Wacktards of the Apocalypse

by Jon Moon; Timothy Long

  Of Shitfaced and Angels

  The kitchen is a mess. Mom hasn’t been around the last few days. Probably shacked up with those guys again. The Malore Twins. He shudders at the thought of those former wrestlers tag-teaming his mother. Those poor poor little men.

  The kitchen table is littered with popsicle sticks, and it appears Mother has been hard at work building a new clock. The massive timepiece covers most of the surface area. Mom always did have crafty fingers. There is a pack of Platinum Lung Busters on the table. Big cigarettes without the filter. About the size of cigars but intended for inhalation. He tried one once and puked for half a day. Learned his lesson, because Mom laced them with Pine-Sol.

  The ratty blinds don’t open anymore, so he slips his finger between their greasy slats and peers out. There is a shape in the shade of the porch, but all he can make out is brown.

  “Oh a delivery!” he says and opens the door wide to greet the UPS driver. He is pretty sure he hasn’t ordered anything recently, but maybe they are bringing him something anyway, maybe something he ordered years ago that had slipped through the cracks until now.

  He puts a smile on his face to greet the driver. A big smile that says “Welcome to the neighborhood. I’m glad I don’t have to kill you.”

  The shape doesn’t move so much as unfold. Two talons uncurl where the feet should be. They scratch at the old concrete patio as the shape shifts. Chuzz’s gaze moves up the skinny legs, which end at a brown overcoat.

  Long fingers fall from sleeves that are torn and burned in spots. Black smudges streak along the jacket as though it had caught fire and its owner rolled to put it out. Through the coat’s many holes, Chuzz can see something like smudged gray ash on feathers.

  The man’s face is painfully handsome. Rugged, like a model or a baseball pitcher on the edge of retirement. He looks built, too, like he’s hiding an Ah-nold body under that thing. Not much of a neck, but what does show is thick and ripped with muscles.

  Blue eyes sit under blond hair held back by a thin gold band. He doesn’t have a lick of facial hair, and one side of his perfect face is black and blue.

  “Help you?” Chuzz asks. Voice stupid in his head because the thing on his porch should not be. He has the urge to tug his sweatshirt down again to make sure it covers his erection in case this guy is after his cock. Stupid faggots. Can’t ever tell where they’ll turn up!

  “Hello, Chuzz. I got a delivery for you.” The man’s voice is ridiculous. While he speaks slowly with a sense of vibrato that hums across the tiny space, he sounds like he just inhaled a huge hit of helium. He sounds like a fucking chipmunk about to break into a Christmas song.

  “You do?”

  “Yep. Got a beer?”

  “No. And I think you should …”

  The massive man shoulders past Chuzz like he isn’t even there. He grabs Chuzz’s hand as he passes and shakes it vigorously. Nathan returns the shake automatically, then wipes his hand on his shirt. The guy with the talon feet has very cold hands. Cold and clammy. Gross.

  “I bet you think a bunch of stuff, buddy. I bet you think I’m here to do bad things to you.” He stops and spins around to confront Chuzz, who comes up short. The man’s eyes are wide open like he knows a secret.

  “Uh.”

  “Whole lot of that today. Whole lot. I’m Gabriel, by the by.”

  “Uh.”

  “Right. Archangel, warrior, representative of the Almighty hisdamnself. Praise Jesus and shit.” He opens the refrigerator and extracts one of Chuzz’s PBRs. He pokes a hole in the side with one clawed finger. He puts the hole to his mouth and in one smooth motion pops the top and shotguns the entire thing in two point four seconds.

  “Uh.”

  The man … angel … lets out a loud burp. He wipes the back of his mouth with his hand, leaving black smudge marks behind. A look of discomfort troubles his flawless features, and he reaches in his pocket and pulls out what appears to be a small finger. It wiggles around until he drops it.

  Was that a little dick?

  “Stupid Cockbugs.” The big man smashes it with his boot and grinds it into a pulp.

  “Cockbug? Am I losing it?”

