by Ira Nayman
“If the ship spots us,” PFC Escudot argued, “it could find the hole that leads to our headquarters. We can’t risk it. We’ll just sit tight here and wait until the ship has gone…”
Two and a half hours later, the ship was a small, furry dot on the horizon, so they gathered around the hole. As he was about to lead them into it, PFC Escudot stopped and raised a restraining hand in their direction. “I should warn you of one thing,” he solemnly stated.
“What’s that?” Begbie asked.
“I have heard every variation of joke about holes that you could possibly imagine,” PFC Escudot answered. “Don’t bother trying, because that’s just not funny. Understand?”
“What, no rabbit jokes?” Begbie asked.
“They were old before I was born,” PFC Escudot responded.
“No doughnut related humour?”
“Please!”
“No sexual innuendoes?”
“I wrote a book of them. Self-published, obviously – only Random House survived the invasion, and they didn’t see the audience for it. They mostly publish soft-core zombie porn now. Still – I hope the point has been made: no hole humour, okay?”
Begbie and Bowens nodded. PFC Escudot led them down a ladder that led to a dark, dank tunnel. Water dripped. The distance rumbled. Small animals squeaked and chittered. Begbie could imagine it as a subway tunnel before the alien invasion and other unpleasantness; all it needed was a little more garbage. “Charming,” Bowens stated.
“Enjoy it while you can,” PFC Escudot advised. “This is ferking paradise compared to where we’re going.” He drew a flashlight, but it barely cut a small swath through the dense murk (not to be confused with the density of the drug company Merck, which no amount of light could ever penetrate). After a second, he commanded, “If you’ll just get your flashlights out, I’m sure they’ll help.”
“Flashlights?” Bowens asked.
“You know better than to come to a world where people live underground without your own light source,” PFC Escudot asked, “don’t you?
After a couple seconds full of awkward pause, Begbie replied: “We like to travel light.”
“That’s new,” PFC Escudot noted.
“Are you making light of the situation?” Bowens asked Begbie.
“Ooookay…” PFC Escudot responded.
“Just trying to be light on my feet, banter-wise,” Begbie answered.
“Aaaand, it just got real old real quick,” PFC Escudot sighed. Rummaging around in his backpack, he pulled out a flashlight and handed it to Bowens. “I always carry a spare in case my flashlight is carried away by bats.”
“Bats?” Begbie shuddered, looking around suspiciously.
“As far as anybody knows, they’re extinct,” PFC Escudot assured him. “I just don’t like to take any chances.”
Walking down the tunnel, the three men passed a sign; although it was too dim for them to read (the light from both flashlights being pointed ahead of them), I can tell you that it read: ‘59th Street Bridge – no singing on penalty of the confiscation of your groovy feeling.’
“We create a virus,” Smukk stated, “and transmit it to the robots and the computers running the alien spaceships.”
“Brilliant!” Smikk said.
“Thank you,” Smukk smiled.
“Except for one thing,” Smikk added.
“One thing?” Smukk stopped smiling.
“How would that help us with the zombies?” Smikk asked.
“When the computers on the spaceships went kerflooey,” Smukk stated, “they would drop like flies, crushing all of the zombies beneath them!
Smekk smirked.
At the end of the tunnel, Bowens, Begbie and PFC Escudot came upon three elderly men in janitorial overalls. They each had buckets of soapy water and were unenthusiastically mopping the muddy ground. PFC Escudot introduced them as Smikk (the bald one with the scar across his left cheek in the shape of Ethel Merman), Smekk (the buzz cutted one with the missing pinkie on his right hand) and Smukk (the other buzz cutted one with the tattoo of Hello Kitty on his bicep).
“Hey, PFC,” Smikk saluted smartly. “I think I have the solution to all of our problems.”
“You do?” PFC Escudot asked.
“EMT pulse,” Smikk said.
“EMT pulse?” Smukk asked.
“Sure,” Smikk explained. “It would knock out the robots AND the computers on the alien spaceships.”
“Problem,” Smekk said.
“Problem?” Smikk asked.
