The End of Everything Forever

by Eirik Gumeny

  The steam engine eased into the station, car after car crawling past Ali, Catrina, and Boudica IX. As the train came to a complete stop, a heavily-fortified door slid open directly in front of the threesome.

  The cyborg, the girl, and the clone were shuttled onboard by the most efficient and courteous conductor ever known to mankind. With a disconcertingly genuine smile, the man waived their fares due to their dire state, assured them the train – despite its circuitous and slipshod route – made stops in both the ruins of San Francisco and the territory of Irish Colombia, and then made sure to point out the lack of emergency exits, as the train was not only zombie-repellant, but also atomic mutant-proof and werewolf-resistant. He led them to an empty car, waved them into their seats, handed out blankets, and then, with a bow and an even greater smile than before, resumed his rounds and disappeared into the next car.

  The interior of the railroad car was gloriously overdone, with ornate wood paneling and solid gold trim, heavy burgundy curtains hanging from the windows, and bright red crushed velvet seats with enough leg room for a professional basketball team. There was not a single empty beer can or Styrofoam cup to be found rolling around the floor or wedged between a plush armrest and the wall, and no part of the locomotive smelled like urine – not even the bathroom.

  With only the slightest of lurches, the train departed from the ramshackle station. Boudica IX sprawled across three seats, while, across the aisle, Catrina was nestled into Ali’s side, several blankets wrapped tightly around her.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Eat It, Everyone Who Isn’t an Ancient Egyptian Sun God

  Ra threw open the doors to the factory floor, the metal swinging back and clanging off the concrete walls. Blazing white sunlight streamed across the manufacturing plant from behind his tensed body, glistening off conveyer belts and panel stacks and all the blood.

  “What,” roared the sun god, his voice violently echoing off every corner and shaking the overhead lights, “is going on in here?”

  Everything before him stopped, even the machinery. The factory floor was a statuary of incredibly loyal workers and shambling, homicidal mummies mid-grapple, fists resting in faces and teeth pausing atop forearms. Here and there amidst the carnage were dwarves in cowboy hats riding large jackals, clearly responsible for herding the mummies into the factory.

  Ra raised a hand and the light behind him became blinding, a whiteout that seemed to erase the building. As the sunshine faded back into something more agreeable to the human visible spectrum, the mummies collapsed to the floor in dusty heaps, their smoldering, emaciated bodies crumbling apart like dried-out sand sculptures. The workers, for their part, were only temporarily blind and severely sunburned.

  “I repeat,” snarled Ra, eyeing the nearest dwarf, “what is going on in here?”

  “He– He said we had to get rid of all the competing energy companies,” whimpered the little man.

  “He? He who?” Ra made this sound significantly more threatening than one would think would be possible, given the syntax.

  “Shut up, Murray,” stage whispered another dwarf.

  “Tell me who!”

  “He’ll kill us!” a third dwarf quietly shouted.

  “He– He has a plan,” stammered Murray. “He said he wants to be– to be the only energy provider available, anywhere, of any kind!”

  “Give me a name!” demanded the CEO. Small cracks zigzagged across the factory walls.

  “His name– His name is –”

  “Don’t do it, Murray!”

  The hyenas looked at one another, winked in series, and then proceeded to maul the dwarven cowboys before Murray, or any of them, could rat out the man who had paid the man who had paid the hyenas handsomely in rotting animal carcasses.

  “Trying to create a monopoly, are you?” thundered Ra, god of the sun, to no one in particular. His eyes narrowed. “Good luck with that, asshole.”

  With nary but a tremendous sense of outrage and spite, Ra raised his arms and the sun glowed white hot again. The factory workers winced and covered their eyes once more, ducking behind machinery to hide from the ever-present radiance. Cups of cold coffee began to boil, Post-It notes burst into flames.

  Blinding sunshine burst across the entirety of the planet like a door being opened onto the sidewalk outside of a movie theater. Within minutes, the global volcanic winter had disappeared.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Is Temperature Whiplash a Thing?

  “This may take longer than driving, but at least it’s warm in here,” Catrina said, her face buried in the armpit of Ali’s hooded sweatshirt. “I think my blood was starting to freeze.”

  “I don’t think we’re gonna have to worry about that anymore,” said Boudica IX, prone across an entire row, her feet dangling in the aisle and her eyes looking awkwardly through the window just above her.

  The counterfeit Celtic queen pointed toward the rapidly dissipating clouds and the effulgently white sun burning them away. Daylight streamed in through every window and turned the train car into a sauna in seconds.

  “Am I seriously too warm now?” Ali mumbled incredulously, lifting his sweatshirt and fanning the fabric against his stomach. “Is that what’s happening, or did the frostbite get into my brain?”

  “Son of a bitch,” muttered Catrina, kicking off her blankets and wriggling out of her sweater.

  A set of speakers, lodged above the etched-glass bifold doors on either end of the railcar, crackled.

