The Doomsday Chronicles (The Future Chronicles)

by Samuel Peralta

  Bad Cop interrupted our moment with a photograph. He slid it across the table, like it was Law & Order or something. The image was a little dodgy in black and white, but I knew who it was. There was no mistaking it.

  “Count Creepula?”

  Dimples cleared his throat, bringing my attention back to him. “His name is Malcolm. He’s wanted for a string of offenses.”

  I laughed, leaning back into my chair. The fluorescent light flickered overhead. I grabbed my elbow with my opposite hand and did my best to look sad, which was hard because, c’mon, it was hilarious. It was the rooftop vampire kiss bandit. And he had a stupid name like Malcolm Gold.

  Malcolm. Gold.

  Ha.

  “I think I understand,” I said gently, averting my gaze. “Has he been kissing vulnerable women… sexually assaulting them, I mean.”

  “What?” says Bad Cop. “No. What the hell?” He taps the photo aggressively. “This little prick is wanted on a string of domestic terrorism charges.”

  My mouth moved, but no words came out.

  Dimples continued, “He’s working with a group called Jalapeño Business. They’re a group of militant vegans. We suspect they’re responsible for a series of cases of agricultural terrorism. Breaking into farms, destroying machinery, compromising holding fences… that sort of thing.”

  I laughed. “Those wankers that freed the free-range chickens? What were they then? Double free?”

  “Ninety percent of those chickens died,” Bad Cop snapped. “It was a biological disaster. Their corpses polluted a nearby stream and killed an off-grid community downstream.”

  “Wow,” I muttered. “Thank God they didn’t hurt any normal people.”

  Dimples wrapped his hands together and leaned in again, elbows on the table. A look of adorable concern painted his face. “Mia, this isn’t a joke. Animal lives are at risk.” He sighed, his eyes going doughy. Bloody hell, he even does better puppy dog eyes than me. “Human lives, too. Can you help us?”

  “We can make this all go away,” Bad Cop added, forcing a gentle tone.

  I sighed, mustering up my best take on melancholy. I leaned in, breathing another lungful of warm, minty air. Just to be sure, you know? I don’t normally like clean-shaven guys, but damn his jaw looked good. I paused for dramatic effect.

  “I’ll do anything I can to help, Officer.” I reached forward, placing a hand on his. “Chickens are the dolphins of the farm.”

  Wack.

  Back to the piece-of-crap present. Blondie McFlesheater, a.k.a. Eyeball Enthusiast, has taken out my legs with the fake corpse of a poorly shaven sheep. Some freaking charity prop. I can’t make this stuff up. I go tits up, crashing down hard on the floorboards. The sheep lands on me, corn-syrup blood dripping on my jacket. My bad-ass denim jacket. That wench.

  This is personal now.

  “When humans first started eating meat,” she says, “they learned to hunt in groups.”

  “And?”

  “It facilitated the development of group survival strategies, socialization, and language skills.”

  “Well, then how do you account for your anti-social bloody behavior?”

  I push the fake corpse off me and struggle to my feet. Blondie watches me with wide eyes. I know the look. An addict’s gaze. Been there. Seen that.

  She runs a hand down her shredded cheek then licks the blood off her fingers. “You see, this does nothing for me. We don’t desire to eat ourselves or those in our group.”

  I hold up my arm, pointing to the bite. “You sure about that?”

  She laughs, her cheek tearing further as her mouth is thrown open. “You’re not in my group. I can sense those who are like me.” She waves a hand around the conference hall. “Cannibals, flesh-eaters… we are the next wave of humans. Just look around. We will eat you out.”

  “Jesus, phrasing.”

  She clears her throat. “No, seriously. Look around you.”

  I spin around slowly, soles slipping on corn syrup, and I see what she’s referring to. I’m completely surrounded by cannibals. They’re watching me with stares simultaneously fierce and calm. They’re not going to attack me, but they’re not going to let me escape, either. They want to watch her eat me. Spectators. Like those knobs who watch MasterChef.

  I am a sack of meat. I am dinner.

  I’m moments away from being chow, so I might as well tell the rest of the story. I first met our blonde cannibal friend a week ago. I’d taken the cops up on their crummy offer. Sure, I wanted to avoid the vandalism charges, but I also liked the idea of it. Not being a rat. Or a mole. Heck, nothing rodent related. Infiltration. That sounded like fun.

