On The 7th Day

by Zack Murphy

  She wasn’t a big fan of coffee, especially the kind she made, but she enjoyed the combined caffeine-sugar rush it gave her for fifteen minutes at a time. She shook the cobwebs from her head as the spree of caffeinated vigor raced through her body.

  She studied the list Dana Plough had given her again and had no idea how she was going to get everything done by tomorrow. Even with the aid of her lackey she knew that she would have to do most of it by herself. She could always count on herself as the only one she could count on in any time of need. She was the master at getting things done the right way, the Juliet way. No one was going to be able to do it better than her. She wasn’t being brash, she was being reasonable. If she was President, the country would run like the trains, only with less riff-raff hanging around the entrances.

  She glanced down at the paper again, lifted her head and smiled. This was going to be a hard assignment, just the kind of work that was perfect for her. She knew that this was just the opening to finally show everyone just what she knew all along-- Juliet is better than you.

  *****

  Onaiwu Iyare watched the hands of clock methodically tick the hours away. He had been waiting for years for the bosses to finally arrive, but now they were late and he was getting antsy. Plus, he was lonely; he was used to always being surrounded by dozens of people.

  The ranch was continuously bustling with activity, the ranch hands, the kitchen staff, the farmers, wives, and children who had spent generations living amongst the desert oasis were now all gone.

  He had never heard such silence in all his life. There was nothing but the occasional feint neighing from the stables outside from the horses that were also waiting impatiently for the strangers to arrive.

  The horses were always well behaved, but now seemed to have anticipated the impending arrival of their masters. They weren’t in the habit of being left to their own devices to kill time, they were well-oiled machines, and well-oiled machines aren’t in the habit of idling. It was time to run free and be part of something larger than the farm in which they had lived from eager colts to ardent adults. They paced and tapped their heels on the scorched ground in anxious expectation of the impending excitement that they felt. Any time now.

  Onaiwu Iyare was getting impatient as well, but he wasn’t sure why. He had a sinking suspicion deep in his heart that he was losing out on the best days of his life. He also felt, as the words of Mr. Reed rang through his thoughts, these were also the last days of his life.

  He never knew what the outside world had to offer, and as far as he was concerned up until now, the rest of world ran pretty much the same way as the ranch did.

  But now he was second-guessing his own existence in his world wondering if he was missing out on something wonderful. Like naked women feeding him grapes and singing sweet love songs while they waved palm fronds to cool him [When a man is alone, his mind will always turn to sex, or at least the idea of someone wanting to have sex with him]. These thoughts carried him though the day and night and into the following morning as he sat and monitored the clock.

  What he wanted more than anything was something to eat, the rumbling in his stomach made it hard to concentrate on wild women doing wilder things to him. The kitchen was still well stocked, but as Onaiwu had recently found out, he’d never learnt to cook a meal in his life.

  Pots and pans hung from the ceiling, huge ovens lined the walls of kitchen, but they were all for naught. He knew what he liked to eat; he just didn’t know what ingredients and procedures went into the making of the actual food he enjoyed.

  It was getting late and he sensed that he would wait for another morning to come before he got to go and hit the local eating establishment he knew was out there somewhere. The restaurant all his friends and family were awaiting his arrival at, as they stuffed themselves on chicken wings and pizza skins. Whatever those things were.

  *****

  Famine peeked out from behind the parasol she had been using both for keeping the hot sun from beating down on her head and as a wall between her and War. She had had enough of his constant belittlement and whining.

  She never thought that she would hear more complaints from the dark lord of death and destruction than she did from people who’d given their last piece of rice to their child three days ago and were slowly feeling their internal organs shrivel to the size of Macedonian dates.

  She squinted at four small shapes coming up over a sand dune about a few miles away from where the group was standing. The figures appeared to be coming closer. She nudged the sunglasses to the tip of nose and peered at the openness of the dessert. She couldn’t make out what was coming, but they were coming fast, and moving over the sandy floor as if gliding on roller skates.

