his eyes wide.

  “It’s Franklin’s atomic vomit!” shouted a brewery visitor, crouched behind a nearby railing. “No one knows what it is precisely, or how it happened. When he came back, he just had it!”

  “That sounds gross.”

  “It is! But that doesn’t mean it –” The man abruptly stopped speaking and started screaming as he was now on fire. So was the railing. And a pigeon that had chosen a truly terrible moment to alight.

  “Damn it,” grumbled Thor. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted, “If there are any other people hiding in the immediate vicinity of the brewery and this fire-throwing assclown, you should really run away now.”

  A half-dozen people scrambled from behind garbage cans and benches and fled past the colonial monster, running down the suspended footbridge and toward the wooden skyline of Boston proper.

  Out of frustration, and a lack of variety in his distance attacks, Thor struck Franklin with a tremendous bolt of lightning again, scorching the ground and setting a bench and a few overreaching branches on fire. Benjamin Franklin’s knees buckled slightly, but he didn’t fall. Instead, he came flying toward Thor, riding the jet of flame erupting from his anus.

  “Sugarbuns,” said Thor, stepping away from the door and pulling his arm back, “you should probably get back. I think this is going to do some property damage.”

  Boudica IX backed up from the entranceway and found something solid to crouch behind farther inside the lobby. Peering from the far side of the giant marble statue of a drunken Red Sox fan, she watched through the narrow frame of the door as Benjamin “Motherfuckin’” Franklin roared toward her boyfriend, radioactive bile erupting from his mouth and dissolving Thor’s clothes and patches of his skin. The thunder god didn’t flinch, bringing his fist forward as Franklin neared. The two collided and Benjamin Franklin’s head exploded like a watermelon meeting a sledgehammer. The shockwave shattered every window and splintered every wooden plank in the area, rocking the very tree-foundation of the brewery.

  Boudica IX, for her part, simply fell onto her butt.

  Thor, smoking slightly and more than stark naked, small splashes of muscle fiber visible to the world, looked down and said: “Damn it. Now I have to buy new pants.”

  “Not so fast there, snickernoodle,” commanded Boudica IX, slinking through the porcupined doorway. “You and I aren’t done here yet.”

  “I’m pretty sure we are,” said the thunder god slowly, looking at the headless colonial writer, confusion passing over his face. “And those were the only pants I had, and you and Catrina are always telling me I have to wear them when I go out.”

  “Catrina’s not here.”

  “Well, yeah, but you are.”

  “Yes,” said Boudica IX, pressing herself against her smoldering boyfriend, a smile on her face. “I am.” She pushed Thor to the ground.

  After Queen Victoria XXX murdered Boudica IX in a fit of frothing rage, Dr. Lee Arahami, a mad roboticist, brought the cloned Celtic leader back to life using science. However, unlike fellow miracles of cybernetics rendered powerless by the global blackout, Boudica IX was not overly reliant on subcutaneous microelectronics to function. There were, in fact, only a few parts of her affected by the geomagnetic superstorm that turned out all the lights.

  Lady parts.

  Her bones being titanium, though, and the rest of her mostly meat and human tissue, Thor was unable to strike her with lightning to recharge her genitalia, lest he accidentally fatally electrocute her – even if he did only strike her with a little, tiny lightning bolt, as he often offered. Being in the general vicinity of a much larger sky-clapping electrical discharge, however, turned out to be more than enough to jump start her junk.

  “Holy criminy,” said Boudica IX breathlessly, rolling off the prostrate thunder god and sitting on the scorched sidewalk, “that was worth the wait.”

  “I am a fucking god,” said Thor, sitting up.

  “I know, sweetiepoops,” she replied, patting him patronizingly on his shoulder. “You don’t need to say it every time.”

  “Hey, let’s go get some pancakes,” he said, jumping to his feet, his man bits bouncing in the breeze.

