ECOPOCALYPSE CH.2 - TO THE DELOREAN!

ECOPOCALYPSE CH.2 - TO THE DELOREAN! By Annie Evett

You pound the table for emphasis. “ Listen up here, you bunch of sissies. You get paid the big bucks to react to shit like this. Do your freaking job.”

Milo bites his hand to stifle a giggle. The stress has obviously gotten to him.

“Where the hell is the Marketing team?”

A manicured hand shoots up in the back. “Maria Britanny from Marketing.”

You point at her. “Get a spin on this; blame the Chinese for their poor work practices and child labor factories. India can’t withdraw their contract. Remind them that most of the online and phone support from a large proportion of tech companies are routed to them, and they will lose billions if they do withdraw. Korea has problems with its whole weirdo government and hairstyles. Do something with that, will you?”

“Uh, the hairstyles of the government?” Someone clears his throat. “Are you talking about North Korea?”

“What?” You bluster. “Aren’t they the same place? North, South, not that different surely.”

The boardroom shuffles uncomfortably as a dozen sets of eyes bore into the table in front of them.

“What about Sweden?” quavers a question from the sides.

“I hate them because they all look so damned healthy and happy outdoors.” You puff your chest out, filled with an unnatural confidence. You feel like J.R. from the old Dallas show.

Paul Poppins from Public Relations glares across the table at the head of Marketing. “I think you’ll find that Public Relations will do a better job at negotiating those areas, rather than the gloss and pomp department.”

A shriek cuts the air as Maria’s manicured hands find their way around Paul’s throat.

“I don’t give a rats ass who does it. Make it so.” You look off into the distance, wishing you’d mentioned number two or tried for a better Pickard voice.

Todd Brammers taps on his iPad, darkening the room and illuminating the wide expanse of one of the walls. You wish he would use up to date equipment. He projects several channels of live news reports into spots around the wall. Images of tattered humanoids stumble across the wall. Wide-eyed reporters breathlessly relate to their audiences what they are experiencing—that is, until the shit-covered masses reach the TV crew and the camera is dropped, the operator is dragged away or fled. Real life re-enactments of the Blair Witch Project are relayed on multiple screens. Screams are cut off into gurgling, pathetic drowning sounds. You gulp.

“There is no way of making this go away with marketing OR public relations. Environaut is the cause for all of this. We need to shut down immediately and regroup under Chapter 11.”

You push your hands through your hair. You don’t even know what Chapter 11 is.

“Fine!” You yell. “ Do the Chapter 11 thing. Shut down production—but I still want my spin happening.” You cling to the J.R. image.

“Will you be coming with us then?” Scott Black, the Head of Mergers and Acquisitions, asks you.

“What? Me? No, Milo and I need to check out the Flux Capacitors and gamma reactors in the proton isolators. Science geek stuff. You know.”

Nods from around the room confirm that none of them understand what that means, but they are all relieved that they have a plan to execute without the CEO breathing down their necks.

“Come on Milo, we need to go.” You grab Milo's coat jacket and shove him through the door.

He explodes with laughter. “What the hell was that in there? Flux capacitors? And you know you still have shit on your forehead.”

You wipe it off. “If you’re not with me, go back to the boardroom and do whatever Chapter 11 is,” you fume. “This shit has gotten serious. I can’t understand what’s come unraveled and how it's happened so quickly.” You both stride toward the exit.

“So what's the plan, Kimo Sabe?”

“Get back to the DeLorean and just drive. I do my best thinking when I'm on the road.” Your mind is rattling off possibilities, reformulating the plans of the Environaut.

You and Milo climb into the car and exit the carpark. Hal waves as you leave, not bothering to stand. You are sure he is laughing behind the magazine in front of his face. The outer perimeter of the security fence surrounding the Smart EcoGen HQ is slowly filling with picketers. You drive out as quickly as you can, hoping they won't notice you.

“It can’t be the recycling processors,” you mumble.”That had been tested for years in the earlier versions.” You steer the car onto the freeway and headed south. If nothing else, a trip to Mexico would clear the mind.

“What does this thing do?” Milo pokes a covered switch.

“Surely the diagnostic console didn’t reboot after the—”

“Hey, if I push this, will anything happen?” Milo doesn't wait for an answer and pushes the red, candy-like button. The DeLorean accelerates suddenly. The speedometer slowly creeps up to 88 miles per hour.

“Did you say something about a Flux Capacitor?” Milo grins. ‘Don’t thank me now. Let's go back in time and fix this mess. Then you can shower me with gifts and double my salary.”

The body of the car begins to shake as the inside glows blue. You take your hands off the wheel. You paid a mint for the car, and the previous owner stressed its authenticity. You grin, suddenly thinking of all the dumbass things you are going to fix up on your trip back in time. You decide you will scrap the Environaut and introduce either the Wii or Xbox to the market years before the original developers have a whiff of an idea of the gaming platforms. Hell, you may decide to do both.

Dials on the dashboard spin. “Shit. We need to set a date. Let's set it for when we met at college, convince ourselves not to bother and —”

“Just set the date, idiot. We are nearly at 88 miles per hour.”

