Max and the Multiverse
Max and the Multiverse, Volume 1
Zachry Wheeler
Published by Mayhematic Press, 2017.
Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT
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CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ADDITIONAL WORKS
BEFORE YOU GO
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When writing humor, there are a few ways to do it right and a million ways to do it wrong. This book is dedicated to Douglas Adams, my literary hero.
COPYRIGHT
© 2017 by Zachry Wheeler
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-9982049-3-2
Print: 978-0-9982049-2-5
Edited by Jennifer Amon
Published by Mayhematic Press
Gold Medal Winner - Global Ebook Awards
Finalist - National Indie Excellence Awards
Finalist - Next Generation Indie Book Awards
Finalist - Dante Rossetti Book Awards
Finalist - Best Book Awards
Finalist - NMAZ Book Awards
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Claim your FREE limited edition copy of The Item of Monumental Importance: a Max and the Multiverse short! Max awakes to a mystic realm and must brave a barrage of fantasy tropes.
zachrywheeler.com/freebook
CHAPTER 1
Max stared at a dingy basement wall, tracing the grout lines of bare cinder blocks. He stood motionless in the center of the room, silent and waiting. Nostrils flared as they recycled the stale air. Fingernails scraped on tattered jeans. A pair of dim lamps painted haunting shadows on a cracked ceiling. His eyes shifted towards every faint sound. A thump here, a muffle there, followed by footsteps. Loud clomps overhead, then down the hall, then nothing. Silence ensnared the room. A door slammed. A car started soon after and faded into the distance. Max closed his eyes, took a measured breath, then scared the crap out of his cat by shouting “Spring break!”
Max’s parents had departed for Hawaii, leaving him to fend for himself in the dusty suburbs of Albuquerque, New Mexico. Not that he minded. As an only child with social anxieties and a crippling fear of the outdoors, he welcomed a quiet week in a dank basement. He enjoyed it, preferred it even. Spring break to most teens meant travel to exotic locales, or at the very least, anywhere but home. Max had no interest in such things. Spring break to him meant one thing: gaming, lots and lots of gaming, an endless romp of caffeinated carnage without curfews or prying parents.
And so, it began.
His closest friends inhabited pixels on a computer, the avatars of fleshy cohorts all around the world. They escaped their real-life dungeons by slaughtering monsters in virtual ones. It gave them a sense of pride and accomplishment, all while dismantling their basic social faculties. Two days into an epic bender, Max’s cat found him facedown and drooling on a rather expensive keyboard.
“Oi, Max. Time to get up.”
“Huh?” Max stirred at his desk.
“Arise, you lazy sod. I’m hungry.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll—wait, what?”
Max opened his eyes to find a chubby orange tabby with green eyes and puffy jowls sitting on the desk beside him, part one of a reliable morning routine. However, the usual crop of impatient meows had been replaced by the King’s English, complete with a disarming British accent.
“Morning,” Ross said.
Max yelped and flung himself backwards, tumbling out of the chair. His body thumped the cold tile floor and rolled to a rest against the couch. The chair clanked and clattered before landing on its side. Max whipped a frightened gaze to an apathetic feline.
“That looked painful,” Ross said.
Max flinched.
Ross raised an eyebrow while maintaining a ninja-like stillness, conveying the least possible amount of concern. “You okay there, mate?”
“You can talk. You’re talking.”
“Yeah, so?”
“But how? You don’t, um, I mean ...” Max’s sputtering mind sifted through a deluge of questions before settling on the most impractical one. “Do all cats talk?”
“What, do you mean figuratively?”
Max started to respond, then stopped, then started and stopped again. His brain and mouth refused to cooperate, sounding like a faulty video stream.
“Ooookay then, moving on. You’re awake. I’m hungry. Get off the damn floor, get your head on straight, and meet me in the kitchen.” Ross dropped from the desk and trotted towards the stairs.
Max shook his head and blinked several times, trying to offload the hallucination. He untangled himself and leaned back against the couch. After a scowl and shoulder roll, he pressed a finger to his neck to check his pulse, explaining a grand total of nothing.
An annoyed Ross peeked around the stairwell. “Are you coming or not?”
Max flinched again and covered his heart. “Jeez, give me a minute.”
“That’s another minute I have to abide an empty belly, now get a move on. By the way, the litter pan is full and I deuced in the bathtub. You might want to address that after you tend to my nutritional needs.”
Max responded with a contorted gaze.
Ross huffed and scampered up the stairs.
Max slapped himself across the cheek, winced in pain, and immediately regretted the decision. Climbing to his feet, he glanced over to a morning sunbeam peeking through a small port window, then grimaced like an albino cave troll. Designed as a mother-in-law suite, the basement featured a bathroom, kitchenette, and external entry, allowing Max to come and go as he pleased, not that it mattered much. His real-world obligations peaked at school and the occasional girlfriend, so he preferred to stay put, content to explore his virtual worlds under a veil of darkness.
