The End of Everything Forever

by Eirik Gumeny

  The cowboy and the Indian woman clotheslined the cloned world leaders. The zombies’ arms fell off in the process, but the president and the queen had successfully been snapped off their feet and onto their backs, so the corpses considered it a win.

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

  “I haven’t been president in over a hundred years, pal, and, in point of fact, I’ve –” Chester A. Arthur XVII grimaced, gesticulating to indicate his bruised body. “– never actually been president.”

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

  “Oh, come on, man.”

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

  “Oh, no, my dear, sweet Empress Victoria,” cooed the Indian woman, stepping closer and placing the blade of a skinny, curved sword against the clone’s throat, forcing Queen Victoria XXX back to the ground, “you’re not getting off that easy.”

  “Damn it, lady.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Oh, well ... yes.”

  “Glad we cleared that up,” said the queen. She added: “Seriously, though, all this time and you’re still pissed? How uneventful were the rest of your lives?”

  “Pretty borin’,” said the cowboy.

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

  “How the hell did you find us in the first place?” asked Chester A. Arthur XVII.

  “It wasn’t hard,” said the cowboy.

  “You used your full names when you advertised your rental service,” added the other zombie.

  “Seriously? Way to go, Charlie,” scolded Queen Victoria XXX, shaking her head. “The one time you don’t think something through to a completely unnecessary extreme and now I have to die for it.”

  “You said it was a good idea,” replied Chester A. Arthur XVII. “You argued for a cut of the profits!”

  “I didn’t tell you to advertise my involvement so some obsessive, homicidal ghost could track me down and slice my god damned head off!”

  “In case you didn’t notice, I’ve got my own psychopathic spirit to deal with.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t sic him on you.”

  “We can argue about this later,” grumbled the president.

  “Later? What later?” yelped the queen. “We are at a remarkable disadvantage here.”

  “Christ,” said the cowboy, cocking the revolver. “Nevermind that grudge shit, I’m ‘bout to shoot ‘em both just to shut their asses up.”

  The cowboy, however, shot neither the cloned president nor the reconstituted queen. Instead, the cowboy exploded. So did the Indian woman, because explosions aren’t racist.

  “What the actual shit?” inquired the artificial monarch.

  Still on their backs – and waving off the bits of burning, decaying flesh raining down on them – Chester A. Arthur XVII and Queen Victoria XXX turned their heads awkwardly until they could see William H. Taft XLII standing behind them, shouldering a smoking rocket launcher.

  “Left it in the trunk,” said the cloned president, patting the weapon lovingly.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  He’s Referring, Of Course, to the Great Sewage Floods of Iowa

  “Sir,” said a completely nondescript bureaucratic drone whose fortune-telling mother hadn’t even bothered to name him due to his fated role in the world, “it appears that Pennsylvania has been taken by the Hobo State.”

  “Riiiiiight,” said the President of the Amalgamated Provinces and States of Canada, America, and Mexico, lounging in his enormous leather desk chair.

  “No, seriously,” said the man with no name, crossing the office and waving a sheet of paper. “They sent us a fax.”

  “So?”

  “On letterhead.”

  “Oh, shit. Sounds serious,” said the president, swiveling his chair and leaning forward onto the enormous desk. “What’s it say?”

  “Dear Sir or Madam. We regret to inform you ...” began the grunt.

  “I’m imagining this guy as more of a baritone. Can you read it deeper, y’know, with some authority?”

  “We regret to inform you,” continued the drone, an octave lower, “that your capitalist stranglehold on society is at its end. We – the proud, compassionate, and intelligent members of the Hobo State – have annexed the parcel of land you previously referred to as the state of Pennsylvania. It is now a part of the Hobo Empire, and shall no longer be burdened by any designation of state, nor troubled by the imaginary boundaries you imposed upon it. The Hobo Empire is a collective of people – all people, regardless of race, creed, or mutagenic blood level – and will not be portioned out like a Christmas ham. Or, if you’d prefer, pudding on a Thursday, since the Hobo Empire does not wish to exclude anyone who may not celebrate ham or is allergic to Christmas. Our point is, you suck. Are you sure we should add that, Quinn? Yes. It’s not very professional. Neither is your face; keep typing. If you say so. I do. OK. Where were we? Our point is, you suck. Oh, right. You suck. And we don’t. You will notice that the Hobo Empire, in both its current and previous incarnations, has made not a metaphorical sound, has never stirred up animosity or created any kind of global calamity, while you, the rest of the world, seem to be drowning in new crises every morning. Quite simply, this is because you’re all fucking retarded. Quinn. Right, fine. This is because we have divined the true meaning to this life and are doing things the way they are meant to be done. And when you do things the way they are meant to be done, you don’t have problems. Like us. We don’t have problems. Because we’re doing things right. The residents of Pennsylvania saw this, and they joined us. Not by force, not by coercion, but through common sense and free will. And now, nations and villages and assorted fax machine owners of the world, we are offering the same offer to you. Join us. Or don’t. Although joining us is clearly the more intelligent option.”

