The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole! Read online

  Edwina pulls her own rifle off her back and takes a few steps toward the rotting army. The foul things move like they are walking through mud. She takes aim at a man dressed in the tatters of an old red flannel shirt. Big beer gut hangs in front as he waddles along with the others.

  She fires and blows off one of his arms. It spins him around, but his only reaction is to pause as though remembering something he’d forgotten, then slowly turn to face her again. Maggots swarm around his nose and eyes, and big worms drop out of his mouth along with dirt and clumps of shit she doesn’t even want to think about identifying.

  The next shot blows half his head to the side, and he falls forward with a thump.

  The ladies open up. Guns chatter all along the hasty firing line, and wherever they aim, bodies fall and crumble. Edwina tugs her own handgun out and walks up to the edge of the desolated land and opens up. She aims, steadies, takes a breath and drops one. Then another. She empties the clip and at least five or six of the things fall.

  The ground crackles and rolls around them. The women laugh at the slow, awkward ghouls shambling toward them. There are hundreds, maybe a thousand, but they move so sluggishly that they can be picked off with ease.

  “How come it isn’t this easy in the movies?” Edwina glances at Darla, who has a big fucking shotgun in the crook of her arm and is shooting the things in the head if they get too close.

  “Hell if I know. These fuckers are easy to kill. Easy peasy.” BLAM! One of them falls over. He might have worn a business suit at one time, but now the damn thing is covered in rot, and one of his sleeves hangs loose from a missing arm.

  “Found it!” one of the Asian twins calls out. She struts out of the side of the truck with a bandolier slung around her chest, its giant explosive green eggs nestled between her boobs. She pulls out a grenade, yanks the pin out, then takes two big steps and lobs it right into a group of four deadies.

  The explosion isn’t as loud as Edwina anticipates. It shakes the ground, sure. And puffs of smoke pour around the blast, check. Of course body parts fly. One of the dead things, a little girl of about twelve, is tossed into the air and cartwheels over and over until she smashes into two grown-up corpses.

  “And the dead shall walk the earth.”

  “Not that one.” Marcel mutters and then opens up with her sweet-ass machine gun again. Edwina has wanted to test fire it forever but hasn’t found the guts to ask. Marcel spits out two shots per corpse. Gets each one right in the head, for the most part. If they are lurching too much, it becomes more of a challenge. Sometimes they get it in the neck or the chest. But they get it.

  The ground is covered in the things. A few retain enough brain matter to crawl around, but the girls put them out of their misery. The women hoot and catcall as they challenge each other. So far Tonia seems to be in the lead; she has an AK-47, and that fucker never jams. She is on her fourth clip and it’s still rattling away like an old Maytag.

  When none of the bodies moves anymore, the women pack it in. Darla walks around her baby, checking the tires, the sides, the grill. She looks over her shoulder a few times, but none of the zombies comes after her.

  A shape flits across the sky, and Edwina stops in her tracks to stare up at it. The thing glides through a series of graceful acrobatic maneuvers. She wonders if it is some kind of giant hawk or eagle on the hunt.

  It drops, weaves as it falls and settles into a long circular pattern as it draws closer and closer to the ground. Edwina stares for so long her neck aches when she looks back toward the ground.

  “What the fuck?” Marcel asks the question that has to be on everyone’s mind. It is certainly banging around in Edwina’s. A lot of shit is banging around up there. Like the zombies and the guy on the weird horse. None of it can be real. It’s as if she’s on drugs, but if someone drugged her, she wonders who in the hell she just shot.

  The thing loops here and there, and as it falls ever closer, Edwina realizes just how large it is. It’s far too big to be a bird. In fact, it almost looks like someone wearing a big pair of bird wings.

  The shape darts toward the earth and hovers above them. A soft glow emanates from the shape as it descends, feet pointed down, arms at its sides. Edwina gasps at its beauty and wonders if it is God come to take them away.

  It drops ever so slowly, and Edwina can make out more details. A woman’s face, beautiful beyond measure. She has blond hair that sweeps from her brow to fall in soft waves across her back. She is dressed in a skintight suit of some white material that shimmers as it catches the morning sun. A gold circlet is around her waist and another around her head.

