Exponential Apocalypse

by Eirik Gumeny

  Then, without warning or reason, or even a decent transition, everything changed.

  The bag was removed and there were all these people and pointy things and lights and pain and oh my Jesus what the hell please let me die and, and… and suddenly Timmy knew exactly what was going on. He was in a laboratory, surrounded by scientists and attached to electrodes and stuck with needles. He caught a glimpse of a formula on a chalkboard and quickly deduced that his brain had been boiled in radiation, sparking a higher cognizance. Holy shit.

  This was alarming to Timmy in a lot of ways, actually. The existence of pants, for one. And the sudden and overwhelming sense of shame due to not wearing pants, for another. Mind-blowingly simple, really, he thought, covering one’s junk with cloth. One’s junk should never be exposed! Unless, of course, one loves and/or lusts after the person to whom one is exposing one’s junk. Wait, what? Contradiction was also new to Timmy.

  But, Timmy quickly reasoned, all that could wait. There would be time enough to ponder all the imponderables, to cover his junk and flash his wife, once he got out of this lab. Timmy stared at his restraints, trying to discern a way out of them, when, all of sudden, they started moving. What the crap? They stopped. That was weird. Timmy started thinking about removing the restraints again. The restraints started moving again. Wait. No way. Could it be? Telekinesis! Artificially induced cognizance was fucking awesome.

  Timmy freed himself from his restraints and then his cage, and finally scampered across the desktop.

  “Stop him!” said someone.

  Timmy threw a scalpel at that someone’s face. With his fucking mind.

  Timmy proceeded to butcher and maim the remainder of the scientists, taking out a lifetime of frustration in a matter of moments. Which was fitting, seeing as how Timmy had only actually been frustrated, or even aware of the possibility of frustration, for a matter of moments.

  Timmy the squirrel bolted out of the lab, across the lawn and into the street. The street. Streets are things that go places. Oh, man, this makes life so much easier! Timmy decided to follow the street to wherever it was going.

  But, wait. The street was vibrating slightly. What the hell? Timmy turned and looked around. There was something big and purple and pink barreling towards him.

  It was, it was… it was a car. Timmy remembered cars. Cars sucked.

  Forty-Three: Ka-Thunk

  Ka-thunk.

  “Jesus, Charlie,” said Queen Victoria XXX, her knees bouncing off her face, “what’d you hit this time?”

  “Another squirrel, I think.”

  “What’re you, aiming for them?”

  “I’m not doing it on purpose, they just keep ending up under the tires. I think they’re committing suicide. They’re probably part of a cult.”

  “Seriously? A suicidal squirrel cult?”

  “Sure,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII. “It’s not nearly as far-fetched as it might sound. It’s well documented that, throughout time, all manner of cults have resorted to suicide as a final ritual, regardless of the various lines of reasoning that led there. And given the sheer volume of things that are gaining sentience that shouldn’t be these past few years, it only makes sense that similarly cognitively-enhanced members of a species would band together—at first turning to one another for companionship and a sense of understanding, but eventually entering into a similar mindset. Couple this with the animal kingdom’s heightened sense of danger and unrest and it’s safe to assume that those wild and untamed creatures are fully aware of just how fucked this planet is. With the only options open to them being trying to identify and fight an elusive and intangible enemy or attempting to flee from the all-encompassing nature of said invisible threat, it’s not hard to believe that their fight or flight instinct would reconcile itself to suicide. Hell, it’s amazing that they haven’t all hanged themselves already.”

  “Well, no, not really,” said William H. Taft XLII. “I mean, you can’t seriously expect squirrels to tie a noose.”

  “There’s bound to be an artificially educated chimp somewhere with the know-how and the thumbs to perform such a task.”

  “You think there’s a monkey somewhere, just knitting nooses and selling them to squirrels?” asked Queen Victoria XXX.

  “Well, not necessarily selling. He could be bartering for them, or giving them away. Chimpanzees are industrious. There’s bound to be at least one looking to capitalize on the misfortunes of his brethren.”

