Split (1)

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It was just dirty and the floor looked like it hadn't seen a mop since the early 1950s. Barry also ignored the expiration dates on most of the items in the store, too. Not that it mattered to him. Everything he wanted to eat was candy and nonwater drinks. The stuff bitchy Melanie would rail against until the only thing left to eat was processed food and chicken. Barry hoped he'd live long enough to see an even skinnier Melanie chasing a rabbit through a ruined city for dinner. And she'd still harp about eating vegetables while cooking the rabbit. Just thinking about cooked meat was making him hungry. He thought beef jerky and Slim Jims counted as meat, so he grabbed as many as he could carry to the counter. Barry went around and took four plastic bags, filling them with his foodstuffs. He'd never been on this side of the counter in a convenience store before, which was odd considering the dead-end jobs he'd been in: shoe salesman, short-order cook in a dive bar, fast-food restaurant drive-thru worker (he'd worked at all of them over the years), and an actual ditch digger. That job had paid the best.
Barry looked under the counter for the shotgun. He'd seen enough episodes of Cops and movies to know the guy making minimum wage only worked this shitty job so he could shoot a would-be robber in the face and be a hero. It was the only reason he'd tried unsuccessfully to work at a convenience store. But there was no gun. Only rotting food and mold that had been there way before the zombies attacked. This place was going to kill him, with diseases growing in the corners and in plain sight. He filled up the other plastic bags with potato chips and French onion dip and lots of candy bars. With his free hand he picked up a twelve-pack of Corona (it would be a nice compromise so he didn't have to carry another case or come back up) and headed down the stairs, the door kinda closing behind him. Stupid Vinnie, he thought. We're going to need to figure out a way to rig the door so it stays shut. But Barry knew he wasn't going to waste time doing it. He was going to feast on chips and warm beer. People called this the zombie apocalypse, but to him it would be just another Friday night, only for once there would be company during dinner.
Someone screamed out on the street and Barry ducked. He heard two gunshots followed by more screams. As he raised his head slowly someone bloody and big slammed against the plate glass window of the convenience store before sliding slowly down, leaving a nice trail of crimson. Barry almost pissed himself. As another three gunshots rang out, closer this time, he ran to the basement door and pulled it as tight as he could, cursing Vinnie for acting all macho in front of the vegan chick and ruining their sanctuary. "Ugh, man . . . is that foreign beer?" Vinnie asked when Barry got down the steps and put the food down. "I asked for a microbrew. Not some beer bottled in a third-world country." Barry shrugged. "It's from Mexico. So not foreign. And if you want something else feel free to walk up the steps and fight your way to the cooler." That shut Vinnie up and kept Melanie from talking as they both looked up the stairs. Barry realized he'd forgotten a bottle opener. He looked at Vinnie and mimed opening the bottle as he took a Corona from the packaging.
"Are you suddenly a mute?" Vinnie asked. "That would be really nice," Melanie mumbled. "I heard that. And I'm not sharing my food or drink with you," Barry said. Melanie wrinkled her nose. "You brought nothing down I would put in my mouth." Barry smiled, dirty thoughts running through his head. Melanie groaned loudly and put her arms across her chest. "Wow, you are really creepy, buddy. I might take my chances upstairs." "While you're up there, bring me back some American beer. Preferably microbrewed," Vinnie said. "Oh, and string cheese." Barry sat on the floor with the Corona and stared at it. "I need a bottle opener." No one said anything. "Seriously? No one has a stupid bottle opener key chain? No matter where I go, there's always some dude with one dangling from his Camaro key," Barry said. "Where do you live that dudes still drive a Camaro?" Vinnie asked. "I drive a Dodge Charger," he said and looked at Melanie. "It's red." "I ride a bicycle because I don't want to pollute the planet any more than I have to. Like you're doing with your stupid muscle car," Melanie said.
"Well . . . the clothes you're wearing made pollution," Vinnie said. It sounded good to Barry. He wanted to see them argue but wished he had a bottle opener to chug a beer while doing it. Melanie stood up and twirled around. "Wrong, idiot. My pants are made from hemp. The shirt is made from hemp, too." She sat back down on the floor. "You have no idea what you're talking about." "What about your underwear? Hemp thong?" Barry asked. Melanie shook her head. "I don't wear underwear." "I love you," Vinnie whispered. * * "What do you think is going on outside?" Vinnie asked thirty minutes later. They'd all stretched out on the dusty, dirty floor in the corner and tried to relax, taking turns sneezing and sweating. "I think people with ridiculous amounts of key chain bottle openers are being killed while I sit here thirsty and rot away," Barry said. "Go get one then, dude," Vinnie said. "All you do is talk about it. Seize the day." "I thought that movie was stupid," Barry said. "You're stupid," Vinnie said.
"I think it's fair to say you're both equally stupid," Melanie said. "And I don't know what movie you're talking about. Or care." "You're against movies? Why, the film stock is ruining the ozone layer?" Barry asked her. "I read for entertainment," Melanie said. "People write books on hemp?" Vinnie asked. "No." Melanie turned away to stare at the wall next to her head. "When I was young I was stupid. I ate meat and drank from plastic water bottles. I also bought books." "Tree killer," Barry said. She ignored the comment. "I still have them. They'll never go into a landfill, though. So I read them over and over instead of rotting my brain with television and movies." "Did you get them as a kid?" Barry asked. "If you did, isn't reading Dr. Seuss over and over getting boring?" He laughed at his own joke but no one else did. As usual. "I read Dumas and Kipling, Brontë and London," Melanie said. "Someday I'd like to visit London and see what their microbrews taste like," Vinnie said. "I thought you hated foreign beer," Barry said. He held up the still unopened Corona in his hand. "Over there everything would be a foreign beer. And you'd be a foreigner so you couldn't drink any of the beer."
"You make no sense," Vinnie said slowly, but Barry could see he was trying to work it out in his head. "No sense," he finally said after a pause. "Even if I had a bottle opener, I'm not going to drink that foreign beer in your hand." "This one is mine," Barry said and covered the bottle with his other hand. "Get your own. And while you're up there getting some fruity beer brewed in someone's bathtub, make sure you bring down a bottle opener. I'm getting thirsty eating these potato chips." "Give me a bag," Vinnie said. "Did you find Doritos? Cool Ranch?" Barry shook his head. "I'm not sharing. You won't get a bottle opener." "I'm not going upstairs. There are ghouls waiting to bite me," Vinnie said. "You mean zombies." Barry stuffed potato chips in his mouth. Now he wished he'd gotten a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. That sounded really good right now, too. And he was never going back up those stairs to certain death again, he decided. "I'm not going to kill a zombie," Melanie said. "Of course not. Why would the vegan pacifist try to save herself? I bet you're miserable inside," Barry said. Vinnie acted shocked, but Barry knew he was thinking the same thing. Barry had no delusional thoughts about procreating the human race with this skinny bitch like Vinnie did. He was going to say whatever was on his mind. "All of those plants and hemp have screwed up your organs. I bet I live longer than you and I eat cold pizza for breakfast twice a week. I only eat food that had a face whenever possible. You know what lettuce is? Food my food eats."
"You're an asshole," Melanie said. Barry stabbed a potato chip–crusted finger in her direction. "Vegans don't curse." "Yes, they do. I do. You're thinking of a Straight Edge person." "Never heard of it. But it sounds ridiculous," Barry said. He put more chips into his mouth and leaned back against the wall. * * Otto hadn't moved in hours. Or it might've been minutes. Barry was so bored it felt like they'd been down in the basement for days. And he had to pee really, really bad. Back to Otto. The guy was probably in his midtwenties. He looked foreign, maybe Australian. He hadn't talked, but Barry thought he'd have an accent if he did. Like a crazy New Zealand accent, maybe. He could quote Crocodile Dundee at will and he loved AC/DC. Otto was a fascinating guy who hadn't uttered a word. He just stared into space. What if he was the cause of the chaos upstairs? Barry had watched enough M. Night Shyamalan movies to know the quiet guy in the corner was usually the killer. Or was that a Saw movie? Barry couldn't remember, but he'd never seen a horror movie where the creepy quiet guy in the corner was really an angel or the savior with a bottle opener.
Barry approached Otto cautiously, expecting his eyes to suddenly glow red or a giant snakelike appendage to rip from his chest and bite him. But Otto just stared into space. "What are you doing?" Melanie asked. Barry gave her the finger, not bothering to look at Melanie or her perky vegan breasts. When he got right in front of Otto he stopped and squatted down to eye level with the guy. "Bro, you all right?" Otto stared straight ahead, his eyes glassy. He was breathing, and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly. "I'm going to ask you questions and you can blink for the answers," Barry said. "I'm going upstairs. Anyone want anything?" Vinnie said. Barry nodded but kept looking at Otto. "Can you get me more beer and see if the hot dogs are warm on the roller thing up there? I like ketchup on mine." "Go to hell. You didn't share with me," Vinnie said. "I'm going to get the good beer. Be right back." "Idiot. Anyway . . . one blink means yes and two means no. Got it?" Barry asked. He hoped Otto was in there somewhere and wanted to play along. It was like sitting in front of a living Ouija board. Or like watching C-SPAN. Or anything with Tom Cruise. Just waiting for something creepy to happen. "Let's begin . . . is your name Otto?"
Otto (probably not his real name) stared straight ahead and didn't blink, even when Barry waved his hands in front of Otto's face. "Were you bitten?" No blink. "Were you attacked?" Nothing. "Did you see people die?" Nada. "Do you think Melanie has nice boobs for a vegan?" "Hey," Melanie said. Still no blinking coming from Otto. "This is a waste of time, right?" Barry asked. Otto blinked. "Holy shit. Did you blink because this is a waste of time, or because you needed to blink? Or did you blink because you're messing with me?" Otto blinked again. Barry peppered him with miscellaneous questions for the next three minutes, like if he thought the Browns would ever have a winning record or his thoughts on LeBron or which was better: ham, turkey, and Swiss cheese or a hot pastrami sandwich. Otto didn't blink again. "I'm going upstairs," Vinnie announced. "I thought you'd left already," Barry said. "I want more chips. Sour cream and onion, please." "Go to hell. You didn't share. Why should I get you anything?"
"I said please," Barry said. "So?" Barry shrugged. "If you'd said please when I went up to the store I would've gotten you whatever you wanted. Just because life has turned completely upside down doesn't mean we can't be civil to one another. We might be the last people on this block. And before all this happened, most everyone living in this part of town was on drugs or drunk or dying, anyway. So there's a really solid chance we'd be the last of the living regardless." Vinnie sighed. "I'll get you one bag. But it will be a small one." "Can I have fruit if they have any?" Melanie asked. Vinnie smiled at her. "What do you have to trade for fruit?" Melanie smiled. "Whatever you want. I hope Barry will also give you the same thing you have in mind for me, too. That's only fair." "I don't want the chips," Barry said quickly. "You all suck," Vinnie said. He stared at the door at the top of the steps. "Wish me luck." * * "What's taking him so long?" Melanie asked after what seemed like several hours but was probably only two.
"Yeah, I'm a little pissed, too. Where are my potato chips?" Barry asked. He was getting hungry again, and there was only so much staring you could do at Melanie before you started thinking horrible thoughts. Like, if it came to it, would he have to eat her and would her skin taste like tofu. "Is food all you think about?" Melanie asked, looking away, disgusted, when Barry grinned. "Eww, gross." Barry shrugged and stared at the semi-closed door above. "The convenience store isn't that big. Even taking his time walking every aisle and comparing prices, it shouldn't be taking Vinnie this long." "He left, you idiot," Melanie said. "I'm sure he saw an opening and he ran for it. "What if it's over? The zombie apocalypse was a fad. Right now Vinnie is sitting in a bar drinking an exotic beer and watching the baseball game, which had a two-hour delay so they could clear out the fans who weren't zombies." Barry laughed. "Which would be every Indians fan. Get it?" "No, I'm an idiot like you." Melanie stood and dusted off her tight jeans. "I'm going to look for him."
