The End of Everything Forever

by Eirik Gumeny

  “You guys picked the wrong squirrel to fuck with.”

  The animal-hating dickhead with the taser was removed from his skin.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Oppenheimer Is Going to be Pissed

  Harry Hartcox, owner and sole employee of Harry’s Homemade Atomic Energy and Appliance Repair, a ramshackle service station and junkyard off a disused interstate in the flats of what used to be Kansas, hefted his jury-rigged fission reactor into the back of his battered pickup and prepared for the morning’s delivery. The reactor, slowly being rocked farther into the truck bed, looked remarkably like a front-loading industrial clothes dryer, largely because it was a front-loading industrial clothes dryer, albeit with most of its insides rejiggered. The machine hummed idly, a slight glow coming through the circular front window, as Harry pulled the straps tight around it.

  Harry was alternately proud and ashamed of this particular nuclear fission reactor, the same as he had been for the last few before it. The blackout had been a saving grace for his business – before the solar storm he had very few customers, situated as he was squarely in the middle of nowhere. His acres of uranium and scavenged home appliances and spare reactor parts lay in piles around the reclaimed service station he called his home, serving no purpose other than to keep the blowing dust from getting into his windows.

  Now, though, between the electrical grid failure and the volcanic winter, Harry had so many orders lined up that even if he never got another one, he’d be able to retire comfortably for seventeen lifetimes. The problem, of course, was that he was quickly running out of supplies. Hence the clothes dryer. Harry knew it wasn’t the safest, that the lead shielding was superficial at best, and quite frankly it was ugly and well below his normal standards. But he also knew it worked and that it would give some desperate family a source of heat and electricity for as long as they needed it.

  Unfortunately for Harry, though, mere moments after he started the pickup and moved the gearshift out of park, the fission reactor strapped into the truck bed erupted with a terrific explosion, sublimating Harry, his truck, his home, and the two giant elk nearby – one of whom had flipped the truck and one of whom had run headlong into the clothes dryer, nullifying every one of its safety mechanisms and setting off the gigantic mushroom cloud that currently hung in the air.

  Harry Hartcox was dead before he knew what happened. The giant elk were dead two weeks before they even knew who Harry Hartcox was. Yet they stood complacently in the nuclear blast, their bodies being washed away molecule by molecule, leaving only the ghosts of the old women known as “Typhoid” Mary Mallon and Lizbeth “Lizzie” Borden.

  “Goodness,” said Mary, staring up at the massive cloud blotting out the already blotted out sky. “That was quite the explosion.”

  “You have articulated my sentiments precisely, Mary,” replied Lizbeth. “I do hope we get to make more of them.”

  “Indeed, yes. The list the gentleman gave us has at least half a dozen more nuclear emporiums of one sort or another. I imagine they will all go up in similarly spectacular fashion.”

  “Oh, that is such wonderful news.”

  “I dare say it is, my dear Lizzie.”

  “Please tell me that the others are in more populous areas?”

  “I cannot say that I know for certain, darling, but I do suppose we will find out soon enough!”

  “Typhoid” Mary Mallon and Lizbeth “Lizzie” Borden chuckled with glee, the tremendous winds from the fission detonation still blowing sand and ash through their ethereal frames. The ghosts hovered there a few moments more, watching the mushroom cloud slowly dissipate.

  “That was ever so delightful!” cried Lizbeth.

  “It truly was,” said Mary.

  “Can we go to another hydroelectric plant next?” Lizbeth begged giddily. “I did so love the way the last proprietor gurgled as we held him beneath the water.”

  “All in good time, my dear, all in good time.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Boy Who Cried Weiner

  “I spy with my little eye,” began Thor Odinson, former Norse God of Thunder, “something that begins with a C.”

  “Is it bigger than a breadbox?” asked Ali Şahin absently, gazing out the car window at nothing in particular.

  “No. I mean, I don’t think so. What’s a breadbox?”