  “Squirrels and chimps aren’t brothers,” replied William H. Taft XLII.

  “They’re closer to each other than they are to us.”

  “Wrong again, Charlie,” said Queen Victoria XXX. “Evolutionarily speaking, chimps are much closer to us than to squirrels. Everyone knows that.”

  “Would you buy a noose from a chimp?”

  “Why would I be buying a noose?”

  “Just answer the question. Yes or no.”

  “No.”

  “Right. And the inhabitants of the animal kingdom know this. After years of trying to make them wear pants and play the accordion, or chasing them out of our attics with brooms, humans are undoubtedly despised by both chimps and squirrels alike. Physically, humans and apes may be related, sure, but, socially, spiritually, chimps would identify more with squirrels. They would be brethren in a fraternal sense.”

  “Have you ever lost an argument?”

  “Once. That guy’s not alive anymore, though.”

  Forty-Four: The Same Thing We Do Every Night

  Having given in wholly to the whims and wants of the woolgathering wastrels, Quetzalcoatl was finally able to enjoy his days, largely through excessive drinking, sleeping, and the occasional spouting of vague, usually insulting, witticisms.

  Then he got bored.

  Then he got an idea.

  A wonderful, awful idea.

  “Everyone,” called Quetzalcoatl loudly, “gather ‘round.”

  “We can’t gather round, man,” said Gil.

  “The room’s square, man,” said Lil. “It’s got, like, corners.”

  “OK, not you two,” replied the former Aztec god.

  “That’s not cool, man.”

  “Yeah,” seconded Gil, “that’s, like, discriminatory and stuff.”

  “Fine, alright,” relented Quetzalcoatl, “but no talking.”

  Gil and Lil nodded. Phil, Bill, Will and the rest of the philosophers and liberal arts majors likewise gathered ‘rou… in a manner that filled the room but did not actually resemble a circle in any way.

  “Gentlemen and ladies who look like gentlemen,” said Quetzalcoatl. “The time has come for us to make our presence known. For you to get off your asses and make this planet a better place…”

  Quetzalcoatl was going to take over the world.

  Forty-Five: His Name Was Sleepzor, He Was a Tiredmotron

  “What the fuck is the new guy doing?” asked Thor.

  “It looks like he’s taking a nap,” replied Catrina.

  “But he’s a robot.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Robots don’t sleep.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why is he sleeping then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You think we should wake him?”

  “Well, given that he’s got a circular saw in his chest and the last guy that surprised him was the late, great pillow fetishist, I’d advise against it. Also—and this is important, Thor—why? There is no conceivable reason to wake him. We haven’t had a guest since he killed that guy.”

  “Yeah, I know, but I want to know why he’s asleep.”

  “That’s pretty dumb.”

  “He’s a robot. Robots don’t sleep. And yet this one is asleep, snoring even. I want to know why.”

  “So ask him when he’s awake.”

  “What if he doesn’t wake up? What if he’s in some kind of robot coma? What if by waking him up I’m saving his life?”

  “My money’s on that being even more unlikely than a r
obot napping in the first place.”

  “I’m gonna do it.”

  “You’re gonna get a saw through your chest.”

  “You worry too much.”

  “You’re an idiot too much.”

  “Here goes.”

  Thor approached the robot sprawled across the lobby’s couch. He was debating between tapping the robot’s shoulder and simply yelling in its face. Catrina, for her part, decided it would be wise to retrieve the first aid kit from the break room, as Thor was about to become grievously injured.

  “Why are you sleeping?!” shouted Thor, as mightily as his human lungs would allow.

  Catrina wasn’t exactly sure what happened next—as she was safely beyond the robot’s assault perimeter when its defense mechanisms were triggered—but it sounded awfully similar to a jet of flame, an agonized cry of “By Odin’s beard,” followed immediately by an equally as agonized cry of “fuckin’ shit, my eyes,” then something soft, fleshy, and angry punching something confused and made entirely of steel, and, finally, something made of steel being thrown through something made of glass.

