by Pieter Lars
Everyday Apocalypse
Season Two
Pieter Van Tatenhove
Contents
New Books
1. Delivery Drone Mk.II
2. Cosmic Horrors
3. Dragon Swarm
4. Fast Zombies
5. Hell Spawn
6. Giant Spiders
7. Weird Mist
8. Kaiju
9. Killer Asteroids
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Also by Pieter Lars
Awesome Books
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the product’s of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.
EVERYDAY APOCALYPSE: Season One
Copyright © 2017 by Pieter Lars
www.pieterlars.com
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
Cover Design by James, GoOnWrite.com
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Hope you enjoy this book!
-Pieter - February 2017
For Tyson and Matt,
since this really should have been our webcomic.
1
Delivery Drone Mk.II
Tom was still in his pajamas when there was a loud knock on his door. He decided to ignore it and rolled over, covering his head with the spare pillow.
The knock sounded again, even louder.
He groaned and looked at the alarm clock. It read: 6:30AM. It was barely even light out. Who comes to someone’s door so early in the morning?
The knock sounded a third time, heavy enough to rattle his doorframe. He got up, and padded barefoot down the stairs.
“This better be good,” he mumbled as he opened the door.
There was a five foot tall robot on his front stoop. Its body was round and glossy black. It crouched on four segmented legs, rocking back and forth impatiently. Two rotors extended like wings from its back and hummed with a low whirring.
Tom stood there blinking at the robot. There was a decal stuck to the side of it that read: Delivery Drone, Mk.II.
Geez, he thought. They sure upgraded these. He hoped they had received software upgrades as well as hardware. The last time he’d had a run in with a delivery drone it had not gone well.
The robot’s nose cone pivoted to face Tom and a bright red light blinked on. He closed his eyes with a wince.
<
A compartment opened from the robot’s chest and a package slid forward, gripped in a thin metal claw.
“Is this the NEA package?” Tom asked the robot.
The National Eschatological Agency (NEA) was the government agency in charge of the prep-kits that arrived on Tom’s doorstep every Monday. They were full of goodies like gas masks, shark repellent, handheld electromagnets, holy water, etc. Basically anything you might need to survive the following week.
<
“Sorry,” Tom said. “I think you have the wrong house. I didn’t order anything.”
The claw extended further until the package hovered just in front of Tom’s face.
<
“No. Sorry. I think that must be the neighbor’s. See here? It says Unit D. I’m in Unit B.”
The robot let out a threatening warble. The arm holding the pen shook back and forth and then it thrust out and poked Tom in the chest.
Tom craned his neck to see over the robot. It didn’t look like anyone was home in Unit D, but then he saw a tiny gap in the blinds. He squinted and the gap slowly closed.
Tom sighed.
“Look. I can’t sign for that. It’s not my address. I don’t think that’s even legal. If you could just turn-”
The delivery drone gave an angry blurt. Compartments popped open from both sides of its body and more arms extended. On the end of each arm was a cylinder with a lens at the tip. The cylinders pivoted on the end of the arms until the lenses pointed at Tom.
He suddenly felt nervous, remembering the determination of the last delivery drone. That one had been tiny compared to this one, but it still managed to break through the glass door of his office.
“OK,” Tom started.. “Hold on-”
<
“If you just turn around. The correct address is right there, across the-”
The cylinder lenses opened and red beams, like laser pointers, flashed from each of them.
“OW!” Tom shouted. He looked down at his arm to see a small smoldering hole in his pajama shirt.
“OK! OK! I’ll sign!” He took the pen. It was a stylus. The drone’s faceplate receded to show a screen with a signature block. He scrawled his name on the screen and the faceplate closed with a snap.
<
The package fell from the rack and onto the stoop with a heavy crunch. Whatever was inside was most likely in pieces.
<
The drone gave a friendly little beep and bounced up and down on its segmented legs. Then its rotors sped to a high-pitched whine and it lifted in the air and disappeared into the clouds.
The door to Unit D opened a crack. There was a small face peering out. A little girl. Tom waved and called out, “Are you expecting a package?”
The girl nodded. Tom picked up the parcel and carried it across the street. He approached the door to Unit D, and saw that the crack had shrunk to a half-inch or so. Her parents were probably away, but they had obviously instilled in her the stranger danger lesson.
Tom supposed that lesson now extended to strange robots falling from the sky.
Probably for the best, considering the state of the world these days.
“I’m just going to set it here,” he said. He set the parcel gently onto Unit D’s stoop, taking care not to shake it. If the girl’s delivery was shattered he didn’t want to shoulder the blame.