“And running out of clear road.” The freeway ends, and you enter suburbia.

The speedometer slowly creeps around as the car surges forward. Tiny blue lights flash within the cabin. You cover your eyes. “It's 88 miles an hour. So long present day. You suck!”

The Delorean slams into the wall of a low set apartment block. Glass splinters as the steering wheel drives its way through your chest. Your ribs shatter as your lungs burst from the sudden impact. Your neck whips back and forth, breaking in the process. It flops to the side as blood seeps out of your nose and mouth. Milo’s body is ripped apart from the impact. Gore hangs in tendrils in what is left of the Delorean.

You seriously didn’t think a flux capacitor exists, did you? Back to the start.

Oops...Return to Chapter 2

ECOPOCALYPSE CH.2 - WHERE TO, HOT SHOT?

ECOPOCALYPSE CH.2 - WHERE TO, HOT SHOT?
By Jax Hix

“Well, Hot Shot, where to?  Back to the Future, Marty?” asks Milo sarcastically as he runs his hands along the instrument panel of the DeLorean.

“I—uh, well, uh…” you stammer, still struggling to shake off the hangover fuzz that has enveloped your brain. “We should . . .“

“We should what? “ screeched Milo, looking nervously at the stairway, the DERP on his forehead rippling as he raised his brow. “Hello, McFly?  Lynch mob?  Remember them?”

“Oh, well, it’s a thick door…ish,” you blurt out, looking at the keys in your hand and back at the screen, your heart sinking  at the video feed outside of your bedroom door as the protestors tear it to wooden shreds with your priceless collection of Samurai swords, battle axes and battering rams.   The sinking feeling is replaced with panic when you see they have Rosalinda with them, realizing that you’d given the entrance to the secret room and the authorization code away to her by entering it in a drunken stupor resulting from the last company holiday party, when she was turning down your bed.

You turn your eyes away from the splintering bedroom door and toward the feed around your secret garage and the only remaining escape route.  You snarl to yourself when you realize the news crew has set up next to it, as of yet unprepared to film your getaway for the 5 o’clock news. 

“Just great,” you mutter sarcastically. “Let’s see Public Relations put a positive spin on THIS.”

“What?” replied Milo, talking into the glove box he was now exploring.

“Oh, nothing.  I was just wishing I’d equipped the DeLorean with a flux capacitor, that’s all,” you reply flippantly and lift the driver door to get in.  You mumble a silent prayer as you put the key in the ignition, hoping for the best.   The engine turns but doesn’t catch. 

Milo looks at you with hostility. “In all that planning, did it occur to you to put gas in it?”

“Well, of course!” you lie as your eyes fall quickly to the gauge relieved to find it full. “It’s just been sitting awhile.  Let me try it again.”

This time the engine catches and you rev it for good measure, tossing a wink at Milo. “You see?  This is why I’m the head Muckety Muck.”

“Pedal to the metal, Mr. Cluckety Cluck,” shouts Milo as he puts on his seatbelt. “Where we headed?”

“Out of this mess and into damage control,” you declare as you gun the engine, squealing the tires on the concrete floor and shooting up the ramp to the hidden garage door like a torpedo, leaving the Batcave in a cloud of engine fuel and burnt rubber.  As you round the corner on the ramp, you catch a glimpse in the rear view mirror in time to see Rosalind and the protestors entering the secret room.  “Forget quitting, she’s fired,” you grumble.

The motion of the car opens the door and Gail Silverman and her camera crew dive out of the way just in time as you dash past them and down the driveway, swerving to avoid flying feces and screaming protestors.  You can see the cameraman filming your escape in the taillights.

“Well, that was fun!” declared Milo. “Let’s NEVER do it again, shall we?”

“Oh, come on, Milo!  You love my parties!  Remember that time in Aspen?”

“Hey, now, I had to pay quite a bit of money to that farmer to compensate him for the trauma to the donkey.  I’m still under a gag order and so are you, you know, “ Milo shot back.

“Gagged something, is right,” you giggle, giddy at your escape.  Reaching over to crank up the music, you turn the steering wheel toward Smart EcoGen and try desperately not to think about your mint condition comic books covered in poo.

The next 20 minutes are relatively uneventful, although your nose announces you may not have done as great a job as you’d have liked at avoiding the flung feces.  You turn in to the executive parking garage entrance to the building and reach for your wallet card, only to realize your wallet is back at the house in your pants.  You shoot a quick glance down and realize your shorts are actually boxer shorts and are also not yours, and judging by the brown stain on your crotch they are also on backwards.  You grin to yourself and think perhaps you did manage to avoid the flung feces afterall.  You ask Milo if he happens to have his wallet card on him and are greeted with a look of surprise, quickly followed by searching and then a shrug.

Steeling yourself for the upcoming interchange, you roll up to the security guard side of the gate.  “Hey, Hal, how are you today?”

“I’m doing well, and how are you?” replies the guard as he looks up from his paper, his question dwindling away as he takes in the sight of his CEO wearing backwards boxer shorts and the VP DERP in the passenger seat.