  “Probably. I came, well the boys and I did. We came to give battle, to protect the world. Only one problem, bud. Know what that is?”

  “Uh.”

  “I like you, Chuzz. You’re simple, and I can respect that. Anyway. The problem is simple, like you, as I just mentioned. We got our collective asses kicked six ways from Sunday. Boss man never showed up to help out or to collect for the rapture. All those people sitting around, being good, thinking they were on the way up. They are so screwed.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “I bet you don’t, but time is short and you are all I have. Well, you and perhaps one other. I’m leaving you with some gifts. Have a nice life, Chuzz.”

  He takes off his overcoat and drops a bunch of doodads and toys on the floor. His skin is covered in feathers that were probably white at one time but have crisped around the edges to a nice golden brown.

  “Uh.”

  “Not everything is what it seems, and stuff will change out there, which will affect these things. They may be good and they may be evil. I have no control over that. I just grabbed a handful of them on my way down.” Chuzz can’t stop staring at the big wings that bulge up over the guy’s shoulders when he talks. A small pile of feathers is collecting underneath his angelic visitor, and that isn’t good. Chuzz sneezes just looking at them.

  “I don’t really …” He wipes his running nose.

  “Right. As I was saying. If you try hard enough, you may be able to warp one or two. Just think of what you want them to do and they may do it. It’s not some innate gift you have. It’s the toys. I mean, you are kind of a scumbag, but yours was the closest house to where I crashed.”

  “Who are you calling a scumbag, you godless son of a whore?!” Chuzz blurts before he realizes that his lips are forming the shapes for words and his vocal cords are following suit.

  “Nice one, buddy! I wish I could stay and hang you by your balls, but I need to run. Need to go find some help or something. Enjoy your last days, or day. Maybe hours. Hard to say at this stage of the Apocalypse.” The man takes another PBR from the fridge and drinks this one more slowly, from the pop top. “You might be able to use some of that shit as weapons. Hard to say. Have fun saving the world. Later.”

  “Uh. Why me?”

  “Why not? Do you see anyone else around? Anyone? Besides, I like an underdog, and I don’t think I have ever seen a bigger one in my life.”

  “Uh.”

  “That’s a good shtick, man. Keep it up. Later, fucker.” The angel sweeps out his wings in an arc that smashes Mother’s clock to pieces. He looks up and raises one hand like he is Superman or some shit. Then he rises from the ground and rockets out of the house with a whoosh that tosses Chuzz on his ass.

  “Uh … fuck.”

  Chuzz covers his face to protect it from the falling debris, but some hits him anyway. Through the hole in the roof, he sees a missile streaking across the sky and the angel hauling ass to get away from it. Then another streak as one more missile joins the party and the angel disappears in a feathery explosion.

  Dirty fallen feathers swirl around the kitchen. This is really going to play hell with his allergies.

  Chuzz gets up and brushes himself off. Stares down at the mess and wants to cry. Mom is going to be so pissed! He pulls a curtain back from a side window and gasps because the world is on fire.

  “Dammit! I had shit to do today!” He glances back and forth between the fire and his ridiculous hard-on. Now what?

  War Gets a Load in the Face

  The semi trundles down the winding road at a good clip. The problem with the big rigs is they need a lot of room to stop. So it isn’t exactly rocket science that they need to be driven around the speed limit and never too fast when going downhill. Most truckers adhere to that rule, especially when the
re are a lot of cars around.

  The difference between most semis on the road and this particular truck is the person at the wheel. She’s got the cabin filled with angry faces that match her own furious glare. Every few minutes she shakes her head and stares daggers at the road like it is her own personal enemy. Edwina looks at her darling love and reaches over to pat her knee. Darla covers her hand with her own large palm and pats back. Then it is back to staring at the road. The only thing missing is a pulsing soundtrack to get the girls even more worked up.

  Edwina lowers the window a notch and sniffs the warm air that rushes in. She holds a map in her lap because the stupid GPS is on the fritz. It had them on the right path for the first hour, but then it started going crazy, showing them maps of other states. At one point it zoomed all the way out and she could have sworn it showed them a giant erect penis with a pair of hairy balls to match, covering up what should have been Nevada.

