The Apocalypse Collection

by Tara West

  “Better get a cork.”

  Jeb eyed Randy. “What fer?”

  “They’ll come for you soon. Best be prepared so as they don’t go probin’ your anals. That’s what I wish I’d done before they done stick that probe up my—”

  “Christ!” Jeb lurched forward, almost toppling headfirst into the water, as his rod nearly jumped out of his hand.

  After several minutes of fighting, Jeb reeled in the biggest catfish he’d ever pulled from Crowly Lake. It had to be at least fifteen pounds.

  Randy helped Jeb bring the monster on board, then pointed to the side of the floundering, croaking fish. “You hooked him in the gills.”

  Jeb eyed the mess he’d made. “Damn.”

  He’d always been a catch-and-release kinda fisherman. And the fish was a beauty. It would be a shame to kill him but he had no choice.

  Randy licked his tobacco-stained lips. “I’ll take him home if you don’t want it.”

  Jeb handed Randy the fish with a sigh. Too damn bad, he thought, but the fish wouldn’t have survived another hour in the lake. No use wasting good meat.

  ***

  Ordinarily, the hum of the tractor engine could drown out all of Jeb’s thoughts and he could just let his mind go blank while he plowed up dirt. He hated thinking while he was working. Thinking brought up too many painful memories. Like the time his daughter ran off to California to be a tree huggin’ lesbian. Or when the doctor gave him and Martha the news that she had terminal cancer. Or the day he found Jeb Junior inside the barn, slumped over the wheel of his pickup with a goodbye letter stuffed inside his pocket. And more recently, when them aliens thwumped his favorite dog Bo right off the front porch.

  Jeb tried to ignore the rumbling in his gut, but the cramps were getting worse. The damn cork had been stuck for a week and the fried okra he’d eaten for the past three days was starting to fight back.

  Well, shit.

  Jeb wondered how the hell he was supposed to get the cork out. Randy never told him that part, and he’d be damned if he’d go to Doc, the same doc who’d birthed Jeb Junior, and tell him he got a cork stuck up his ass. Doc would probably think he turned queer or was into them weird sex games.

  Jeb was just Jeb. He wasn’t weird, just hounded by aliens is all. But that didn’t make him weird. Just a farmer with no family, no sheep, no cows and no hound dog. A farmer who had to stick a plug up his ass to keep alien probes away. He hoped Randy’s idea was worth it, ‘cause if he didn’t get to use a toilet soon, a week’s worth of fried okra, chicken fried steak, and ham, beans and cornbread, was sure to come back up the other end.

  In some sick and twisted way, he was actually hoping them aliens would thwump him up soon. Maybe an anal probe was just what he needed to dislodge the plug. Maybe it would be worth all the terror and nightmares just to be able to shit again. And if for some strange reason they didn’t send him back home, well, that was fine, too. His home hadn’t been much of a home these past ten years anyhow.

  Jeb burped into his palm and was overcome by a sickening rancid smell coming from his mouth, almost like he’d swallowed a backwards fart.

  Damn. This can’t be good.

  Jeb shut off the tractor engine and stepped onto the dry soil. He turned a slow circle before throwing his hands in the air and casting his gaze to the sky.

  “Well, here I am, ya damned aliens! Are ya gonna get me or what?”

  Thwump!

  ***

  Jeb awoke to bright lights and the sound of a strange guttural gibberish coming from somewhere across the room. He tried to look around but his head was stuck, as if it was in some kind of vice. He tried to move his hands and legs, but they were stuck, too.

  Holy hell.

  “Goddamn little green men,” he grumbled.

  The gibberish across the room intensified.

  “Don’t suppose none of ya speak English?” he asked.

  Silence, then more gibberish.

  Jeb sighed, then wished he could scratch an itch on his backside. He moved around against the hard, metallic surface of his bed, trying his best to stop the itch. All that moving around must have upset his stomach, because his insides rumbled. Then he burped.

  He groaned as an acidic and foul taste rose into the back of his throat. “Hey, Aliens!” he barked. “Got any damn cork removin’ probes? Y’all oughta help me out seein’ as this is mostly yer fault.”

