Exponential Apocalypse
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Exponential Apocalypse
Eirik Gumeny
There had been twenty-two apocalypses to date. There were now four distinct variations of humanity roaming the earth — six, if you counted the undead.
It had been suggested that there really should have been a new word to describe “the end of everything forever,” but most people had stopped noticing, much less caring, after the tally hit double digits. Not to mention the failure of “forever” in living up to its potential.
The last apocalypse wasn’t even considered a cataclysm by most major governments.
It was just a Thursday.
Exponential Apocalypse is the tender, heart-stirring tale of crappy jobs, a slacker cult, an alcoholic Aztec god, reconstituted world leaders, werewolves, robots, and the shenanigans of multiple persons living after the twentieth-aught end of the world. Fast-paced, frenetic, funny, and frequently fond of other f-words, Exponential Apocalypse is the only book that will have you looking forward to the end of the world.
EXPONENTIAL APOCALYPSE
A novel by Eirik Gumeny
Prologue: Thor, God of Housekeeping
“Hi, this is room 218. Can I get a few extra pillows sent up?”
“Why? Were the pillows missing?”
“What? No. I’d just like a few more.”
“There’re four on a bed, and it looks like you have two beds.”
“So?”
“That’s eight pillows.”
“So?”
“So you’re alone. I saw you come in. Alone.”
“What the hell does that matter? You guys rationing out your pillows?”
“I’m just saying that eight pillows is a lot of pillows. Especially for just one person.”
“Jesus, man, I’ve got a sleeping disorder, alright? It’s better for me if I sleep upright.”
“There is an armchair in every room.”
“What? Are you fucking serious?”
“Yes. It’s the thing that looks like an armchair.”
“Don’t get smart with me.”
“You’re making that exceedingly difficult, sir.”
“Look, you son of a bitch, just send up the damn pillows or I’m talking to your manager and getting your ass fired.”
“Fine.”
Thor hung up the phone and looked around the lobby.
“Where’s Paulo?”
“On break,” said his co-worker, Catrina.
“He just took a break.”
“Well, now he took another one.”
“That doesn’t seem right.”
“Just bring the pillows up yourself.”
“It’s demeaning.”
“It’s your job.”
“It’s Paulo’s job.”
“And it’s your job to do his job when he doesn’t.”
“How does that work?”
“Just fucking do it, Thor.”
“This is bullshit,” he muttered as he walked out from behind the service desk.
Thor opened the door to the second floor linen closet and sighed. He grabbed three pillows and started down the hallway, stopping in front of room 218 before sighing again.
Thor raised his hand to knock, but thought better of it. Well, not really “better.”
Thor let two of the pillows fall to the ground and pulled open the pillowcase on the third. He held it up to his ass and farted mightily, pulling the pillowcase closed again as quickly as he could. He rolled the end up tight and repeated the ritual for the other two pillows.
Thor knocked on the door.
“Your pillows, sir.”
One: Everyone Died Violently
There had been twenty-two apocalypses to date. There were now four distinct variations of humanity roaming the earth—six, if you counted the undead. It had been suggested that there really should have been a new word to describe “the end of everything forever,” but most people had stopped noticing, much less caring, after the tally hit double digits. Not to mention the failure of “forever” in living up to its potential. The last apocalypse wasn’t even considered a cataclysm by most major governments. It was just a Thursday.
Thor, for his part, still held out hope for Ragnarok, but, seeing as how his mortality stemmed directly from science disproving religion, this wasn’t looking likely.
“Dick didn’t even tip me.”
“Why would he tip you?”
“Because I brought him pillows.”
“That’s not really difficult, dude.”
“OK, yeah, sure. But a little recognition would be nice.”
Thor was still pretty pissed that God of Thunder didn’t carry more weight on a resume.
To be fair, his lust for an actual, factual Armageddon wasn’t so much due to any longing for Asgard as it was a bone-deep hatred for his job as a desk clerk at the Secaucus Holiday Inn. Catrina disliked the job at least as much as Thor did and, near as he could tell, she wasn’t a fallen deity.
“What time you off tonight?” asked Thor.
“Eleven.”
“Want to hit up the diner?”
“Sure.”
The phone rang.
“Hello,” answered Catrina, “Secaucus Holiday Inn.”
Thor assumed the person on the other end of the phone was talking, but he had no real proof.
“Yes, we have an employee named Paulo. He stepped out about twenty minutes ago.”
Thor thought about what he might get at the diner later.
“You’ll have to be more specific. How exactly did he die? He’s just a porter. If he’s a zombie he’s still gotta finish his shift. We’re non-discriminatory.”
Eggs probably. Eggs were good.
“To pieces, you say.”
Fried, maybe. Or scrambled. Yeah. With bacon.
“No, no next of kin. He moved up here from Princeton about a year ago.”
No, wait, sausage. Yeah. Sausage.
“Yeah, the robot thing. Everyone died violently.”
