The End of Everything Forever

by Eirik Gumeny

  The dragon snapped at the thunder god, just as lightning crashed down into and around the beast, again and again, faster and faster, in an increasingly erratic pattern.

  “Hey, Thor? Buddy?” called Queen Victoria XXX, astride the neck of the wriggling second dragon and looking with trepidation at the lightning tearing through the air around her. “Think you could be a little more focused on what you’re electrocuting?”

  “They destroyed the Dunkin’ Donuts, Vicky,” replied the Norseman coldly.

  “OK, sure, but –”

  A dozen flashes of electric murder burned through the sky in quick succession, obliterating chunks of the diner and the parking lot and sending both of the dragons into a frothing fury.

  “Right. I’m just gonna leave this to you then.”

  The queen bounded from the back of the bucking beast, forks still lodged in the monster’s skull. The second dragon looked after her for a moment, then charged forward at the thunder god, joining the first one in unleashing an otherworldly fire upon the brawny blonde man.

  More and more lightning crashed down recklessly, striking the dragons, the ground, the cash register, everything, the Norseman’s rage overpowering his control. Swallowed by the inferno, his clothes burning away into an ashy memory, Thor began trembling like a particularly terrifying vibrator, staring with a growing berserker fury at the two creatures trying to roast him alive.

  And then they stayed like that for a while.

  Chester A. Arthur XVII, huddled with Queen Victoria XXX and the Leber-Zhengs behind a car in the far corner of the parking lot, looked at his watch.

  “That can’t be good, even for him,” he said.

  “Probably not,” replied the made-up monarch, pulling back her wet hair.

  “Should we help him?”

  “Do you have a plan?”

  An errant lightning bolt took out a nearby tree.

  “Nope,” replied the cloned president.

  “What about running away?” asked Wei. “Can we run away?”

  “Well ...” began the plotting president. The sedan lurched as the heat from the unrelenting flames melted one of the car’s tires.

  Shrugging, Chester A. Arthur XVII said, “You know what? Sure.”

  The foursome scurried away as the elemental standoff continued behind them – god against beast, electricity against fire, a marathon of pigheadedness to the death.

  Eventually, the second dragon succumbed to the electrical onslaught and crumbled to the ground, its skin sizzling, smoke pouring from its eyeballs. The first dragon looked at its comrade and let loose a frenzied roar – the sound alone tumbling down what was left of the broken walls – before hurtling toward the thunder god, teeth first. With remarkable deftness for a man his size, especially one covered in fourth-degree burns and missing pants, Thor rolled around the creature’s snapping maw and threw his arms around its enormous neck. He clamped down hard, digging his fingers into the beast’s scaly flesh, straining his every muscle and pulling the struggling monster toward the ground.

  The dragon thrashed and flailed, expanding its leathery wings into the rubble and shattering the glass front counter of the diner. Thor redoubled his efforts, his feet punching through the linoleum floor of the restaurant. The beast began screeching and flapping furiously, trying to lift itself free of the Norse god’s grasp. But for every ounce of energy the monster expended trying to break loose, the thunder god increased his grip twofold, until, finally, Thor tore the dragon’s head off.

  The cumbrous reptile’s body collapsed into the detritus of the diner, a cloud of dust kicking up weakly into the rain. The Norseman likewise slumped to the ground, dropping the beast’s head and leaning against a slab of what used to be the wall. Above him, the clouds began to unknit, the storm to recede. As he sat breathing deeply, the dragon’s blood pooled beneath the thunder god, seeping into places one generally doesn’t want blood to seep.

  “Well, that was a thing,” Thor said, his naked, scorched body smoking profusely. “Can I get some water or something?”

  Slowly, cautiously, the waitress peered over the cluttered counter behind which she was hiding.

  “You’re, uh, you’re kind of not wearing pants again,” replied the waitress, pointing a gelatinous tendril toward the naked man’s blistered, blood-stained junk.

  “For fuck’s sake, lady.”