“Wouldn’t it knock out our own electronics, as well?” Smekk pointed out.
Smukk smirked.
“Not necessarily,” Smikk insisted. “We could be far enough underground that our electronics would be shielded from the blast.”
“Mmm…sounds like a risk,” Smekk mused.
“Trying to defend North America is a Risk,” Smikk countered.
“Not as much as trying to defend Asia,” Smekk argued.
“Perhaps,” Smikk pointed out, “but you get more armies per turn if you are able to maintain control of Asia.”
“I like Kamchatka,” Smukk said, bringing the conversation to a halt.
After a couple of seconds, PFC Escudot said, “Keep up the good work, gentlemen,” and led Begbie and Bowens to a metal door set in the tunnel wall. Inside was a well with handholds carved into rock that PFC Escudot bade them climb down.
As they were making their way, Begbie asked, “What was that all about?”
“Before the…unpleasantness, they were military generals,” PFC Escudot explained. “It was decided that the best thing to do with them would be to keep them busy so they couldn’t get us into any more trouble.”
“That seems a bit harsh,” Bowens commented.
“You don’t know them,” PFC Escudot told him.
The rest of the descent was spent in silence.
The men arrived at a short tunnel that was carved out of the rock and had better visibility thanks to the sodium lights set into the walls. PFC Escudot turned off his flashlight, took the other flashlight from Bowens and led them down it. At the end of the tunnel was the ‘End of the World Gift Shoppe’. The window display featured bloody mannequins in a beach setting sitting on towels featuring images of teddy bears in the sky blowing buildings apart with their rays, and drinking from mugs featuring zombies, arms outstretched, moaning, “Cooooofffffeeee!” An adult woman zombie was wearing a bikini with a brains motif. A couple of children playing with a beach ball were wearing the obligatory ‘The world ended, and all I got is this lousy torn up t-shirt’ torn up t-shirts. In a corner of the window was a sign that read: ‘SALE: national landmarks being blown up postcards’.
“Souvenirs?” Begbie sneered. “Really?”
“It’s a great location,” PFC Escudot responded. “Everybody has to pass by it on the way to or from our living space.”
“That may be, but still…a gift shop?”
PFC Escudot dug into the pocket of the jacket he was wearing and pulled out a keychain that was tied to a miniature plastic robot. The keychain was conspicuously devoid of keys. “Oh, yeah,” PFC Escudot commented. “They’re good.”
They walked through a door at the end of the short tunnel, which led to a rope ladder. They went down the ladder, at the bottom of which was another tunnel. They started walking to the other end, when they heard voices around a bend. Familiar voices. Voices which got clearer with each step.
“You know,” Smukk commented, “the super soldier formula would have given us an unstoppable human army.”
“Oh, sure,” agreed Smekk, “if it hadn’t accidentally turned soldiers’ brains to mush and their skin into rancid pudding.”
“Blame Congress,” Smukk replied. “At the first sign of unwanted mutation, the bastards cut our funding!”
“Tell me about it!” Smekk sympathized. “We were this close to perfecting military robots. All they had to do was stomach a few…glitches that wiped out some small mi
d-western towns in the middle of nowhere that nobody had ever heard of and nobody would ever miss! But, no – to be successful, before you enter politics you have to have a gutectomy! Do you have any idea what a robot army would be like?”
“Unstoppable?” Smukk asked.
“Supreme,” Smekk smacked his lips.
“Still,” Smikk dreamily stated, “what I wouldn’t give to have that alien death ray.”
Smekk and Smukk oohed and aahed appreciatively.
Rounding the corner, they found Smikk, Smekk and Smukk using rags to polish the rocks out of which the tunnel had been carved. Every so often, they would dip the rags into buckets of a clear, viscous substance – either polish or cold cream – and rub that much harder.
“Hello, again, gentlemen,” PFC Escudot greeted them. They helloed back.
“Ah, PFC,” Smekk lowered his voice, indicating conspiratoriality, or perhaps that he had breathed in too many clear, viscous substance fumes. “I was wondering if you knew anything about the disposition of my grant proposal.”
“Grant proposal?” PFC Escudot gulped.