Crap. Now Thor was hungry. And he still had another thirty minutes left on his shift.
“Well, thanks for the info. I’ll pass it along. Bye.”
Catrina turned to Thor and said, “Well, Paulo’s dead.”
“Yeah, I got that much.”
“Fucktard went to Jersey City.”
“Why the hell would he do that? Jersey City was taken by werewolves eight months ago.”
Catrina shrugged, saying, “He said he liked the Subway there better.”
“It’s a full fucking moon, Catrina.”
“Maybe he didn’t notice.”
“It’s been full for the last three weeks.”
“Oh, right, ‘cause of the…”
“Yeah…”
“Well, Paulo wasn’t that bright.”
“What a way to go, though. Mauled to death for a chicken sandwich.”
Ooh. Maybe a chicken sandwich.
“I’m not telling Mark.”
“Aw, come on. I had to tell Mark about the last two.”
“And you’re going to keep telling him. At least until we hire a bellman with a sense of self-preservation anyway.”
Catrina continued, “You know Mark’s got that x-ray implant. I feel violated every time he looks at me.”
“Fine,” said Thor. “But I’m telling him you’re a racist.”
Two: You Win This Round, Science
The door to Mark’s office opened slightly.
“Mark?”
“Thor.”
The door to Mark’s office opened all the way. Thor walked in.
“Paulo’s dead.”
“Dead dead or kinda dead?”
“Dead dead. ‘Wolves got him.”
“He went to the Subway in Jersey Ci
ty, didn’t he? Now I’m not going to get my sandwich.”
“Probably not, no. You want me to re-activate the Craigslist ad?”
“Nah, I never took it down. I’m keeping a backlog of applicants.”
“That’s enterprising of you.”
“Yeah, well, the way we’ve been going through them it won’t last long.”
“True.”
The tiny office was quiet, except for the whir of Mark’s ocular implant. Thor was forced to concede that it was, indeed, a little unsettling. He took a step sideways, putting a chair between himself and Mark.
“I can see through the chair, Thor.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep,” said Mark, “this thing’s got…”
“Hold up. Why are you looking at my junk?”
“I get bored,” he said with a shrug. “And, I mean, you were a god. I was curious.”
“Can… can you stop? It’s a little unnerving.”
“Yeah, no problem. Although, I gotta say, that’s less than impressive.”
“Fuck you, man!”
“I’ve got hydraulics in mine. You wouldn’t believe…”
“Dude, stop, please. I don’t want to know.”
“Fine, OK. But I’m beginning to see why science won.”
“Not cool, man.”
Mark laughed, the faint, tinny sound of something like a modem backing the syllables.
“Catrina and I are skipping out early,” said Thor. “You good with the guests?”
“Yeah, sure, we’ve got what, two?”
“Three. Some cheap-ass pillow fetishist came in a couple hours ago.”
“Alright, no problem.”
“Thanks.”
Thor turned to walk out, but heard Mark’s eye refocusing again. Thor turned sideways and ran, closing the door to Mark’s office behind him.
“I wonder what Jesus’ wang looks like,” said Mark to himself quietly.
The phone on his desk rang. He answered it.
“Hello?”
“Yeah, hi, this is room 218. Can I get a few more pillows sent up?”
Three: Thor’s Kind of a Dick When He’s Hungry
The diner ran out of pancakes shortly before Thor arrived. It always ran out of pancakes. All things considered, it was a pretty terrible diner. Thor wasn’t sure why he kept going there. Well, other than convenience, laziness, and steel-reinforced walls.
“The guy next to me got pancakes,” said Thor. “And he ordered after me. I think the waitress might be lying to me.”
“Give it a rest, Thor,” said Catrina.
“Excuse me, miss?” he said, flagging down the waitress.
“Christ…”
“Yes?” said the waitress.
“Are you sure you’re out of pancakes?” asked Thor.
“Yes.”
“But that guy got pancakes.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“He’s eating them right now. Look. He’s got maple syrup on his chin.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Thor stared at the woman. The woman stared back. She had a powerful gaze. Thor felt like she was staring right through him. Her eyes flicked red and Thor heard a motorized humming coming from the waitress’s skull. She was staring right through him. That bitch.
“Can you at least look at me while you’re denying me breakfast?”
“No.”
“Seriously, lady? What’d I ever do to you?”
“What haven’t you and your people done to…”
“Really? My people?”
“Three years ago I was revered! I was feared! Back before your kind…”
“Ha!” said Thor, pointing a finger at the waitress. “I’ve only been on this plane of existence for two years! I didn’t do shit to you! Now give me my damn pancakes.”
“No.”
“That does it.”
Thor reached up and plucked the waitress’s left eye out of its socket. There was a mild shock, but nothing the former God of Thunder wasn’t used to. The waitress didn’t even blink.
“What the fuck, sir?”
“You get your eye back when I get my pancakes.”
“Fine.”