  She smiles, and the place of death is illuminated as though someone has switched on a light of peace over the field. Edwina falls under her spell immediately and wants nothing more than to be loved by the apparition. She wants to fall to her knees and worship the beautiful creature with the ten-foot wingspan.

  The moment is interrupted by the chatter of automatic fire. Marcel hefts her rifle up and fires eight rounds at the celestial being. Feathers fly. Blood splatters. A scream tears at the air and makes Edwina want to cover her ears and join in the shrieking. Then the apparition crashes to earth.

  Darla turns to regard Marcel in shock.

  The tall woman has the gun on her hip, barrel sticking up to the side. Smoke still pours out of the hole.

  “That was unexpected,” Marcel shrugs.

  “What the hell have you done, Marcel?”

  “Shot an angel, I think.”

  It is only in the sudden silence that Edwina realizes the music of Heaven had just filled the morning air with its subtle grace.

  “You couldn’t wait and ask a few questions like who and what are you? Or what is going on? Fucking Christ!” Edwina is pissed. She wanted to touch that beautiful creature. She wanted to worship it.

  “I didn’t think I could hurt it.”

  “So you shot it anyway? Couldn’t take a minute to say ‘hey angel chick, are you immune to lead?’”

  “Oh stop your whining. We just killed a fuckload of zombies and you’re freaking out about this? Really? We have bigger things to worry about. Like how we’re going to hunt down those assholes who tried to kill us. Or why the world’s gone all to shit.”

  The women circle the motionless figure on the ground, but none of them dares to touch her. Edwina bends down and peers at the woman’s face. The angelic features move. Eyes open to stare at her. Mouth opens to take a stuttering breath. Edwina drops beside the creature and tugs her head into her lap. She strokes the being’s beautiful hair back and whispers that everything will be all right.

  “Bloody idiots,” the girl whispers, then her eyes roll up in the back of her head and her last breath passes like a spring day. Her hair loses its luster and then falls away in a puff of gray ash. Her face collapses inward, and her body deflates like a molested balloon.

  Edwina scoots backwards, away from the puddle of bubbling green ooze where the body used to be. Darla reaches down to help her up.

  “What the hell is going on?” she gasps as she comes to her feet.

  “Doesn’t matter, we got stuff to do. Men to track. And we need to get a move on,” Marcel says. The stock of the assault rifle rests jauntily against her hip and she looks like she is more prepared for a fashion show than a hunt.

  “It does matter! There are people coming out of the ground. Dead people. Zombies! And we just shot a crapload of them. What the hell is going on?”

  “Those weren’t zombies,” Marcel snaps. “Those were … I don’t know what, but there’s no such thing as zombies.”

  “And I suppose there’s no such thing as angels either?”

  “Not since I shot it down!”

  The bubbling green goo that is the ex-angel smells like sewage, and the girls take a step back, pinching their noses.

  “That ain’t no fucking angel.” Marcel touches Edwina’s shoulder softly.

  “What the hell is going on?!” Edwina screams.

/>   Every Which Way but Fuck

  Nathan Chuzzle picks up his keyboard and contemplates smashing the stupid thing against the desk. He’d tried to dig up some dirt online for the blog, but the connection kept dropping. He jiggled some cables and cursed a good bit. One minute he was on, and the next he got a blank screen. He tried to stay patient, but it was a long lonely walk up that road for Chuzz.

  If he ever gets online, he will go double Chuzz on Chuzzles-guzzle.com ‘where the world can eat my shit.’ He might be a little nuts, but it’s all good, ‘cause his fans love it. All fourteen of them. They adore his ranting, and he tolerates them for it. Most of them. Some people don’t like him, and that isn’t good for them. Chuzz likes to be confrontational. He likes to get back at people, and he has the perfect tool for it.

  He has a computer.

  With just a name he can dig up stuff from everywhere. Facebook, Twitter, Myspace. He can hit them all. He can start posting against his enemies right away. Emailing their friends and telling them what bad people they are. He can start fake Twitter accounts with their names and have a field day.