He spent most of his time in a living room of sorts, in the sense that it housed the evidence of something living. Apart from an extravagant gaming system, furnishings amounted to little more than a squatter’s paradise. A ratty couch and rickety table served as bedroom and dining room. Corners and cubbies seemed hell-bent on expanding an impressive collection of dust bunnies. A pair of particleboard bookcases with opposing veneers gave a firm middle finger to interior design. An assortment of comic books, computer manuals, and gadget boxes completed the portrait of a standard nerd cave.
Max climbed the stairs like a half-naked camp counselor in a horror movie. He paused at the top and peered around the doorframe, scanning the hallway through widened eyes. Everything seemed in order, down to the forced smiles of family pictures along the walls. He tiptoed down the hall, pausing to examine each passing room. When he arrived at the end, he poked his head into a sage green kitchen where hanging pots reflected the morning sunlight. Ross stood in the center of the room with an expectant gaze.
Max froze and gawked
at the feline.
Ross sighed. “Um, food? Sometime around now would be nice.”
Max stiffened his posture and crept towards the pantry while maintaining eye contact.
Ross tilted his head. “You’re starting to weird me out a bit.”
Max filled a bowl with cat food, lowered it to the floor, and slid it over to Ross.
“Thanks, mate. And for the record, that was way more than a minute.” Ross plunked his face into the bowl, spilling bits of kibble onto the floor.
Max backed away slowly like a vegan at a hog roast. He turned to the sink, cranked the faucet, and splashed his face with cold water. Droplets fell from his dangling jaw as he gazed out the window at nothing in particular. After a brief mental reboot, his attention shifted to the coffee maker, the lifeblood of any true gamer. He fixed a pot, filled his favorite mug, and lowered himself to the kitchen table. Sip after sip, he studied his furry friend while fretting over mental health and conversation etiquette. Small talk proved vexing with other humans, let alone with a cognizant pet. Convinced he was dreaming, or perhaps the target of an elaborate prank, Max decided to test the waters with a civil exchange.
“So, um, any plans for the day?”
Ross halted mid-chew and lifted an irked face from the bowl. “What, besides eating?” he said through a mouthful of kibble.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Why?” Ross narrowed his eyes.
“I don’t know, just curious.”
“Okay. I’ll play your little mind game.”
“It’s not a game. I’m just making conversation.”
“Life is a never-ending game of attrition. Our wits, swords. Our composure, shields.”
Max rolled his eyes. “Jeez, dude. It’s a simple, harmless, superficial question. I don’t need a Shakespearian response.”
“Fine.” Ross thought for a moment while crunching. “I haven’t thought much past this bowl, to be honest. Napping will be a high priority, on a variety of precarious surfaces. Might take in a window viewing or chase some sunbeams. May freak the hell out for no apparent reason, that’s always fun.” He ruffled his brow. “Why? Is there anything I should know about?”
“Nothing comes to mind. Why are you so suspicious?”
“That trollop of a girlfriend isn’t coming over, is she?”
“Who, Megan?”
“No, Miley Cyrus. Who the bloody hell do you think I mean?”
“No need to be a dick about it. What’s wrong with her coming over?”
“Well, duh, she’s an insufferable twit.”
“Wow.” Max cringed. “That’s a bit harsh. I thought you liked her.”
“What? When did I ever give you that impression?”
“So you don’t like her?”
Ross huffed and glanced away for a moment. “You are one dense wanker, you know that? How many times do we need to have this conversation?”
Max started to respond, but sighed instead.
“She’s a canine sympathizer, Max. She consistently reeks of wet dog and utterly fails to grasp the concept of an inside voice. I have choked down her prattle for long enough. Let it be known that I am very close to a rash retaliation.”
“Please don’t. She’s a good person.”
“Seriously, the next time I see that dimwitted bint, I’m going to vomit in her shoes.”
“Fine, no Megan today.” Max groaned and rubbed his forehead. “Jeez, it’s like living with a douchebag Garfield.”
“That’s racist.” Ross cocked his ears back.
“What? How is that— You’re both—” Max paused for a brain buffer. He shook his head, took another sip of coffee, then stood from the table. “I’m going out to get the mail.”
Ross replied with a stink eye, then plunked his face back into the bowl.
Max shuffled to the front door, unlatched it with a limp hand, and greeted an onslaught of New Mexican sunlight. The heat needled his pale skin as he lumbered towards the street with an arm raised overhead. He grabbed a handful of letters from the mailbox, sifted through a pile of mostly junk, then turned for the house.
“Maximus!” said a voice from below.
“Sweet mother of pancakes!” Max convulsed the letters out of his hands.
“Sorry mate, didn’t mean to wonk you,” the voice said, also in a British accent.
