Exponential Apocalypse

by Eirik Gumeny

Phil curled up as best he could and shielded his face from the oncoming ground.

  Sixty-Nine: Deus ex Girlfriend

  Phil waited for the impact. His body was tensed, his eyes were closed. Mentally, he had devolved from pleading for mercy into an endless string of expletives. The only thing close to a thought he had left was the vague hope that he didn’t soil himself prior to becoming one with the pavement.

  Phil continued to wait. His body was still tensed, although his feet were starting to feel pretty comfortable. Likewise, his brain eased up for the briefest of moments, squeezing out, “These last few seconds certainly are taking a good long while to pass,” in between the frenzied cussing.

  Phil waited a little while longer. Hesitantly, he opened his eyes and peered through the fingers still clenched around his face. He was expecting to see Heaven, or Hell, or maybe Quetzalcoatl holding his ankle and laughing, or about eight hundred equally as unlikely scenarios.

  “What… the fuck?” said Phil.

  Nowhere on that list was there a squirrel.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” said the squirrel. “My name is Timmy.”

  Yet that’s what Phil was looking at. A squirrel. An atypical, extraordinary, preternaturally intelligent, telekinetic, cape-wearing squirrel.

  “You can… talk?”

  “Do you see my lips moving?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Right. Squirrels don’t have vocal chords. I’m communicating with you the same way I’m holding you three inches from the ground: with my brain. Quit being such a fucking idiot.”

  There was a time when Timmy was just like any other squirrel. But there was this other time where he got experimented on and gained telekinetic powers. And then there was this third time where Timmy almost got hit by a car but, at the last second, pulled a rock from the side of the road and into harm’s way, thus saving his ass and, surely, causing the inhabitants of the car, and anyone else somehow privy to the goings-on of said car, to believe that he had been run over. But he hadn’t.

  Instead, Timmy lived, and decided to use his newfound ass-saving abilities for the good of the world. He started small, avenging mistreated animals and the like, before quite literally moving his way up the food-chain, always searching for the bigger picture, the best way to help the most creatures.

  Which is why when an overweight philosopher fell past Timmy as he climbed up a faux French monument in Las Vegas en route to killing Quetzalcoatl, Timmy didn’t even blink.

  Saving lives was just what Timmy did.

  Seventy: Fun with Adjectives

  “Thanks,” said Phil, repositioning himself so that his feet were on the ground and his body was once more aligned with the vertical plane.

  “Don’t mention it,” replied Timmy telepathically. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got bigger fish to psychokinetically eviscerate.”

  “He’s actually a snake. With wings.”

  “Yeah, I know, I saw the reports on TV. It was just a play on words.”

  “Oh, right,” said Phil, “right. Sorry, it’s been a… hectic… disorientating couple of days.”

  “Been there, brother.”

  A helicopter noisily passed over the duo. They looked up, neither one entirely sure of what to expect. What they saw was Quetzalcoatl also noticing the helicopter and fleeing from the Eiffel Tower like a startled pigeon.

  “Damn it,” said Timmy, watching his prey escape. “What the shit is that?” he asked, returning his attention to the flying machine.

  “A helicopter,” answered Phil.

  “You have no idea how much I’m regretting saving your life.”

  The helicopter landed in the middle of the street, less than twenty yards from Phil and Timmy. A number of people in suits and a number of people not in suits poured from the vehicle’s door.

  “It’s a philosopher!” shouted one of the ones in a suit, pointing at Phil. “Kill him!”

  “Seriously,” said Timmy. “No fucking idea.”

  “Whoa, hold on,” shouted Phil, stepping forward and putting up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m… on your side.”

  “Why should we believe you?” said the suit with a bag on her head, approaching the duo.

  “Because Quetzalcoatl… no longer cares for my company. He threw me… off the top of an Eiffel Tower.”

  “An Eiffel Tower?” asked a taller, bagless her.