She stayed inside until Tom had stepped back into his own condo, then snatched the box from her porch and rushed back in.
Maybe he should make an effort to get to know his neighbors. Bring them cookies or wine or something.
Then again, if he was going to be accepting packages on their behalf maybe they should be bringing him cookies.
His alarm sounded from his bedroom. He had lost a whole fifteen minutes of sleep!
He grumbled his way up the stairs and started getting ready for work.
2
Cosmic Horrors
Monday was interesting, to say the least. The Cosmic Horrors hadn’t physically shown up yet, as far as Tom knew, but they had certainly made their presence known.
At 12:00PM, on the dot, everyone in the office froze in place. The sky dark
ened and turned red, like a crimson lens had passed over the sun. Then the itching began, way back in the recesses of Tom’s mind.
A voice called out from the void:
p'thooi magli'ite R'ooar wagah'nagl ftp’error.
An overwhelming sense of dread settled over Tom and his whole lame life flashed before his eyes. The childhood of video games and potato chips, the below-average college grades, the lack of social life, the drudgery of his job.
He began to see clearly, for the first time, that his place in the universe was completely and utterly non-essential. That the collection of atoms and quarks and leptons that had randomly come together to form what he knew to be himself could just as easily scatter and it would have absolutely no effect on anything…
He stood and looked around his office for something sharp. Why not end it? He hated his job, hated his condo, hated his stupid Subaru and the stupid neckties he always had to wear.
Samantha was nice, but what would she do if he was gone? Just find another man probably. It would be easy for her. She was smart, pretty, kind, and full of life. So much the opposite of him that he wondered why she was even dating him to begin with.
Then, a moment later, it was over. The sky returned to its natural color.
He blinked, yawned, shook his head to clear it, and started checking his email.
This was going to be a weird week. He’d read his Lovecraft, but living it was very different. Was there a Miskatonic University satellite campus in town? If so, maybe they were hosting some lectures this week.
He’d have to check.
It happened again on Tuesday, during the monthly staff meeting. Mr. Phillips was tapping on a large whiteboard covered in bar graphs.
“So, in conclusion,” he started, for the fourth time that morning. “Our projections suggest-”
The sky darkened to a blood red.
“Not again…” a woman from underwriting whimpered. Her face was pallid and as she glanced around the room her eyes took on a strange transformation. It was like a shadow passing behind her irises.
Tom looked over at Samantha. She was pressing her fingertips to her temples in preparation. Grossman had the same shadowy irises, but a small smile spread across his lips, which was weird, but the guy was always a bit creepy.
It hit with a punch. There was a searing pain in Tom’s head that bent him over the table, groaning. And then he couldn’t think of anything aside from the chanting in his mind:
For’ohfor ehroa’r pfi’el no’ot pfown’d plee’ze trai ah’gin.
The dread filled Tom’s chest. The woman from underwriting started weeping. Tom managed to lift his head and look at Samantha. She was looking back at him with a vacant expression, as if she no longer recognized him.
Then, a moment later, it was over. The sky returned to its natural color.
Samantha blinked, shook her head vigorously, and said, “Oh, god! That is just awful. It’s like you can hear all the extra apostrophes!”
Tom glanced over to see that Grossman still had that strange smile on his face. As Tom watched, a single black tear slid down the man’s cheek.
Grossman opened his mouth and muttered, “Praise be to Azaroth. He awakens.”
Samantha gave him a disgusted look. “Who awakens? What the heck are you talking about?”
“The Eldritch abomination,” Grossman whispered. “Those who do not bow shall be broken.”
“Oh, geez,” Samantha said. “Please stop talking. And wipe your cheek! Why are you so weird!?”
Phillips cleared his throat. “Yes, yes. Azaroth and all that. It’s quite awful. Now if I could just have your attention. I would like to finish my presentation…”
On Wednesday morning, Grossman tried to murder the woman from underwriting. Or maybe he was trying to sacrifice her. It was unclear.
Phillips caught Grossman standing behind her, holding her ponytail in one hand, a broken pair of scissors in the other.
“You shall bow to Azaroth!” Grossman shouted. His cheeks were streaked with black tears, and he had that same crazed smile on his face. He lifted the scissors, spread his legs and prepared to strike, and then Phillips knocked him on the head with a three-hole punch.
They dragged his unconscious body into the supply closet and braced the door.
He was out cold until after lunch. Tom was walking back to his office when he passed the closet and heard a crash and a clang, then a muttered curse, and an odd tearing sound.
He went to get Phillips and Samantha.
“You open it,” Phillips said. He had the three-hole punch raised and ready.
“No way! You’re the boss!” Samantha replied.