  As it turns out, Count Creeper had slipped a flyer into my jacket pocket that night on the rooftop. The cops had found it when they’d taken me in—it was the only reason they knew to press me on him. Smartarses. And there I was thinking they knew something. They told me to contact him, via the email address on the flyer, and arrange to meet. All I had to do was watch and listen. No wire. They wanted names, day jobs, that sort of thing. Easy as Sunday morning when you’re earning double-time and a half dolling out devon at the deli. A piece of crack, err, cake.

  So there I was on a cold night, my breath misting, body shivering. I pulled my beanie down over my brow and tucked my hands into my jacket. Meeting in a goddamn car park—how dramatic.

  I heard the shuffle of gravel behind me.

  “Hello?” I shivered, turning.

  “Ah, I’d hoped it was you.”

  Malcolm walked toward me. He still looked vampiric, with tight black clothing and pale white skin, but there was a spark in his eyes. He carried a heavy bag, dropping it beside me.

  “Jalapeño Business? Are you serious?”

  “You don’t like the name?”

  “It sounds like a second-rate taco truck.”

  He smirked. “Well, I’m glad you’re here, regardless.” He stepped in close, the mists of our breath mixing, and I felt that strange feeling again—like we were back on the rooftop. “We’re always looking for people interested in the cause.”

  “The cause,” echoed a woman’s voice.

  A blonde girl walked out of the shadows. You know her now as our hungry, hungry cannibal friend, but back then she was as vegan as a hummingbird. I’m talking full-hipster vegan—oversized glasses, tattered skinny jeans, scuffed boots. She had black flesh tunnels in her ears and a silver stud in her nose. Textbook tosser. Probably has an arts degree.

  “Does she even care about the cause?”

  She came close, forcing her way between Malcolm and me. Without asking, she slipped her hands under my jacket, her fingers digging into my ribs, my waist, my hips. I pulled back.

  “Do you mind?”

  “Just checking you’re not wearing a wire.”

  “Why the hell would I be wearing a wire?”

  She shrugged. “You never know with you mainstream types.” She turned back to Malcolm, talking to him as if I wasn’t there. “She’s clear. Though I’m not sure she’s vegan. Too much meat on her. And those rosy cheeks. Ugh.”

  “Thanks.” He wrapped his arm around her waist and kissed the top of her head. “She’ll be fine.”

  And that’s the moment where I simultaneously learned that Malcolm had a girlfriend, and that she was a prying-fingered psychopath. The ol’ double whammy. Her name was Winter. No joke.

  Winter.

  The next minute, we were crawling through the bushes with two other guys. One had a beard a solid foot long, and the other looked like he hadn’t eaten for days—I’m talking bones where there shouldn’t be bones. Bones in his eyeballs. I’m surprised his joints even worked.

  We assembled outside a fence.

  “This is a chicken farm,” Malcolm whispered.

  “Chicken prison,” Winter corrected.

  Subterfuge or not, I started laughing. Give me a break, how the heck could I not?

  “Shh!”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. She glar
ed at me, and I realized I needed to offer an actual explanation. “Um, you know that episode of The Simpsons where Lisa becomes a vegetarian…?”

  “Yes.”

  “Uh…” Oh hell, I couldn’t remember jack. “The guy says—you know, the neighborhood one—sometimes you marry a carrot… and sometimes you… carrot bear to do it”

  Winter looked at Count Malcolm with the most incredulous expression I’ve ever seen. As though douchebags might jump out of the bushes with cameras screaming, ‘Surprise, you’re on Candid Camera!’ But, no. It was just me. Being the worst informant of all time. So, so bad. Deep Throat, I am sorry. You got on your knees for nothing.

  Joking!

  Oh hell, does nobody have a sense of humor anymore?

  Ah, right. Sorry. I forgot.

  The beardy guy cut through the fence with a pair of fence cutters. Who’d have thunk? What an aptly named device. We made our way into the field, stepping on grass in a weird state of limbo—super fertilized, but forever eaten. A true Australian hero.

  “Look over here,” Winter said.

  “A corpse?” Malcolm asked.