The waitress walked away.
“Fuck, man,” said Thor. “Fucking cyborgs. Fucking Oklahoma Treaty. Just because the robots decided they didn’t want you anymore and the humans wouldn’t take you back is no reason to give me shit. Especially about my damn dinner.”
“Wow,” said Catrina. “Now who’s a racist?”
“I was under duress.”
“I’m pretty sure a lack of pancakes doesn’t equal duress.”
“I’m pretty sure it does.”
“You took her damn eye, Thor.”
“I’ll give it back.”
“I certainly hope so.”
“It’s a lot heavier than it looks.”
“She’s an older model.”
“Warm, too.”
“It’s probably radioactive or something,” said Catrina, swatting Thor’s hand. “Stop playing with it.”
“It’s just radiation.”
“Radiation equals bad.”
“They wouldn’t let her near food if she was radioactive.”
“She’s probably got dampers in her head or something,” replied Catrina, swatting his hand again. “Seriously, Thor, stop it. You’re gonna break it.”
The waitress returned with their food.
“Your pancakes, sir.”
“And your eye. As promised.”
The waitress took the eye from Thor’s outstretched hand and placed it into her skull.
“Damn it,” she said, blinking furiously. “It’s all smudged.”
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re a dick.”
“Don’t lie about my pancakes.”
“Fuck you.”
“Now you’re only getting a ten percent tip.”
Four: Chester A. Arthur Picked Up His Axe
Chester A. Arthur XVII sat on the front steps of his apartment building, cigarette in hand, watching the oncoming zombie horde.
“Braaaaiiiinsss,” said one of the zombies.
“Mrrroarrrgh,” said another.
They shuffled across the parking lot of the complex. Slowly.
Chester A. Arthur XVII, cigarette between his lips, continued to sit on his steps and watch the oncoming zombie horde.
“Guuuuurrrgghhh,” said a zombie.
“Murrrrrrr,” said a different one.
The lead zombie’s arm fell off.
“Buh?”
Three other zombies fell down for entirely unrelated reasons.
Two more turned to the left and lumbered toward a squirrel. Then they fell down, too.
“Moooooooorgh,” said the re-animated corpse of a cow.
“OK,” said the seventeenth clone of assorted residual genetics of the twenty-first President of the United States of America, raising an eyebrow. “Fuck this.”
Chester A. Arthur XVII picked up his axe.
“Look,” he said, approaching the approaching horde. “As I’m sure you are all well aware, I am going to dismember you, with extraordinary violence and speed, and then I am going to set you on fire. However, what you may not know is that I am exceptionally tired this evening and I would prefer not to exert myself physically, if at all possible. I think it would be in everyone’s best interests if you were to simply turn around and stumble away, relocating your ungodly marionette show to some other apartment building.”
The horde quickened its pace.
Well, kind of.
“Grrraaaaaaaagghghhghh!” shouted several of the zombies.
“Blllarrgggh,” said a few others.
“Faaaaaakkkkkkk groooooo,” said one particularly contentious zombie, raising the stump of his right arm.
“That was just uncalled for.”
The zombie in question wag
gled its stump in reply.
Chester A. Arthur XVII shrugged, then looked at his watch.
“…and, go!”
Chester A. Arthur XVII charged at the horde, beheading the three lead zombies with a single swing of his axe. He took the legs off four more with the next slice. The following three arcs connected with a skull, a face, and a jaw, respectively.
It went on like that for another few minutes, until the parking lot was nothing more than an unsightly heap of assorted zombie pieces.
“Moooooorrrk.”
And one very confused, undead cow.
Five: The Internet is for Porn
“New record, lady and gentleman.”
Chester A. Arthur XVII walked into the kitchen and leaned against the doorjamb.
“Three minutes and twenty-six seconds.”
“I don’t understand why you can’t just use the flamethrower like a normal person,” said William H. Taft XLII. “I mean, that’s why we bought the damn thing.”
“Because, Billy, my boy,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, “that’s simply not a very sporting endeavor.”
“They’re walking fucking corpses, dude.”
“Hell,” added Queen Victoria XXX, “they’re barely even that. They’re like scarecrows made of balsa wood and phlegm. I think they’re beginning to decay more rapidly than they used to.”
“There was a cow out there with them this time,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“A cow? Why the hell was there a cow?”
“Don’t know, but we’re going to be eating steak for a week.”
“Dude,” said William H. Taft XLII.
“It’s cool, I checked it out,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII. “No discernible craving for human flesh, no gaping wounds or missing parts. Hasn’t been dead that long, either. There’s plenty of edible meat on there.”
“Man, we don’t know how to turn a cow into steak.”
“That’s what the internet is for.”
“More importantly than that, gentlemen,” said Queen Victoria XXX, staring intently into the open refrigerator, “we’re out of beer.”
“Then it looks like you and I are going for a drive,” replied Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“You guys can’t be serious,” said William H. Taft XLII.