"Don't leave me," Barry said. "But if you do . . . can you get me sour cream and onion potato chips, please and thank you?" "I won't even dignify that with an answer," Melanie said. "I said please and thank you. Don't be a bitch. Someday we'll need to start making babies so the monkeys don't get smarter and take over the world," Barry said. Melanie laughed but it wasn't in a pleasant way. "I'll never make babies with you or Vinnie or Otto. You know why?" "Not enough of a selection? You think all three of us are hot and can't decide?" "I'm a proud lesbian," Melanie said. "Wow. You are full of causes, woman. I can't keep up with you. But I've dated lesbians before, so it isn't a big deal," Barry said. "Hurry back with my chips." Melanie stalked up the steps and pushed open the door slowly. Barry could see the light was much softer now. It was probably getting close to dusk. He didn't want to be in total darkness down here alone. "I guess it's you and me now, Otto," Barry said when he remembered the quiet guy in the corner. He wouldn't be alone.
But he hoped Vinnie and/or Melanie came back soon. * * Without anyone to talk to, Barry curled up in the dark corner and took a nap. He had no idea how long he'd slept, but when he opened his eyes he was still in his own private hell. With empty potato chip bags and an unblinking weird dude in the corner staring at him. "You turned your head," Barry said, and sat up. "I knew you were still alive. I knew . . . wait, were you watching me sleep? Dude, I gotta be honest . . . that is a little creepy." Barry was about to say more when he heard something thump in the convenience store above. He looked at Otto but he was just staring like an idiot. He looked around for a weapon in the dark basement, but there was nothing except unopened beers. Maybe he could use them as missiles, or crack one over the head of a zombie and somehow kill it. Did that ever happen in movies? Barry didn't think so. He just knew he wasn't going upstairs no matter what. It sounded like a lot of people were upstairs, ripping apart the aisles. Was it just looters? Barry wasn't as scared of living, breathing people as he was of zombies. Or ghouls. He couldn't remember which name they'd decided on. Not that it mattered, because Vinnie and Melanie had abandoned him.
Otto was still staring. "Why me, Otto? I'm a good guy. I wash. I might have done some bad things in my life but nothing to warrant this crap. Maybe that's what God is looking for . . ." Barry ignored another banging noise from above. "I'm being tested. He wants me to confess my sins and then he'll save me." Otto blinked once. "Exactly," Barry said. He waved the beer bottle in his hand. "I knew you agreed with me." Otto blinked twice in rapid succession. "When I was five I stole a cookie from a supermarket. The package was open on the shelf and the store was getting ready to close. The lights were being turned off slowly, and my parents were in line. So I took one and put it in my pocket. I never got caught. I also forgot it was in my pocket and it got washed with my shorts." The door to the basement squeaked slightly but didn't open. Barry closed his eyes. "When I was nine I was sitting behind Jeanine in class. I could see the top of her underwear. I got excited. Not . . . physically excited, but I'd never seen a girl's undies before. Then, when we were in high school, I told Jeanine I'd been trying to see her underwear again ever since. I think she was mad, because she poured her milk on my head. But maybe God got me back for that one. So forget I mentioned it."
Barry opened his eyes and Otto was gone. Had he been a ghost all along? Another monster plaguing Barry? Or just a weird dude who was quiet when he walked? "I'm insane. That's it. None of this is real. I've been imagining people down here with me. Of course. There is no bitch vegan chick with a nice rack. It is part of my own psyche. I am a bitch vegan chick at times. Of course. And Vinnie was my tough but lovable side. I get it now. Otto was my inner self, my soul. He was watching and listening and now he's gone to heaven to see Baby Jesus and Aunt Gladys," Barry said. But there was still plenty of noise upstairs and Barry wasn't about to go investigate. Screw that. The door to the basement opened and there stood Otto, a thin light shining behind his head like a halo. He held a small object in his hand before casting it in Barry's direction. Barry caught it and smiled. Before he could thank the mysterious Otto, the door closed again and Barry used the bottler opener to begin his last hours on this earth drunk.
* * Vinnie opened two microbrews and handed one to Jim, who didn't really look like a Jim any more than he looked like an Otto. Melanie came back from talking to the police officer who was standing outside the convenience store and laughed. "I guess it's over. They already starved and died. No more zombies and/or ghouls. I'm going to go home and take a bath." Jim nodded. "It was fun hanging out with you guys." "You didn't say a word," Vinnie said. "I like to listen. I'm a good listener. I'd rather take everything in first and then do what I have to do," Jim said. "Who's going to tell Barry this nightmare is over?" Melanie asked before walking away, making it clear it wouldn't be her. "I'll do it," Jim said. "I figured he needed some time to himself. He was really going to town confessing some major sins down there. I didn't have the heart to tell him it was over. Besides, he'll come up when he's out of beer and realize God saved him." "You know what? Get out of here. I want to go and apologize to Barry anyway. I should've come back for him when I knew it was safe. It was great meeting you, Jim."
Jim shrugged. "All right. Have a good one. I'll see you around." "When the next zombie apocalypse arrives we'll meet back here." Jim laughed. "Yep. I'll bring a bottle opener and you bring the beer." Vinnie laughed and watched Jim walk away down the street before he went to the cop standing near the store and quickly bit him on the arm, bringing about the second wave of the ghoul apocalypse. Vinnie hated when people called him a zombie. The Sentient Cherry Cola That Tried to Destroy the World * * Jeff StrandI'm sure you're going to ask, but does it really matter how the cherry cola became sentient? If you truly need to know, I'll get into the whole backstory, but this will move a lot faster if you just accept that some elements aren't going to be completely logical. Sometimes a cherry cola just comes to life, you know? No? You need the explanation? Fine. It was witchcraft. These witches were all like, "We're not witches! We're Wiccan! We believe in goodness and the magic of the earth!" but ultimately their naked moonlight dancing wasn't as harmless as they thought, because it brought some cherry cola to life.
One of them, Gloria, had brought a cooler full of beverages in case anybody was thirsty after the dancing. Aside from one bottle of water consumed by Lori, the witches had all declined Gloria's offer, making her wonder why she'd bothered to bring it in the first place. Last time she'd packed sandwiches that nobody bothered to eat, and the time before that she'd brought fruit salad. She was the first one to admit that the bananas hadn't held up, but she'd choked down Beatrice's scalloped potatoes that one time just to be polite, and would it have killed her to return the favor? There were three cans of cherry cola in the cooler. The actual brand name would later be the source of much finger-pointing and lawsuits, with representatives from Coca Cola saying it was Cherry Pepsi and representatives from PepsiCo saying it was Cherry Coke. A couple of independent brands initially tried to claim credit for it, figuring that any publicity was good publicity, although once the body count started to rise they regretted that decision.
It was actually a local brand called Gertrude's Soda, known for inexpensive soft drinks that didn't taste very good and had killed dozens of laboratory rats, which is why none of the other witches wanted any. The owner, Bernard "Gertrude" Sloven, never knew the devastation his product would cause. If he had known, he would have had a quiet chuckle about it, because Bernard was not a people person. Two of the three cans in Gloria's cooler remained regular cherry cola. The third, however, came to life. You have to look at this from the cherry cola's perspective. You're suddenly alive with no explanation and you're trapped in a dark, cold, twelve-ounce can. There is literally no room to move except to swirl around. You have no idea what's going on. I mean, it's not like you're thinking, "Wow, I'm some cherry cola that has somehow come to life! This is incredible!" You don't know you're cherry cola. One moment you're not aware of your existence and then the next moment you are, and your existence sucks.
The can of cherry cola went from Gloria's cooler back into her refrigerator, where it remained unopened for seven months. Imagine that. For seven months you're stuck in this can with no idea who or what you are. Can you imagine being stuck in traffic for seven months? Or trapped in an elevator? Or down in a mine shaft? At least if you were in the mine shaft, you could eventually turn to cannibalism to stave off the boredom, but that cherry cola had no stimuli beyond the inside of an aluminum can. What if you were a newborn baby and your mother abandoned you in a gravel pit and you just lay there for . . . actually, maybe abandoned newborns isn't the comparison I want to make. That's kind of depressing. Nobody wants to read about that. I apologize. What I'm saying is that the cherry cola, though it would later do awful things, is deserving of our empathy. First it was confused and frightened. But as time moved on, it began to feel rage. Deep fury. Typically, Gertrude's Soda lost its carbonation in a couple of weeks, but the cherry cola's rage was so intense that its level of carbonation more than doubled.
The cherry cola did not think in English, so to do a literal transcription of its thoughts would mean that much of this narrative would be self-indulgent gibberish. Instead, as your omniscient narrator, I will take it upon myself to translate its thoughts into language that makes sense to you, rather than making you do all of the heavy lifting. "Hate everything. Kill . . . kill . . . kill . . ." Which would be your exact attitude in its position. Don't try to deny it. You wouldn't be the merry cherry cola that tried to bring a sense of wonder and delight to children everywhere. I know you've got a lot of questions already and I'm not going to be able to get to all of them in the allotted space. Every time you demand some exposition, it's at the cost of a wonderfully gruesome death scene later, so take that into consideration when you start asking questions like "How was the cherry cola aware of the concept of death?" You just have to know, huh? And those of you wanting answers are probably the same people who will be complaining about how long it took the cherry cola to get out of the can. "It took over a thousand words for it to do anything but swirl around, being angry!" you'll say. We could already be at an awesome gory death scene, but noooooooo, you want everything to make sense!
Fine. It was witchcraft. Those nekkid dancing Wiccans instilled the cherry cola with a magic that made it aware of the fact that you can murder somebody. Pretty scary stuff, isn't it? A rage-filled cherry cola that knows about death? It sure would be inconvenient for humanity if it got out of the can. Every once in a while, the cherry cola would hear Voices from Beyond. They were muffled and the cherry cola didn't understand the meaning of their words. "Don't just stand there all day with the refrigerator open!" "There was ketchup in there the last time I looked!" "That's just the date the store has to sell it by. It's not like it suddenly turns to poison on the expiration date. Just drink the milk!" Did these voices belong to Jesus Christ? Of course the cherry cola was aware of our Lord and Savior! How could it not be? I'm not trying to turn this into a Jesus-themed story, but if you keep asking questions like that I will break out the Good Book and start quoting the appropriate scriptures. Yeah, I didn't think so. Let's move forward.
It was a dark night (though the cherry cola had no concept of night) in the middle of winter (though the cherry cola had no concept of winter) when a flu-ridden (though the cherry cola had no concept of influenza or inoculation) Pete, who was Gloria's son, got out of bed to poke around in the refrigerator. As always, he was annoyed that no new food had materialized since the last time he checked. In the Star Wars movies, food materializes in refrigerators all the time, thought Pete, who didn't pay very close attention to the Star Wars movies outside of the swordfights. As he moved items around, hoping that there might be a previously hidden turkey, he saw, way in the back, the can of cherry cola. He didn't feel like a soda (or "pop" as some heathens call it) at the moment, so he ended up eating half of a packet of premade squeezable guacamole and then went back to bed. Ha! You thought he was going to drink the cherry cola, didn't you? Psych! Psych your gullible little mind! You were reading this, all arrogant and stuff, thinking that you knew exactly what was going to happen, but you were as wrong as a baby in a blender.
I'm sorry. I really didn't mean that. I mean, I did mean that a baby in a blender is wrong—only the most wretched of wretches would try to argue that point—but I didn't intend to bring up dead babies again. Your arrogance distracted me. Once again, I apologize. The next morning, Pete had a bowl of some sort of cereal that had formerly had "Sugar" in the name and then he drank the cherry cola. "This is a lot fizzier than usual," he said out loud, even though there was nobody else around, because Pete was better at speaking than thinking. The cherry cola's rage intensified not only its fizziness, but its cherry flavor. Usually, upon drinking Gertrude's Soda you had to really concentrate on your tongue to detect the artificial fruit flavor, but this particular drink tasted as if a half-dozen actual cherries had been squeezed into the high fructose corn syrup. It was incredibly tasty. Pete drank it all. Every last drop. Have you ever tried to get the last drop out of a can of soda? It doesn't really work. No matter how many times you tilt it back and shake it over your mouth, a drop or two is going to be denied you. So Pete took a knife out of the silverware drawer, cut open the can, and licked the inside.