  She nodded, then bent down to pick it up. It was a dead chicken, no doubt, dangling from her thin fingers. Its eyes were glazed, blood in its feathers. It was hideous.

  “I carrot bear it,” I whispered, a little too loudly.

  Oh God, why did I say that?

  “You think this is a joke?” Winter said, as cold as, um, winter. She thrust the chicken in my face. “This was a life. And now it’s dead. And why do you think that is? Huh?” The chicken wriggled. “Why?”

  “I don’t know? Because they let it out of the barn?”

  Flash.

  Her eyes blazed like firelight. Capillaries burst in her cheeks. “No!” she screamed. “It’s because of this system of oppression. Because they built the barn to begin with.”

  The chicken wriggled again.

  I took a step back. “I hate to interrupt, but I think you’ve got a zombie chicken.”

  Its legs kicked.

  Winter dropped it to the ground. “They do this sometimes. It’s just nerves.” She raised a boot—Doc Martins, of course—and stomped on its head. It twitched again. “It’s not feeling pain, I swear.” Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. “Why won’t you die?”

  “It’s okay,” Malcolm interrupted. “It’s okay. Its mind is in a better place now.”

  “The mud?” I whispered.

  Oh, bless Baphomet that nobody heard me say that one.

  “Winter, Steve, and Peter,” he said. “Get to the warehouse. Take as much footage as you can. I’m thinking 60 Minutes, Four Corners, Today Tonight…” He smiled, proud. “As wide as we can take this. Cut beaks, scabby feathers. The good stuff. Go.”

  “And you?” Winter asked.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll give this queen the burial she deserves.” He smiled, no longer a smirk but a full-blown sympathetic sad-face. He might as well be channeling Detective Dimples. “Every creature, great and small.”

  I was half-expecting Winter to flash him the angry gaze, too, but somehow she bought it.

  “Love you, babe,” she said.

  “You too.”

  Ugh. A zombie chicken-stomping is one thing, but that? Ugh.

  Tumblr girl and the ‘yes, sir’ duo ran across the field, heading towards the main building. I swear I saw one of them swat a mozzie on the way. Are mosquitos not good enough? Do they not deserve your vegan protection?

  “Are you okay?” Malcolm asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’m not buying it.”

  I crossed my arms, suddenly a little chilly. “What?”

  “You don’t care,” he said. “I saw you holding back a giggle as she curb-stomped that chicken.”

  My stomach dropped. Ah crap, I really was the worst informant ever. Chickengate was over before it had even begun.

  “I can explain, I swear.”

  He smirked. “Oh, wow. Who are you working for? This is amazing.”

  “Nobody.”

  “But they have something on you?”

  I bit my lip. “Maybe?”

  He stepped forward, kissing me before I could pull back. He sucked on my lip, hard, as though hungry for blood. Fudge, if this dude actually was a vampire… well, I don’t know. He sure took his time, I guess? Patience is a virtue, apparently, so there’s that.

  He pulled back. “Look,” he said, “I don’t care. I’m in this for the same reason you are. For fun. To see things fall to pieces. Do you understand?”

  “Ah, no?”

  “You’ll see,” he said. “Trust me. I knew it when I saw you. You’re into this. You see the humor in chaos.”

  Okay, this time I did blush. This guy wasn’t a Cullen, he was Tyler Durden by way of Harvey Dent. He was my jam.

  “I’ll be your Harley Queen,” I said.

  “Who?”

  I balled my fist and pulled it back.

  “Kidding!” He raised his palms. “I know who the Riddler is.”

  I punched him in the shoulder, a little too hard. There are some things you just don’t joke about.

  “Next Saturday, come with me to Vegorama XV. Don’t ask. They’re announcing a new product… a fungus-soy hybrid. A game changer.”

  “Wha…what?”

  “Trust me.”

  “That’s the sort of thing people say when they’re about to pull some serious brainwashing.”

  He smiled gently. “You like kissing me, right?”

  “Maybe if I was into the whole stalker-ass vampire thing.”

  “Oh?” he said, moving in close. “You’re not?”

  My heart fluttered a little. No, I was not. Sure, I read the books, but who didn’t? That’s beside the bloody point. I just like glitter. Back off, alright? “It doesn’t do much for me, to be honest.”