  “Is it something real this time?” Catrina rubbed her forehead. “Not something you made up with your eyes closed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it edible?” asked a fully invested Boudica IX.

  “Sometimes.”

  “Is it one solid color?”

  “Yeah, most of the time.”

  “This game is so stupid,” grumbled Queen Victoria XXX.

  “You just hate it because you’re a terrible guesser,” said Thor. He meant the statement as an insult to his friend and her poor attitude toward time-honored road trip games, but had, instead, inadvertently stumbled onto the truth. Queen Victoria XXX was a terrible guesser and had always hated games that involved such. Road trip after road trip after road trip she would fail at them. The replicated royal lowered her eyes and floored the accelerator.

  “I’ll give you guys a hint,” continued Thor. “It’s long, narrow, and rounded at the tip.”

  “Are you staring at your dick again?” barked Catrina, turning and glaring at the thunder god.

  “No. I said it begins with a C.”

  “OK, fine, are you staring at your cock again?”

  “No,” said Thor. “Look, I’ve been staring at it for the last hour, at least.”

  It was Ali’s turn to spin in his seat and glare at the thunder god. “Are you staring at Catrina’s tits again?”

  Catrina reached over and smacked Thor across the face.

  “‘Tits’ doesn’t begin with a C!” he shouted, rubbing his cheek.

  “My cans then, you fucking asshole,” snapped Catrina.

  “I wasn’t staring at your tits!”

  “Was it just her nipple then?” asked Boudica IX.

  “It’s nobody’s nipple!” Thor blurted out. “Odin’s earwax. You’re all wearing heavy sweaters.”

  The redheaded queen looked down at the bulky cable knit sweater covering her breasts. “Oh, right.”

  Catrina growled anyway and turned back around, sliding low in her seat and crossing her arms, and her thick cardigan, tightly over her chest.

  “That was a pretty fun game after all,” said Queen Victoria XXX, smirking into the rearview mirror.

  “You’re only saying that ‘cause your boobs are up there,” grumbled the hotel clerk.

  “I was looking at corn!” Thor finally admitted. “Corn! We’ve been driving through nothing but cornfields for the last two hours. What is wrong with you people?”

  “I said corn,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII.

  “You didn’t say anything,” corrected Ali.

  “Uh-oh,” said Catrina.

  In the distance, far beyond the frosted fields of cornstalks, a mushroom-shaped cloud unfolded against the darkened horizon. A fast-moving wave of cereal grass soon crashed across the landscape, the sea of cornstalks bending, breaking, and flying toward the custom-built tank. The vehicle shook slightly as the blizzard of corn slammed against it.

  “It’s OK,” said Chester A Arthur XVII calmly, “the car’s insulated against radiation.”

  “We know,” said Catrina and Thor simultaneously, unconsciously matching their levels of exasperation with the dead president’s repeated reassurances.

  “That is the third one today,” said Queen Victoria XXX, squinting out the window at the fading cloud. “What the hell is going on out there?”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Please Don’t Sue Me, Disney

  The little mermaid sat on the frigid beach, basking in the sunshine despite there being no sunshine to bask in, waves gently lapping at her fins. She was small and beautiful, a thin line of seaweed wrapped around her large breasts, a s
mile on her face. The fishwoman methodically ran a butter knife through her golden hair while she hummed contentedly to herself, seeming not to have a care in the world.

  “Excuse me,” said a man with a voice like gravel, strolling across the shoreline, “I don’t mean to intrude, but I’ve a favor to ask of you and your kinfolk.”

  The mermaid turned toward the man, her head tilted. “What’s a intrude?”

  “To bother,” the man translated slowly. “I don’t mean to bother you.”

  “What’s a you?”

  The man in the wrinkled suit narrowed his eyes slightly. “What’s your name, dear?”

  “Deer?” said the mermaid, twisting around excitedly. “Where?”