  The even taller, well-built man with the sideburns standing next to her pointed up.

  “Oh, right,” replied the girl.

  “How are you alive then?” asked the other, shorter, bagless female.

  “This squirrel…” said Phil, motioning to Timmy, “halted my descent… with his mind.”

  “Somehow,” said the girl, lowering her head and rubbing her temples, “that’s not the strangest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Timmy stood up on his hind legs and waved. His tiny cape billowed heroically.

  “Good enough for me,” said the tall, blonde man by the girl’s side, shrugging.

  Seventy-One: If the Helicopter’s A-Rockin’…

  Judy and the other, suited scientists hung in the middle of the air, clutching their own throats and gasping out vague apologies.

  “And that,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, “is good enough for me. I believe them.”

  “OK, Timmy,” said Phil. “You can… let them down now.”

  “Do I have to?” replied the squirrel, speaking telepathically to everyone. “They are scientists, after all.”

  “Yes,” said Catrina, “but they’re not your scientists. This is a whole other group of incompetent scientists. While they are clearly, and very, stupid, they’re not exactly evil. They don’t deserve to be choked to death.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Thor.

  “How is that helpful?”

  “I’m just saying, they did nearly kill us.”

  “Thor.”

  “That thing? With the giant werewolf? Remember?”

  Catrina shot Thor a look that would have killed a lesser man. Seriously. Dude would’ve burst into flames right there.

  “OK, fine,” replied Thor, rolling his eyes.

  Thor knelt before Timmy and put both of his hands on the squirrel’s tiny shoulders. He took a deep breath and looked Timmy squarely in his rodent eyes.

  “Timmy,” he said, “please do not kill these scientists. We apparently need them for some reason, maybe. More importantly, though, they are not very good at being scientists. They will undoubtedly find some way to kill themselves in a hilarious fashion shortly.”

  Timmy returned Thor’s gaze, hesitation apparent in his eyes.

  “Trust me,” said Thor.

  Timmy took a deep breath.

  “OK,” replied the caped super-squirrel, releasing the scientists from his telekinetic stranglehold. They fell to the ground with a variety of thuds.

  “Alright, well, with that out of the way, I guess it’s time to start talking renegade Aztec gods,” said Queen Victoria XXX.

  “Makes sense,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII. “What do you know, Phil?”

  “You guys alright?” asked William H. Taft XLII, offering his hand to Judy.

  “Oh my god,” said Judy. “I am so turned on.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “Well, I only met him for the first time… a couple weeks ago,” said Phil.

  Judy turned to her scientist companions saying, “Someone needs to do me, right the fuck now.”

  She grabbed one by the arm and began pulling him toward the helicopter.

  “You, let’s go.”

  “He was… different then than he is now,” continued the philosopher.

  Judy shoved the scientist into the helicopter, climbed in on top of him, and slid the door shut.

  “The wings are new, for one.”

  “Seriously, guys,” said William H. Taft XLII, “did nobody else just see that?”

  “The tail, as well.”

  “It just seems really inappr
opriate is all,” continued the former president, scratching the back of his head. “And, you know, kinda creepy.”

  Seventy-Two: Boom

  “Sir,” said the 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 Quetzalcoatl and his army have breached Las Vegas and destroyed most of the city.”

  “Damn it,” said the President of the Amalgamated Provinces and States of Canada, America and Mexico, pounding his fist against his desk. “The hookers?”

  “At half capacity, sir.”

  “Half?!” replied the president. “Our economy is ruined.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What about the Giant Killers?” asked the president, rubbing his forehead. “Do we have an ETA on them yet?”

  “The Giant Killers, sir?”

  “Operation Giant Killer?”

  “None of the paperwork had ‘Giant Killer’ written on it,” said the drone, flipping through the reports and files he was carrying.

  “Well, no, it wouldn’t. It was a secret plan.”