  He leaned in suddenly, his cheek brushing against mine. My mouth hung agape. I could feel his breath against my neck. I won’t lie, I felt tingles. In many places.

  “Do it,” I whispered.

  He bit me. He actually bit my friggin’ neck. And it stung.

  I pulled back, slapping my hand against the spot. “That hurt.” I looked at my palm. “And you drew blood!”

  “I’m sorry.” He licked his lips. “Tasted like rubbish, too. Turns out I’m not a vampire. Remember, this weekend. Trust me.”

  He ran towards the barn.

  Trust him. For Cthulhu’s sake. Why did I trust him?

  A few days later I was at the Brisbane Exhibition Centre, in a large conference hall in the middle of the city. Exhibitors had set up booths, advertising all manner of vegetarian and vegan products. You know that section of the supermarket that you avoid? With creepy soy versions of perfectly good meat products? Well, here it had come to life and taken over. But with more hemp. Vegans sure love hemp.

  I looked around for Malcolm but he was nowhere to be seen. I felt awkward, until I remembered I was wearing my leather Chuck Taylors, which left me feeling super awkward. I shimmied up to a booth, needing to distract myself.

  “What’ve you got?” I asked.

  “Only the world’s finest vegan bacon,” said an overly smiley woman. “One taste of this, and you’d swear you were eating the real thing.”

  “If you’re vegan, why would you want to feel like you’re eating the real thing?”

  She smiled at me, blinking profusely. “We call it Bacorn!”

  “Bacorn,” I repeated, dying a little inside. I picked up a strip, a strange pink and yellow rectangle of misery and mystery. “So it’s made from corn?”

  “No, why?”

  I took a deep breath. Slapping her now would ruin everything. I bit into the Bacorn.

  Flash.

  My vision went red for a second. I could hear the steam in my ears, the gurgling in my stomach. I threw the strip down onto the table. Every muscle in my face clenched tight.

  “Delicious, huh?” she asked with a smile so large it would make her ears hur
t.

  “This,” I said, tapping the table furiously, “is an abomination. Imagine if Hitler and Satan had a baby, raised it in Hell, sent it to law school, and then watched it become a politician. Then one day he thought ‘screw it, I’m joining ISIS’, moved to Syria, and died in a suicide-bombing. At a school. Next to a hospital. While people were trying to watch the World Cup Final. If people smelled his burning flesh, got curious, and carved off a piece… that would taste less evil than this atrocity.”

  Her blinking cranked up to a thousand beats per minute. Her pale cheeks flushed red.

  “I will be making a formal complaint.” I pointed at her, letting my eye contact linger before I turned away. “I await a written reply.”

  Without warning, Malcolm’s voice reverberated through the room. “Greetings, everybody. Hello? May I have your attention, please?”

  I spun around, trying to locate him. His voice was being broadcast through the PA system, with speakers all around me. There seemed to be no central point to look.

  I’d had a back-of-the-van meeting with Bad Cop and Dimples that morning, but they hadn’t told me much. They had a feeling something was going down. That was it. A feeling. I had to keep my ears open, stay cool, and search for anything strange—exposé footage changing hands, a recruitment drive, that sort of thing.

  Vegorama, as the name might imply, was the biggest event on the vego-calendar. It was sponsored by the world’s largest vegan food manufacturer and a large, mostly questionable protest group. I won’t tell you which one, but c’mon… you can work it out. Stunts and celebrities. Conflicting ethics. This thing had money and minds behind it, with simultaneous conferences around the globe—virtually every state capital in any country worth mentioning.

  “Where the hell are you,” I whispered, “and why the hell are we here?”

  As though hearing my question, a panel raised up from the middle of the room, a smiling Malcolm standing in the middle. He was dressed like a Silicon Valley CEO—a suit jacket paired with a The Smiths ‘Meat is Murder’ T-shirt and never-washed jeans, with a microphone attached to his lapel.

  “In our lifetime,” he started, “sometimes we are fortunate enough to witness great discoveries. We uncover secrets in nature, gifts from a higher power—like penicillin from mold—things under our noses but overlooked.” He paused, surveying the now-silent crowd. “Today is a special day. You will bear witness to our next great step.”