  He masks his IP by swinging through Sweden, hitting a proxy in Paris, then it’s back to the good ol’ USA where he can do his work and have his revenge.

  Take the aptly named Travis Hole. Hole spoke out about Chuzz on his own forum. Said he was a loser, had a pathetic life. Oh he was going to show Hole what a pathetic life he had, all right. He’d already found out where the guy worked and even gotten an address.

  The craigslist post was pretty easy. It read:

  My name is Travis and I am suffering from a disease that leaves me crippled in a wheelchair. I like men but they are repulsed by me. Please send cock shots to my address because if I stare at a computer screen too long it causes pain from a rare form of eye disease. Call me names, show me cum shots. Please.

  Chuzz logs onto his forum on Chuzzle’s Guzzle. He’s been warning people all week about the end of the world, and now they are all freaking the fuck out saying it isn’t going to happen. Some make fun of him with snide little comments that are slathered in butter. Like he won’t see through them. Like he won’t see what they are really saying.

  He breaks out the banhammer and tosses the worst of them from his board like the little piggies they are. ‘Bye piggies. Have a nice loser piggie life.

  Phil rolls over and tugs a blanket over his bare monkey ass with his one arm. He farts then sticks his finger up his ass, extracts it and sticks it in his mouth. Chuzz tosses him another Jenny Craig bar. “Suck on that, you gross bastard.”

  RING RING. The phone detonates little bursts of color in his head. Pain pills haven't kicked in yet. Depakote hasn't wormed into his head. Buspar hasn't helped him chill out. Zoloft hasn't mellowed him yet. The Viagra sure as fuck has kicked in. Took that shit by accident because TransMedTard sent him the wrong thing. Took a few days to realize it, and now that he has stopped, he can't lose the hard-on. Probably explains why his vision is tinted blue as if he were wearing cyanotic sunglasses.

  His felt posters look good in blue, and when he turns on the black lights, they really freak him out. He stared at one last night for almost an hour while drool ran down his chin. Blame the fucking Depakote. That shit would probably fix Phil if he got a few down his monkey throat.

  RING RING, the phone sounds again and he goes to dig it out from under a pile of old army blankets that are quietly moldering away in a corner.

  The phone is ancient. Seen better days. Hell, it saw better days when Nixon was in office.

  RING RING the stupid ding-fuck-a-ling! What the hell! Hardly anyone ever calls him; he’s not even sure why he has a phone. He got a call from Father Fannery once, down at the Old Bitch Conception Church of Erecting. Thought it was a joke at first until the old fart asked if he knew where he could meet a nice young man and the way he said ‘young’ left no doubt that he meant altar boy age. Then he screamed at the old man, “Why the hell would I know? I hate men and the gays and the people who help gays!” and ended the call with a spectacular spit-blown FUCK YOU.

  Grabs the headset of the phone and listens to a scratchy dial tone that warbles in and out. It fades and then speeds up, and he can’t help but wonder how a solid tone can go faster. Then static and a voice asks if he would like his skin laundered today.

  “What?”

  “I said. Would you. Like to have your. Skin laundered you. Stupid fucking. Monkey.”

  “Phil, it’s for you.” He holds the phone up in the air. Phil gives him the finger for the second time today. The one that was up his ass.

  “... the h double hockey sticks am I doing?” he whispers.

  The monotone on the other end scratches at the phone like it is trying to get out. It stops and starts like an asthmatic trying to sound evil. It doesn’t sound evil. It sounds downright retarded.

  “Leon, that you, you sonofabitch?”

  “Not Leon. Not that easy. Not that easy at all. Not. Leon that lazy. Fuck. Er.”

  “Are you the government?”

  “Not quite. Not. Quite. Now I need. To talk to. You. Face to. Face.”

  More warbling and the line goes dead. The phone line just drops like it fell off a cliff. Then a loud squelching sound rips into his already throbbing brain. He throws the phone down. It hits the pile of old blankets and doesn’t bounce, so he kicks it as hard as he can, which is a big mistake since he’s barefoot.

