by Eirik Gumeny
“That doesn’t help me at all.”
“I never told you to get a skirt that short.”
“I think it’s bracing,” said Boudica IX in her even shorter skirt.
“Yes, but that’s because you’re insane,” said Ali, shivering in his sweatshirt and cargo pants, his good arm crossed over his chest. “It’s maybe twenty degrees out. We’re all freezing. Except for Charlie and his stupid vintage wool suit.”
“It’s actually less helpful than you would think,” replied the president, laying on his back in two inches of snow and ash, the melting precipitation soaking into his pants and jacket.
“Remind me never to take any of you to Jötunheimr[xiii]. Or Finland,” said Thor with a dismissive shake of his head. He knocked on the colossal metal door before them.
“Dr. Arahami?” asked the thunder god, looking around and hoping to find the hidden security camera. He knocked again.
“What if he doesn’t have any generators?” suggested Queen Victoria XXX.
“He has generators,” answered Ali.
“What if they don’t work?” countered the queen.
The Norseman knocked again. There was no response.
“We’re going to have to find a way in,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII from where he lay in the slushy cinders. He spit a falling flake of ash from his mouth.
Thor knocked again, much, much harder. The giant door shuddered and fell inwards.
“Done,” said the thunder god.
***
“Lee?” called Chester A. Arthur XVII, slung across Thor’s shoulders. “You here?”
The group wandered through room after room of utter darkness, occasionally bumping into furniture or bouncing off the edge of a doorway. Eventually they found the roboticist in his kitchen. Dr. Lee Arahami was sprawled on the tiled floor, his shoulders slumped against his cabinets. A few stumps of candles flickered from the countertop. In their wavering glow, the six visitors could see dried blood on the doctor’s chin and a belt wrapped around his thigh as a tourniquet.
“Lee?”
The doctor stirred, his eyes blinking in the dim light.
“Charlie?”
“Lee, what the hell happened?”
Thor placed the inert, sopping wet body of Chester A. Arthur XVII on the floor next to the scientist.
“The power went out ... and ... I couldn’t leave. The door ... it wouldn’t open. I had to ... I had to eat my own foot,” explained the doctor. “I taste terrible.”
“Duck?” asked Boudica IX, pulling an electrifried wing from her bag and holding it out to the scientist. “It’s a little cold.”
The doctor’s eyes widened. He shifted slightly on the floor, his shoulders twitching. He moved his head forward with notable resolve but nothing else followed.
“Would you mind feeding it to me?” he inquired, falling back against the cabinets. “I don’t seem to have the strength necessary to move my hands.”
***
One lightning strike to the volcano lair’s high-volume capacitor, one to Chester A. Arthur XVII, one to a passing trio of coyotes, and several handfuls of painkillers later, the scientist and the sextet of homeless road trippers convened in the plush lounge just to the left of the heart of the volcano. A spread of gamey canine meat was laid out on the coffee table in the center of the room, wholesale-sized containers of salt, pepper, and tabasco sauce resting between the steaming legs and inconsequential ribs.
“So can you help us?” asked Chester A. Arthur XVII, sitting on the arm of the sofa.
“Of course,” said Dr. Lee Arahami, leaning back into a purple, highly-piled armchair. He bit into another coyote thigh, holding a paper plate beneath his chin. “I was going to go and repair the grid myself but the generators died and I got trapped here before I could finish researching the issue. Assuming nothing’s happened to the drones I sent out, I should have a full list of the materials that failed and need to be replaced in another few days.”
The roboticist’s footless leg dangled just above the carpet, teeth marks still visible on the ragged, gangrenous stump. He reached down to scratch the wound.
Catrina Dalisay, visibly disturbed by the act, said, “Don’t you need medical assistance for that?” She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, nearly at eye level with the scabbed limb.
“This?” replied Dr. Arahami, raising the septic appendage into the air. “I’m just going to cut it off at the knee and replace the whole damn leg.”