Have you ever enjoyed soda so much that you cut open the can so you could lick the inside? Of course you haven't. Because you know that you'd probably slice open your tongue on the sharp edge and it wouldn't be worth those extra two drops of Mountain Dew, no matter how delicious Mountain Dew may be. Your takeaway from this? Rage is delicious. Gloria walked into the kitchen and demanded to know what the [mild expletive deleted] Pete was doing. His answer was difficult to understand because he'd cut off the majority of his tongue. The cherry cola swirled around angrily in Pete's stomach. There had been a brief moment of light and then it had been plunged back into darkness. And it was a much grosser darkness. Have you ever felt the inside of your stomach? No offense, but it's disgusting. As he sat with his mother in the hospital waiting room, Pete realized he had to go to the bathroom. So he went into the restroom, unzipped his pants, and . . . I'm not going to describe this. If you want some deviant descriptions of that sort of thing, you'll have to look elsewhere. Sorry to disappoint, pervo! But feel free to take a good long look at your life and the choices you've made that led you to want to read about that sort of thing.
After Pete flushed, he began to feel a bit queasy because, as mentioned before, he had the flu. So he dropped to his knees, leaned over the toilet bowl, and . . . I am going to describe the puke, so sensitive readers will want to skip the next paragraph. Oh, it was a mighty flood of vomit! Cherry cola mixed with chunks of chicken pot pie mixed with cranberry juice mixed with chocolate pudding mixed with a cockroach that had crawled into his mouth while he slept (fun fact: 13 percent of us have had a cockroach crawl into our mouths as we sleep each night and we don't even know it) mixed with gum that he'd swallowed six years ago mixed with paste he'd eaten in first grade mixed with one of his kidneys. "Gaaaahhhhhhh!" he said. Pete died minutes later. It's a sad thing when somebody under the age of eighteen dies, but millions more people perished after that, so let's not get too mopey about Pete. Part of the cherry cola flowed through the sewage pipes, enjoying the sensation of being on a water slide (though it was unaware of water slides) but not approving of the liquid that accompanied it. The rest of the cherry cola would remain in the toilet bowl until a kindly janitor flushed it away.
I have been separated from myself! thought the first part of the cherry cola. But it is as if my power has doubled! thought the second part. Not only is my power doubled, but I am no longer restricted to the form of the can! Thanks to the properties of liquid, I can become anything I desire! thought the first part. Whoa! And the accompanying materials are also taking that particular form! So instead of being the size of half a can of soda, I can control as much of the raw sewage as I want! Hahahahahahaha! thought the second part. This is the part where I'm going to cheat a bit, because even if you want to read about it, I honestly don't want to devote a lot of space to the less appealing bodily fluids. Don't get me wrong, I'm not against all bodily fluids by any stretch of the imagination. Some of them are a source of endless cheer, like mucus. But for the purposes of this narrative, we're going to pretend that the sewer was filled with grape juice. Everybody in agreement? No? Too bad. The cherry cola/grape juice rose from the murky depths of the sewer, taking a form that approximated that of Bigfoot, purely by accident.
It took several months for the cherry cola to gain enough control of its new form to climb a ladder, during which time humanity hung around on the streets above in its happily oblivious state. You were probably one of them. Don't you feel silly now? You were sitting around all "La de da, life is just fine," while below you a cherry cola/grape juice creature was learning to climb a ladder. If only you'd known to go down there with a flamethrower, millions of people would not be dead right now. That's right, I'm blaming you. I'm not saying that you should have been roaming the sewers just in case some sort of rage-filled soda creature took Bigfoot form, but would a little more awareness of your surroundings have been too much to ask? It climbed the ladder, slid underneath the circular metal lid that stops innocent people from plummeting into the sewer, and stood in the street. "I live!" it bellowed. Of course, it had already been alive. The point it was trying to make was now that it was out of the sewer, its quality of life had taken a substantial upswing.
The first living thing it saw was a dog. But somehow it knew, possibly thanks to Jesus, that nobody would sympathize with a creature who went around killing dogs, so instead it lurched toward the dog's owner. The woman was eighty-nine years old, and for the past seventy years she'd lived with the burden of a youthful indiscretion where she stabbed the wrong man to death. If she'd stabbed the correct man, it still would have been a punishment that far exceeded his crime of flirting with her sister (especially since he was married to her sister), but since it was the wrong man (the room had been dark) she'd had nightmares about it at least every other Thursday. She woke up from these nightmares with dried blood on her hands, but she figured that ignorance was bliss and made a point of avoiding news stories about unsolved murders. So, ultimately, it doesn't make you a bad person if you giggle upon hearing that the cherry cola/grape juice creature snapped her neck. You should feel bad for the dog, though. After all, it didn't have an owner. Though after a few weeks of wandering the streets, scared and hungry, it was adopted by a newlywed couple who made it out to a safe island, enjoying one of the few happy endings in this tragic apocalyptic situation.
As the old woman fell to the ground, the creature frowned. It felt happy, it just didn't know that smile = happy and frown = sad. Killing her had been so easy. Sure, it was because she was old and her bones were brittle, but the creature did not know this and thought that all living things were easy to kill. And it wanted to kill all living things. Because it was angry. Angry at having been trapped in that cold, dark can for so very long. Just like you would have been. Admit it. It walked down the street, breaking the necks of gawkers left and right. Several people called the police, but each and every one of them made the mistake of saying that the murders were being committed by a living mass of cherry cola and grape juice, so their calls were not taken seriously. "You've got to help us!" a man shouted into his phone. "There's this thing and it—oh no, it just snapped another neck! It's walking down the street and—argh! Another neck gone! Oh, why won't you send somebody to—gasp, it broke yet another neck! That's seventy-six in all so far! Seventy-seven now! Please, please, please, if you value the sanctity of necks at all, you'll send somebody to—seventy-eight—help us before—seventy-nine—we all die!"
"Calm down, sir," said the 911 operator. "What exactly is snapping the necks?" "It's cherry cola and grape juice that has somehow transformed into the shape of Sasquatch." "You lying jerk!" the 911 operator shouted. "Can't you hear yourself? You think I have time to deal with your [harsh expletive deleted]? I should trace your call and go over there and kick your [moderate expletive deleted]! I hope you die! You hear that? I hope you die!" So contacting the authorities did no good. Fresh corpses lined the streets. The sounds of screams forced many people to turn up the volume of their music. This is pretty sweet, thought the creature. I'm really enjoying myself. But this one guy realized that this was finally his opportunity to use his cannon. "Don't shoot the cannon!" people had always told him. "It would be irresponsible!" He'd always grudgingly listened to their advice, but now? You couldn't call somebody irresponsible if they were firing a cannon at something homicidal. "Step to the left or right, everyone!" he shouted, just before he fired the cannon.
It was a direct hit. The creature exploded into millions of droplets. Millions of rage-filled droplets. Millions of rage-filled droplets that could bond with other liquid. Had it not been pouring rain, things may have turned out quite differently. You may be wondering why so many people were walking along the street when it was pouring rain, especially the elderly woman walking her dog. Well, I never said they weren't carrying umbrellas and the rain had started quickly, so not everybody had a chance to seek shelter. There was one part where three different cherry cola/grape juice/rain creatures tore this banjo player apart, limb from limb, but I don't have room to share it because you were so caught up in the whole rain thing. I'm not trying to be antagonistic toward you. I know you have a lot of reading options and it's nice that you chose me as your storyteller, but at the same time, I feel that I'm being needlessly handcuffed to logic. You know that I'm telling the truth because you can look outside and see all of the dead bodies scattered everywhere. You probably lost family members. So I really don't understand why you are getting so caught up in the small, irrelevant details, when my purpose here is to share a high-level record of the end of the world.
Anyway, we now had millions of creatures. The guy with the cannon saw them rise and wished he'd been less irresponsible. People kept calling 911, but saying that millions of cherry colas were on a rampage sounded even less credible than one of them. One woman realized what was happening, so when she called she said that there were millions of Bigfoots on a rampage instead, but her call was disregarded as well. There had been six hundred and forty-nine people on the street when the creature first rose from the sewer. Now there were still six hundred and forty-nine people on the street, but they were all deceased. The chief of police was on the fourth floor of a hotel on that street. It doesn't matter why he was there. You can engage in conjecture all you want. If a man isn't having his needs met at home, should he just pretend he has no needs? What would you have him do? This is a serious question. If he tried working it out, but every single night she tried to blame her fractured spine, what was he to do?
After he'd finished having his needs met, he glanced out the window. He was shocked to see hundreds of corpses out there. There'd been only five or six the last time he checked. He quickly shut off the television, with which he'd been pleasuring himself to adult films that he wasn't allowed to watch at home, and called the station. "If you're calling about cherry cola, I swear I will jab a spork in your throat," said the cop who answered. "I don't know anything about that, but there are at least three hundred and eighty dead bodies on Main Street!" "And I suppose you want us to go right out and start cleaning them up? What do you think this is, the sanitation department?" "No, I want to stop the number of dead bodies from increasing! Three hundred and eighty dead bodies is at least three hundred too many! Send everyone to Main Street! Bring cannons!" If only the neighboring city hadn't been in the middle of the twenty-third annual Cannon Festival, things might have turned out differently. They wheeled dozens of them over, their owners giddily anticipating the opportunity to fire them at living targets without receiving looks of disapproval.
Every time they shot one, the creature burst into millions of droplets, which turned into millions of other creatures. You would think that after the first couple of shots, they'd have figured out what was happening and switched to a different tactic, but they didn't, which is why you shouldn't feel too sorry for humanity, overall. "We need wet-vacs!" somebody shouted. "Thousands of wet-vacs!" Gertrude's Wet-Vacs, the company Bernard Sloven had formed after his soda manufacturing company went belly-up, had thousands of unsold wet-vacs in a nearby warehouse. But he wasn't about to let them get all dinged up while battling an apocalyptic menace. "Nobody wants to buy used equipment," he told the president of the United States. "So you can just bite me." And that was the end. With an insufficient number of wet-vacs available, humans were powerless to defeat what had once been a single can of subpar cherry cola. "There's only one way!" shouted a scientist. "We must drink the creatures!" It was such a ridiculous idea that the scientist deserved his ghastly fate. You did not want to go drinking those things, not after they'd developed a taste for human flesh. It was horrific.
But lots of people had said to themselves, "Hey, he's a scientist, he must know what he's talking about." Which is how thousands of people ended up with murderous cherry cola creatures in their bellies, and which in turn is how thousands of people ended up with murderous cherry cola creatures bursting out of their bellies, Alien-style. This led to millions of people being scared to drink anything, which led to widespread dehydration. You've got to drink something. It's how your body works. So people began dying of thirst left and right. Bernard Sloven marketed Gertrude's Bottled Water (Guaranteed Cherry Cola Creature-Free!) but he'd lost his trust with the public and few drank it. Important people started to die. Not just celebrities; people who knew how electricity worked and how to butcher a cow. Without these skills readily available, even more people started to die than the cherry cola creatures tore apart with their carbonated limbs, and many people, even those who'd always had a sunny outlook on life, started to think that the world might be coming to an end.
It got worse when, in a completely unrelated but equally devastating series of events, werewolves started slaughtering people en masse. Many sentient cherry cola deniers had thought this was all a big government conspiracy, but everybody believed in werewolves. The panic killed more people than the werewolves did, and believe me, those werewolves racked up quite the body count. Then one of the cherry cola creatures discovered the ocean. This meant that not only did it have an entire ocean full of water with which to merge, it now had jellyfish. Other countries, like Iceland, had thought they were pretty much safe from all that nonsense happening in the USA, but now they realized they'd been sorely mistaken. Icelandic scientists who'd taken a pro-jellyfish attitude suddenly discovered that getting stung by a jellyfish hurt like crazy. Which brings us to present day. Pretty much everyone is dead. That dog on the island is doing okay, but most of humanity's final survivors live in a postapocalyptic wasteland, foraging for food and trying to hide from the roving gangs of mutants that formed when a nuclear power plant had a meltdown after a jellyfish got wedged in a crucial piece of equipment.