  “Well, folks,” said an overly cheery voice through the train’s PA, “as you all may have noticed, it appears the weather has suddenly decided to take a turn for the beautiful and bathe us all in some much-needed sunshine. It appears our long frozen nightmare is finally over. That said, we would like to take this opportunity to apologize in advance, as the next several legs of our trip are unfortunately going to have to be without air conditioning. We did not anticipate the volcanic winter lifting, remarkable though it is and grateful though we are, and left our station of origin without the necessary coolants or motors to get the AC purring for you the way you’d surely like. With your best interests in mind, of course, we thought removing all that heavy equipment might make the train a little lighter and save you all a few minutes of travel time and get you to our destinations faster. You’ll have to trust us that it seemed like a good idea at the time. Looks like Mother Nature showed us, though, right? Anyway, folks, again, we extend our deepest sympathies and, to make up for the oversight, coffee’s on us for the rest of your trip.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Here Comes the Sun

  Satan’s Hummer idled on the side of the abandoned interstate. Persephone and the Prince of Lies sat in the front seats, staring disbelievingly through the windshield at the wall of sunshine barreling towards them, shaving away the volcanic winter like so much cumulonimbic stubble.

  “I thought you said –”

  “Shut up.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  This Just In

  “This is Douglas Ranch Wagon for KOAT, Albuquerque’s most-trusted news source, with your evening update.

  “Now that the neverending dark has mysteriously vanished – and with it, the high-piled snow and the roving herds of angry, angry polar bears – society, it appears, is no longer afraid to go outside. Perhaps more surprisingly, though, is the fact that while stumbling around out there, trying to remember that the sun is not some terrible burning lesion afflicting the sky, we seem to have remembered that even though the electrical grid is down and our telecommunications satellites are still orbiting husks of scrap metal, we, as a people, can still see. Our eyes are still fine – unless you’re blind, of course. As such, society has rediscovered how to use the semaphore system to communicate with one other, sometimes as far as all the way down the block.

  “Communications are spotty, thus far, as this reporter, along with many others, had no idea that semaphore was an actual thing and learned what to do from a book t
hat he had previously been using as both a source of fiber and toilet paper. Likewise, this reporter, and others, did not have the correct flags, so he has been using soiled clothing and torn-up paintings from the lobby.

  “Still, with lines of sight restored and everyone desperate to know if he or she is the last man or woman standing, thereby solidifying his or her claim as the pinnacle of creation and the undisputed winner of the human race, communications have been swift, albeit clunky and probably occasionally inaccurate.

  “Barring any kind of misinterpretation or blatantly misleading reporting by those jerks at the radio station, the top story appears to be the astonishing number of attacks on energy concerns by teams of cryptids, ghosts, and some of our more unscrupulous genetically-altered animals. The attacks have all been unprovoked, though presumably they are all related. My professional opinion is that this is the Milton Bradley war machine spooling up, desperate to keep us all in the boring, internet-less dark and force us to play their crappy board games over and over again.

  “In local news, I am still trapped in the KOAT building, as an overturned bus is blocking the only exit.

  “Turning now to household hints. Narrating your every thought into a battery-operated recorder is a great way to give your loved ones the gift of documentation of your final hours, leaving them evidence and closure when they inevitably eventually find your naked body drowned in a ladies room toilet. This advice comes to you from Bruce, who seemed pretty with it up until he killed himself this morning after not seeing the sun for over a week. If only you’d held out a little longer, buddy.

  “Be sure to check back for the nightly news a little later, once I search through that semaphore book and figure out what left, right, left, right, up, down, flag thrown off the side of the building means. I’ll also have some new recipes for sun-roasted Bruce.

  “This has been Douglas Ranch Wagon for KOAT, Albuquerque’s handsomest news source.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Concert Halls Shmoncert Shmalls, He’s Still an Asshole

  The ghost of Andrew Carnegie had been tasked with taking out the DiNoCo power station a few miles east of the Erie Canal. A simple enough chore. Carnegie was more than adept at ridding the world of smaller competitors and leveling the playing field for those few large corporations that truly deserved it. Not to mention, now that he was already dead, he didn’t have to hide his ruthlessness behind all that philanthropic bullshit. Perhaps most importantly of all, though, Andrew Carnegie had already flooded two other hydroelectric plants along the lake that very morning. Taking out DiNoCo should have been quick and simple.

  “Should” being the word Andrew Carnegie was most annoyed with.

  DiNoCo was not, in fact, another hydroelectric plant, and the capital “N” in the middle of the signage atop the building was more for style than anything. If Carnegie had been able to see the incorporation papers, he would have known that DiNoCo was actually called DinoCo, which might have tipped him off to the fact that there were seven starved, frothing giganotosaurus[xxii] inside.

  The giganotosaurus were all wearing large wool sweaters and thick cotton booties, and every surface of the room was carpeted in deep shag. The thundering reptiles were chained to a number of electrical conductors hidden in the corners, those conductors attached to large turbines outside. The dinosaurs’ massive girth and frantic, plodding movements were creating heretofore unseen levels of static electricity and powering two nearby villages.

  Andrew Carnegie had been expecting an empty dam, or, at best, a mostly empty dam with an old security guard, and, for that reason, had brought only a knife. Finding seven of the most perfect killing machines that ever lived in front of him, he suddenly felt woefully inadequate. Still, Andrew Carnegie was a man of his word, especially when that word involved destroying small businesses for the sake of letting a giant corporation get a monopoly on energy.