“And when exactly are you planning on doing that?”
“Before we leave, at the latest.”
“Shouldn’t that be, y’know, a higher priority?”
The doctor shrugged. “If it gets infected, it gets infected.”
“What do you mean ‘if?’” asked Ali Şahin, tilting his head and staring at the rotting wound. Something green and thick dripped from it and fell to the rug.
“Hey, speaking of unnecessary surgery,” interjected Queen Victoria XXX, “how do we un-robot Charlie? I’m sick of hauling his useless ass all over the place.”
“Hey,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“You’re sick of it,” grumbled Thor Odinson.
“What are you guys talking about?” asked the roboticist.
“You may have missed it in your half-starved delirium,” began the cloned president, “but I wasn’t functioning properly, or really at all, when we arrived. By my calculations, I’ve got about eighteen hours left before I start shutting down again. And that’s only as long as I don’t do anything strenuous.”
“Which is complete bullshit,” added Queen Victoria XXX.
“My best guess is that the solar storm shorted out all the subdermal transformers powering my cybernetic implants,” continued Chester A. Arthur XVII. “Thor’s been recharging my capacitors, but it doesn’t last very long and every time I get hit with lightning part of my brain dies.”
“Is that what’s happening to the redhead too?” inquired the doctor, pointing his half-finished coyote leg at Boudica IX. She had dressed a number of bones up in some of the less burnt fur and was playing with them in the corner, dancing them around like dolls and talking to herself.
“No, that’s just Bo,” said Queen Victoria XXX.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” said Thor.
“Huh.”
“Can you fix Charlie or not?” demanded Queen Victoria XXX.
“Do you want me to fix him or ‘un-robot’ him? Because those are two very different things.”
“The second one.”
“You’re sure? Remove his cybernetic implants and replace them will all that soft, squishy meat that died so easily last time?”
“Yes,” replied the queen. “I’m actually very fond of the soft, squishy meat.”
“Heh. You said soft, squishy meat.” Thor chuckled.
“Then, no, I can’t help you,” continued Dr. Arahami, shaking his head and ignoring the thunder god completely. “What do I look like, a rogue biologist?”
“Yes?” suggested Thor.
“Do you know one?” asked Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“Of course,” replied the scientist.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
A Midsummer Night’s Kegger
Chrysanthemum staggered through the immense forest of evergreens, as quickly as the seventeen shots of ambrosia in his system would allow, stopping only twice to dig his overly enthusiastic thong out from between his glittering green ass cheeks. And also once to pee. And then once to ask directions from a deer. But that was it.
Eventually the wood nymph made his way to the Fraternal Lounge of the Woodfolk[xiv], located deep within the bowels of the forest, somewhere near the sphincter of the woods. The lounge was situated in a large clearing in the densest cluster of trees, protected from the global volcanic winter by the thickly knit branches and lit by mutant fireflies. Despite the serenity of the setting, the scene was one of utter chaos and debauchery, as it often was. Casks upon casks of ambrosia li
ttered the grassy field, an overturned goat was on fire, and passed out dryads with penises drawn on their foreheads lay slackjawed against logs. On the far side of the clearing a beer pong game had turned violent and bets were now being taken on the probability of the ensuing bodily injuries. Everywhere else was a video store back room’s worth of gleaming green genitalia and bouncing breasts and butts, the result of no fewer than three simultaneous orgies.
“Guys. Guys!” shouted Chrysanthemum, leaning against a tree at the edge of the lounge and trying desperately not to vomit. “I just ran into this old guy, out near the old interstate, and he was all like, ‘Excuse me? Are you a wood nymph?’ like he was trying to sell me a mattress or something, so I was like, ‘What of it, old man?’ and he goes, ‘I need you and your brethren to destroy Pan’s Pan-Recyclables,’ and I was all like, ‘Why?’ and he says, ‘‘cause,’ and then I was like, ‘OK.’”
“What?” asked Moonbeam, currently situated between, and not stopping what she was doing with, Cactus Flower, Pigweed, and Delilah.