  “Mother …”

  A knock on the door upstairs cuts off his words. No one visits. Mother doesn’t like it when people visit, so they keep away. She used to keep a potato cannon by the front door that she would try to heft to scare away salesmen. A nice bright biohazard sign does the job now.

  The knock comes again, louder this time. Then the house shakes and shudders, like something fell over outside. Something big.

  Polite knock again, and Chuzz limps to the stairs. They are old and rickety, and he is pretty sure they will kill him one day. He spends enough time stumbling down them after getting fucked up on crème de menthe shooters. Washes those fuckers back with a Reese’s cup and calls it a day after noon. All that booze and all that sugar get him nice and lit up. Then he does his best work on the Web.

  He stumbles against a computer monitor he used to swear he’d toss one day. One day has turned into one year. Pretty soon it’ll be one decade. He kicks that thing too and regrets it the moment he readies his leg. Regrets it again when he swings it and really fucking regrets it when his foot slams into the monitor and his toe curls back the wrong way.

  A whole string of obscenities this time.

  Knock knock.

  “I’m cumming!” Chuzz thrusts his hips at the stairs like he is fucking them. When he finishes that, he plans to fuck up whoever is banging on his door.

  He tugs his sweat-stained shirt over his raging hard-on and walks up the stairs on his sore foot. Limps, staggers, tries not to put pressure on it, which is a bitch because he weighs two forty and change.

  Pictures of the old days line the walls, the days when he and Mother dressed as clowns and went to work at a local fast food joint called The Circus Fat Burger. Most of the food they served went to feed Mother.

  She was bigger then, and when she used to walk around upstairs, it didn’t just make the house groan, it made the poor thing break down in tears.

  As though remembering those days, the house shudders as another earthquake hits. Chuzz holds onto the railing for dear life even though he is only on the third step. The polite double knock comes again, and he is tempted to go downstairs, get his gun, and shoot the knocker in the kneecap.

  He puffs up the stairs and slams open the door. It swings back and hits the wall. This is the part where it normally smacks him in the face. But thanks to all the Viagra, it smacks him right in the cock, and that’s when he loses it.

  “Mother fuck! Mother fuck! I am going to kill the fuck out of you if you are a mother fuck of a door-to-door salesman. I am going to kill you and feed you to Phil! Yo
u hear me?”

  Phil picks that moment to let rip an explosive fart that probably leaves chunks on the wall. Fucking Phil!

  The kitchen is a mess. Mom hasn’t been around the last few days. Probably shacked up with those guys again. The Malore Twins. He shudders at the thought of those former wrestlers tag-teaming his mother. Those poor poor little men.

  The kitchen table is littered with popsicle sticks, and it appears Mother has been hard at work building a new clock. The massive timepiece covers most of the surface area. Mom always did have crafty fingers. There is a pack of Platinum Lung Busters on the table. Big cigarettes without the filter. About the size of cigars but intended for inhalation. He tried one once and puked for half a day. Learned his lesson, because Mom laced them with Pine-Sol.

  The ratty blinds don’t open anymore, so he slips his finger between their greasy slats and peers out. There is a shape in the shade of the porch, but all he can make out is brown.

  “Oh a delivery!” he says and opens the door wide to greet the UPS driver. He is pretty sure he hasn’t ordered anything recently, but maybe they are bringing him something anyway, maybe something he ordered years ago that had slipped through the cracks until now.

  He puts a smile on his face to greet the driver. A big smile that says “Welcome to the neighborhood. I’m glad I don’t have to kill you.”

  The shape doesn’t move so much as unfold. Two talons uncurl where the feet should be. They scratch at the old concrete patio as the shape shifts. Chuzz’s gaze moves up the skinny legs, which end at a brown overcoat.

  Long fingers fall from sleeves that are torn and burned in spots. Black smudges streak along the jacket as though it had caught fire and its owner rolled to put it out. Through the coat’s many holes, Chuzz can see something like smudged gray ash on feathers.