Max palmed his heaving chest. He glanced down to find the cheerful face of Gerald, the neighbor’s cat, a dirty brown tabby with blue eyes and an obvious weight problem.
“You got any more of those salmon treats? I could really go for some.”
“Shut up, minger,” Ross said from an open windowsill. “You need treats like a Max needs a third willy.”
Gerald scrunched his brow. “You have two knobs?”
“No, of course not,” Max said, then glared at Ross.
Gerald perked. “My uncle had one eye, three legs, and talked like a pirate. True story. Strange lad, that one.”
Ross snorted with amusement.
Max gathered the letters from the ground and stomped towards the front door with Gerald prancing behind.
“About those trea—” Gerald said as the door slammed in his face.
Max tossed the mail onto the counter, scowled at Ross, then flopped back into his chair.
Ross snickered and returned to his food bowl.
Max leaned forward and folded his hands on the table. Troubled eyes stared at the surface as he nodded with the steady cadence of a metronome. Fluttering breaths fled his lungs with every sip of coffee. Teeth chattered behind taut lips, filling his mind with a grim melody. After a long spell of nervous contemplation, he dropped his forehead to the table with a loud thump.
Ross jerked away from the bowl with cocked ears and a poofed tail. “What the hell, man?”
“I’m crazy, I’m crazy, I’m crazy,” Max said from beneath an arm fort.
“What do you mean crazy?”
Max lifted his head and heaved with a mounting panic attack, his unhinged gaze darting around the room. “I’ve gone insane. My cat is talking to me. My damn cat, and as Nigel Puffbottom no less.” Writhing and panting, he closed his eyes and tucked his arms to regain some composure. “I must be dreaming, or sleepwalking, or something. My brain has lost its footing and I’m just imagining cats talking to me. That’s all. I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m perfectly fine.”
“Brains can’t have a footing,” Ross said with a flat tone.
Max huffed and opened his eyes. “You can be a real jerk, you know that? Or not, who knows, it’s all in my head.”
“So, you don’t think I’m talking right now?”
“Of course not, cats don’t talk.”
Ross uncocked his ears and pondered the declaration. He pranced over to the nearest chair, bounded up to the table, and settled in front of Max. After a brief silence, he turned towards the window. “Oi, Gerald!”
Gerald’s head popped up from beneath the windowsill. “All right, Ross?”
“Get this, Max says that cats don’t talk.”
“What, does he mean figuratively?”
“No, he says not at all.”
“Well that’s interesting because we’re having a lovely conversation.”
“Exactly my point.”
“That doesn’t prove a damn thing,” Max said through a double facepalm.
“Wow, what’s his damage today?” Gerald said to Ross.
“Don’t know, trying to figure that out.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to it then. Best of luck.”
“Cheers, Gerald.”
Gerald ducked away as Ross returned his gaze.
Max glared at him through a finger fence.
“Don’t give me that look. I’m trying to help you.”
“Help me?” Max slapped his hands on the table. “How on Earth is that helping?”
“Fine, my apologies. Truce.” Ross bowed his head for a moment, then lifted onto his hind legs. He cleared his throat and dropped his voice to a smoot
h baritone. “The truth is ... you are the chosen one.”
Max scrunched his brow. “Huh? What the hell are you talking about?”
“While I appreciate my given name of Rosco P. Coltrane on this planet, my real name is Reginald Sarcoga, first son of Hackamore. I hail from an ancient order of supreme beings that occupied the Zynfall Galaxy of Hamonrye. We settled upon your planet long ago and assumed the feline form to aid in our divine quest. I have spent my entire life looking for you. Today, we present ourselves to Your Grace. You are the one the prophecies foretold. You are the fabled Shifter, The Light, the vessel that will unite all universes under an infinite era of peace.” Ross placed his paw on top of Max’s hand. “It is time to fulfill your destiny, star child.”
Max donned the bewildered expression of a preteen boy seeing his first pair of boobs. An eyelid twitched for good measure as his brain processed the reveal. With a renewed vitality, he locked eyes with a stoic Ross. “I knew it. I knew there was something bigger going on here. I have always felt the draw of some higher purpose.”
“I am so pulling your leg right now.” Ross smirked and removed his paw.
Max drooped with the sting of embarrassment. “You’re such an asshole.” He closed his eyes and thumped his head back onto the table.
“Gerald!” Ross said to the open window.
“Wotcha?” Gerald said as he popped his head up.
“I told him he was a star child with a destiny.”
“Oh, that’s cheeky. How’d he take it?”
“Not well. He keeps banging his head on the table.”
“Won’t that churn his noggin?”
“Can’t break what’s already broke.”
“Brilliant, carry on then.”
Max stood in a hurry, flinging his chair halfway across the kitchen. He rushed over to the window where a smiling Gerald perked with attention.
“So how about those trea—” Gerald said as the window slammed shut, muffling his voice behind the glass. “Right, shall I just bugger off then?”
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