  “It’s not my rule!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Bunch of Savages in This Town

  Thor Odinson, Chester A. Arthur XVII and Queen Victoria XXX raced back to the Plaza at the Meadows just in time to be just too late to help Ali Şahin. The cybernetic entrepreneur, profoundly uncomfortable and hemorrhaging more blood than a Quentin Tarantino extra, moaned and twitched from beneath the pile of rubble that used to be his Dunkin’ Donuts. Several feet away, Catrina Dalisay was sprawled atop a planter of wildflowers in an unconscious heap.

  Pulling his armored minivan directly onto the brick of the plaza, Chester A. Arthur XVII and a smoldering, vesicated, still-naked Thor leapt from the automobile and began digging Ali free. Queen Victoria XXX sprinted to Catrina’s side.

  “Hey, wake up,” the queen said, shaking her friend by the shoulder. “Catrina. Come on. Catrina, wake up.” Getting nowhere, the reconstituted monarch slapped her across the face. “Catrina!”

  “What?” said the tiny Filipina woman dreamily, jerking her head around and blinking her eyes. “What ... what happened?”

  “I was really hoping you could tell me.”

  “Ali!”

  Catrina tumbled from the flower bed and stumbled over to her boyfriend, clambering across the debris of the donut shop and grabbing Ali’s hand.

  “Ali, honey ...”

  “I wasn’t even supposed to be here today,” he coughed. “I just ... We’ve been spending so much money on house stuff and decorations and yarn ... so much yarn ... and it’s so expensive ...”

  “It shouldn’t be, but you like the crazy alpaca/griffin blends.”

  “They’re just a better quality,” Ali replied. He tried to take a deep breath, his lungs wheezing like an emphysemic asthmatic.

  “Oh, sweetie,” Catrina replied, putting a hand against his bloodied cheek, “you’ll never have to go shopping again, I promise.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be doing much of anything again, if we’re being honest here.”

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  “I can feel my organs failing, babe.”

  “That’s not how organ failure works,” explained Chester A. Arthur XVII.

  “When they’re being ... squished to the point of exploding it is.”

  “Frigg’s flaxen forelocks,” mumbled Catrina. “Dig faster! Dig faster!”

  Thor and Chester A. Arthur XVII did as instructed, continuing to remove chunks of Dunkin’ Donuts at a literally superhuman rate, now assisted by Queen Victoria XXX as well. As the sizeable stack of spifflicated store parts subsided, the slabs of rubble immediately crushing the cyborg shifted, and not in a helpful way. A large block of concrete slid downward, landing heavily on Ali’s waist and most of what was underneath his shattered ribcage.

  “See?” he muttered through the increasing agony. “Whatever that organ was, it’s gone now.” He winced. “I’m pretty sure it was important.”

  “It was probably just your spleen,” cooed Catrina.

  “No, I had that removed years ago.”

  “Maybe it was a kidney then. You have three.”

  “Two,” corrected Chester A. Arthur XVII.

  “No, Ali has three,” re-corrected Thor. “It’s a whole thing.”

  The god and the presidential clone hefted an automatic cake donut machine from atop Ali’s upper back. He immediately began screaming.

  “Put it back! Put it back!”

  The Norseman and the Frankensteined politician looked at one another, shrugged, and then dropped the immense steel contraption back down on their friend.

  “Thank you,” mutter
ed Ali. “I think that’s pinching the nerve that tells me how much pain I’m in.”

  “We’ll figure out some way to get you out of here,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII.

  “No,” he replied. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

  “Then we’ll bring you back to life after you die,” said Thor.

  “OK,” sputtered the man from Dunkin’ Donuts, blood and other important bodily fluids dribbling from his mouth. “That ... that sounds good.” His eyes began to flutter.

  “Ali?” said Catrina, gripping his hand tightly. “Ali?”

  The cybernetic donut shop owner coughed and then, expending a tremendous amount of his dwindling energy, raised his head to look directly into his girlfriend’s dark eyes.

  “I love you, Catrina.”

  “I love you too, Ali,” she replied, pressing her forehead against his. “I’ll see you soon.”

  And with that, Ali Şahin died.