I'm not scared, because I'm an omniscient narrator who doesn't really exist on your plane of existence. No mutants can get me here. You? Well, you should have quit interrupting me while I was trying to share important information that could have kept you alive in the coming decades. I was going to tell you how to destroy the cherry cola (hint: it rhymes with "bommon mold") but now you're just going to have to figure it out on your own. Good night, and good luck. PC * * Rebecca BesserDillon's dad always said, "Political correctness is bullshit. Whatever happened to my right to have an opinion and piss people off?" It seemed to Dillon that he was now living in his old man's nightmare. If the old bastard were still alive—well, human—he would have gone completely insane. The current society didn't just contain humans anymore . . . but Undead Americans as well and all the politics that went along with living side-by-side safely with one another. The old man would have really hated Dillon's job at the main medical facility that restored the Undead Americans to as close to human as possible. He was heading there now, wondering if today would be the day he was finally reunited with his old man.
Dillon didn't know where his father was, if he was anywhere. For all he knew, the man had rotted away to nothing. There was really no way to know. He'd been halfway across the country at medical school when the plague had hit—he hadn't gotten to say good-bye to the man who'd raised him alone. For all Dillon knew, he was really gone forever. He just couldn't help hoping that maybe someday he'd help bring his father back. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, casting warming rays of light on the dark city, bringing it to life. With the dawn, Dillon's wariness eased slightly. The anti-undead terrorists were in rare form lately, constantly picketing and threatening his place of employment. He dreaded going to work, often afraid he wouldn't make it home. The hope of finding his father was the only thing that kept him going day in and day out. Dillon slowed as he came upon the first of five security checkpoints leading up to GenRest. Today there were twice as many armed personnel guarding the barricade than there normally were and there was a short line of cars in front of him. On most days, he just cruised right through, familiar to the guards who worked the checkpoints. Today was nothing like normal.
When it was his turn to pull up to the little shack beside the narrow area for vehicles to drive through, two men with guns stepped in front of his vehicle, preventing him from driving forward without going through them. Dillon rolled down his window and an unfamiliar man in riot gear asked to see his ID. "What's going on?" Dillon asked, handing over his identification. "We're verifying who you are and your right to continue onward," the man said gruffly, handing Dillon back his ID once he'd scanned the barcode on it, the security computer confirming Dillon's identity. "I understand that," Dillon said. "I was wondering what was going on with the extra security—has something happened?" The man waved his hand and the men in front of Dillon's car moved out of the way. "There's nothing for you to concern yourself with, sir," the guard said. "Please, proceed." He waved the next car forward. Dillon drove through the checkpoint, feeling like he'd been forced to leave. He moved along with more questions than answers. Obviously something had happened, be it an attack or a threat. They wouldn't increase the security personnel for no reason.
He experienced the same treatment at all of the other checkpoints before heading across the compound to the main building where he worked: a towering six-story monolith covered with mirrored windows that glittered in the sunlight. The building looked impressive—it was one of the few places newly built after the plague. Medical advancements were the name of the game in this new society, since zombies were the majority of the population. When Dillon arrived, he parked in the employee parking garage, more confused and wary than he normally was when he came to work. As he climbed out of his car, he took in his surroundings with a critical eye. There were a bunch of people coming and going—other employees. There were no zombies allowed in this part of the center, unless they had been previously restored; the company employed many of them as counselors for the newly processed. "Undead Americans," he corrected himself under his breath as he thought "zombies" yet again. He had to constantly remind himself not to be politically incorrect, a trait he attributed to his father, who'd never been politically correct a moment in his life. Dillon struggled to be PC in the new world, and for that reason he thought of his father every day he came in to work. His dad had always talked about political correctness like it was some kind of disease that ate at people's brains to make them stupid. Nowadays, what had once been political correctness were the laws of life. If you stepped outside those laws, you, or someone else, got hurt. Tolerance of those who were different was the name of the game and, if you wanted to survive, you learned to play it well.
Dillon walked over to the elevator (where two armed men stood guard, who were another new addition), swiped his ID, pressed his palm against the scan panel beside the door, and stepped into the transport as soon as the door opened. After a smooth ascension, the doors slid open again and he stepped off the elevator, directly into the restoration floor's waiting room. He looked around at all the Undead Americans ready for their restoration appointments. He continued on, past the desk where a receptionist was working on a computer, through the door to the back offices. As soon as he stepped into the hallway, his and Dr. Miller's new assistant slammed into him. "What's the rush, Eddie?" Dillon asked, taking a step back to retain his balance. "Oh, I'm glad I found you, Dr. Howell," the younger man gushed. "I think Dr. Miller is hazing me . . . or flirting with me—I can't tell!" Dillon raised his eyebrows. Dr. Miller was one of the most serious people he'd ever met and he doubted she'd be hazing anyone or flirting with someone so young. She was in her late forties and was a no-nonsense type of woman.
"Why do you think she's hazing or flirting with you?" he asked, curious. "She told me to get a six-inch penile splint from the penis room," Eddie said with a stricken look on his face. "I mean, really? The penis room?" Dillon stared at Eddie for a moment and then doubled over, laughing. Eddie was twenty-one years of age and had just started working for them that day. The expression on his round, freshly shaved face was that of a frightened two-year-old who couldn't find his mother in a crowded shopping area. "It's not funny." Eddie crossed his arms, his face flushing. Dillon stood and looked at Eddie with a grin still plastered on his face. "Oh, it's funny," he said. "She said there was a penis room—how is that funny?" Eddie asked, his face going from flushed to dark red. "Because there is a penis room and you thought she was lying to you," Dillon said. He turned and started down the hall. "Follow me, I'll show you where it is . . . right next to the breast room, across from the restrooms." "Wha—?" Eddie said and followed Dillon.
"You're probably wondering why there is a penis room and a breast room," Dillon said as Eddie caught up with him. "But if you think about it you'll understand. I mean, what would be the first things to rot off a dead human body?" "Oh, my gawd!" Eddie exclaimed. "That's disgusting." "Well, restoring a rotting human being back to a living human being is pretty disgusting. There are parts and pieces missing and they have to be regenerated by our equipment through cell growth. But sometimes . . . we need some help with implants of sorts to make sure things stay where they're supposed to." Eddie didn't reply, but stood dumbly by as Dillon opened the door to the penis room—the size of a walk-in janitor's closet—and showed him where to find the different-sized splints and other implant pieces that might be needed to aid in the restoration of a male Undead American. Even after the selection process and the explanation Eddie still looked confused. "What?" Dillon asked. Eddie looked at the six-inch splint in his hand. He opened his mouth, shut it again, and then turned to Dillon with a frown.
"What?" Dillon asked again. "I was just wondering how she decides what size to give them," Eddie replied. Dillon, never having given it much thought, shrugged. "Maybe she's seen enough naked men in her time to be able to guess by body size what would be a good proportion." Eddie looked down at the splint, then at his own crotch, then at the splint again. "What now?" Dillon asked, starting to get exasperated while still being amused by the innocence/ignorance of the young man. "Do you think she knows how big our penises are?" Dillon laughed. "Does it really matter? It's not like she has ever asked to see mine, so I don't care what her guess would be. Stop worrying about her thinking about your penis and get back to your job before she wants to cut yours off because you're late helping her restore another's. Although, if she gets angry and you want to smooth things over, you could offer to be a penis donor and see what she says—see if she thinks your penis is suitable." He winked at Eddie. "Hell, maybe she'll even like the idea. . . . Maybe they'll even commemorate your sacrifice on the wall downstairs for all to see: Edward Harris, generous with his penis, giving it to the first Undead American who would take it!"
He laughed again at the return of the stricken expression on Eddie's face. He felt the same way when he thought about losing his penis: it wasn't a pleasant thought for any male. "Come on," Dillon said. "Let's get the splint to Dr. Miller so you can keep your penis—damn, you're selfish." Dillon turned, left the room, and started walking again. Eddie followed, glancing from his crotch to the splint every few feet. They didn't talk anymore until they reached Eddie's office, which connected Dillon's to Dr. Miller's office. Eddie was hired to be their shared personal assistant; he would do anything and everything they needed to keep their operations running smoothly. Dillon continued into his office and Eddie stopped at his desk to drop off the splint and grab his tablet before rejoining Dillon. "What's going on with the extra security today?" Dillon asked as Eddie entered. Dillon tapped one of his computer screens and brought up the most recent news—something he did every day since the threats of terrorism had increased. Last month, one of the Undead Americans who was coming in to be restored had been set on fire by a masked man who had never been caught. They'd had to cancel the restoration because the zombie had then been too damaged to salvage. Because of the incident, Dillon had tried to be extra vigilant and aware of what was going on with the groups. They were pretty extreme in some cases, saying they needed to purge the human race, to cleanse it again. They were against humans having relationships with people who had been restored, even though after restoration a zombie was once again a living, thriving human down to every cell of their being. Their minds didn't work as fast and often they had to relearn things, but they were still capable of thinking. The research showed that brain function was almost returned to normal about two years after restoration: that is, from minimal brain function. There was no proof that zombies thought in their undead state, but there was some brain activity that enabled them to move. Stabilizing medicine that Undead Americans were required by law to take helped as well, even though they weren't sure how; it definitely kept them from rotting and trying to kill living humans.
Nothing popped out at Dillon from the news headlines. "I'm not sure," Eddie said. "Is there extra security today?" "Sorry," Dillon said. "I know it's your first day and you wouldn't realize the extra security wasn't normal, but I thought you might have heard something." Eddie shrugged. "I haven't heard anything. Is there something in the news?" Dillon shook his head and sighed. "What's the schedule look like today?" "Three before lunch," Eddie said, checking the schedule on his touchscreen tablet. "Genders?" Dillon asked as he started working on his second touchscreen computer, making sure all the rooms and machinery they would need to do the restorations was ready. "One male, two females," Eddie said. "Dr. Miller is taking care of the male, so you get the first female. Whoever finishes first will start on the second female." Dillon snickered. "I guess you'll be getting acquainted with the breast room today too." Eddie's lack of response made Dillon grin. "Where's Dr. Miller?" "She's in her office," Eddie said.
"Taking a nap?" Dillon asked, looking up and across the office through his open door, at her door. The blinds were down over the window in the barrier. She often liked to rest before she did a restoration so she was mentally clear and calm. "I don't know," Eddie said. "We got a DNA match on the male; he was previously in the military so he was in the database. I put in a request to see if he had any next of kin, but research is backed up—they said it would take about a week. His name is Gordon Howell and he's scheduled to be restored in about an hour." Dillon froze, choking on the breath he'd just taken. "What . . ." he said, and paused to cough. "What did you say the restore patient's name was?" Eddie looked up and frowned. "Gordon Howell. Are you okay?" "Yeah, I'm okay," Dillon choked out. "Drink, please!" "Sure," Eddie said, rushing out of the room to get his new boss a drink. Dillon watched him go and was glad to be alone. His mind and heart were racing. He couldn't believe what he'd just heard. Day after day he'd come to work, hoping and praying for this exact moment. Every day he'd given up a little of that hope, thinking it would never happen. Now he was facing the reality of his dream come true and he couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. He couldn't do anything but cough and clutch the edge of his desk.
After what seemed like forever, Eddie was back with a bottle of water. Dillon took it with a shaking hand, opened it, and drank half of the liquid in two large gulps. "Are you okay?" Eddie asked, frowning. "Are you sick? Do you want me to get Dr. Miller?" "No, I'm not sick," Dillon croaked, and took a sip of the remaining water. "Yes, please get Dr. Miller." Eddie didn't ask any more questions. He just turned, walked out, and knocked on Dr. Miller's door before entering. Dillon sipped at his water and focused on a spot on the wall. He needed to calm himself down; he didn't want to be as shaken up when Dr. Miller came in. He needed her to swap patients with him and if he was visibly disturbed he knew she'd tell him to go home. "Are you all right?" Dr. Miller asked as she rushed through the door, her slight facial wrinkles deeper than normal due to her frown of concern. "I'm fine," Dillon said, standing. "I'd like to talk to you for a moment, if you have time." Dr. Miller turned to Eddie, who was hovering just inside the doorway. She nodded and he left, shutting the door behind him.