  The gibberish sounded as if it was getting closer.

  Jeb’s eyes bulged when the first alien approached. He must have been at least nine feet tall with an enormous bulbous olive-toned head and large glowing eyes.

  “Shit, yer ugly. Just like in all them alien pictures.” Jeb burped again; this time the residue was more foul than before.

  The alien muttered something that could have been Japanese or maybe Russian. Jeb had no idea and he honestly didn’t care, so long as they got this probing over with.

  Jeb had no idea how it happened, but in the next moment he was flipped over on his stomach, looking down at the metallic floor beneath him, yet somehow suspended in air.

  “How’d ya do that?” he asked.

  The alien didn’t respond, but out of the corner of his eye, Jeb saw the green man pull a large metallic wand off a nearby floating tray.

  “I sure hope ya know what the hell yer doing,” Jeb mumbled, then squeezed his eyes shut and screamed in shock as the alien thrust the probe up his rectum. “Goddammit!” Jeb hollered. “Ya didn’t take the cork out.”

  Another slightly greener alien came and stood beside the first green man, and they both exchanged what sounded like a heated debate as their tongues clicked and clacked and words fired off like pistons.

  Slowly, the new alien removed the probe.

  The unholy sound that followed next startled Jeb, and a chunk of bile lurched into the back of his throat. Out of the corner of Jeb’s eye, he saw another, much larger anal probe. One that sounded like a utility vacuum that ran on diesel fuel.

  “How in the hell are ya going to fit that up my a—holy shit!”

  The alien had the probe wedged up Jeb’s ass in one jarring thrust.

  Jeb heard a strange, sickening pop, followed by what sounded like wet concrete being poured out of a cement truck. He could only lie there, helpless, as the powerful suction of the alien diesel butt vacuum sucked the crap out of his colon. After several minutes, the vacuuming sound stopped and the alien finally started to slide out the probe.

  Just as the probe was almost completely free, the suction sound started up again. Jeb screamed as he was struck with a terrible sensation, almost as if the probe was shredding his colon.

  The alien must have accidentally hit the power switch. Jeb heard the alien tapping on a button before he completely removed the probe.

  But something wasn’t right. Something surely wasn’t right. The pain in his insides was unlike any agony he’d ever known.

  Jeb cried out before hunching over onto his invisible bed.

  The gibberish around him resumed at an all-time feverish pitch. The green men were definitely arguing, but Jeb was in too much agony to care. It hurt so much. So damned much.

  Jeb heard a slamming sound, and then two more angry alien voices joined in the debate.

  In the next moment, something cool and icy pressed against his anals.

  Jeb sighed in relief.

  He hoped that with their space-aged alien medical technology they’d be able to patch him up and send him on his way soon. After all, he had a field to plow.

  One of the aliens leaned over and placed his long, green fingers across Jeb’s forehead. When the alien pulled back, Jeb felt a sticky substance on his skin. His forehead was cold at first, then his head slowly warmed, followed by a pleasant tingling sensation that spread throughout his entire body.

  He closed his eyes and fell into a peaceful slumber.

  ***

  Jeb dreamed about Martha and Jeb Junior and even his daughter Lacey. They were all sitting around the
table eating Christmas dinner. Bo was just a puppy. He was sitting underneath Lacey’s chair, and she was feeding him scraps. Jeb pretended not to notice, just like he’d pretended not to notice the new tattoo she had on the back of her neck. Jeb said nothin’ about his son’s nose ring when he asked Jeb Junior to pass the potatoes. He didn’t want nothin’ ruining this day. It would probably be Martha’s last Christmas.

  When they all held hands in prayer, he ignored Jeb Junior’s snicker and Lacey’s sigh. And then his heart skipped a beat when he stole a glance at his wife’s tear-stained face.

  “Lord, bless my children,” she prayed. “Give them guidance and comfort and help them find happiness.”

  Lacey let out a soft sob. Jeb squeezed his daughter’s hand, and for once, she squeezed back.

  “And Lord,” Martha said, “please take care of my husband. Send him an angel to watch over him when I’m gone.”