  “Sure,” agreed the redhead, laying her back on the pavement, her pale chest still heaving. “Just give me a couple minutes to catch my breath.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Manual Labor

  “Hey, hi. The light in my room isn’t working. Can you fix it?”

  “Your light doesn’t work because none of the lights work. Anywhere.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “There’s no electricity in the hotel. There’s no electricity anywhere in the state, the continent, or the planet. Your light won’t work without electricity.”

  “But it worked yesterday.”

  “Yesterday the generators worked. Today they don’t.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “You don’t make sense.”

  “It’s really dark in here.”

  “Have you tried opening the curtains?”

  “I have not.”

  “You should.”

  “OK. One sec.”

  The guest in 212 ducked back into his hotel room. Catrina Dalisay, standing in the hallway with a pile of towels under her arm, closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose with her free hand. It was taking every ounce of her self-control not to run down the gaudy carpet and pummel the guest repeatedly with the first blunt object she could find. Or even just the towels if she had to.

  “This is such bullshit,” she muttered.

  Catrina took a deep breath, her expanding chest barely registering beneath the oversized men’s polo she was wearing.

  “Hey, that worked!” The guest’s head reappeared in the hallway. “It’s not dark anymore!”

  “That’s generally how sunlight works.”

  “Oh, that’s sunlight? That’s not going to work at night then, is it?”

  “Probably not, no,” said the exasperated hotel employee. “But who knows when night’s going to fall anyway.”

  “Well, you should. Shouldn’t you?”

  “No, why would I –”

  “Isn’t that part of your job?”

  “Knowing in intimate detail the prerogatives of a fickle and broken sky?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are aware that even professional astronomers and astrophysicists are unable to explain why the atmosphere changes colors at random and why the sun can rise and set three times in an hour and why we haven’t all just died already, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you still think I have the answer to that universal mystery. Because I work for a Holiday Inn.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re kind of special, aren’t you?”

  “That’s what my mommy likes to say.”

  “I’m gonna ... go now. I’ve got ... towels.” Catrina lifted the linens half-heartedly then abruptly turned from the hotel guest and began walking towards the storage closet at the end of the hall.

  There had been twenty-six and a half apocalypses to date. Governments were destabilized so often and so unexpectedly that a person could become mayor by walking into a city and asking politely. The accepted course of action for a global thermonuclear war was to close one’s windows and wait a few days until the offending parties tuckered themselves out and took a nap. Big-budget summer blockbusters regularly involved two old folks sitting on their porch, drinking lemonade and talking about their grandkids.

  The most recent society-shattering shitshow had been a solar superstorm that wiped out most of the electronics in the world. The sun, after a particularly debaucherous evening, had stumbled across the horizon and flipped
a giant, geomagnetic middle finger at the earth, detonating nearly every high-voltage transformer and power line on the planet and crippling the single electrical grid that powered North America.

  For good measure, this solar mass ejection also knocked out every satellite orbiting Earth, turning every television, GPS, and communications device into an expensive paperweight. Hundreds of researchers and vaguely suicidal tourists in the southern regions of Siberia, the jungles of Africa, Utah, and other desolate, uninhabitable places found themselves stranded, unable to find their way back to civilization, call for help, or order a pizza. Millions of teenagers, unable to text or leave snarky comments on YouTube, suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced.

  The world was plunged back into the Boring Ages overnight. Although this meant very little to anyone, as no one was able to Google when the Boring Ages were or how society got out of them the first time.

  Catrina Dalisay was sitting behind the front counter of the Secaucus Holiday Inn, not doing much of anything. In theory she was manning reception, waiting for the phone to ring or for a reservation to come in over the online booking system, but with the generators still not generating and the internet no longer a thing, neither of those options was looking particularly likely. Instead, the tiny Filipina woman was leaning back in her chair, her feet on the computer keyboard, daydreaming about the many ways she could murder the only guest the hotel had had in six weeks.