"What's going on, Dr. Howell?" she asked, stepping closer to Dillon's desk. He watched her blue eyes travel over him, studying him. "Would you consider trading patients with me this morning?" Dillon asked, looking her straight in the eye when hers were again trained on his face. Dr. Miller raised a ginger eyebrow. "Why?" "Does it matter?" She laughed. "No, I'm just curious. You're acting strange. I've known you—worked with you—for years and you've never asked to trade patients before. I figure there has to be a reason; there always seems to be a reason with you. And besides, you don't usually restore males unless I'm not here." She ended her statement by crossing her slender arms across her chest. Dillon sighed and sat back down in his chair. The consequences of what could happen if he told her ran through his mind and he decided it wouldn't be too horrible if she knew the truth. The worst that could happen would be that she'd say no and she'd restore his father and he'd still get to see him . . . see if the man recognized his own son. He would get to see if his father was one of the lucky Undead Americans who, after restoration, retained memories of their former life; it was a slim chance, but it was part of his hopes.
"The man you're going to restore is my father," he said, studying her face. "That's . . . unexpected," Dr. Miller said. "Are you sure you want to do your father's restoration? Will you be able to focus?" "Will I be able to concentrate on the other restoration when I know you're restoring my dad?" Dillon asked, smirking. "I don't know how I can't do it." Dr. Miller watched Dillon for a few moments, studying him. Eventually she nodded, stood, and headed for the door. Dillon stood and said, "Dr. Miller?" She kept walking toward the door. "Jill!" he exclaimed. She stopped with her hand on the doorknob and sighed. "Yes, Dillon, I'll trade with you," she said before she opened the door and walked out. Dillon collapsed back into his chair, shaking once again. Everything was really happening. He would be restoring his father in under an hour. He hadn't seen or heard anything about the man in five years and here he was at Dillon's fingertips; it was almost too good to be true. Glancing at the time on his computer screen, he realized that he needed to get ready for the restoration. With a determined resolve, he stood and headed out the door into Eddie's section of the office suite.
"I've traded patients with Dr. Miller," he said. Eddie smiled, but looked somewhat suspicious. "Dr. Miller told me, but she didn't say why." Dillon didn't offer an answer, but headed for the door to the hall. "You're going to need this," Eddie said, picking up the penile splint and holding it out toward Dillon. "Thank you," Dillon said, turning back to take it, smiling sheepishly. "I'd forgotten." "Do you think it will be the right size?" Eddie asked, grinning. "It'll work," Dillon said, laughing and winking. He thought about his own . . . build. If genetics were a good indication, it would work. Close enough, anyhow. He left the office suite and turned right, heading to his restoration room. Using his ID card, he entered the last door on his left. From there, he stripped naked, scrubbed down in the corner shower stall, and put on the biohazard suit he would need to protect him from bacteria during the restoration process. After he was prepped, he entered the actual operation room and began checking and prepping the machines needed to rebuild the patient's body with unique DNA; he managed to resist the urge to check it against his own, just to make sure he wasn't emotionally stressed out over nothing.
Everything was ready when Eddie escorted the zombie in. The Undead American before him was disgusting, to say the least. Ninety percent of his skin had been burnt away and naked muscle was visible over his entire body, scorched beyond recognition. His eyes were even discolored to the point Dillon couldn't tell what color they'd originally been. Even his height was hard to define since he was so hunched from lack of tendon strength. Doubt seeped into Dillon's mind. With a deep breath, he told himself he was worried over nothing. This . . . thing couldn't possibly be his father. But there was enough of a chance that he was still on edge, still curious, and slightly hopeful. The hope rising to create an ache in his chest also told him to be careful. If this Undead American was truly his father, if he came back to his real self after the restore, he would have a hard time making it in current society. Dillon hoped because he had once been a zombie it would make him sympathetic to the plight of all Undead Americans and that he wouldn't become one of the terrorists that he might have been had he remained human all along.
Eddie left the Undead American with Dillon and exited the operation room. Dillon escorted and helped the Undead American into a chair in the middle of the room. Once he was in place, the arm and leg braces clamped down and Dillon pushed a button that drew the chair slowly from a sitting position to a table with the zombie lying supine. Once the prone position was achieved, Dillon pushed a button on the control panel that scanned the patient to read his embedded chip, which would confirm his number on the restore list, to make sure they were restoring the correct Undead American. Everything matched up exactly as it should. "Well, it looks like it is you, Dad," Dillon said softly, still afraid to believe the truth. "Here goes nothing." He pressed the button to start the process and listened to the machines hum as they started up; all he would do was oversee the restoration, making sure the tanks on the machines had enough plasma, synthetic stem cells, and other chemicals to complete the job.
Lasers burned away clothing and bad tissue that couldn't be rejuvenated. After that, a protective metal shell lowered from the ceiling to cover the body while the internal organs were repaired and re-created. Dillon figured it would take a while, considering the damage already done. He was lost in thought for a long time, wondering if his dad would even remember him, when he felt the floor under his feet shake. At first, he thought it was one of the machines malfunctioning and checked them all. The shaking increased in intensity, but everything was working properly. The red light in the ceiling came on, indicating there was an emergency. Dillon tried not to panic. He knew he was supposed to leave the building, to get to safety, leaving the patient to the machines and hope for the best. He just couldn't bring himself to do it; he couldn't leave his father now that he'd finally found him. The lights flickered. The building shook harder. Dillon heard an audible boom and then what he assumed to be gunfire. Whatever was happening was getting closer and sounded serious, and it explained all the extra security. They'd known of a threat but hadn't bothered to share the information with the employees.
Without thinking twice about getting out and saving himself, he hit the emergency button that would seal the restoration room completely from the outside world; it was intended to keep in any contagious bacteria that could infect people. Today it was going to be used to keep people out and keep him and his father safe for as long as possible. After the emergency button did its job, Dillon set to work prepping the room's generator so that if they lost power his dad would still be restored—it needed time to sync with each machine and take over power smoothly from the main source of electricity. No matter what happened, he was determined to finish this restoration. They were three hours in, which meant a lot of significant restoration had been done. In another hour, the restoration would be complete. Dillon's heart was racing and he was sweating profusely inside his biohazard suit. He felt like the universe had blown him a kiss, flirting with him, just to walk away with another man. The unfairness of finding his father, only to risk losing him, had his emotions bouncing like a rubber ball between two hard surfaces forever.
The vibrations were growing stronger and the booms louder, accompanied by screams and less intense bangs. "Damn bastards," Dillon growled. He was pissed off about not being told of the possible attack, although he should have suspected it with all the added security—he'd been distracted by finally being reunited with his dad. If he would have known something like this could possibly happen, he would have prepped the generator to be ready when the attack started, not waiting until they were three-fourths of the way into a restoration to start it up and hope for the best. The lights flickered off for two seconds and came back on after an extremely strong boom that shook the floor so hard that Dillon almost fell over. The brief power outage caused his computer screen to flicker and the machines to stutter. The generator wasn't ready to take over for the main electricity; it was only online for 77 percent of the overall power needed. "Come on, come on, come on," Dillon chanted, watching the computer screen, the lights, and the machines.
The percentage grew little by little and Dillon's heartbeat grew louder in his ears with every second that passed. He felt trapped inside his hot suit, sweating to the point of fogging up the clear face shield. He ripped the headpiece off and threw it across the room in frustration. He knew he'd just exposed himself to possible contamination, but he was already at risk with what was going on outside the restoration room. The generator was ready to take over 90 percent of the machinery when the wall to Dillon's left disintegrated in an explosion of concrete, metal, and insulation. Sparks flew and fire consumed oxygen in a plume of heat and light. Dillon was thrown off his feet and into the shell that was protecting his father while he was being restored. The power went out the instant of the explosion and the machines ceased their work. When Dillon slammed into the shell he'd cracked it in the middle. As he groaned and became aware of his surroundings, Dillon caught a glimpse of his father more than half-restored. His chest was moving up and down and skin was just beginning to cover the exposed muscles of his chest and torso, which was all he could see because he was lying on the bottom half of the shell that was now broken and dented.
Dillon's head was fuzzy and the people in their helmets and riot gear coming in through the hole in the wall didn't seem to be real, waving their large guns around, securing the room that had been more secure without them. They advanced toward him, shouting. He couldn't understand what they were saying and he frowned and concentrated, trying to decipher their words. He glanced over at his father and saw his eyes flutter open. They were the same shade of blue that he remembered—sometimes the restoration process surprised him, even though he saw it every day. A smile crossed his father's skinless lips. "Dill-weed . . ." he sighed, using the pet name he'd always used for Dillon, and his eyes fluttered closed again, his breathing becoming labored. "Dad . . ." Dillon said and watched him for a moment. When he didn't respond Dillon panicked and screamed, "Dad!" A single gunshot boomed through the room and a small hole appeared in Dillon's dad's head, making sure he would never be able to be restored again.
Dillon stared at his father in disbelief and dismay. He was officially dead. It had been in Dillon's grasp to save him and he'd failed. Well, technically he'd succeeded; he'd restored him. These people had come in and killed him when he was just about to have his life back. Dillon roared as he stood up straight, despite the pain in his body from having been thrown into hard metal. He was doubly shocked to see that the man with the smoking gun was Eddie, wearing a tactical vest over his clothes and a helmet over his head and face. After the moment of shock passed, Dillon roared, "How could you kill my father?" Eddie's face took on a thunderstruck expression. Without waiting for an answer to his question, Dillon threw himself at Eddie. He didn't have time to protect himself and Dillon ripped the man's assault rifle from his grip, squeezing the trigger and spraying the room with an onslaught of bullets. When the clip was finally empty, Dillon was the only one in the room still alive. He fell to his knees as the rage left him and his grief took hold. Pain surged through his entire being. He'd never felt so completely empty, so completely void of hope, not even when he didn't know where his father was for five years had he ever felt so low.
He'd played by society's rules and these rebels—including his new assistant, whom he'd brought into his circle of trust—hadn't. Yet everything he'd worked so hard for had been taken. Dillon decided his father had been right . . . political correctness was a disease. It was an illusion for delusional people who thought doing the right thing made them better people who would get what they wanted in the end, like good guys in stories. In truth, it was just a polite way for people to screw each other over. Political correctness was just a metal fist wearing a satin glove while it beat you to a pulp. Crew Chief of the Damned * * MontiLee StormerThe dog greeted him at the bottom of the driveway again that morning. It was a large black German shepherd, whose massive head came to Jonah's chest. When he first saw the dog a few weeks back, he'd merely assumed it was a neighbor's dog, waiting for a bus or taxi to bring its master home. But every day as Jonah let himself out of the front gate to walk to work, the dog was there, pacing with him all the way to the corner. Then it sat and watched him cross the street. The process reversed itself on his way home. The dog greeted him at the corner, walked him to his front gate, and sat down at the edge of the walk as he let himself in.
It had been a bad day at work, but Jonah wasn't about to tell his mother that, no sense in upsetting her. He was home early, like before the lunch rush, and wasn't sure exactly how he was going to tell her why. For the time being he just sat at her kitchen table and munched on cookies from a ceramic jar shaped like the open mouth of a whale. He could hear her in the basement, probably folding laundry or ironing clothes. It was her domain and he was happy to let her have it. Another munch of cookie and Jonah's thoughts returned to a few hours ago. There had been what only could be politely described as an incident with the deep-fryers just before opening and with the ambulances and police all over the restaurant, the "scene" had been secured and the employees were sent home. For the first time in as long as Jonah could remember, Burgeropolis was dark. Paulo, formerly a really nice guy and alive, brought the temperature of the fryer to proper levels at 10:55 a.m. that morning and was about to drop the first basket of fries. Five minutes from opening, and cars were already beginning to line up in the drive-thru. It started out as a nice morning, but the edges of the horizon were ragged with storm clouds and the light began to shine that odd orangey-red that sometimes precedes a tornado.