  A few tears rolled down Catrina’s face as she sat there, holding Ali’s human hand, but, after a moment and a few deep breaths, her demeanor changed considerably. Perched atop the shattered Dunkin’ Donuts, next to her mutilated boyfriend, in grey sweatpants and an old t-shirt of his, the woman was by all appearances more bummed out than devastated, looking as if the worst thing that had happened to her recently was her favorite television show being cancelled on a cliffhanger, rather than the love of her life being mangled to death by dragons.

  “You don’t seem particularly broken up about this,” said Queen Victoria XXX, sitting down beside her.

  The former hotel employee shrugged. “You heard Thor. It’s not like we don’t know a guy who can bring him back to life. I mean, how many times has Charlie died on you?”

  “Good point.”

  “Although,” said Catrina, turning and looking sternly at Thor, “you could’ve dug him out earlier. Instead of abandoning us and doing whatever it was you did after I was knocked out.”

  “Fighting dragons,” replied the scabbing thunder god, sitting down atop the rubble, his balls swinging in the breeze. “I was avenging his death.”

  “He wasn’t dead yet.”

  “Right. Yet.”

  “You could’ve saved his life.”

  “And I still will,” explained Thor. “You know, after lunch.”

  “You’re a jerk.”

  “Dr. Arahami regularly spits in the face of death, for fun. What are you so mad about?”

  “It’s not the death I’m mad about, Thor, it’s the gross negligence.”

  “I took a shower this morning!”

  The Filipina woman shook her head.

  “Is it the Freddy Krueger thing I got going on now? ‘cause that’s not my fault, Catrina.”

  “Backtracking a little,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, “what exactly did happen here?”

  “Those dragons from the diner,” explained the Norseman.

  “The three of us were hanging out in the back of the store,” Catrina expounded. “Thor and I stopped by so Ali could show him how to make éclairs, so he wouldn’t keep showing up at our house at three in the morning and dragging Ali’s ass out here whenever he wanted one. And then the dragons showed up out of nowhere and started fucking up the Dunkin’ Donuts.”

  “You’re sure you didn’t provoke them in any way?”

  “I’d never even seen those assholes before,” replied Thor.

  “OK.” The patchwork president looked around the rest of the abandoned – but undamaged – plaza. He shook his head. “I don’t think this was an accident.”

  “Who do we know that has access to dragons?” asked Queen Victoria XXX.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  A Fish This Fine Belongs in a Fish Nugget-Style Chunklet

  Amen-Ra walked brusquely down the gangway of the cruise ship and onto the wooden dock.

  “Welcome to Supernova Scotia!” said a cheery young woman in an ill-fitting jumpsuit, holding out a tray of complimentary fried fish.

  “Is that the American way of saying ‘Atlanta?’” he asked.

  “I ... what? No?”

  Ra looked around – at the quaint seaport, at the non-polluted sky, at the strangely glowing Canadian – before shifting his eyes to his ticket, his eyebrows furrowed. The sun god growled slightly.

  “I do not like that woman.”

  “I’m sorry,” replied the woman with the fish, visibly crestfallen.

  “Oh, no,” countered Ra, surprisingly softly, putting a hand on her shoulder, “not you. No. You seem like a delightful young lady. I was talking about the inbred hillbilly woman who sold me this ticket.”

  “Oh, OK,” she replied, breathing a sigh of relief. “That actually happens a lot.”

  “Really,” replied Ra.

  During the international blackout that had ended the world for the twenty-sixth time, the governor of Nova Scotia – at the time, Billy “Buzz” Bee, a grizzled longshoreman who had lost a bet – had the “brilliant” idea to coat everything in the green stuff found inside glow-in-the-dark light sticks. The “elected” official called up every party store and Halloween warehouse he could think of and then personally flew a crop-duster back-and-forth over the province until Nova Scotia no longer needed electricity.

  The paint job helped the darkness situation considerably, but ruined pretty much everything else. The glow-in-the-dark substance was gumming up the water infrastructure, keeping everyone awake all the time, and killing most of the flora and fauna. Later studies determined the goop was, like, super carcinogenic.