  Catrina was going to offer her sympathies to Thor by yelling “I told you so” into the lobby, but she found she was laughing far too much to speak.

  Forty-Six: Dispersing the Diplomats

  Quetzalcoatl was drinking quietly in his corner, humming a song he had heard on someone’s radio at some point in time, possibly, when he was suddenly surrounded by a half-dozen dirty, disheveled faces he had never seen before. Or, more likely, had seen before but didn’t bother remembering. Or, most likely, he was very, very drunk and they were very, very blurry.

  “Can I help you?” asked Quetzalcoatl.

  Gil, Lil, Hil, Jill, Jack and Mac nodded their blurry heads in unison.

  “OK, that’s… that’s not helping. Someone use words. Or pictures, maybe.”

  “We’ve been talking to Phil and Will, right?” said Gil. “And, like, we were thinking that, maybe, you know, we should go out as, like, emissaries or something.”

  “To, you know, spread the word of what you’ve been saying and, like, make your teachings and stuff known,” added Lil.

  “That’s actually not a bad idea,” said Quetzalcoatl. “And you guys came up with it?”

  “We did,” said Jill.

  “Together,” said Jack smiling too much.

  “Yeah, great, good for you,” replied Quetzalcoatl, looking at Jack uneasily. “You’ve certainly got my blessing. Or at least my approval. I suggest you gather whoever else you want and go forth and do what it was you just said you’d do. Now.”

  Gil, Lil, Hil, Jill, Jack and Mac nodded their blurry heads again. Then they continued to stand there.

  “You don’t appear to be going forth,” said Quetzalcoatl, closing one eye in an effort to focus. “Why are you not going forth? Now?”

  “Well, we’re, uh, we’re not really sure where to go from here,” said Jack.

  “We didn’t get that far,” added Jill.

  “Yeah,” added Hil. “What, uh, what exactly should we tell them?”

  Quetzalcoatl sighed and rubbed his palms against his forehead.

  “Whatever they want to hear.”

  “Oh, man,” replied Gil, “of course.”

  “That’s so wise,” said Lil.

  “Right,” said Quetzalcoatl, “wise. Get moving.”

  Forty-Seven: Motherfucker Got Stuck in a Bathtub

  “Hey, guys,” said William H. Taft XLII, “I think that’s our car.”

  He pointed to a car down the road. A car with a tree where the engine should have been.

  “That car was armored,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, slowing the Volkswagen down, “and then reinforced with more armor. What the fuck is that tree made of?”

  The answer was titanium and bad luck. However, Chester A. Arthur XVII was never to discover this, as the possessed zombies who had stolen his car were standing around the damaged automobile looking confused, and his vengeance swiftly overpowered his curiosity. Also, the tree was an extremely convincing disguise. It’s a very long story involving sentient cutlery and cannot be explained without killing the one doing the explaining, so the odds weren’t looking good anyway.

  “Hey,” called out Queen Victoria XXX, as the trio of politicians stepped out of the car. “Hey, assholes!”

  “Oh shit,” said the cowboy zombie.

  “Agreed,” said the other zombie that, judging from the sari, was, at least corporeally, of Indian descent.

  “Should we run?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  The zombies began to run.

  Chester A. Arthur XVII and Queen Victoria XXX ran after them. William H. Taft XLII started to follow as well, but found he was getting winded far more quickly than he had anticipated and changed his mind.

  “Go… go get ‘em, guys,” said the genetic reincarnation of the United States’ fattest president between gasps, “I’ll… I’ll be… sitting down here for a while.”

  William H. Taft XLII fell onto his colossal ass with a colossal thud.

  “Oh, man…”

  Chester A. Arthur XVII and Queen Victoria XXX expressed their concern for their roommate by sprinting down the road and ignoring him entirely.

  “You dickheads stole our car!” shouted Chester A. Arthur XVII.

  “My iPod was in there!” added Queen Victoria XXX.