“He was an old guy, in a shitty suit, and he said he worked for someone or something, maybe the government? And he said something about Pan’s doing something we don’t like. I don’t ... I don’t really remember what.”
Hemlock, an enormously muscular, moss-covered nymph wearing the tiniest banana hammock ever, shrugged and said, “I’ve heard of flimsier excuses to tear shit up.” He hurled an empty cask into a tree for absolutely no reason.
“WHO’S UP FOR A RIOT?!” he bellowed.
Every free hand in the woodfolk lounge shot into the air with an enormous cheer.
“Hot damn,” said Hemlock, punching a nearby dryad across the face and shattering his teeth. “Let’s go cause some problems!”
There was another chorus of cheers, followed by a symphony of X-rated moans, followed by several of the wood nymphs vomiting on their feet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
And It Goes Without Saying That She Was a Big Fan of Georgia O’Keeffe
“Is this the right volcano?” asked Queen Victoria XXX, gazing up the sheer igneous wall before her, and then at the sheer igneous wall above that. The reddish-brown volcano loomed nearly a quarter-mile over the foursome, the blunted rectangular peak nearly fluorescent against the backdrop of dark clouds of ash. The luxury-tank sat idling behind the group, casting its headlights through the falling snow and into the distance.
“They never put out signs or mailboxes or anything,” grumbled Thor. “Should I knock?”
“Can we skip to the breaking in?” suggested Boudica IX. “I’m finally getting cold.”
“Yeah, all right,” replied Chester A. Arthur XVII with what would have been a shrug had his withdrawing electrical circuits been capable of it. “Lee’s life was electronics and he couldn’t handle the blackout. I’m pretty sure this biologist is just going to be another corpse.”
“Maybe she’s in the shower,” said Thor.
“Open the door, Thor.”
“OK,” replied the Norseman with a shrug.
Thor grabbed the door handle and, with only slight wrenching and buckling, slid the solid steel plate open.
“Hello?” he said into the darkness that greeted him. “Scientist lady?”
“Dr. Gonzalez?” asked Chester A. Arthur XVII, limping forward. “Joselin?”
“I don’t think –”
Several dozen thick, thorned vines shot out from the darkness and wrapped themselves around the foursome, lifting the trespassers several feet into the air.
“Son of a bitch,” said Queen Victoria XXX, thrashing several feet above the ground, reaching for one of the knives strapped to her thigh.
“I fucking hate plants,” growled Thor, flexing his arms slightly and tearing through the vines like they were significantly overcooked spaghetti.
Crashing to the ground, Thor began freeing Boudica IX from the thorned tendrils, only to be tackled by an enormous black batflower. Seriously, enormous. This thing was at least twenty feet tall. And that wasn’t even counting the massive earthenware flowerpot that dragged behind the plant, dredging a gulley into the slushy ground. Extending from the ceramic planter was a long black stalk, weaving upward until it burst into a mane of dark purple leaves. Sprouting from the center of the leaves were several dozen thin tendrils and a number of nearly-black pitcher flowers that appeared to be lined with teeth. Because they don’t give out mad scientist designations for not giving plants teeth.
“Holy crap,” said basically everyone.
The dark tendrils coiled themselves around Thor’s extremities and pinned him to the ground. He struggled beneath them, but they were proving to be much stronger than pasta. The black batflower leaned forward, lowering its flower-mouths toward the thunder god. Rows and rows of wet teeth glistened in the headlights of Chester A. Arthur XVII’s tank.
“Why are you mad at me, plant?” shouted Thor. “I haven’t eaten a vegetable on purpose in years!”
The largest of the pitcher flowers engulfed the Norseman’s head and shoulders. The rest of the group heard a muffled cry of “This is disgusting!” before even darker clouds rolled in, leaving them dangling in almost total blackness.
There was a rumbling in the heavens, then a bolt of lightning came streaking down, crashing into an empty patch of dirt halfway between Thor and his friends and lighting up the volcano like the interior of a strip club at closing time.