“The one that was supposed to come before the Council?”
“You have a grant proposal before the Council?” Smukk indignantly asked.
“Just a small one,” Smekk abashedly admitted. “It just…you know…it just occurred to me that there might be some potential in rocks as projectile weapons.”
“So,” Smikk mocked, “you have reinvented the catapult?”
“But, a high tech version,” Smekk pointed out.
“Damn!” Smukk exclaimed, hitting his forehead with the palm of his hand. “I wish I had thought of that.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know anything about your proposal,” PFC Escudot delicately stated. “However, I’m sure the Council is giving it all of the attention it deserves.” Then, watching the satisfied grin on Smekk’s face grow, he led the two TA investigators to the end of the tunnel, and down a flight of actual stairs.
“Do you see, now, why we like to keep those three occupied?” he asked.
“Are they the same three we met two flights up?” Bowens asked.
“Yes.”
“How is that possible?”
“Some characters are universal.”
At the bottom of the staircase was a door. Through the door was a platform which gave a view of a vast cavern three stories high and miles long. The cavern was filled with tents, lean-tos and other human structures. And, unlike the surface, human activity. Even…female human activity.
PFC Escudot led them down metal stairs built into the side of the rocky cavern. At the bottom, they entered a final door that led into a large space carved out of rock. Over a dozen people sat at monitors monitoring things, walked around, some with clipboards in their hands, saying incomprehensible things like, “Check the schnozzle bozzle for increased tentrackiness!” and “Vectors coordinates aren’t properly coordinated vectorly!” with complete conviction in the importance of those statements, even painting the rock in a corner of the room white. About half of the people wore pyjamas with impressive epaulets and even some medals. The other roughly half wore jeans and variously coloured t-shirts with animated images of giant heads floating over important world monuments (and the Eiffel Tower). Bowens was taken with the t-shirt featuring a giant white head hovering over the CN Tower, and wondered if he could get it at the gift shop on his way out. Under the hum of talk and machinery could be heard the sound of a gentle waterfall and…was that crickets? Begbie asked about it.
“Environmental music,” PFC Escudot explained. “It’s supposed to be soothing for people who don’t get aboveground much.”
“And, is it?” Begbie asked.
PFC Escudot shrugged. “When you listen to the same sounds all day for months, it makes you want to strangle the tape deck. Otherwise, yeah, it’s okay, I guess…”
He led Bowens and Begbie through the room to the other end, where a person with the most impressive uniform stood, back to them, talking to a man in plain clothes. “Okay, Kardashanus,” the uniform was saying, “let’s do a sweep of the perimeter for hostiles.”
“Let’s…what?” Kardashanus responded.
“Let’s check the edge of the territory we control for enemies.”
“Why didn’t you just say so?”
“I…I had a feeling official sounding language was appropriate in the moment. Are you questioning my order?”
“No, ma’am. I’ll get right on it.”
Kardashanus turned and walked out of the room. Bowens cleared his throat and asked, “Master Sleep Commander Regnor?”
The uniform turned around. It was filled by a woman. A woman with dark skin. A woman with hair that looked like a game of Jenga gone horribly, horribly wrong. “Noomi?” he asked, confused. “Noomi Rapier?”
“That’s right,” she responded. “I am Master Sleep Sub-Commander Noomi Rapier. And, you are…?”
“We were supposed to liaise with Master Sleep Commander Regnor,” Begbie huffily told her.
“He died,” Master Sleep Sub-Commander Rapier crisply informed them. “Zombie ambush.”
“How can zombies ambush anybody?” Begbie wondered.
“Some questions are better left unanswered,” Master Sleep Sub-Commander Rapier stated. Everybody pondered this bit of wisdom for a few moments, then she said, “I’m in charge, here. Please tell me your business.”