  Then it started flickering and jumping around like it was possessed. Darla scowled even harder than she had when they started this little road trip. She grabbed the thing, bashed it against her thigh a few times. Checked it again and then slammed it against the dash. The GPS bounced back but hit the floor. Edwina dug it out, and when she flipped it over the screen was cracked and there was the unmistakable image of a big middle finger on it.

  “Piece of shit,” she said and rolled down the window to toss it.

  The ground bucks under the truck like they’ve hit a massive pothole. They bounce so hard that Edwina is afraid Marcel will fly right out of her thigh-high leather boots. The boots stay on, but she hits her head on the roof and then plops back into her seat with a curse.

  “Take it easy, Darla!” Marcel snaps at the driver.

  “I didn’t even see anything. What the hell just happened?”

  Pounding from the back of the semi indicates that the other girls aren’t too impressed with Darla’s driving either. She leans over the top of the steering wheel to get a look at the road as it whisks by.

  “What the fuck was that? I swear there was nothing on the road,” Darla insists.

  “I didn’t see anything either, honey,” Edwina reassures her girlfriend.

  Then another jolt shakes the truck, this time harder than before. It feels like they hit a large animal. Or a person. Darla doesn’t waste time after this one. She downshifts and brings the big rig to a shuddering stop.

  The side door slides open, and a couple of angry faces appear in Darla’s side window. Shylah Rae, with her waist-length blond hair in a long ponytail, is the first to approach the side of the cab.

  “What in the world are you driving over?” she shouts.

  “Keep your panties on. I didn’t hit anything.” Darla says. “I think.”

  She jumps out of the truck and walks around the front to check for damage. She has on her no-shit-taking blue jeans and a big flannel shirt opened over a sheer white tank top. Her one perfect tit is displayed through the soft cloth.

  “I don’t see any damage.” Edwina stands behind her and stares down the long road, but there is no sign of whatever they just hit. All she can see is black asphalt.

  Darla looks over the grill for damage, but the metal is just as clean and silver as the minute they left the compound, with the exception of a few splattered bugs. The big bulldog over the grill grins down at her, and for a second she thinks he turns into a squirming little dick. She does a double take, and the dog is back. She shakes her head but can’t get the picture out of her mind.

  The ground jumps underneath them. Marcel falls on her ass, spitting curses like a viper as she smacks into the ground. Darla falls against the side of the truck and grabs hold of a hand rung to keep from being flung to the ground. Edwina rides the quake, shifting from foot to foot in her sensible sneakers. Then the ground thumps one more time and everyone goes down.

  “What in the gin-soaked fuck was that?” Darla yells.

  A couple of the girls squirrel out of the side of the semi, guns cocked and ready for action. They are prepared to shoot the face off the first man who looks at them in the wrong tone of voice. Edwina isn’t sure what they plan to do against an earthquake.

  Maggie and Linda are an odd pair—short Asian women who argue all the time except when they hold weapons. Then they are more wicked than a pair of buddy cops with rocket launchers. Their shoulder-length hair flies around their faces as they exit the vehicle. With tight military precision they assemble, followed by two other girls, one with a giant chain-gun in hand and the other with a shotgun.

  “What’s going on?” Maggie asks no one in particular. Edwina always imagines her in one of those movies about the Vietnam War. She would be one of the young women who are sick of being whores and take up weapons. Maggie is just a badass from the word ‘Ho Chi Motherfucking Min.’ She can strip, clean, and put together a 9mm so fast it is a Guinness world record waiting to happen.

  Explosions erupt in the distance. Really big explosions. Like the world is on fire explosions. Chunks of earth rise into the air and fall with thunks so loud that the sound waves engulf them a half minute later, bringing them to their knees again.

  The sound waves wash over the hillside and shake the ground and the trees that line the side of the road. They rattle the rocks on the ground, blast some weeds around like they got hit by a big blower. Dust flies and Darla gets a nose full, which makes her want to sneeze.