  These things, whatever they were, were used to this place. As they traveled closer she could tell they weren’t as small as she had originally thought; they were actually quite large. And Purple?

  *****

  The warning signs were everywhere, literally; ‘Danger’. ‘Keep Out’. ‘Warning! 10,000 Watt Electrical Fence’. ‘Violators Will Be Shot (but not before we have a little fun with you first)’. The last one was most terrifying, as Henry knew that if the government says they’ll kill you, they probably will. And that wouldn’t be the fun part they were talking about. The Southern California Biokemikal Lab and Reserch Center was supposedly secret, but anyone with a lap top and a spelling aptitude of a first grader could easily find out where it was hidden.

  Henry had lived a life of privilege growing up and had been educated in all the top private and prep schools money had to offer, which meant he spent much of his childhood out of the country. It was Mr. Angler’s way of making sure his son received the highest possible education money could buy, plus it was good way to insure that Mr. Angler was never caught by his son in compromising positions with any of his constituents who wanted to get a law passed [A time honored tradition of politicians everywhere].

  He had tried unsuccessfully to aggrandize his way in, stating that he was both a senator’s son and an aide to the one of the most powerful talking heads in the media. When that attempt failed, he tried bribing the guards, but he only had twenty bucks on him and they wouldn’t take a personal check.

  He finally found a small opening between the fence and a side the mountain that the Lab had be dug out of and decided to climb through. He looked at the signs again.

  Ten thousand watts would definitely fry you up quite nice, and if he wasn’t cooked up nice and plump like a Christmas goose the whole catching and killing, but first a little humorous torture, would be the death of him.

  As he slid through carefully he thought long and deep about what he was doing. He weighed the good and bad, the morality of what he was being asked to do, why he was being asked to do it in the first place, and why he didn’t ask any more questions before agreeing to do it. All he could come up with was this: “All this for eighteen thousand a year.”

  *****

  A small man wearing a bowler and dressed in a dapper tweed suit with bulky coke bottle glasses sat on a park bench tossing pigeons torn up pieces of bread out of a paper bag. He spread the food around so all the little feathered rats could get a good mouthful. It was a beautiful day in Merida, the Mexican state capital of the Yucatan, and the sun was leaving a radiant wave of colors over the stoned pavement of the Plaza Mayor, while the Cathedral de San Idelfanso stood casting long shadows in the hot afternoon sun.

  A small man wearing a bowler and dressed in a dapper tweed suit with bulky coke bottle glasses was feeling sad, despite the beauty that surrounded him.

  The constant chatter of market people selling hammocks in three different languages to the tourists trying to escape their unremitting sales pitches somehow made him a little happier. He had done everything that had been asked of him, and yet he was still taken for granted.

  As he tossed another bit of loaf on the ground, he reminisced about his value in the scheme of the universe. He had thought of himself as a m
ajor player, but after the last few days he was beginning to see himself as more of pawn than a rook.

  He crumpled the bag in his hands as he grew angrier about the way he had been treated. Who were they to ignore everything he had contributed to the cause? How could they just dismiss him with one wave their hands? Why was he sitting here instead of doing something about it?

  These questions began to burn deep inside his craw [Craw: located somewhere between the heebie-jeebies and the invisible third nipple 99.2% of people have]. as a tiny bead of sweat started to trickle down his quickly reddening face. He was going to do something about it. If he was going to have to be a hero on his own, and dammit, he was going to be a hero on his own. To hell with those who ignored him, he was going to be rook. Maybe even a Queen.

  If he could find something nice to wear.

  *****

  The cigar raced around Earl’s lips as he sat at his desk, which was overflowing with stacks of yellow and pink papers fluttering in the breeze of a small fan. A glass of whiskey swirled in his fingertips as he stared at the invoices. He lifted the glass to his mouth and carefully sipped, pulling a small grin to his pursed lips.

