Excerpt from Exponential Apocalypse
Prologue: Thor, God of Housekeeping
“Hi, this is room 218. Can I get a few extra pillows sent up?”
“Why? Were the pillows missing?”
“What? No. I’d just like a few more.”
“There’re four on a bed, and it looks like you have two beds.”
“So?”
“That’s eight pillows.”
“So?”
“So you’re alone. I saw you come in. Alone.”
“What the hell does that matter? You guys rationing out your pillows?”
“I’m just saying that eight pillows is a lot of pillows. Especially for just one person.”
“Jesus, man, I’ve got a sleeping disorder, all right? It’s better for me if I sleep upright.”
“There is an armchair in every room.”
“What? Are you fucking serious?”
“Yes. It’s the thing that looks like an armchair.”
“Don’t get smart with me.”
“You’re making that exceedingly difficult, sir.”
“Look, you son of a bitch, just send up the damn pillows or I’m talking to your manager and getting your ass fired.”
“Fine.”
Thor hung up the phone and looked around the lobby.
“Where’s Paulo?”
“On break,” said his co-worker, Catrina.
“He just took a break.”
“Well, now he took another one.”
“That doesn’t seem right.”
“Just bring the pillows up yourself.”
“It’s demeaning.”
“It’s your job.”
“It’s Paulo’s job.”
“And it’s your job to do his job when he doesn’t.”
“How does that work?”
“Just fucking do it, Thor.”
“This is bullshit,” he muttered as he walked out from behind the service desk.
Thor opened the door to the second floor linen closet and sighed. He grabbed three pillows and started down the hallway, stopping in front of room 218 before sighing again.
Thor raised his hand to knock, but thought better of it. Well, not really “better.”
Thor let two of the pillows fall to the ground and pulled open the pillowcase on the third. He held it up to his ass and farted mightily, pulling the pillowcase closed again as quickly as he could. He rolled the end up tight and repeated the ritual for the other two pillows.
Thor knocked on the door.
“Your pillows, sir.”
Part One: Everyone Died Violently
There had been twenty-two apocalypses to date. There were now four distinct variations of humanity roaming the earth—six, if you counted the undead. It had been suggested that there really should have been a new word to describe “the end of everything forever,” but most people had stopped noticing, much less caring, after the tally hit double digits. Not to mention the failure of “forever” in living up to its potential. The last apocalypse wasn’t even considered a cataclysm by most major governments. It was just a Thursday.
Thor, for his part, still held out hope for Ragnarok, but, seeing as how his mortality stemmed directly from science disproving religion, this wasn’t looking likely.
“Dick didn’t even tip me.”
“Why would he tip you?”
“Because I brought him pillows.”
“That’s not really difficult, dude.”
“OK, yeah, sure. But a little recognition would be nice.”
Thor was still pretty pissed that God of Thunder didn’t carry more weight on a resume.
To be fair, his lust for an actual, factual Armageddon wasn’t so much due to any longing for Asgard as it was a bone-deep hatred for his job as a desk clerk at the Secaucus Holiday Inn. Catrina disliked the job at least as much as Thor did and, near as he could tell, she wasn’t a fallen deity.
“What time you off tonight?” asked Thor.
“Eleven.”
“Want to hit up the diner?”
“Sure.”
The phone rang.
“Hello,” answered Catrina, “Secaucus Holiday Inn.”
Thor assumed the person on the other end of the phone was talking, but he had no real proof.
“Yes, we have an employee named Paulo. He stepped out about twenty minutes ago.”
Thor thought about what he might get at the diner later.
“You’ll have to be more specific. How exactly did he die? He’s just a porter. If he’s a zombie he’s still gotta finish his shift. We’re non-discriminatory.”
Eggs probably. Eggs were good.
“To pieces, you say.”
Fried, maybe. Or scrambled. Yeah. With bacon.
“No, no next of kin. He moved up here from Princeton about a year ago.”
No, wait, sausage. Yeah. Sausage.
“Yeah, the robot thing. Everyone died violently.”
Crap. Now Thor was hungry. And he still had another thirty minutes left on his shift.
“Well, thanks for the info. I’ll pass it along. Bye.”
Catrina turned to Thor and said, “Well, Paulo’s dead.”
“Yeah, I got that much.”
“Fucktard went to Jersey City.”
“Why the hell would he do that? Jersey City was taken by werewolves eight months ago.”
Catrina shrugged, saying, “He said he liked the Subway there better.”
“It’s a full fucking moon, Catrina.”
“Maybe he didn’t notice.”
“It’s been full for the last three weeks.”
“Oh, right, ‘cause of the…”
“Yeah…”
“Well, Paulo wasn’t that bright.”
“What a way to go, though. Mauled to death for a chicken sandwich.”
Ooh. Maybe a chicken sandwich.
“I’m not telling Mark.”
“Aw, come on. I had to tell Mark about the last two.”
“And you’re going to keep telling him. At least until we hire a bellman with a sense of self-preservation anyway.”
Catrina continued, “You know Mark’s got that x-ray implant. I feel violated every time he looks at me.”
“Fine,” said Thor. “But I’m telling him you’re a racist.”
Part Two: Chester A. Arthur Picked Up His Axe
Chester A. Arthur XVII sat on the front steps of his apartment building, cigarette in hand, watching the oncoming zombie horde.
“Braaaaiiiinsss,” said one of the zombies.
“Mrrroarrrgh,” said another.
They shuffled across the parking lot of the complex. Slowly.
Chester A. Arthur XVII, cigarette between his lips, continued to sit on his steps and watch the oncoming zombie horde.
“Guuuuurrrgghhh,” said a zombie.
“Murrrrrrr,” said a different one.
The lead zombie’s arm fell off.
“Buh?”
Three other zombies fell down for entirely unrelated reasons.
Two more turned to the left and lumbered toward a squirrel. Then they fell down, too.
“Moooooooorgh,” said the re-animated corpse of a cow.
“OK,” said the seventeenth clone of assorted residual genetics of the twenty-first President of the United States of America, raising an eyebrow. “Fuck this.”
Chester A. Arthur XVII picked up his axe.
“Look,” he said, approaching the approaching horde. “As I’m sure you are all well aware, I am going to dismember you, with extraordinary violence and speed, and then I am going to set you on fire. However, what you may not know is that I am exceptionally tired this evening and I would prefer not to exert myself physically, if at all possible. I think it would be in everyone’s best interests if you were to simply turn around and stumble away, relocating your ungodly marionette show to some other apartment building.”
The horde quickened its pace.
Well, kind of.
“Grrraaaaaaaagghghhghh!” shouted several of the zombies.
“Blllarrgggh,” said a few others.
“Faaaaaakkkkkkk groooooo,” said one particularly contentious zombie, raising the stump of his right arm.
“That was just uncalled for.”
The zombie in question waggled its stump in reply.
Chester A. Arthur XVII shrugged, then looked at his watch.
“… and, go!”
Chester A. Arthur XVII charged at the horde, beheading the three lead zombies with a single swing of his axe. He took the legs off four more with the next slice. The following three arcs connected with a skull, a face, and a jaw, respectively.
It went on like that for another few minutes, until the parking lot was nothing more than an unsightly heap of assorted zombie pieces.
“Moooooorrrk.”
And one very confused, undead cow.
Like it? Buy it now!
Don’t like it? Buy it anyway!