As Bowen filled her in, Begbie’s attention wandered around the room. There were people pointing excitedly at screens. There were people pointing calmly at screens. One person was intently watching an episode of Veronica Mars. Taped to the wall above an oscilloscope-y object was a faded newspaper article which read:
Going the Ex-tra Mile for Your Extreme Vacation!
by OLGA KRYSHTANOVSKAYA, Alternate Reality News Service Travel Writer
So, you’ve tickled a Ventrosian squiggle under – well, maybe not under, exactly, but certainly in the general vicinity of its…armpittal area and lived to tell the tale! You pulled the plug on the toaster oven uprising on Sirenius O’Titan. You even took out 237 alien predators – a personal best! – with just a toothpick, a crate full of badgers and an evil grin!
Where do you go for your vacation thrills this year?
You might want to consider Earth Prime 4-6-3-0-2-9 dash omicron, where a simultaneous alien invasion, robot uprising and zombie apocalypse means there will never be a dull moment for a jaded multiverse traveler! As the ads truly say: “If the aliens don’t get you, the zombies will!”
“It’s an embarrassment of riches!” enthused Cuc Ogier, President of the extreme travel agency Apocalypse Next Thursday. “And, we can throw in extreme weather due to global warming absolutely free!”
The fun began with an invasion by the Kerplatznikzither Brood of the Plotz star syst– “Braaaaaiiiinnnnnnsssss!” Phil, our zombie guide, interrupted. Loosely translated, he said: “A military chemical weapon experiment gone horribly, horribly wrong was dumped into the Atlantic Ocean and had bad, bad, terribly bad consequences for ninety per cent of the population years before the aliens stuck their difficult to analogize appendages into things.” (It’s all in the intonation.)
“Oh, I would have to strongly take exception to that characterization,” Kerplatznikzither Brood Fleet Commander Gregorio Fitzplatznitz strongly took exception. “When the first wave of Kerplatznikzither Brood battle zhringers hit the atmosphere, the zombies were few in number, the chemicals lying dormant in most people’s bodies. They didn’t become a major threat to humanity until we had softened it up for them.” (Alien statements have been compressed in order to save trees.)
Then, rapidly blinking its eyestalks, it added: “What’s an appendage? Is it a small creature with 12 hairy legs and a Donna Summer fixation? Because, you know, prepared properly, they can be delicious on toast!”
“Brrrrrrrrrrrraainnnnnnnnssss!” Phil argued. So loosely translated it was showing more flesh than would be allowed at an Islamic wine tasting
, what he said might have been: “We’re a lot more threatening than people think – we didn’t get to be ninety per cent of humanity without a lot of hard work and keen organizational skills, you know! Oh, and, the Kerplatznikzither Brood better not be carbon-based life forms, or they will be next!”
Everybody agrees that the robots were late to the party. “That’s okay,” said S3 E3, who was as likely a robot representative as anybody. “We’re in it mostly for the mayhem and all the free diesel oil you can guzzle!”
“Who threatened humanity with extinction first will only be of interest to historians and people who want to believe in Prophecies,” Ogier pooh poohed the debate. “The important thing is that huge swaths of the planet are unliveable and patrolled by creatures that want to suck your eyeballs out of your head or enslave you in their alien angora factories. In your face, extreme skiing!”
Why did the aliens first decide to come to Earth? “Oh, you know,” explained Fleet Commander Fitzplatznitz. “We ran out of resources on our home planet and needed to conquer other worlds to make up for the resources we were wasting conquering other worlds – the typical eco-disaster cautionary tale!”
“Braaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnsss!” Phil complained. We didn’t need the translator to tell us that the zombie had said that the Fleet Commander’s statement made no sense.
“Yes, well, the Kerplatznikzither Brood are a race of superintelligent engineers,” Fleet Commander Fitzplatznitz stated. “But, we’re only just coming to realize that perhaps we could use a social planner and maybe even an… economist or two…”
We couldn’t help but wonder if, rather than taking snapshots and visiting, and then running away from, all of the hottest spots, tourists shouldn’t be, oh, we don’t know, helping humanity overcome its enemies maybe?
“Yeeeeah, no, we don’t recommend it,” Ogier demurred. “We advise all of our clients to leave the place they visit in exactly the same condition as they found it. After all, if tourists help humanity beat an alien invasion, what would be left on the planet for future travelers to enjoy?”