That was when Paulo called out Jonah's name. "Jonah—boss—it's almost time." He sounded solemn and it made Jonah look up from prepping the front stations, making sure the bags were filled and the ketchup containers were stocked. "You bet, buddy. Ready for another awesome day?" Jonah and Paulo were crew chiefs on the morning shifts and they performed their duties so well, the manager often felt comfortable enough rolling in well after lunch. Once Jonah owned his own chain of restaurants, he hoped he'd be able to find workers as good as him and Paulo, but certainly would make sure a manager was actually in the shop. Paulo laughed and it had a hard, brittle edge to it. "For me it will be glorious! I'm the first. I've seen the signs and I am honored to serve with you. I'll see you on the other side." "Other side of what, Paulo?" Jonah stopped stacking packets of mustard, the first threads of concern winding around his heart. Other morning crew workers stopped what they were doing and came from back rooms and front counters to watch. They'd never get the store opened at this rate, Jonah thought.
He looked up to see Paulo snap a brisk salute and plunge his arm to the elbow into the fryer. His scream became a laugh and his laugh turned inside out and his face was a frozen mask of terrified delight. "I do it for you," he scream-shouted. "I offer this tribute to you!" The hot oil churned around his arm as the flesh turned crisp and the fried blood turned to blackened nuggets on the surface of the oil. "The glory for you!" "Paulo, no!" Jonah shouted, and ran to the fryers to pull Paulo away, but not in time to stop him from face-planting into the still bubbling grease. His gurgling screams were drowned out by the screams of Mandy, who'd just come out of the walk-in cooler to fill the salad case. In three long steps, Jonah reached above the fryer and jammed his hand onto the fire suppression button, shutting down the fryer and sending torrent of foam over the fryer and grill area. It was beyond too late, and Paulo's knees buckled. His upper body remained over the vats, covered in a layer of foam and his legs and feet twitched on the grease-slickened floor. He was a dead man the second he'd stuck his hand in the grease. There were a few stunted screams from the crew and Jonah could hear someone, maybe Chrissy, talking to a 911 operator.
Jonah wasn't telling his mother any of this, and not for the first time he was grateful they didn't own a TV. When she emerged from the basement, he instead gave her an abbreviated version of the events. She'd known Paulo through Jonah's sanitized stories and she expressed detached shock and sympathy. She was going to bake some mini-loaves in case his little friends came by to grieve. "Comfort food always helped ease a loss." She busied herself with pans and flour and Jonah went up to his room. Between the accident at Burgeropolis #1334 and the ongoing incidents at the St. Augustine location just a mile up the road, it certainly wouldn't be too much longer before Corporate sent over teams to investigate. At St. Augustine someone had been impaled on a loose railing when they fell out of a drive-thru window. Jonah had never been to the St. Augustine location and had no idea what railings were doing beneath the drive-thru windows, but that was the story going around. "Mom," he asked before he rounded the banister to head upstairs. "Have you seen the dog on the front walk?"
"The big black dog, looks like a Doberman?" "No, it's a black German shepherd." Jonah looked through the semicircle inset in the front door and saw the dog still sitting on the other side of the front gate. "I've only seen the Doberman. Huge thing. Very pointy." She was humming to herself, and Jonah could tell she was only partially engaged in the conversation. Jonah found it very difficult to believe there were more large-breed dogs loose in the neighborhood, so he let it go. "How is your contest going?" she asked. Jonah didn't think she had heard much about his employee drive, since he'd only mentioned it once. "Anything exciting?" Jonah shrugged. The fast-food business was full of mishaps and accidents the public wasn't supposed to see. Burns, slips, bangs—these things happened in any workplace. His store in particular had seen its share of accidents; food prep wasn't the safest occupation, but almost no other shop had a better safety rating, except for the one by the church. "It's really boiling down to us and St. Augustine. A recruiting drive for workers and then an accompanying sales drive." The HELP WANTED signs had gone up for both stores and they were both angling to get the best of the best when it came to the workers, but he was worried about the applicants.
For every four that applied, three refused to show up or headed to St. Augustine. Jonah didn't think the competing store was offering more money, but he wasn't privy to that kind of information. All he knew was St. Augustine always had a full complement of staff and were pulling close to their goal. Jonah's team had their own ideas about who should stay and who should go and the undesirables often ran off in a few weeks. The store manager of the St. Augustine location, a Michael Something-Polish, always said their numbers were so good because they had the eyes of the Lord looking down on their souls every minute of every day and they worked to serve Him as best they could. There was a knock at the door, and Mandy stood on the small front porch, her face puffy and streaked from crying. She hadn't changed from her uniform, she had probably been with the others at the park or library or wherever it was the rest of the crew gathered as word filtered through the ranks. Jonah had no idea, but he ushered her into the small living room, offered her the couch, and took the overstuffed chair.
Jonah didn't know where to begin, so he said nothing. He knew Paulo and he was a great worker, but he didn't think he'd be crying anytime soon. Jonah didn't think there was anything wrong with him, but he clearly wasn't as emotionally vested in the other employees as maybe he should be. He would be the sympathetic ear. Mandy wiped her eyes and blew her nose into a tissue from her purse. "I just came by to say I don't think I can come back to that place. I can't stop seeing his face get bubbly and pop." Of all of the awkward talks Jonah was expecting to have, the topic of quitting hadn't entered his mind. "It's a terrible tragedy for all of us, Mandy, but I don't want you to make any rash decisions. I think you could have a long career at Burgeropolis. You just need a little time to consider your next steps." Mandy looked incredulous. "A man just died in our store. I may never eat fries again." She burst into fresh tears. She hadn't been working at the store very long, and while Jonah didn't think she was really Burgeropolis material, he certainly wasn't going to turn away hard workers for the sake of an ideal.
"Maybe the store could hold a memorial in his honor," said his mother from behind him. "We could hold it here, in fact. He would have liked that, don't you think? Then you can all sit around and talk about what a great guy he was and how he'll always live on. What do you think, dear?" Jonah certainly didn't know what to think. "Sure. I'll make some calls this afternoon and we'll meet back here tonight. It'll be nice." He didn't really think it would be nice at all, but if he wanted to one day connect with future employees at his very own store, he needed to act like he cared, and he was going to need some practice. He led her to the door, thanked her for stopping by, and closed it behind her. He hadn't made it halfway up the stairs when a knock sounded again. Jonah took a glance at the living room, thinking maybe Mandy had left something behind, like a key ring or a tissue. He opened the door again to a tall man in a white crisp shirt, blue bow tie, and starched black pants. He wore a ball cap with the Burgeropolis logo and looked as grim and green as Jonah had ever seen him.
"Hello, Michael. This is an unexpected surprise. Please, come in." "I won't stay long. I went right to the store when I heard what had happened. I couldn't reach your manager so I came right here. It's a terrible, terrible tragedy." Michael gave Jonah a look that said he'd never be happy again as long as Jonah was unhappy. "On behalf of St. Augustine, we send our deepest condolences and if there's anything you need, some extra crew, why, we'll step right up with a smile and a prayer in our hearts." Jonah inwardly winced. St. Augustine had its share of holy rollers and they did a brisk business after morning vespers, but that crew didn't enjoy working at the #1334 location, either. No such trade would actually happen. "Thank you, Michael, and I do appreciate your thoughts. We'll be open in a few days and I'm sure we can cover Paulo's shifts until we can find a permanent replacement. This doesn't affect the contest, we're still on track." "Jonah, a man just committed suicide in one of your fryers. I'm not sure I could even work in a store where a man died, much less be expected to run it properly. What if you find brains in the fryer?"
"New fryers, probably. I don't know how these things work exactly, but there's probably a rule or something." Jonah made a note to look it up. "I just couldn't do it. The sorrow, the sadness, the restless spirit. The specter of that poor man, wandering eternity in your store, unable to find peace. I wouldn't be able to work there." "Well, in that case, Michael, you'd better go along to your own store and work as hard as you can. I sort of understand why you would do things differently—you don't run our store." He opened the front door, as confident as ever: a man about to entice someone to leave without saying another word. On the front step was the large German shepherd. He looked from Michael to Jonah and wagged his tail. Michael froze. "Is that your dog?" Jonah said, "No, I think it belongs to a neighbor, but he hangs around a lot. I like the company." Michael sidled past the dog, onto the front porch and onto the walkway. He replaced his hat and quick-walked it down the front walk. "I can send over one of our priests to bless the new fryer."
"Really not necessary," Jonah said as he searched for the dog's identification. There was no collar or tags. "Thanks, anyway, Michael. We'll be fine." When Michael drove away Jonah asked his mother, "Mom, whose dog is this?" She was in the kitchen removing hot loaves from the oven. "Which dog, dear—the Newfoundland? The one that looks like a bear? Avoid that one, dear, he looks dangerous." "No, the Doberman. You said you saw a Doberman this morning. It's still a German shepherd and now he's on the porch." "Is that what I said? I don't remember, dear, but he probably belongs to a neighbor." Her voice trailed off and Jonah knew she was probably headed to the basement for laundry or canning or whatever it was she did when she went down there. He thought about looking for a neighbor but decided for the moment to let the dog in and give him a bite to eat. "Want something to eat, boy?" Jonah led the dog into the kitchen. His mother was humming to herself in the basement, so he didn't have to worry about being scolded for dirtying a dish for a dog. He reached for a saucer and placed baloney and cheese from the fridge in it. He set it down and watched as the dog ate a little and then curled up on a mat in front of the stove.
The evening brought a steady stream of visitors from Burgeropolis, all employees, some in tears. "Hear, dear," said his mother as she handed over small loaves of bread wrapped in foil. The small group gathered in the living room. They sat on the couch and in the two easy chairs. The piano bench was pulled out and three butts competed for space. "Will it be soon?" asked Bethany. She was a small girl with curly black hair and a piercing the kids called a Marilyn. Jonah supposed she fancied herself a Betty Boop lookalike, but then reckoned she had no idea who Betty Boop was. Bethany was elbowed hard by Chrissy, who was taller, paler, and had a haircut that made her look like a severely pissed off elf. Bethany mouthed, "Ow!" and rubbed her ribs. "I'm pretty sure we'll all get paid," said Jonah. "I mean, I don't know this, it's not my store"—yet, he thought—"but if I know our manager, there shouldn't be any missed paychecks. I'm sure this closure is just temporary and you'll probably be paid for the hours you were scheduled to work." He felt weird speaking for their manager, but figured his seniority offered him that privilege.
"Actually, Jonah, I think Bethany means it—the big thing we've all been waiting for." Keith was a good-looking boy who might one day grow out of the acne-pocked cheeks and forehead if he were very lucky. He was one of the afternoon crew chiefs at Burgeropolis, someone Jonah felt could go far unless he wanted to pursue a college degree or vocational training as a mechanic. The other workers respected him, even liked him, and his shifts were always tight, well-run crews with minimal mess and waste, much like Jonah's. "We all see the signs and we know it's just a matter of time. We're ready to step up and do what's needed, like Paulo did." Jonah was puzzled. "Why would you want to do what Paulo did?" Bethany said, "Because it prepares the Way." Chrissy said, "Because it opens the Gate." Ibram said, "Because it brings the Fire from the Sky," in his thick Eastern European accent, making it especially ominous. "It's time," said Keith. "And we've been waiting so long. All we need now is for you to take up your mantle and lead us."
"In prayer?" Jonah felt very uncomfortable. "I'm not much for prayer, but if one of you would like to lead us in a prayer for Paulo, I wouldn't object." He looked from one confused but expectant face to another. He watched them all unwrap their foil loaves and stand. "It's time," Keith said again. "I don't know what any of you are talking about, and you're kind of freaking me out." The only sound was the crackling of foil and the shuffling of feet as people rose and began to walk toward him. "Look, guys, today was pretty tragic and I know I don't ever want to see it again, but it was a onetime thing. No one is paving anything for anyone. It's been a hard day, so how about you all head home and we'll regroup in a few days?" "But darling, we really need to get started," said his mother. She stood at the entrance to the completely disused dining room opposite the living room. A dark red curtain hung over the arch entrance, and Jonah suddenly couldn't ever remember a time the curtain wasn't there. It had never in all of his nineteen years ever occurred to him to pull aside the curtain and take a peek inside. She did it now and the room was lit by what appeared to be hundreds of candles covering a sideboard, the windowsills, and the top of a china cabinet Jonah had never seen before. The movement of the curtain released a wave of heat into the main room. Jonah could feel the warmth on his skin, and he broke out in a sweat. An oblong table stood in the center of the room, draped from head to foot in a deep red runner. Within the china cabinet, candles sat on plates and in goblets and the light flickered and bounced from the glass fronts.