  Halfway through a blood-soaked fantasy involving an ice cream scoop and a walrus, Catrina heard the stairway door slam open. Sliding her legs off the desk and leaning over the counter, she saw Queen Victoria XXX stepping from the threshold, dragging a bright orange steel hand truck behind her. The beautiful, dark-skinned clone of the long-dead British queen was in khakis cinched with a bungee cord and a baggy green Holiday Inn sweatshirt – her scant wardrobe yet another victim of the hotel’s powerless washing machines and a dry cleaner that had fallen into a sinkhole a few weeks earlier.

  On the hand truck was Chester A. Arthur XVII, the last surviving copy of the former U.S. president and the re-created queen’s boyfriend. Normally a serious, well-dressed man of action – one that wouldn’t so much as dream of idly riding a hand truck down four flights of stairs – he was nonetheless duct-taped to the orange steel, tightly, and wearing only unrelentingly snug boxer briefs.

  Chester A. Arthur XVII – the majority of his body comprised of electronic components after an unfortunate run-in with an arch-nemesis and a hand grenade – looked more than a little uncomfortable with the current situation, like a man kidnapped by Somali pirates and thrown into the back of a speedboat. The LEDs and access panels lining the president’s arms and back were dark, the cannon in his chest was silent, and the few bits of skin he had left around his shoulders and thighs were now red and splotchy from numerous previous tapings.

  “I can’t help but notice you’re getting more and more haphazard about my continued well-being, Vicky, specifically as regards transit without willful and repeated injury,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII. The acid sac playing the part of his stomach bubbled loudly. “And, while we’re on the subject, I don’t think that lo mein you gave me was fit for human consumption.”

  “It probably wasn’t,” replied an exasperated Queen Victoria XXX, wheeling her boyfriend halfway across the lobby and parking him with his back to the wall. “I found it under the bed. We’re basically out of food until Mark gets back.”

  “Can we address the willful abuse part of my complaint, then?”

  “No. You’re lucky I didn’t throw you down the elevator shaft.”

  “You know it’s not my fault I’m mostly electrical now.”

  “And it’s not mine either! I shouldn’t be punished for it!”

  “This happened because I saved your life!”

  “And I said thank you six months ago!”

  “You think I’m enjoying this?”

  “You think I’m enjoying this?”

  “No, I don’t! But that wasn’t the question!”

  The president and the queen continued on like this for a few minutes before Catrina finally realized what was happening.

  “You guys can’t have sex if he’s powered down, can you?” she theorized.

  “No,” said Queen Victoria XXX, immediately breaking down, tears welling in her eyes. “His hands don’t even work.”

  “Can’t you just, you know, take care of things yourself?”

  “You think I haven’t?! I’ve gone through more batteries than the girl’s dormitory at a boarding school!”

  “Is that why none of the flashlights work? We need working flashlights, Vicky.”

  “You going to fuck me?”

  “I wasn’t planning on it, no,” stammered Catrina. “I’m not into the ladies.”

  “Then shut your useless mouth.” The cloned monarch sighed. “I’m sorry. I get angry when I’m horny. And thanks to all these dumb emotions I stopped stifling[iii], the stuff that doesn’t actively involve boning a person I like and respect doesn’t hold me over for very long anymore.”

  “Are you saying you require honest to goodness emotional intimacy in your sex now?”

  “This is exactly why I didn’t want to be in a real relationship in the first place,” mumbled the queen.

  Catrina looked at her with lowered eyes for a moment. Then she said, “Thor’s only been gone four days.”

  “And Charlie’s capacitors only keep a charge for a day at a time.”

  “So ... it’s been three days since you got any.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re this angry.”

  “Yes.”

  “You may have a problem, Vicky.”

  “It’s only a problem when it’s not happening,” growled Queen Victoria XXX.

  “Can one of you scratch my nose?” asked Chester A. Arthur XVII, awkwardly scrunching his face, the one part of himself he still had complete control over.

  “Seriously, Charlie?” replied Queen Victoria XXX.