  They dust themselves off before dashing for the truck. They crouch down by the side and hold on for dear life. Marcel has a dangerous look on her face, but when the world is shaking around you, there isn’t much sense in getting mad at it—or so Edwina reckons. Edwina clings to the ladder on the side of the truck. Darla hangs on behind her, a cocktail of sweat and fear permeating the air. They all reek of it, and she can’t remember ever smelling this particular mixture before.

  There is a fresh rumbling, something that seems intent on making their already fucked-up day worse. The sky darkens, and balls of fire streak across the cloud layer and land in the distance. Usually Edwina feels safe with Darla by her side, but now all she wants to do is find a closet to hide in. Or a bunker about five hundred feet underground.

  One of the fireballs breaks off from the pack headed into the distance and tears a path of destruction through the ocean of trees. It falls short of the women and their semi and smashes into the ground with a shudder Edwina can feel in her teeth.

  Edwina cowers behind her wall of woman flesh, but most of the debris flies overhead. When the ground stops moving, the women turn, dazed, to face the massive hole that has been smashed into the ground about a hundred yards away. From within it comes a shape. A thing of beauty that shimmers and shifts like a dancing tissue. As it emerges, it takes on the form of a dreadful apparition with four legs.

  Tattered clothing hangs around its body. Shifts and glows first bright, then dull like it isn’t even there. The air around it shimmers and grows cold. It’s like a freezer door opened and the thing stepped through.

  Edwina shakes her head because the thing can’t be real. It’s got a head, sure. One encased in a big hood. She expects it to lower the cowl and look around as if lost. It doesn’t so much as flinch as it breaks into a gallop. That is a horse underneath its body, and the creature looks worse than the thing riding it.

  Edwina steps back toward the truck. She doesn’t trust her eyes, but she does trust the handgun at her side. It’s a lovely dull black and when she draws and shoots, hunks of lead fly out in the general shape of the 9mm variety. The thing kicks up, but she is so used to the recoil that she can fire and steady in a split second.

  Other shapes rise around the horrendous thing as it trots over the scorched field. Forms resembling humans extract themselves from the earth. Puffs of the ash that is all that’s left of the fallen swath of trees shimmer in the air as hundreds of the creatures pull themselves free of the ground. Edwina checks her second pistol even though she already knows it is loaded with one in the chamber and the safety
on. She comforts herself with the thought that she has another clip at her side and one tucked in a tiny holster around her ankle.

  The girls back up as one. The air is alive with something Edwina can’t put her finger on. Pain and suffering should hang over this place, but there is only the vibration of excitement. Edwina looks around for Marcel, who appears to have retreated into the semi. For a split second, Edwina wonders if she is hiding. Then she giggles at the silly thought.

  The rear door opens, and out pours an army. They have guns, assault rifles, hunting rifles—one even has a sniper rifle. That would be Sue, who trained in the military to take out targets from a distance. She was never allowed in the field; she was told she had been simply a ‘pet project.’ The man who delivered the news said it was because she was a girl and would crack under pressure. She punched him right in the nose, which shut him the fuck up. She loves to tell that story. Loves to talk about the expression on his face as he fell on his ass.

  Sue climbs up the side of the semi and takes up position. A pair of girls with modified AK-47s join her. It’s not legal to own an automatic, but they were able to make the change for about ten bucks a gun.

  Darla is at her girl’s side, just sidles right up and runs her hand over Edwina’s ass. Edwina looks at her lover and smiles. Darla smirks and raises the big Remington shotgun. She checks the load and then jacks a shell in. Others move behind what cover there is. Larger rocks on the other side of the road provide some protection for those with longer-range guns.

  Then the big shape is on the move with the things creeping out of the ground just behind him.

  Where the horse steps, things wither and turn to dust. There is an aura around the monster. It hangs dark and ominous. Edwina doesn’t really want to die, but if she is going to bite it today, at least it will be with her family.