  “You’ll have to excuse her,” said another mermaid, altogether more formidable, riding a crashing wave and slipping deftly onto the shore, “she took an outboard motor to the head a while back. She hasn’t been the same since.”

  “What’s a since?”

  “I see,” said the man.

  “Ooh! Bunny!” The blonde mermaid began flopping down the beach, chasing after a terrified crab.

  “What’s this favor you were talking about?” asked the second mermaid. Her entire torso was wrapped tightly in seaweed, from her armpits to her fins. She had broad, flat shoulders, and her short hair was pulled back strictly. This was a creature built for swimming.

  “Are you aware of the hydroelectric plant a few miles out from here?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, if it isn’t too much trouble,” said the man, with all the charm of a veteran car salesman, “I’d like for you to go ahead and dismantle it. Cripple the entire platform, kill the crew, and bury it beneath the ocean.”

  “Why in the Marianas Trench would we do that?” countered the mermaid, crossing her arms over her chest. “Aside from the fact that Aquamatica is extraordinarily kind and cooperative to our people, and overlooking the fact that they employ a third of the mermaids in this oceanic quadrant, crashing the plant would do nothing but pollute our own realm.”

  “You mean you don’t know?”

  “Don’t know what?”

  “About the ... I seem to have forgotten the correct term. Tremendous hazard, plaguing the mermaids ...” the man said, pouring honey over the unpaved road of his voice. “Please remind me of what to call it.”

  “The carcinogenic sludge?”

  “Yes! That’s it, thank you. I can never remember the word ‘carcinogenic.’” The man bowed slightly. “The sludge is being produced by Aquamatica.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “I’m afraid it’s true.”

  “But the sludge is coming from the east. Aquamatica is to the southwest.”

  “Well, they’re not fools now, are they?” explained the man. “They’ve been transporting it east and dumping it into the ocean, moving their illicit disposal far enough away that the mermaids would never suspect them.”

  “You’re lying,” said the mermaid unsteadily.

  “What would I possibly have to gain by lying about this?”

  The mermaid glared at the grey-haired man in the suit, connecting what she knew to be true with what the man was saying.

  “If you’ll bear with me,” he continued. “The sludge, does it appear to be some matter of factory run-off? Man-made, to the best of your assumptions?”

  “As best as we can guess ...”

  “And, other than Aquamatica, what other industrial production facilities are in this immediate vicinity?”

  “Only Amalgamated Envirorapist, up the shore a few miles.”

  “But if it was Amalgamated Envirorapist, surely the lauded minds of the mermaids would have been able to discern that.”

  “We have investigated them a few times,” said the mermaid, her defenses lowering, “and we’ve never been able to pin it on them.”

  “That really only leaves the one choice, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah, I guess. Look, I’m just not sure –”

  “I understand completely,” said the man, really drowning the pebbles in his throat with all the sweetener he could find. “I’m but a single voice, and a land dweller at that. But I beg of you to please at least pass the word along. Investigate the hydroelectric plant for yourselves. I’d hate to think the great race of the mermaids was continuing to suffer needlessly.”

  “I’ll let our environmental investigators know,” said the mermaid, turning slightly and sizing up the wrinkled, salt-and-peppered man over her shoulder.

  “Please do,” said the man. “And I hope you’ll keep in mind that Aquamatica’s complete and total destruction is going to be your best defense against future harm.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Origin Story

  Mark Hughes sat at the window, staring sullenly across the snow and ash-covered expanse of the Plaza at the Meadows to the scorched, skeletal remains of the Secaucus Holiday Inn. Timmy the super-squirrel sat on the windowsill at his side, telekinetically manipulating a needle and turning an old pastel-striped hand towel into a cape. The rodent’s family rested in a pile of shredded packing paper in a large wooden salad bowl on the table behind them. From a room on the far side of the tiny apartment came the sounds of Alexa Kostopoulos wrecking her toilet.

  “Mark,” thought the squirrel, “we’ve got to get out of here.”