“I’ll open it,” Tom said. He shouldered past Phillips and gripped the door knob. “Just be ready with that hole punch.”
Phillips nodded. Tom opened the door.
Grossman was sitting on the floor. He had fashioned a hooded cloak out of what looked to be black trash bags. He held something in his hands, and when he looked up at them the plastic cloak crinkled loudly.
“What are you doing, Grossman?” Phillips asked. “What’s that in your hands?”
Grossman raised them, as if in offering. A toner cartridge lay in his upturned palms.
“What are you doing with that?” Samantha yelled. “I just ordered those! You better not break it.”
Grossman smiled. His teeth were black. He dropped the toner and reached down to pull something from his belt. It was the scissors.
Grossman started to rise, but Tom slammed the door shut. “You can come out when you stop worshipping the Cosmic Horrors. OK, Grossman?”
Grossman’s only response was to scratch at the door.
“Samantha, can you and Tom throw a couple water bottles in there before you leave for the day? I don’t want him getting dehydrated.”
Thursday was actually kind of nice. With Grossman incapacitated and insane, Tom was the only one available to take sales calls. He ended up making more that day than he had the previous two weeks.
He had just finished closing another deal when the Horror descended yet again:
Phnevv’r Goonna Gyvve Ywe’Uhp Phnevv’r Goona Lehtt Ywe’Dounn Phnevv’r Goona Ruh’n Ahroon’d End Diss’rt Ywe.
Tom gasped. This was so much more terrible than the preceding days.
The sky blackened, with only the barest hint of red. A sudden tremor started in his knees and he grasped his hair, tearing at it until he fell forward onto the floor. He looked up to see a hole in reality, hovering just under the poster of the little kitten hanging from the tree branch.
Hang in there, the caption read, but Tom knew it was no use. This was the end. His only recourse was to embrace it.
The hole, the rift, widened. Beyond was the nether, the void, the absolute blackness of nothing.
The voice called to him:
Phnevv’r Goona maa’k Ywu Krri’y Phnevv’r Goonnnna zsayyi gut’byyyi Phnevv’r goooonna Te’hll ahly’i Ynd huu’rrt Ywu.
Tom cried out, or he thought he did. It wasn’t clear. Nothing was clear. He was a man with no voice, screaming into the dark beyond. His arm rose, his fingers stretching toward the rift.
A hot wind began circling Tom’s office, sweeping papers and contracts into the rift.
He tried to pull his arm back, tried with every last ounce of will, but he could not. His strength had failed him yet again.
The framed photo of Samantha fell from his desk. The otherworldly wind tugged it and it slid across the floor toward the rift. Tom reached out to catch it, only to feel it slip from his fingers.
Then, a moment later, it was over. The sky returned to its natural color. The void disappeared and, with it, the wind.
Tom coughed, shook his head, took a deep breath, and stood.
He sat back in his chair and jiggled his mouse to awaken his computer.
His phone rang and he answered. “Genesis Insurance Solutions,” he said. “How can I help you?”
“It’s me,” Samantha sai
d on the other end. “Don’t you look at your caller ID?”
“Yeah, usually. Just a bit shaken up right now.”
“Seriously. That last one was bad. Three more days, though, and it’ll be over.”
“Yeah, then we can get back to normal everyday terrors.”
Samantha giggled. “Or at least less psychic ones. Anyway, I called because it’s time to feed Grossman. You want to give us a hand?”
“Sure. Be right there.”
He hung up and went down the hall. Phillips and Samantha were standing outside the supply closet. Phillips had his hole-punch up and ready. Samantha had a plastic bag with a couple bottles of water and some cold cuts.
“OK, Tom. You open it and I’ll throw it in,” she said.
Tom grasped the door handle. “You ready?”
Samantha and Phillips nodded. Tom opened the door.
Grossman was standing with his trash bag cloak drawn around his body. He had added extra flaps, deepening the hood and sleeves. He held a broom stick in one hand. There was an empty toner cartridge speared to the end of the broomstick.
Grossman lifted his arm and his sleeve pulled back to reveal a criss-crossed mess of ritual lines marking Grossman’s arm, from his fingertips to his elbows.
“My strength grows!” Grossman cried out.
Phillips peeked over Tom’s shoulder. “Did you tattoo yourself, Grossman!?”
“These runes give me the power of Azaroth. My strength grows!”
“That is so unprofessional,” Phillips replied. “I hope you didn’t use the toner as ink. That stuff is toxic.”
“MY STRENGTH GRO-” Grossman started, but then Samantha tossed the food bag in and Tom slammed the door closed.