  “Really,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, continuing to run down the road while turning his immediate attention to Vicky, “your iPod? That’s your main concern here?”

  “What?” she replied. “All my music’s on there. All of it, Charlie.”

  “So?”

  “Do you have any idea how long it would take to re-download all of that?”

  “A while, I’m sure. I’m just saying, I think we have more pressing matters here.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? What pressing matters? The car’s totaled. We’ve already got a new one. There’s no urgency here.”

  “We’ve only got a limited amount of time before the fuckers who stole our car get away. And I’d say that setting those finite limits on our goal certainly creates some sense of urgency.”

  “Our goal? What’s our goal, Charlie? Beating the shit out of the corpses who took our stuff?”

  “Justice, Vicky, not vengeance, there’s a difference.”

  “Seriously?” she asked. “Seriously?! How are you saying that with a straight face? And how come my iPod doesn’t deserve justice?”

  “Do you know how much of my blood and sweat went into that car? I spent the better part of a year fixing…”

  “And I spent at least that long downloading songs!”

  “You can’t honestly be comparing the two.”

  “Admit this is just revenge, admit that it’s your pride wrapped around that tree, and I’ll consider reneging my comparison.”

  It should be noted that Chester A. Arthur XVII and Queen Victoria XXX, despite the heated nature of their conversation, did not stop chasing after the fleeing zombies. It should also probably be noted that the zombies had, in fact, stopped fleeing after the first couple hundred feet.

  The cowboy and the Indian clothes-lined the clones. The zombies’ arms fell off in the process, but the president and the queen had successfully been snapped off their feet and knocked onto their backs, so the corpses considered it a win.

  Forty-Eight: Cowboys & Indians

  “Well, well,” said the one-armed, undead cowboy, approaching the prostrated duo, “if it isn’t President Chester A. Arthur his own self.”

  “I haven’t been president in over a hundred years, pal, and, in point of fact, I’ve,” he explained, gesticulating to indicate his body, “never actually been president.”

  “You know,” replied the zombie, pulling a revolver from behind his back, “I don’t rightly care.”

  “Oh, come on, man.”

  “Sucks to be you,” contributed Queen Victoria XXX, laughing at her companion
and beginning to lift herself from the ground.

  “Oh, no, my dear, sweet Empress Victoria,” said the Indian woman, stepping closer and revealing a large knife, forcing Queen Victoria XXX back to the ground, “you’re not getting off that easy.”

  “For fuck’s sake, lady. Seriously?”

  “Now see here, mister President,” continued the decomposing cowboy, “I had a good thing going, bringing in the Chinese and puttin’ ‘em to work on the lines a’fore they knew better. Then you, you had to go and outlaw Chinese immigrations and dry up all my profits.”

  “That wasn’t me, you fucking half-wit,” countered Chester A. Arthur XVII.

  “An’ this ain’t me,” replied the zombie, grabbing the stitching of his garishly embroidered vest. “Among numerous other things, I wouldn’ta been caught dead in this ridiculous outfit. It’s fuckin’ embarrassing, not ta mention uncomfortable.”

  “You do kind of have a stripper vibe going on with that,” added Queen Victoria XXX.

  “I know, right?” he said. “I feel bad fer the poor bastard that died in this get-up.” The cowboy shrugged. “But that’s just the shape a’ the world now, I ‘spose. I ain’t me and you ain’t you and things ain’t even close to how they was… but I’m gon’ kill you all the same.”

  “And I…” said the sari-clad corpse, addressing Queen Victoria XXX.

  “Yeah, I get it,” said Queen Victoria XXX. “Queen of England, colony in India, lots of shit went down, not me, you don’t care.”

  “Oh, well, yes.”

  “Glad we cleared that up.”

  “Seriously, though,” added the queen, “all this time and you’re still pissed? How uneventful were the rest of your lives?”

  “Pretty boring,” said the cowboy.

  “Oh, god, you have no idea,” said the Indian.

  Forty-Nine: Emotional Resonance