  “They sent that to everyone everywhere, sir,” added the nameless guy.

  “We have no choice but to take care of this. The Hobo State is within our borders and it’s our problem. We can’t have China thinking we can’t shovel our own shit. Not again.”

  “What are you suggesting we do, sir?”

  “The same thing we always do, son,” replied the President of the Amalgamated Provinces and States of Canada, America, and Mexico, knitting his brow. “Kill them all.”

  “But there are innocent people –”

  “Not anymore they aren’t. And, besides, Pennsylvania was mostly an atomic wasteland, crawling with mutants. Fuck ‘em.”

  “May I su
ggest a slightly more tactful approach, sir? Pennsylvania may be a state of mutants, but mutants do, actually, make up a solid third of what remains of humanity. Why don’t we send the robots in first and try to take out this ‘Quinn’ before we go slaughtering one of the more prolific contingents of voters that we have.”

  “That’s a solid enough argument,” replied the president, leaning back in his chair and reflecting on the proposal. “OK, fine, we’ll do it your soft, fuzzy way. Release the murder-drones.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Economic Stimulus Shovel

  “OK, guys,” said Mark Hughes, owner and manager of the Secaucus Holiday Inn, sitting behind his flimsy desk. “There’s no easy way to say this –”

  “Sheila’s pregnant!” guessed Thor.

  “No.”

  “You used to be a woman!”

  “No.”

  “You’re going to be a woman?”

  “Amazingly, Thor, while not actually helping in anything even resembling a useful capacity, you are, in your own unique way, making it easier for me to continue.”

  “Get to your point already!” the thunder god shouted.

  “Catrina,” Mark said flatly.

  Catrina smacked her blonde co-worker upside the head.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” said the girl.

  “As I was saying,” continued the hotel owner, “money was tight around here even before our most recent guests either left or were murdered in our lobby by equally as murdered employees. Between the cleaning bills and replacing the windows and you guys living here for free, we’ve actually lost more money this month than we made all of last year.”

  “That doesn’t sound like profit,” said Thor, furrowing his brow.

  “It’s not. It is, in fact, the exact opposite of profit. That’s why, effective three weeks ago, I’m no longer able to pay you.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair.”

  “How is that not fair?”

  “It’s completely fair, Mark,” said Catrina. “Thor had a lot of sugar earlier and it tends to go straight to the idiot part of his brain.”

  “That makes senses, given the proportions.”

  Catrina nodded in agreement.

  “Damn right,” said Thor. “I’m – Wait, hold on.”

  “No,” said Mark, before turning back to Catrina. “If he’s going to keep babbling like a moron, at least try and steer him toward figuring out a way to get us more customers. I don’t care how ridiculous his ideas are. I have no problem shooting them down for being stupid.”

  “That’s good,” said the blonde man.

  Catrina turned to Thor to argue his point, but the former thunder god had already walked out of the office. She turned to her boss; Mark was looking at his remaining employee with a raised eyebrow. The tiny Filipina woman shrugged. Thor promptly returned to the doorway carrying a shovel.

  Catrina and Mark exchanged concerned looks again.

  “What happened to the talking, man?” asked the cyborg. “We decided on talking about your stupid ideas!”

  “Talk is for AM radio,” said Thor, turning again. “It’s time for action!”

  Mark called after him: “The AM wavelengths were obliterated before –”

  “Don’t even bother trying to figure it out. He’s gone,” said Catrina, shaking her head and staring at the empty doorframe. “I just hope he doesn’t maim someone.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Nice To Meet You

  Mac Macklemore-McDonald, doing his part to spread the gospel of Quetzalcoatl, was walking up and down and back up every street he could find, knocking on doors and things he thought were doors. Occasionally they would open. Occasionally he would speak. Sometimes there was a conversation. Most times there was not.

  Mac approached the next house on the block, a lovely ranch home with blue detailing, and knocked on the door. The door was opened by a giant mechanical man.

  “Excuse me, sir or madam,” said Mac haltingly, reading from a script written on his forearm in permanent marker, “I was wondering if I may have a moment –”

  The giant mechanical man punched Mac through his face.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Famous Last Words

  “Well, we’re here,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, pulling off the unfinished jigsaw puzzle of broken asphalt that passed for the interstate and onto the New Jersey Turnpike.