  The ghost of Andrew Carnegie – possessing the first dead hobo he had seen – attacked the dinosaurs four times, stabbing repeatedly into their cotton-swathed ankles, before any of them even noticed. Once they did, they made short work of devouring the hobo’s body.

  Andrew Carnegie was left standing ethereal and knifeless, and not entirely sure what to do next.

  Thankfully Mark Hughes and Timmy the super-squirrel appeared to help the deceased industrialist figure that out.

  “What the fuck is going on here?” demanded an enraged Timmy.

  “I ... uh ... you see ...” the ghost stammered.

  “These animals are being exploited!” The squirrel gestured toward the dinosaurs. “This isn’t right!”

  “Oh, that? That wasn’t me. I was actually sent here to set them free. Incidentally, really, as a side effect of destroying this place. But, still, I’m on the dinosaurs’ side. Promise.”

  “Are you the asshole who’s been running up and down the lake flooding everything?” asked Mark.

  “Maybe,” replied Andrew Carnegie noncommittally. “That really depends on what you’re doing here. I’m less certain how I’m supposed to be playing this now.”

  “You’re crippling these communities,” Mark seethed. “The people who didn’t drown outright are going to starve. Or die of heat stroke. There are a lot of old people up here! It’s a miracle they survived this long. Taking away their air conditioning now is just mean.”

  “Really? Morals? That’s how you’re pitching your side?” countered the ghost. “I sold out the city of Pittsburgh and turned it into a Tolkein-esque nightmare of industrialization and lung cancer. You think I have problems taking money from a corporate donor and smashing the shit out of small businesses? I invented that.”

  Timmy grabbed the ghost with his mind. Slowly, the squirrel began stretching the industrialist, his ethereal frame twisting and thinning and beginning to unravel.

  “Bloody hell!”

  “You can unravel ghosts?” Mark asked out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Apparently,” said Timmy with a tiny shrug. “I honestly didn’t know if this was going to work.” He rolled the ghost into a circle, Andrew Carnegie’s feet merging with his head.

  “Knock it off!” shouted the dead industrialist.

  “Who sent you?” the squirrel demanded. “What the hell is going on? Why are all these tiny, bullshit alternative energy companies being attacked?”

  “I don’t –”

  The super-powered rodent wrung the spirit like a wet sponge.

  “Some guy!” shouted the spiraled ghost of Andrew Carnegie, his voice warbling uncontrollably. “Old guy in a suit, grey hair, wrinkled as the day is long. He asked if I wanted to wreck up some mom-and-pop energy shops and I said yes.”

  “Why?” barked the squirrel, balling the ghost up like a used tissue.

  “I don’t know! I didn’t care!”

  “What’s his plan? Where’s he going next?” asked Mark.

  “I honestly don’t know. He told me to stay up here, near the Pretty Good Lakes, so I didn’t get in anyone else’s way. He’s hiring tons of us. I don’t –”

  Timmy shoved Andrew Carnegie’s head up his own ass.

  “WANG!” the ghost shouted from deep within his own ethereal bowels. “He said something about WANG Electric!”

  The squirrel removed the man’s head from his anus.

  “He said ... he said he was going there later. That’s honestly all I know.”

  “Worldwide Atlanta Natural Gas and Electric?” said Mark. “The huge corporation that supplies gas and electricity to the Southeast[xxiii]?”

  “With the main electrical grid out, the company he works for saw a chance to make a power grab. I don’t think the pun was intentional.”

  “That’s impossible,” continued the cyborg.

  “No one could make a pun that bad by accident!” shouted the squirrel, folding the ghost into an origami crane.

  “No, I meant the power grab part,” replied Mark. “There’s hundreds, if not thousands, of energy concerns and corporations
. Not to mention that the grid is being repaired as we speak.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “It’s being repaired?” the ghost parroted.

  “You didn’t know that?”

  “No.”

  “Does the old guy?” asked Mark.

  “He didn’t mention it,” answered the ghost, shrugging his wings. Noticing the concerned looks on the faces of his captors, he added, “I promise I won’t tell. Please don’t kill me.”

  “Kill you?”

  “You’re already dead,” said Timmy.

  At that point the telekinetic squirrel disassembled the ghost of Andrew Carnegie, turning his ethereal spirit into so much incorporeal confetti.

  “I guess we’re going to Atlanta,” said Mark. “See if we can catch this guy and figure out what’s going on.”

  “God damn it,” replied Timmy.

  “It’s the Paris of the South.”

  “That is a lie and you fucking know it.”

  “We have to find out what this is all about, Timmy, and this is the best lead we’ve gotten so far. All those mermaids went on about was injustice and environmentalism. And I don’t even know what that roc[xxiv] was saying.”

  “His accent was impenetrable.”

  “Look, if it’s any consolation, I hear Atlanta’s a lot nicer, now that the House of Waffle has been deposed.”

  “Have they gotten the dried eggs off everything?”

  “Not everything, no.”

  “What about the smell?”