  Jeb’s throat suddenly felt tight and it took all of his will not to break down in front of his family. He shut his eyes as he struggled to hold back the dam of tears threatening to burst. When he finally opened his eyes, Martha was gone. His kids were gone, too. He looked under the table for Bo, but the hound was nowhere in sight. Jeb was alone.

  ***

  “Jeb! Jeb, you okay?”

  Jeb slowly opened his eyes to see Randy hovering over him.

  “What in hell happened?” Jeb’s hand flew to his aching head. When he pulled it away, a sticky film clung to his fingers.

  Randy leaned over and held out a hand. “I came to see how you’re doin’. You must have fallen off your tractor.”

  Jeb grabbed ahold of Randy and slowly came to his knees. He winced as a jolt of pain shot up his anals. “Are the aliens gone?”

  Randy looked at the sticky goo, which had rubbed off on his fingers. He gasped, then brushed his hand across his jeans. “They got you? Did you use the cork?”

  Jeb scowled while thinking a whole hell of a lot of good the cork did him. “Yeah, I used the damn cork.”

  “Did they still probe you?” Randy’s eyes were practically bulging out of his sockets.

  “Yeah.” Jeb reached behind him and rubbed his sore backside. “Then they hooked me in the gills.”

  Randy’s jaw dropped. “Well, shit.”

  Jeb shrugged. “I guess I’m just lucky they threw me back.”

  “I reckon you are lucky.” Randy scratched the back of his head while shuffling his feet. “They probed me for two weeks before they let me go.”

  “Damn.” Jeb kicked up soil with his boot while he glared at the sky. “I wonder what they’re lookin’ fer.”

  “Maybe they ain’t. Maybe they’s just homo aliens.”

  “I dunno.” Jeb’s shoulder’s slumped. He felt like a bucket of beat up assholes, and judging by the position of the sun, the day was only half finished. “Listen, could ya do me a favor and don’t tell no-one? I’d like to ferget this whole thing happened.”

  “Okay.” Randy shrugged. “You’ll probably need to sit on an icepack for a spell.”

  Jeb’s gaze traveled to the half-plowed field of oats. “I will, after I finish my farm work.”

  Randy glanced at the oat field with a look of disinterest. “Hey, I caught another big’un at the lake. I’m having a fish fry tonight. Wanna come over?”

  Jeb recalled the image of the catfish he’d caught last week, flailing around on his boat, mouth and gills constricting as he struggled for breath. That fish had probably been enjoying its day before Jeb came along and pulled it into his strange world. Maybe the fish had a family or friends who were wondering what happened to him.

  Jeb looked at Randy and shook his head. “Nah, I don’t think I want any fish fer a while.”

  #

  PJ Jones would like the aliens to know that she’s allergic to latex anal probes.

  Read more about PJ Jones at pjjoneswrites.com or follow her on Facebook and Twitter

  Will Smella and Deadward find true love or will Smella’s fish tacos ruin the moment?

  Available at:

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  Seeds

  M. Edward McNally

  A patrol lasts four days, as that’s as much water and nush a Gun can carry in a camel pack. Two of us head out from the Hill at evening and move along a sector line all night and most of the next day until we’re a full day’s march from home. That’s the distance at which we stop any ferals we come across, as we don’t want them ever getting any closer to the Hill than that. Two days of sector patrol, then a day’s march back. It’s rough being outside that long in full protective gear, but it’s the only way to keep the rest of the region from knowing the Hill is there. We’re better off than most, and we can’t have anybody know it. On the upside, patrol is double-time duty for a Gun, so four days of patrol gets us each eight chits. Enough to trade with the Feeders for eight days of food and good water.

  When we found the can, it was me and Specs. It was our third day out so we were pretty blown by then. Even with polarized goggs on, the light out there gets to you. And though we change the filter cartridges in our respirators, the intakes clog up with dust anyhow. I’ve seen Fixers dig an inch of dirt out of those things after a patrol when the wind was blowing. I don’t know how the ferals live out there, as you never see ‘em with any more protective gear than an old pair of sunglasses and a scarf around their mouth and nose. Probably why we never find an old one, though even those that are maybe twenty winters old just look wasted. Bony, sick, skin like old leather. Nothing lasts long outside.