“Twenty feet north, Thor!” shouted Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“Which way is north?!” muttered Thor through the plant. Another bolt of lightning hit the ground, dangerously close to Queen Victoria XXX.
“The other way!” she shouted. “Other way!”
On the opposite side of the thunder god, a lone tree was illuminated and then erupted into flames.
“Too far!” shouted Boudica IX.
“Fuck it!” barked Thor. Then he struck himself with lightning.
The black batflower reeled, the pitcher that had been gnawing on Thor’s skull reduced to cinders. The tendrils unspooled from the thunder god, springing back toward the center of the plant and attempting to put out the small fires that were smoldering along the edges of its petals. The plant begin rolling in the dirt, attempting to smother them.
Thor sat up and shook his bleeding head.
“That was weird.”
“What the fuck are you doing to my plants?” shouted a voice.
The god and the clones turned to look – or attempted to look, as half of them were still being held at strange angles and squeezed by thorned vines – at the figure striding from the volcano. The curvy Latina appeared to be wrapped in a thick bathrobe and carrying an unmounted machine gun at her hip, her white lab coat thrown over the robe and flapping in the breeze behind her. Her sopping wet hair fell from the half-done bun on her head, spilling over her face and shoulders. Red-tinged sunlight spread outward from her, as the clouds above appeared to be burning away.
“Are you Joselin Gonzalez?” inquired Chester A. Arthur XVII, currently being held upside down and above the scientist.
“Yes,” replied the biologist. “How do you know my name?”
“Lee Arahami sent us.”
“Also your name tag is on your lab coat,” said Boudica IX, splayed awkwardly and hanging by an ankle.
“Oh, right,” said Dr. Joselin Gonzalez. “Why were you trying to break into my volcano?”
“We thought you were in trouble,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, “because of the blackout. We found Lee half-dead in his kitchen.”
“I was taking a shower.”
“I fucking told you!” shouted the perforated thunder god.
“What do you want?”
“I would like to have my cybernetic parts replaced with normal flesh and blood parts,” stated Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“Make sure you fix his dick,” added Queen Victoria XXX, examining the multitude of scratches she received freeing herself from the vines.
“And I would like a co
uple Band-Aids,” said Thor, raising his hand, his face resembling a Jackson Pollock painting.
“You guys have money?” the scientist asked.
“Yes,” replied the dead president.
“And an unending supply of free electricity,” said Queen Victoria XXX, pointing a thumb toward Thor.
“Also, I set the sky on fire again and we’re probably all going to choke on burning ash clouds if you don’t let us in,” added the thunder god.
“Doesn’t your car have a ventilation system?” countered the biologist, nodding toward the idling tank parked fifty feet away.
“Well, yeah,” countered Thor, “but it’s all the way over there.”
The doctor shrugged. “All right, what the hell. Come on in.”
The vines released their grip on the president and the Celt and they were unceremoniously dropped to the ground.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Mile High Club
Dr. Arahami’s cold fusion-powered industrial hovercart, running on a pre-programmed autopilot, whisked across the never-ending ashtray of desert, churning up clouds of snow, soot, and sand in its wake. Ali Şahin and Catrina Dalisay had enthusiastically offered to run an errand for Dr. Arahami, retrieving three dozen ultra-voltage macro-transformers, the first of the supplies needed to repair the continental grid, from the abandoned scientific stronghold of Los Alamos. The couple had literally jumped at the opportunity, and then sprinted out the door, eager for any opportunity to get some alone time away from their increasingly unwashed friends.
Near the front of the elongated hovercart, Catrina hugged herself tightly, somewhere within the seams of the oversized parka she had borrowed from the mad roboticist. Her top half was actually quite comfortable in there, but her bottom half was still only wearing a skirt and tights, and the weather was going out of its way to make her regret that choice.
“I thought deserts were supposed to be warm,” she muttered.