  He had been living on no sleep with double doses of grain alcohol for the past few days and was beginning to get drunk, both punch and original. He had been smiling for most of the past sixteen hours, but most of it was due to a large rat that gotten caught in empty jar of peanuts that it had climbed into and that had begun to use his glass jail as a small vehicle to drive around the lot before finally dying struggling with a loose popcorn kernel that had rolled into the jar with it, and, thinking the kernel was a new prisoner, had tried to make it his bitch, only to choke on it. It was the little things that made Earl happy.

  He slowly rose from his chair and headed down the long hallways of the Emporium. He reached aisle 24 section 234 and looked up. A broader smile began to grow on his face as he stared at the shimmering glow that echoed from the shelf above.

  *****

  Manuel DeLuego was busy waxing his car when he got a call. Dana Plough wanted to be picked up, and when Dana Plough calls, you either leave your Caddy half waxed or you find yourself having more than enough time on your hands to detail it. So he packed up his things, started the ignition and drove off toward Ms. Plough’s house.

  The Beach Boys played over the radio as he raced down the street, his fingers tapping the beat on the steering wheel. He stopped at just one place on his way to pick up his livery, the only liquor store that sold Poka Vsyo.

  Dana Plough may have been a mean drunk, but she was even more ill-mannered sober. It didn’t matter how much the stuff cost, he was going to have plenty in stock. It may have meant he was two minutes late, but after a few bolts of vodka she would soon forget about what time it was and hopefully fall asleep in the backseat until they reached their destination.

  Manuel put the car in drive and headed off, not knowing this was going to be the most interesting trip he would ever be a part of. And since the world was going to end any day now, that was soon to be a given.

  *****

  The hulking figures were getting closer now and the other three Horsemen had stopped bickering long enough to join in Famine’s bewilderment. “Are those-- purple?” asked The Death, pulling down the cowl of his robe and scratching his skull.

  “Yes?” War answered, still not sure if that was indeed the right answer. “Yes.” He reiterated trying to be confident in what his eyes were seeing, while trying to get his brain to wrap around the sight.

  “I thought they were extinct,” chimed in Conquest.

  “I’m pretty sure they are,” said The Death, peering harder at the figures galloping even closer to the four, “I mean they are. Aren’t they?”

  “Well--?” agreed Famine.

  “Well--?” seconded War.

  “Well--?” Conquest added just to be part of the collective awe that struck the posse. She hated to be left out of the discussion even when she didn’t have an opinion or an idea of what the conversation was about.

  “They certainly are, um, purple. Aren’t they?” said Famine who had been trying harder and longer than the others to truly grasp what was happening in the dessert before them.

  “Purple would be certainly the word for it.” said The Death as he started to walk toward the streaking figures in an effort to join up with them a little sooner than the others were expecting. “Definitely purple!”

  *****

  The Death of Australia, New Zealand and Countries with a Population less than 500 Total People sat on a car parked outside Barnaby’s hotel with Michael Ryan beside her. Michael had been dragged around the world and back, like the Patty Hearst of the afterlife.

  He was starting to get used to fact that he was a prisoner without any chance of escaping his kidnapper. So against his better judgment and due to the lack of an escape route he decided to just go along for the ride and try to enjoy it.

  “Can I ask you a question?” Michael said, interrupting the uncomfortable silence that only he seemed to be feeling.

  “No.”

  “Well, it’s more of a statement than a question really.”

  “No.”

  “But I really need to get this off my chest.” He put his foot down as softly as he could. “It’s really important that we discuss this if we’re going to be a team.”

  “We’re not a team. Now be quiet, I’m trying to work here,” she said off-handedly, never taking her eyes off the room at the top of the building.

  “Yeah, but you’re not really working, you’re just following some guy around. It’s more stalking than work if you want my opinion.”

  “I don’t want your opinion. When I want your opinion I’ll ask for your opinion. Now be quiet.”