  “Where’s here?” asked Queen Victoria XXX, peering out all available windows. “All I see is swamp.”

  “Yeah. Welcome to the Meadowlands.”

  “Seriously?” she said. “This is the famed Meadowlands? The gateway to one of the last bastions of civilization left in the country?”

  “Yep.”

  “It smells like ass.”

  The Meadowlands did smell like ass. The sprawling urban area, a dirty blender full of residential and industrial and commercial districts, all mixed up into one another, was, and had always been, swampland reinforced with landfill and littered with dead mobsters and factory run-off. But one could spit on the sprawl from New York City, and therefore it was valuable and convenient real estate. Even when Manhattan sank, the Meadowlands retained its renown.

  “Where the hell’s the civilization?” asked William H. Taft XLII.

  “It’s that hazy cluster of buildings off in the distance,” replied the other president.

  Chester A. Arthur XVII sped the clown car down the open expanse of highway before them, the hazy cluster of buildings off in the distance soon becoming the hazy cluster of buildings right over there.

  “According to the sign,” said the dead president, cruising down the exit ramp, “there should be multiple hotels in this general area. Keep an eye out.”

  “Or you could just go straight into that shopping plaza,” said William H. Taft XLII, pointing to a directory at the end of the ramp. The sign had the word “Hotels” in fresh paint and a sloppy-looking arrow aimed towards a driveway.

  “Or we could just go straight into that shopping plaza,” agreed Chester A. Arthur XVII. The president steered the car along the curved plaza entrance.

  “Of course. No thanks, no credit, for my keen and amazing eyesight,” mumbled William H. Taft XLII, slumping back into his seat. “I should’ve just let you keep driving around.”

  “Yeah ...” replied Chester A. Arthur XVII slowly, “you probably should have.”

  The car rolled to a stop along the crest of a small overpass leading into the plaza. Situated throughout the shopping center were a half dozen buildings – most of them actively burning. The trio of world leaders looked out across the smoky expanse, trying to make sense of the scene before them.

  “Well, just drive through anyway,” said William H. Taft XLII, taking in the scene. “I mean, what’s the worst that could happen.”

  “God damn it, Billy,” said Queen Victoria XXX.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The Pen Is Mightier Than the Laser Rifle

  “Quinn,” called Will breathlessly, rushing down the rickety stairs and across the basement. His chest was heaving as he approached Quetzalcoatl. “Mac is dead. So are at least four others. We’ve been getting ... scattered reports and text messages that our diplomats are being ... hunted down by robots ... everywhere.”

  “Sons of fishes,” snarled Quetzalcoatl, crushing an empty beer can in his hand. “This is the same shit they tried back in the day.”

  “Back ... in the day?”

  “Time travel’s impossible,” replied the former Aztec god, shaking his head.

  “What?”

  “What?”

  “What do we do, Quinn?” asked Will urgently.

  “What do you mean what do we do?”

  “How ... do we respond? What are our ... next steps?”

  “What are our next steps?!” asked Quetzalcoatl, crushing another empty beer can for emphasis. “Hell’s testicles, Will, what do you think? When some bully pushed you around on the playground – and
I’m sure they did – what did you do?”

  “Well, I usually tried to ... ascertain why ...”

  “That’s the wrong answer.”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s not.”

  “You think we should talk to them,” reiterated the older man.

  “Yes,” replied the bearded man.

  “You think we should talk to the killer robots.”

  “Yes, Quinn,” said Will sincerely. “To ... defeat our enemy ... we must first know him.”

  “How in the upstairs apartment are you going to know a computer?”

  “By talking to it.”

  “You just went around in a circle there. That wasn’t –”

  “I’ll inform the others,” said Will, turning and rushing back out of the basement.

  Quetzalcoatl stood in his corner for a moment, mouth slightly agape. Then he shrugged and said, “OK, whatever.” He grabbed another beer can, mumbling, “There’s hundreds of you fuckers running around anyway.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Hollow Midget Arsonists

  Chester A. Arthur XVII, Queen Victoria XXX, and William H. Taft XLII limped through the half boarded up doors and into the hotel lobby, careful to avoid the piles of shattered glass shoved haphazardly into the corner of the foyer. The clones were either bleeding or bruised in multiple places. They were covered in dirt and sweat and blood – and not all of it was their own. Their clothing looked as if it was having a hard time remaining clothing. Their eyes were red and itchy, and every part of them smelled like smoke.

  “Our car,” rasped Chester A. Arthur XVII, approaching the counter of the front desk and the young woman seated behind it, “appears to have fallen into a hole.”

  “Oh,” said the girl slowly, blinking profusely, “yeah, we, uh, we have a small ... Hollow Men infestation. In the, uh, general area.”