  “She ate some bad fish,” explained the human, still gazing absently out the window, his forehead resting on the cold glass. “We all did.”

  “Not that,” replied Timmy, his tiny stomach gurgling slightly with the reminder. “I’m talking about you; you keep staring out the window. It’s not healthy. Your hotel’s not coming back.”

  “I know.”

  “And neither is peanut butter. But if all I did was hang around thinking about it all day you wouldn’t hesitate to yell at me.”

  “I know.”

  “Then knock off the morose sitting on your ass all the time, boss! We can wait till you OD on sadness and I lock you in a bedroom for two days if you want, but that seems like a shitty idea to me.”

  “When you put it like that, sure.” Mark shifted, finally turning toward the squirrel.

  “Look, Alexa’s great and all, but this isn’t what we do,” continued Timmy. “You and I don’t sit around waiting for stuff to happen. I’m genetically predisposed to sleep for six months out of the year and I’m getting antsy.”

  “What are we supposed to do?” Mark demanded. “I put years of effort into making sure that hotel stayed standing and it all disappeared in an afternoon. Starting over now seems exhausting, whether it’s another hotel or a motel or a hostel or whatever. One earthquake or tyrannosaur in heat and it could all be over.”

  “I’m not talking about investing in some new thing, Mark,” said Timmy. “I’m talking about investing in yourself.”

  The squirrel put down the needle and draped his new cape over his furry shoulders.

  “Join me,” he said, extending a tiny paw. “Together we can fix this piece of shit planet.”

  Mark stared at the cape-wearing rodent incredulously. A draft from the window caught the cape and began ruffling it majestically.

  “You’re serious?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “What about your family?”

  “They’ll be fine with Alexa. She takes care of them better than I ever did. My wife, my kids ... They’ve never understood my powers, my responsibility. And they’d be in more danger with me than without.” The tiny squirrel waved a paw dismissively. “Think of whatever comic book movie you want and pretend I’m giving that speech.”

  “Does that mean I’m the sexy reporter?”

  “You’re the old, black cop.”

  “The one who’s getting too old for this shit?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought you said this was a comic book movie.”

  “Look, I don’t actually watch a lot of movies, OK?”

  “It’s really cold out there,” said Mark, staring
toward the endless dark clouds of the volcanic winter again.

  “Well, sure,” thought Timmy out loud, “but once you grow a pair you should be fine.”

  “All right, I’m in,” said Mark, a smirk inching his mouth upward. “But I’m not wearing a cape.”

  A slight gurgling sounded from their stomachs, building into something significantly less slight. From across the apartment came a loud crack, as of porcelain breaking. Alexa Kostopoulos yelped.

  “Maybe we give it a day or two to get this fish out of our system?” groaned Mark.

  “Yes,” said Timmy, bolting across the apartment toward the kitchen sink.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Getting the Band Back Together

  The god, the girl, the clones, and the cybernetic donut maker arrived at Dr. Arahami’s volcano lair, El Mal Muerte, in the middle of an artificial forest in the middle of a very real desert in the territory of Las Máquinas[xii]. The sky hung low overhead, still black and terrifying, but no longer on fire, so there was less threat of choking to death on combusting oxygen, which was always good.

  The sextet stood huddled together at the base of the jagged, dormant igneous mountain, snow falling heavily around them. Catrina was bouncing from foot to foot, her long cardigan pulled as tight as the fabric would allow. This did little to nothing for the section of her legs between her ruffled skirt and her boots, though, as they were clad only in thin tights.

  “I’m beginning to rethink ever listening to you and your ‘don’t wear pants when you’re saving the world’ speech,” said the tiny Filipina woman, bouncing up against Queen Victoria XXX.

  “If they start making women’s pants that don’t require twenty minutes and bottle of baby oil to squeeze into, I’ll reconsider,” said the dark-haired queen. She pulled the ragged slit of her layered dress up slightly, revealing a handgun and several knives holstered to her thigh. “Besides, I like having access to my arsenal.”