  Me and Specs were dragging along, shuffling through powder on the hillsides above the big riverbed east of the Hill. There’s a lot of old rusted-out hulks in the bed, which I gotta admit always set me to wondering. They were boats when there was water in the river, all different shapes and sizes, some big as buildings. So you know there was a massive amount of water there before. But the thing I can’t get my head around is that some people say it was good water; water you could drink and wouldn’t make you sick or kill you, even without Feeders running it through Fixer machines to purify it. I’ve never seen more good water at one time than it takes to fill a camel pack, and staring at those dead boats lying on their sides or upside-down always gets me thinking.

  So that’s what I was doing, and not doing a particularly good job of keeping my eyes peeled. Luckily Specs was, and all of a sudden he made a sort of hiss through his respirator and took a knee, swinging the snubby barrel of his XM8 forward. I was carrying the MSR, the Remington, so I laid out flat with the rifle beside me still in a zip bag, both me and it sinking into the loose, chalky powder covering the ground. Specs was peering through his scope, almost touching it with the lens of the big, oversized goggs he has to wear to fit over his glasses. With his respirator and slouch hat on, I couldn’t see anything of his face at all, and his voice was muffled as he spoke quiet.

  “Maybe two-oh-oh out, there’s a defile. Looks like somebody hunkered down in it.”

  Two hundred meters was pretty close for us to have walked up on something, but it was probably still too far for a feral to do anything more than squint at us, as we looked just like dusty shadows the same color as the ground. I unzipped the rifle and squirmed sideways to a little berm, popped the bipod and uncapped both ends of the big scope. The Remington is a sniper rifle so the scope is good, and it didn’t take me long to find the ditch Specs was talking about and glass along it.

  “Got him,” I said.

  Specs laid down flat but kept his distance from me so we wouldn’t bunch up. He kept watching the hills all around but I stayed eye-on-target through the scope. I could see it perfectly and it was definitely a person; wrapped up in random rags and clothes like a feral, lying face-down half in the ditch. One arm stretched forward along the ground, gloved hand empty and pointing away from us anyway. I had it figured for dead after a glance, but us Guns are taught to be careful. Neither me or Specs moved for almost ten minutes.

  �
��It’s dead,” I said.

  We still approached slow, spreading out even more and only moving a quarter of the way closer at a time before going to knees and scanning the hills and the hulks in the riverbed. There wasn’t nothing moving but the dust in the yellow sky. When we got to the target, I wiped down the scope and zipped the Remi back up, then drew a .45 for a side-arm. The old Colts are a really simple design, but they’re reliable.

  The body was stiff and we could smell the dry rot even through our respirators. Specs stood watch and I rolled it for a pat-down. It was definitely a feral, male, hard to guess age but with skin all cooked and paper thin. No obvious injuries, but ferals tend to just drop dead after a while with their lungs full of grit, or because they got hungry enough to eat the straggly, poison plants out here. The body was too far gone to drag back to the Feeders, but the pat-down turned up a shotgun with the barrel sawed off, some home-load ammo, and five knives though only two that weren’t all rusty. Box of matches, broken compass, and the can.

  I held it out so Specs could see it. It was about the size of the fifty-round drum load on his XM8 assault rifle, but a scratched-up silver color. Made out of metal and screwed shut about three-quarters up the side.

  “What you got there, Meats?” Specs asked. He’d flopped his respirator aside just long enough to pop the left-side end of the throat tube from his camel pack into his mouth, while squeezing the belly pouch through his fatigues and camo gear. You’ve got to carry the nush the Feeders cook up like that so your body heat keeps it from turning solid. Specs sucked a mouthful of the brown paste through his tube and put his respirator back in place.

  “Don’t know,” I said. “Looks like a can.”

  Specs doesn’t give me as much crap as a couple of the others in our billet do for being stupid. He looked around the hills again before stepping over and hunkering down, pushing at his goggs to straighten his glasses on his nose inside them. His eyes are so bad, they are why the Priests sterilized him. Don’t want to pass on being blind-as-a-feral-at-noon to the next generation Up the Hill. They did me because I’m stupid.