  “I don’t know that there’s anything particularly secret about this, sir,” said the drone, still flipping. “Thor is referred to by name several times. As are his co-workers and the political clones who joined them. Political clones that don’t legally exist. It’s even got the model number and flight path of the helicopter taking them from New Jersey to Nevada. There is absolutely no part of this plan that uses any kind of discretion.”

  “Yeah,” said the president, “that’s not Operation Giant Killer.”

  “Sir?”

  “I’m not really sure what you’re looking at, son,” explained the president. “The paperwork I got says I’m supposed to send in the Horsemen to deal with our little god infestation.”

  “The Horsemen? The Horsemen were ruled a crime against humanity, sir. By a court of clinically psychopathic criminals. They were supposed to have been dismantled, melted down, turned into spoons, wrapped in plastic, and then fired into space,” said the nameless drone, outrage quickly rising within him.

  “Well, that proved to be expensive,” said the president, “so they weren’t.”

  “The Horsemen don’t have filters, sir. They’ll kill everyone.”

  “These things happen,” he shrugged.

  “Those people are innocent, sir. In fact, you dragged them into this. They’re under your orders to try and save the world! You can’t seriously do this.”

  “Actually,” said the president, “I already did. I authorized the release of the Horsemen twenty minutes ago.”

  “Although,” he continued, “I had forgotten how highly illegal that endeavor was, so I guess maybe you’re right after all. Something should probably be done.”

  “Thank you for coming to your senses, sir,” replied the nameless young man. “I really wasn’t looking forward to all the paperwork I’d have to file in order to report this to the United Global Congressional Federation of Countries.”

  “Neither was I,” replied the president, pulling a crossbow from his desk.

  “Sir,” said the completely nondescript bureaucratic drone whose fortune-telling mother hadn’t even bothered to name him due to his fated role in the world, “what are you doing?”

  “Solving our paperwork problem,” replied the president as he loaded his crossbow.

  “There are numerous, far better options…”

  The President of the Amalgamated Provinces and States of Canada, America and Mexico shot an arrow into his assistant’s chest.

  “Too bad your mother never saw that coming.”

  “Actually, sir,” said the nameless young man, looking down at the arrow sticking out of his sternum, “she did.”

  He slumped down into the armchair across from the president’s desk.

  “They’ll probably blame you for this, you know.”

  “Blame me for what?” said the increasingly confused attempted murderer, loading another arrow.

  The office drone opened his shirt to reveal a vest, a belt, and a bandolier, all loaded with, and made of, explosives.

  “The fall of the Amalgamated Provinces and States of Canada, America and Mexico, for one,” said the drone, beginning to spit up blood.

  “I thought your torso was oddly shaped,” said the president, shooting the office worker in the chest again.

  “Consolidating all the government offices into one building was a pretty stupid idea.”

  The president shot the drone in the chest a third time.

  “Especially considering how terrible a president you are, sir,” continued the drone, blood pouring down his chin.

  “No kidding, son,” said the president. “I didn’t even vote for me.”

  The president shot his assistant a fourth time.

  “Are… are you done yet?” asked the drone, drifting from consciousness.

  “Yeah,” said the president, looking sadly at the empty crossbow. “There’s a chainsaw in the closet, though…”

  “Yeah, don’t… don’t bother,” said the young man, lifting himself from the chair, stumbling, vomiting blood onto the president’s carpet, and then collapsing back into the chair.

  “You alright there, son?”

  The completely nondescript bureaucratic drone whose fortune-telling mother hadn’t even bothered to name him due to his fated role in the world raised an eyebrow and gave the president a look, then pulled a detonator from his pocket and pushed the button.

  “Fuck you, sir.”

  Seventy-Three: Join, or Die

  Quetzalcoatl stood—or coiled, or whatever it’s called when a snake rests on his tail and gives a speech—before his gathered minions in the hollowed out remains of the Bellagio casino.

  “Assorted smelly people in my employ…”

  “You’re not paying us,” shouted Jill from the back of the crowd.