  “Please? It’s really itchy. I think something bit me.”

  The reconstructed royal growled. “Do you have to put up with this?” she asked Catrina, waving a hand at the cyborg and walking across the candlelit lobby toward the front desk.

  “You mean with Ali?” the girl at the counter clarified. “No, he’s doing all right.”

  “The solar storm didn’t affect him?”

  “Not really. I mean, his right arm is literally dead weight now, but between the lack of customers and nothing in his store working anyway, it’s less of a problem than you’d think.”

  “I’m not asking about his arm.”

  “I figured. I’m afraid of what might happen if I start talking about it, though.” The hotel clerk blushed. “But, uh, yeah, it works[iv].”

  “So why isn’t he here right now, banging your brains out?”

  Catrina stared at her cloned friend, a look of concern on her face.

  “OK, all right, I’m sorry,” said Queen Victoria XXX. “I’ll try to listen to your pointless non-sexy-times story.”

  Catrina continued to stare.

  “No, seriously, I’m fine. Continue.”

  “Ali’s out with Mark and Timmy. Timmy convinced them to turn the grocery run into a peanut butter run.”

  “That seems destined to end in failure.”

  “Yeah, well, Timmy was pretty insistent. He said it was ‘for his kids.’”

  “Yeah, right,” the queen scoffed. “All he’s been talking about for the last month is peanut butter. I think that squirrel has a problem.”

  Catrina once more stared at Queen Victoria XXX, a whole new look of concern on her face.

  “God damn it, you’re right,” said the reconstituted monarch. “I should just man up and take care of myself myself. Again.” She continued, mumbling, “Then maybe I can look at people without imagining what they look like naked and tied to a bed.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, nothing,” said Qu
een Victoria XXX. “I’m gonna go upstairs and get my head right.”

  “I think it’s for the best.”

  “OK.”

  Queen Victoria XXX continued to stand before the candle-lined front counter, arms crossed and staring vacantly at the ponytailed hotel employee in the oversized shirt.

  “Why are you still here?” asked Catrina.

  “Oh, am I?” replied the queen.

  “It’s unnerving when you look at me all empty-eyed like that. You are a very intimidating person, Vicky.”

  “Right, sorry.” Queen Victoria XXX moved her gaze to the floor.

  After a moment, Catrina said, “You want me to come with you, don’t you?”

  “Maybe.”

  The hotel clerk sighed. “OK, fine. I will hold your hand and tell you you’re pretty, but I’m leaving as soon as it gets graphic.”

  “Thank you.”

  The two women crossed the lobby for the stairwell, passing the immobile Chester A. Arthur XVII. Queen Victoria XXX repeatedly tried to take Catrina’s hand in hers.

  “You two are going to return soon, right?” he queried. The stairwell door slammed shut in reply. Chester A. Arthur XVII frowned slightly.

  “Now my knee’s itchy.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Suck My Balls, Racists

  Timmy was a chemically-enhanced, telepathic squirrel. As such, he not only enjoyed himself some peanut butter, but he understood that he enjoyed himself some peanut butter and knew how to go about getting more peanut butter so that he could continue to keep enjoying said peanut butter. Lately however, he had been enjoying the nut spread too much. Well, no. Timmy hadn’t enjoyed it in weeks. He just needed it. On a scary, compulsive level.

  To be fair, this unquenchable desire wasn’t entirely Timmy’s fault. Six months earlier, Nikola Tesla’s earthquake machine nearly broke the world in half. While the doomsday device was stopped before it could permanently scar the planet too much, one of the many other consequences of the day was that an offshore peanut butter processing facility got tossed around pretty hard, and the managing company’s nicotine and heroin processing operations got mixed up with the peanut butter. Consolidated Phukital, the company in question, did some quick and questionable math, decided the nicotine and heroin levels in the peanut butter weren’t high enough to be of concern, and shipped the tainted product off to their customers.