  Michael sat forward in silence and rested his chin on the dashboard. He watched all the living people pass him by without a notice and reminisced about the time he was alive. Granted, he hadn’t been dead for long, but he missed the hustle and bustle of life and all the crap that went with it. It was a lot more exciting than being dead, and his life wasn’t that exciting to begin with, but it sure beat staring at windows you couldn’t see in. “I’m hungry,” he said, turning to DANZ & C>500TP.

  “Don’t be silly, you’re not hungry.”

  “But I am,” he insisted as he listened to his stomach gurgle like a witches cauldron chock full of sour eye of newt.

  “No you’re not. You’re dead. Dead people don’t get hungry; it’s a well known fact. You don’t feel pain, you don’t get bored and you don’t get hungry.”

  “But I am hungry, and I know I’m definitely bored. Can I get something to eat? Please? Then I won’t ask you anything again. I promise.” He appealed to his captors’ nonexistent capacity for concern.

  “Do you have any money?”

  He checked his pocket and pulled out a ball of lint and a voucher for a free meal at a casino buffet, which just made him think of food more. “No, but I’m dead. Can’t I just take some and no one will see me? Besides, those hot dogs smell good.” He whined.

  “Fine. Go get a hot dog. Just let me do what I need to do.” She said waving him away with a flick of her hand.

  “Thanks.” He leaped up and hurried over the cart where the aromas of boiled meat franks filled the air. He stared into the grey water where the slabs of pork and beef floated like a brown sticks in a river of grease.

  He smacked his lips and reached down for the biggest hot dog he could find. He lifted the meat to his mouth and opened wide. As the hot dog fell to the ground at his feet he looked at the soiled, dirt-covered morsel and sighed. This was a cruel joke, he thought to himself as he glanced back at DANZ & C>500TP who gave a little smile and shrugged her shoulders. “Why!?” he cried out with discernible despondency

  “I tried to explain it to you.” She chided, never lifting her gaze from the hotel room window, “You’re not hungry.”

  *****

  Four large purple dinosaurs walked up and greeted T
he Death. He patted one on the head while getting a sloppy wet kiss from the tongue of another.

  This specific species of long forgotten reptiles weren’t so much extinct as they were never supposed to have existed in the first place, except on children’s programming on your local public television station. There’s always a bit of truth in lies, but usually those anomalies are left to lies and not the imagination.

  The gigantic beasts walked sluggishly nibble on all fours and were built like a heavily armored Volkswagen beetle. They were gentle beasts, notably since this was this first time in the history of their species’ existence that they had come across another sentient being.

  It was as if they had spent the past few millennia waiting for someone to love, and since they had never seen a human before, in their minds this rag tag band of the bringers of total world destruction were what everyone else on the planet looked like.

  The Death patted one on the nose and smiled into its eyes. Conquest made her way over to the beasts next, gingerly opening her hand to let the massive creatures smell the fear that penetrated from her pores. This was the first time she had ever felt fear before, but there was something so unnatural about the animals she was being sniffed by.

  Famine and War were less hesitant as they came over, seeing that the monsters didn’t seem to care about devouring a walking bag of bones or a living Halloween costume, so they figured a hulking brute of a man with enough weaponry at his side to arm a small Mideast country and a young woman who looked like she’d just come back from the polo grounds had little to worry about.

  “What do you think?” asked The Death, turning to the others.

  “Why not?” shrugged War crestfallen.

  *****

  Mr. Reed was worried; his bosses should really have met up with him by now. He really wished they had taken a cell phone as he had insisted they do. He also wished he had stopped drinking shots of Cold Turkey a few hours ago.

  It wasn’t like he had never been kept waiting before, but they were usually very good at being on time, seeing that they pretty much had the control of time and space at their fingertips. He dumped back another glass of liquor, popped a couple of peanuts in his mouth and ordered another round.