  “I’m not charging you, though. Think of all that money you’re not giving to me and consider it your earnings.”

  “I don’t think…” said Jack, standing at Jill’s side.

  “I know you don’t,” said Quetzalcoatl, cutting him off. “And that’s OK. We don’t pass judgment on the mental shortcomings of others here.”

  “Speaking of stupid people within our ranks,” continued Quetzalcoatl, “it’s come to my attention that some of you may be wavering in your belief of me. Rest assured, I am still one hundred percent committed to whatever it is I told you I believed.”

  “World peace,” said one member of the congregation.

  “The dismantling of the patriarchy,” corrected a second.

  “Puppies!” shouted a third.

  “Exactly,” said Quetzalcoatl. “And I know some of you are also questioning just how and why things got so violent in the general areas I was inhabiting at any given time. The thing about that was, it wasn’t. You’re simply not opening your minds to their… openest. It wasn’t violence at all; it was performance art! The flames you see engulfing this city are the literal interpretation of our ideas setting the world on fire.”

  “But,” said Hil, “isn’t that exactly the opposite way a metaphor is supposed to work?”

  “Well, they’d clearly be expecting that, wouldn’t they? Metaphorical burning is so played out.”

  A large portion of the crowd began nodding in approval. The ones who didn’t—Hil and Jill included—furrowed their brows instead. Quetzalcoatl noticed this mass furrowing and addressed their concerns directly.

  “If that still doesn’t convince you to do what I say, just remember that I will kill you all without even a second thought.”

  The furrowed eyebrow to raised eyebrow ratio shifted significantly.

  “Where are Bill and Phil?” asked one particularly swift and observant member of the Quetzalcoatl fan club.

  “Not here,” replied Quetzalcoatl. “Turns out neither of them could fly.”

  The raised eyebrow percentage skyrocketed, as did the a
ngle of the raised eyebrows in question.

  “More importantly, though, gentlemen and ladies, is that gathering of people not on fire over there,” continued Quetzalcoatl, making his way to the far side of what passed for a room and pointing through the broken wall in the direction of the Eiffel Tower.

  “That is a state of being that needs to be corrected.”

  Seventy-Four: Probably Not, No

  “That’s great and all,” said Thor, “but how do we kill Quetzalcoatl?”

  “Violence?” suggested Phil. “I don’t really know.”

  “Seriously, man? That’s your answer?”

  “You’ve been at his side this entire time,” added Chester A. Arthur XVII, “and that’s all you’ve got?”

  “Quetzalcoatl told me he once… destroyed a continent, but didn’t die. Then he drowned… without actually drowning. Immediately after that… he drank himself into a coma… without actually going into a coma,” said Phil.

  “But, then, that was only his own… recounting of his history,” he continued. “All I know with… certainty… is that last week, no more than ten feet from me, I watched him die… at the sharpened metal hands of a squadron of murder-drones. Only Quetzalcoatl didn’t die. Instead, he… metamorphosed into… the winged snake god of a long-dead civilization.

  “So, yes,” Phil concluded, “nothing is all I’ve got.”

  “This is insane,” said Queen Victoria XXX. “Everyone’s got some kind of weakness, something that can be exploited. No soft underbelly? Allergies? He have a girlfriend or a daughter we can kidnap? A favorite teddy bear we can set on fire? Anything?”

  “Even when he was being… straightforward, it sounded like he was speaking in riddles. Quetzalcoatl has no… allegiances, no… vulnerabilities that I’ve ever witnessed. I honestly don’t know what else I can tell you.”

  “Uh, guys,” interrupted William H. Taft XLII, “Can you argue faster? I think Quetzalcoatl just found us.”

  He pointed to the incoming waves of angry liberal arts majors and hobos crowding the avenue and stretching back to the horizon. It was like a protest march for animal rights, only instead of signs, everyone was carrying axes and guns and weaponized pieces of murder-drone.