  Not wanting to admit defeat – or, really, be a governor in the first place – Billy Bee changed the name of the province to Supernova Scotia to reflect this newfound luminosity and attract more tourists. He also hoped this would help the people forget about the insomnia and the cancer.

  For reasons unknown, his plan did not work.

  “Seventy-five percent of our tourism comes from booking errors.” The young Canadian lifted the tray higher. “Fish?”

  Ra picked up a piece and looked at the misshapen lump, turning it back and forth.

  “Can you be more specific than ‘fish?’” he asked.

  “For legal reasons,” replied the woman, “no.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Back in the Saddle Again

  Leaving his RV idling in the parking lot, Mark Hughes limped his way across the empty plaza, an artificially-aged Timmy the super-squirrel cradled in his non-shotgunned arm. He trundled over to Thor, Catrina, Chester A. Arthur XVII, and Queen Victoria XXX, all sitting around the decimated Dunkin’ Donuts and eating pizza. Also, Ali’s battered corpse was there, still buried in the rubble.

  “What the hell are you guys doing?” asked Mark as he approached, taking in the scene before him. “What happened to the donut shop? Is that Ali? What the fuck is going on?”

  “Eating pizza,” replied Thor, his mouth full. “Dragons. Yes. He’s dead.”

  “And you’re sitting here screwing around?”

  “We’re gonna fix him after we eat. It’s a long ride to Las Máquinas. You don’t seriously expect us to do it on an empty stomach, do you?”

  “I hate it when the stupid things you say almost make sense.”

  “What’s wrong with Timmy?” asked Catrina, putting down her slice. “Why does he look a giant, furry raisin?”

  “A woman attacked us at the mall. She used some kind of magic or something, it really messed him up.”

  “Magic?” said the naked thunder god, raising an eyebrow.

  “Judging by what I’m pretty sure is going on with my leg,” continued Mark, limping forward, “she aged him somehow, pushed him through I don’t know how many years in an instant. My leg still works, technically, but it’s tired, weak. Wrinkly. And it kind of smells like mothballs. The plants she hit bloomed, withered, and then died, like that.” He snapped his fingers. “That’s probably what’s going on with Timmy, too.”

  “That’s not good,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII. “Squ
irrels only have a lifespan of about twelve years, maximum.”

  “I know. That’s why I brought him here. Which, by the way, why don’t you guys answer your texts? I was driving all over the place trying to find you guys. And what the hell happened to the diner?”

  “Dragons,” replied Thor, answering both questions at once.

  “Maybe you should have brought Timmy to a hospital first,” said Queen Victoria XXX. “And, y’know, yourself.” She nodded toward his wounded shoulder. “You seem to be bleeding pretty profusely.”

  “It’s just a flesh wound,” replied Mark with a dismissive shake of his head. He handed the sleeping Timmy over to Catrina.

  “I think I can see bone, dude,” the naked Norseman.

  “Really?” The cyborg craned his head to look at the damage.

  “You two need medical attention,” said the cloned president.

  “Anything a hospital can do, I can do better, quicker, and cheaper,” replied the former military medic, “and with less chance of catching some kind of super virus.”

  “I’m not doubting your abilities, Mark, but the mechanics of the situation leave something to be desired. I don’t think you can physically stitch your own shoulder shut.”

  “Sure I can.”

  “You’re right-handed.”

  “So?”

  “So you were shot in your right shoulder.”

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  “How much blood did you lose?” asked Queen Victoria XXX.

  “Look, the shoulder’s not the issue. Whatever’s going on with Timmy and my leg is some seriously next level shit. No mail order doctor is going to be able to do anything helpful.”

  Shortly after the world ended for the sixth time and the increased hostility and bureaucratization of the various insurance industries made getting dependable medical attention nearly impossible, many nurses, doctors, and surgeons – having souls and tired of the institutionalized dismissal of the Hippocratic oath – went rogue and began helping people from outside the established hospital system, generally via Craigslist ads or in roadside tents or out of the trunks of their cars.