From behind him the German shepherd crossed into the room and, in a smooth leap that would surely leave gouges, landed on the tabletop and he lay down on the bloodred runner. It rolled onto its side and panted lightly in the heat. Jonah's mother handed him a long knife with a wavy blade and a handle that felt warm and pulsing. She gave him a little push toward the room and the dog. Jonah turned, his mind swimming with the heat and fear and with his crew standing behind him. They were now eating their loaves of wet bread that looked soggy with red in the candlelight. "Prepare the Way. Open the Gate. Bring the Fire," they began to chant. They closed distance to Jonah quickly in the small room, blocking the front door and the staircase to the second floor. Jonah was trapped. With no more room to walk, they pressed closer to him, pushing him toward the waiting dog. "Like this, dear." His mother closed his fingers around the handle and raised it above his head. "Normally, we would just have you cut its throat, but this is a special sacrifice so you'll need to remove its heart while it's still beating. Just aim for the lungs and we'll remove it from the abdomen." Her hands were sweaty and her breath had a sweet but rotten smell. She was pushing his hands down toward the dog gently but with increasing force.
Jonah couldn't believe it. His life up to this point had been as uneventful as any American with middling ambitions. He'd been with Burgeropolis since he was sixteen, first tending grill and then lunch prep, moving on to the drive-thru next. He'd earned his crew chief hat and pin and worked hard in their management program. He knew one day he'd have his own store and then it was just a matter of time before he could own two or three as a franchisee. He could see all of it and it was a good life, like the one with his mother. Even now as he stole glances at the woman with the rueful grin trying to get him to murder a dog he'd only just met, he couldn't fathom what the heck was going on. Jonah gave his mother a shove and she went sprawling. Tall tapered candles wobbled and fell to the floor, catching her apron on fire. She screamed and batted at the flames with the towel tucked into the pocket of the housecoat she always wore. Jonah whirled on the crowd of his employees. He waved and jabbed the knife at them trying to get them to just back off and give him some air. "I don't understand what's happening," he said. Stinging sweat began to drip into his eyes and he wiped it away with an equally sweaty arm. His fellow employees, those trusted souls he considered his A-crew, stood in mute shock; Chrissy had already taken a bite of her loaf and her mouth was streaked with a thick liquid that looked both black and red in the candlelight.
"All the signs are there," said Chrissy, and as she spoke the masticated bread fell from her mouth. "It's time for you to take your rightful place and we are here to witness your Ascension." Chrissy looked at Jonah's mother. "You were supposed to prepare him for this." "I'm not his mother, I'm the damned babysitter!" Jonah realized he didn't know (or couldn't remember) her name. He'd never seen it on a check or a bill and it had never come up. Worse, it never occurred to him to ask. He didn't know how that happened, but there it was. She was always just there and always answered to "Mom." His mother began to yell, and spittle was thick at the corners of her mouth. "Do you see what I have to work with? He's always talking about that damned store! How am I supposed to prepare for his Ascension with that nonsense?" "My what?" screamed Jonah and his confusion grew thicker in the heat. His mother picked herself up from the floor. Her housecoat was burnt away in places revealing the remnants of a charred bra and wrinkled, saggy breasts already blistering from the burns. She was angry in a way Jonah had never seen before, and her usually round pleasant face was twisted into a cruel grimace. She looked like she'd eaten something sour and mealy and pointed a rebuking finger at him. "You take your place at your Father's side this instant. He's waiting for you and has prepared your Ascension in His own Way." The dog on the table raised his head and huffed in exasperation.
The woman leaped at Jonah, reaching for the knife, but he dodged her easily. Neither were trim or fit individuals, both having indulged in her specialty of meat pies and baked goods, but his time at the store lifting boxes of frozen meat and shifting racks and racks of buns gave him more muscle. His crew was chanting again. "Prepare the Way. Open the Gate. Bring the Fire." It became harder and harder for Jonah to think and breathe. He saw his opening between Bethany and Chrissy, who had both buried their faces in their loaves, slurping and licking the foil with mouths that were streaked and covered in crumbs and mush. He barreled between them, sending them into the furniture and walls, and was out the front door so fast he nearly stumbled down the front steps. He ran into the cool night air, tossing the dagger into the street and running until his lungs ached and the stitch in his side doubled him over. The night all around him was both thick and cool and the sky had faded from the twilight of dusk to the color of a nasty rash. Thunder sounded in the distance, and when there was lightning, the shapes flying across the sky looked too long to be birds and the flailing shape behind them gave them the appearance of people—people in the sky with great wings. Jonah heard his mother calling for him and he knew exactly where he had to go.
While a mile apart, as most Burgeropolises were by design, St. Augustine was the same distance from Jonah's house as his own Shop #1334. It was only a matter of luck that he chose the shop to the south of his home instead of north. He ran north now, keeping to the shadows and dodging the large, plump objects now falling from the sky. One hit him on the shoulder and he stopped jogging to investigate. It was a large frog, now lying broken on the sidewalk. It was raining frogs, and the sky continued its steady progression toward the color of red. Burgeropolis, he knew, would be closed, so he pounded on the front doors of the actual St. Augustine Church across the street. Its heavy oak doors echoed inside and he pounded once, twice, three times before they swung open and Jonah toppled inside. Michael looked down at him with a patient but puzzled look. "Close the door! They're right behind me!" Jonah shouted. The echo of his shouting sounded very loud in the sacristy and he let out his own cry of surprise.
Michael closed the door and helped Jonah from the floor. "Jonah, what are you doing here?" Jonah gave his heart a few moments to slow down so he could gather his scattered thoughts. "Sanctuary. Please, I need sanctuary." Michael led him to a pew and fetched a paper cup of water. "I'm going to give this to you on the condition that you tell me what's going on, though I already have a pretty good idea." Jonah nodded and Michael handed over the cup. "Something is happening at my house. My crew came over and I thought we were going to talk about Paulo and the store moving forward and maybe sing a hymn, but then there was this huge black dog and they wanted me to kill it and they were eating bread and I think it was made with blood and I just had to run and get out of there so here I am." He shook his head as if it would knock loose the craziness of the situation. "The woman I thought was my mother wanted me to Ascend but she's not my mother and I don't know what's going on, so I came to the only place I knew would take me in." His words came out in a rush and when they ran out, he took a deep breath and hiccupped.
Michael looked at him for several long moments and Jonah knew the man was going to get up and call the cops. Instead he said, "So, it's happening tonight? The Way has been paved?" Jonah choked on his sip of water. "Oh, c'mon—not you too?" Michael waved him off. "No, not me too. Well, kinda, but I'm not a part of that." He gave a dismissive wave with his hand toward the door. "I'm the opposition. We've been working on this for months, getting our numbers up to fight. We were winning too, but I see others are forcing the issue before Deadline. Typical dirty cheaters." Jonah was on the verge of tears. "I need someone to tell me what's going on." "Dude," Michael said. "You're the son of Perdition. You were supposed to amass your army and begin the Rapture. It's written and everything." He pulled the Employee Handbook from his back pocket. It was heavily annotated with sticky flags marking certain pages and highlighter marker throughout. "See, it's in the section 'End Times.' " Jonah looked at the page. "That says, 'End of the Day Closing.' "
Michael rolled his eyes. "That's because you don't have your Sight yet." He paused. "Wait—you really thought the last few months was an employee drive? Your mother didn't tell you anything?" "She's not my mother and she smells like death." "All the Nephilim do. They basically rot from the inside, being abominations and all, but she makes a mean pound cake." Michael sat on the edge of the pew. His white uniform shirt nearly glowed in the dark. "I don't know what to tell you, man. We each have our sides to prepare and you and I—we're not on the same one. You have your place and I have mine and one day we'll have to fight." "I just want to own a few Burgeropolises. I don't want to Ascend to anything. I didn't ask for any of this." His voice was unsteady and his hands threatened to shake the last of the water from his paper cup. "Dude—I don't know what to tell you. I'd say you could stay here, but I've got my own army in the basement, and I'm not sure how they'd take a defector, especially, you know, the 'King of Fierce Countenance.' "
There was a pounding at the door, followed by more poundings by multiple fists. Michael looked at Jonah, "Don't worry. They won't come in. I mean you're an abomination and you're here, but they know the score and respect boundaries. I'll go see what they want. Will you be okay for a minute?" Jonah nodded and watched Michael head back toward the front doors. He didn't know what was going to happen next, but he thought it was very likely he was about to lead the best damned crew the world had ever seen, whether he wanted to or not. The Shoal * * Lee Moan"Steve, hurry up." "The gas ain't gonna come out any faster, sis." Callie took a few steps out onto the road. "They're comin'," she said. "Can you see them comin'?" She looked east, back the way they had come, and studied the bend in the road. The blacktop shimmered through the heat haze. "No, but . . . I can feel they're comin'." Steve continued to grip the gas gun, eyes fixed on the LED display. They didn't look at the dollar total anymore, not these days. It was all about the quantity.
Callie raised her arm, creating a hood over her eyes against the blazing sun. Through the blurry haze she saw a shape forming, small at first, but growing fast. A spike of fear slid through her gut. She backed slowly toward the gas station forecourt, lips moving in silent protest. Steve looked over. "Callie?" "Time to go," she said. "Really?" "Really." The shadow now filled the road at the bend, the heat haze giving it a mesmerizing, almost magical appearance. Sunlight glinted off the multitude of tiny writhing bodies, like a shoal of fish sparkling beneath clear blue ocean waves. Tearing her eyes away from the vision, Callie spun on her heels. She ran toward the car, stumbling in the dirt. Up again, she yanked open the passenger door and jumped in. "Come on, come on, come on!" she screamed. Steve was trying to hook the gas gun back into its cradle. "Just leave it!" Steve threw it to the ground, precious gas squirting into the sand. He clambered into the driver's seat, turned the key. The expected roar of the Trans Am's engine never came. He looked at Callie, eyes wide.
"No." He turned the key again. Nothing. "Seriously?" Callie screamed. She glanced out at the long desert road. The shimmering mass was less than fifty yards away, approaching like a freight train. "Swap over," Callie said, grabbing her brother's arm. He fell across her lap, reluctant at first, but three quick punches in the ribs told him to forget fighting her. She grabbed the wheel and turned the key four times in quick succession, then turned it a fifth time, hard. The engine coughed, sputtered, died. She repeated the sequence, pulse thudding in her temples. She didn't want to look at the road again. She knew it was close. The cloud. The shoal. The monsters . . . The Trans Am exploded into life, engine growling like an angry beast. Her heart soared and she floored the accelerator. The car spun on its back wheels, Callie leading it on a crazy zigzag across the forecourt and out onto the blacktop. She fixed her eyes on the road ahead, aware of the dark shadow at the edge of her vision. As the car straightened out on the highway, she heard the thud-thud-thud of tiny bodies hitting the back end of the car. Steve craned over the back of his seat, cursing like a madman. Callie kept her eyes ahead, lips pressed tight, willing their vehicle to increase its speed. She didn't know just how fast the shoal traveled, but the Trans Am was a damn fast vehicle—that was why they'd chosen it.
Stole it. Yeah, they stole a car. The world had gone to hell and now they were doing things they'd never dreamed of doing even a month ago. "Faster, Callie," Steve said. "That's the general idea. Have you checked the windows?" Her brother made a quick search of the Trans Am's four windows. "We're good," he said. Callie glanced in the rearview mirror, and immediately wished she hadn't. The typical view of the highway was obscured by a writhing mass of hideous faces—needle-like teeth, bulging eyes, and scaly bodies. They were like piranha but worse, more . . . alien. In the place where fins should be, long tentacles sprouted, clawing at the air around them. And then there was the sound they made—a long, loud exhalation that made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. The Trans Am was increasing its speed, but not fast enough. The shoal surrounded the car like a swarm of giant bees, ebbing and flowing, the lead creatures edging into view by Callie's window, keeping pace with their vehicle. Callie had her foot pressed hard to the floor but the car maintained the same speed.
"Why aren't we going any faster?" she yelled. Her brother shrugged. Then she remembered. Faulty gas exchange. Got to release the pedal and reapply. Reluctantly, she took her foot off the accelerator for a heartbeat and stamped on it again. The car surged forward. The black shapes at the edges of her vision dropped out of view. Stupid girl. The voice. The voice she hated. You should've known that. Same old story. Got rocks in your head, girl. "Shut up." "I didn't say anything," Steve said, gripping the dash. The Trans Am tore up the highway, the shoal not far behind. How long could they maintain this speed? How long would the beasts follow them? Forever? On the flat horizon ahead she saw a cloud of dust approaching from the west. For a moment she thought it was another shoal, but a glimpse of red, white, and blue amidst the cloud gave her a flicker of relief . . . A Greyhound bus heading toward the highway. Relief quickly gave way to anxiety. They were leading the shoal straight to them. What could she do? They had to keep going. Slowing down to change course would be lethal. And where could they go? Flat desert stretched out on all sides. They had to keep on toward their destination. Fort Leavenworth. Their last hope.
The Greyhound thundered toward the highway, churning up dust. "Watch the bus," Steve warned. "I am watching the bus." Through the cloud forming ahead, Callie did her best to keep the Trans Am on a straight path. The coach loomed large in the view ahead. She waited for the crunch of metal against metal, but it didn't come. As the dust cloud dissipated, she found herself trailing behind the gray behemoth by some twenty yards. The thud-thud-thud of tiny bodies bumping against the windows matched her racing heartbeat. She could see the heads of the bus passengers in the dirty glass windows, looking back at them. The bus was full. What do I do? she wondered. Try and overtake and keep the shoal with them, or slow a little, let these people get away? Before she could make a decision, the swarm suddenly lifted away from their car, rising in the desert air like a giant vampire bat where it hovered, thinking, deciding . . . Then the shoal descended, pushing ahead with a sudden and frightening burst of speed. The cloud of dark bodies swarmed along the near side of the bus. Only then did Callie realize that the Greyhound's entry door was open. The passengers were exposed. The cloud of creatures swam through the air toward the opening.
"Oh, Jesus," Callie whispered. Wishing for more speed, she remembered her earlier trick and reapplied the accelerator. The engine growled, a satisfying sound. The Trans Am ate up the road, pulling level with the front of the bus. The bus driver was a gray-haired man, bulging stomach pressed against the wheel. He looked out at them through the open door with an angry expression. "Close your door!" Callie shouted. "What?" the driver said. "Close the door!" The driver shifted his gaze to the right-hand mirrors. Only then did he see the swarm crawling along the side of his vehicle. The angry scowl melted away, replaced with bone-white fear. He looked back at Callie and Steve. "I can't," he said. "It's broken." A hollow pit opened in Callie's stomach. All her hopes for those people dropped into it. The door was open, the shoal was coming. What else could they do? What else could they do? The sea of dark bodies rushed in through the open door, filling the interior of the Greyhound like a deathly cloud. Callie and Steve watched as the windows of the bus began to discolor, jets of dark red blood darkening each panel. A chorus of screams sounded above the roar of engines. She saw a woman's face appear at one of the windows, squirming bodies attached to her. Her mouth was stretched in a dark oval, hands tearing at the floating bodies, but failing to remove even one. The bus driver fought against the invading swarm, batting the ravenous bodies away with surprising vigor, but before long, he was overwhelmed. He stumbled toward the open door, his upper body lost in a swirling vortex. He tumbled forward, hitting the highway blacktop and lost in a spray of red mist. The Greyhound veered into the path of the Trans Am. Callie tried to keep the car on the road, but the sheer size and weight of the bus sent them into the dunes. The wheels shuddered against the rough terrain.
"Slow down!" Steve screamed. He was right. There was no way they could outrun the runaway Greyhound. She stabbed the brake with her left foot. They fell forward as the car rapidly dropped its speed. Everything seemed to slow down, all sound dropping to a whisper. The front wheel of the bus hit a boulder and the entire fuselage crumpled and buckled. The sound came to them seconds later, the screeching sound of complaining metal. The Greyhound rose up in the air as if it was about to take flight but the body twisted in the air, turning over. The bus slammed down hard on the desert floor, on the door side, and then began to slide. The vision was lost in a dense cloud of brown dust. Callie had to concentrate on keeping the Trans Am on the highway but found it hard to tear her eyes away from the tragedy unfolding in the dunes. The Greyhound came to rest as they rode past it. Callie watched the unmoving vehicle, a terrible ache in her heart as she imagined the horrors taking place within. "We should . . ."
"What?" Steve said. She stared at the bus. "There's nothing we could have done, Callie. There's nothing we can do now." She hated him for saying it, but she also knew he was right. "Drive," Steve said. "Let's just . . . drive." Callie pressed her foot harder on the accelerator. The ache grew bigger the farther they traveled up the highway. * * The invasion came out of nowhere. One minute the entire world was going about its usual business—waging religious wars and petty civil skirmishes, ignoring the poverty-stricken while the one-percenters masturbated over their own insane wealth—and the next minute everyone—everyone—was in the same boat. Suddenly everything about the human race became childish and absurd as only one thing counted . . . Survival. The shoals appeared all over the world, in every country, every town, every corner of the globe, eating up every piece of living matter in their path. Animals, humans, even birds fell prey to the new threat. The shoals swarmed across the planet like a plague, devouring, consuming, leaving nothing but bones in their wake.
Where had they come from? There were various theories, but everyone was so busy running for their lives no one had a chance to investigate, consolidate, or even evaluate them. There had been a meteor shower two days before the first shoal attacks. That was a fact. A huge meteor shower, all over the globe. So what did that mean? Aliens? An attack from beyond the stars? And if so, what did that mean? If this was humanity's extinction, what did it actually mean? No answers. Everyone was running. * * thud thud-thud "What is that?" Callie looked in the rearview mirror. Steve looked over the passenger seat and surveyed the back of the vehicle. thud-thud-thud It came from behind the rear seats, down low. "Can't be," Steve whispered. "You said the windows were all closed," Callie said, fear rising in her voice. "They were!" He glanced around. "They are!" "Then how did it get in?" "I have no goddamn idea!" "Wait," Callie said. She looked across at her brother's terror-stricken face. "At the gas station. Did you replace the fuel cap?"
Steve's eyes bulged. "Oh shit." thud-thud thud-thud He unbuckled his belt and climbed into the back. He bent down into the rear seat foot well, trying to locate the source of the banging. thud-thud Steve sat up. "But if it got into the gas tank, it can't get through to us, can it?" Callie scowled at him in the rearview mirror. "I mean, the walls of the tank are metal, right?" Steve said. "They can't eat through metal. Can they?" Callie pressed her lips tight together. She hoped he was right, but something, some dark, cynical voice spoke in the back of her mind. "If it senses there's food in this car," she said, "if it knows we're here . . . who knows what it's capable of?" Steve looked down, horrified. "How far to the Fort?" "No idea." thud-thud "Drive faster," Steve said. "Doesn't matter how fast I drive, Steve. If that thing gets through . . ." thud-thud-crack "Oh Jesus," Steve said. Thud-crack Thud-CRACK "It's comin' through!" Callie closed her eyes for just a moment, tightened her grip on the wheel. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be how it ended. So close to safety. Life couldn't be that cruel, surely?
Life is cruel, girl. The voice. His voice. Life is shit and then you die. "Shut up." She opened her eyes and studied the long straight road ahead. Could they make it? It couldn't be too far now. Once they reached Fort Leavenworth the army would protect them, they would have ways to keep safe from the worldwide threat. Survival. That was everything, wasn't it? SURVIVE. Behind her, the space beneath the rear seats exploded in a shower of splinters. Steve screamed. The interior of the Trans Am became a whirling, swirling storm of chaos. Callie caught a glimpse of the invading body, a fat thing with long, jagged fins and oversized teeth. It bashed into the windows, the dashboard, the roof, delirious success after breaking out of its prison. Then it froze in the air to Callie's right, hissing like a snake. Its dead, alien eyes fixed on her. Its jaws spread wide. You deserve this. No. No. NO! Callie twisted the wheel hard to the right. The car went into a spin. Everything after that was a blur. Her head struck something. The creature bounced into the seat behind her. Stevie was little more than a scarecrow floating around the cabin behind her. Sound and vision became indistinguishable. Muted noise and blurred images.
The car flipped. bang rolling bangbang rolling bangbang The car skidded along its roof, metal screeching on the asphalt. Sparks. The smell of burning. Skidding and skidding. Then the car came to rest and silence fell over everything. Callie opened her eyes, blinking. She coughed. She was upside down. Her seat belt dug into her breasts. She glanced around the car, looking for Steve and . . . the thing. No sign of the creature. Only Steve's arm was visible, stretched out along the backseat. Bloody smears. No sign of movement. "Stevie?" she said. No answer. Where's the creature? She looked around hurriedly. No sign of it inside the car. Something trickled into her mouth. She put her hand to her lips and came away with bloody fingers. Before she could look up, the pain rushed in. Unbelievable pain. She screamed. "My leg!" More blood dripped into her face. She craned her neck, trying to look up (down) at her leg. She knew it was bad. In the maelstrom of the crash she had sensed that some part of her had been broken, but it was a subconscious thing. Everything seemed surreal, dreamlike.
"Stevie?" His fingers twitched, flexed. He made a sound halfway between a groan and a cry. "Stevie, are you okay?" "I . . . I dunno," he mumbled. "I think my leg is broken," she said, sounding surprisingly calm and rational under the circumstances. This news spurred Steve into action. He sat up, and that was when she saw the gash in the side of his head. His golden-blond hair was stained crimson. His eyes looked misty, unfocused. "Broken?" he said. "Like, really broken?" She considered a sarcastic retort but it felt wrong. "Yeah, really broken," she said. "Where are we? How far are we from the Fort?" Callie looked out through the windscreen. Dusty highway stretched ahead, but she thought there was a bump on the flat horizon. A town? Leavenworth? "Close," she said. "I think." Stevie clambered through from the backseat, undid her seat belt, and took her weight as she fell. His arms were surprisingly strong. He had grown up so much since they had set out on the road. The kid brother she had fought to protect was turning into a young man.
She hissed at the pain flaring in her damaged leg, but allowed Steve to ease her out of the wrecked car onto the warm asphalt. "Wait," he said. "Where's that thing? Where'd it go?" "Crushed, hopefully," she said, gasping against the bolts of agony. Stevie laid her down gently. As he looked her over, blood from his head wound trickled down his face but he didn't appear to notice. He glanced at her leg, frowned. "Do you think you can walk?" he said. "No." "It's not far. I can support you." In that moment she loved him more than she ever had. It had always been her job to look after him, now he was trying to return the favor. "I bet you could," she said. "Thing is, the shoal is coming." She raised her head slightly, looking down the highway. "They can't be far behind." "So . . . what?" Stevie said. "What do we do?" "You can walk. Run. You can get to the Fort, get help. I'll wait here. Wait for you." Horror sparked in his eyes. "No way. What if those things come?" She looked into his deep brown eyes, narrowed her gaze. "Run fast."
The realization settled in his face. He raised her hand and kissed the back of it. "I love you, sis." He stood up, his jaw tight, set in determination. "Love you, Stevie. Now run." She rested her head on the road, staring up into the clear blue sky as Stevie's footsteps retreated into the distance. Smoke drifted overhead, the acrid smell of smoldering upholstery biting the lining of her nostrils. Then she heard the hiss, the long exhalation. Turning her head, she saw a dark shape crawling out from under the hood of the Trans Am. Like her, the creature was badly wounded. Its undulating fins on one side were shredded. And yet, still it forced itself on, inching across the asphalt toward her, jaws snapping. All she could do was wait, watch it come closer, closer . . . More smoke belched from the rear of the Trans Am, accompanied by a sharp bang. Flames jetted out into the air. Sparks flew. The sparks hit the blacktop around the creature and its fat body was suddenly engulfed in fire. It screeched. Its body bucked.