“As you can see, neither of us have our wallet cards to get into the building, Hal,” you respond, “And we’d be greatly appreciative if you’d let us in and perhaps send Dolores down with a couple of suits?  You do great work here, Hal, so great, I think you are overdue for a raise…if you can keep this, ah, between us?”

“Sure thing,” Hal says through gritted teeth, trying desperately not to laugh or smile as he buzzes open the gate. “I’ll have Dolores meet you at your parking spot.”

“Thank you, Hal,” you say with as much mustered dignity as you can manage under the circumstances.

“Well, that went well, didn’t it?” says Milo.

“Shut up, Milo!”

“Yes, SIR,” Milo giggles.

Dolores is waiting for you at the edge of your parking spot. “We’ve got a real crisis on our hands!  The board is upstairs and there is panic of a level I have never seen before!”

You and Milo scramble to get dressed, and you curse internally when she mentions the DERP to Milo. “I’ll catch up, I’ve got to go take care of the DERP, and screw you for not bringing it up!”  Milo spits in his hand and starts rubbing his forehead.

“You missed a spot, Milo.” Smirking, you follow Dolores upstairs in the executive elevator. 

You enter the boardroom, feeling very much like you’ve been sent to the Principal’s office.  You secretly wish you had been sent to the principal’s office.  The board room is buzzing with screaming and flailing of arms, pie charts and media reports. 

“What’s the situation?” you declare as your presence causes silence to fall.

“This has gone viral!  VIRAL!” screams the head of Public Relations, Paul Poppins. “And you, with your great escape – a nightmare!”

“Our stocks are down 60% and falling, we’re tanking, we’re finished!” pipes in the Head of Mergers and Acquisitions, Scott Black.  "The governments of Korea, China, India and Sweden have pulled their contract offers!"

The Head of the Legal Division, Todd Brammers, cuts in. “Lawsuits are already being filed! We must regroup under Chapter 11!” He is also cut off as everyone again begins shouting, all at once.

“An environmental disaster that will blacken the Earth for generations!”

“We’ve got to get ahead of this bad publicity!”

“Can I get some coffee over here?!?”

“What are our projections for the European market?”

“Quiet!” You yell, your head pounding.  The room falls silent.  You look at their stoic faces and can’t decide where to start.  After all, you’re a science geek at heart, not a CEO.  Stick with what you know, Kiddo.

Will you...

1. Head to the lab to talk to the development team to find out what went wrong?

2. Start planning damage control on the administrative side of things?

3. Run back downstairs to the DeLorean and see if you really can't travel back in time?

ECOPOCALYPSE CH.1 - JUST DRIVE!

ECOPOCALYPSE CH.1 - JUST DRIVE! By Wayne DePriest

You slip into the seat and crank the engine. Your DeLorean is one of the ‘AXI’ models, so you’re sitting on the right. You thought it was cool when you bought the car. One of the advantages of this model is it doesn’t have all the crap forced on it by the government for sale in the US, so it’s gonna be fast—just what you need at a time like this. The engine catches, you hit another button on the remote, and another garage door opens behind you, revealing a well-lit tunnel.

“What the hell?” Milo exclaims.

One more click and the car starts to rotate.

“Holy shit!” Milo is wide-eyed. “This is too cool! You never told me about this!”

“It was my little secret. My version of the Batcave.”

“Where does it go?” Milo asks as the car stops rotating, now pointed straight at the mouth of the tunnel.

“I don’t know,” you say as you drop the tranny into first and hit the gas. “I’ve never used it.”

The car leaps forward and shoots into the tunnel. You double clutch and hit second. Then third. The lights are a blur as you and Milo barrel down the tunnel. You shift into fourth and see the tunnel curve to the right ahead of you. Around the corner you see the end of the tunnel. The opening is obscured by some kind of brush. You figure the builder put it there to camouflage the entrance because he’d seen your Batman collection. The brush can’t be too dense, certainly not enough to stop a DeLorean. Milo grabs the seat belt, slams the buckle home and presses his feet against the floorboards.

“Are we doing 88 yet?” Milo’s laugh is just a bit hysterical.

“Close,” you say, glancing down at the speedometer.

“Be the shits to bust through into 1985 or something.”

Just before the DeLorean hits the brush, the obstruction drops away. You realize there’s a pressure switch under the floor of the tunnel, like at a busy intersection for a left turn. The car shoots out of the tunnel and rockets onto a weed grown two lane track through a stand of trees. You back off of the gas as the car jounces over the uneven ground.

Milo’s whooping and hollering like a kid on a thrill ride at the state fair. You’re trying to keep the damn car on the road so you don’t slam into one of the trees. Up ahead you see some blue sky, fewer trees. You’re breathing a bit easier as the car slips between the last trunks. Your foot stomps on the gas pedal and the car leaps forward the last few yards to the top of the hill.

And over.

Only there isn’t any over. There isn’t any anything. Except a long Thelma and Louise drop into the jumble of heavy equipment eighty feet below where they’re constructing another Environaut. The front end of the DeLorean crashes into the bucket on a front loader. The stainless steel folds like an unpaired poker hand. You and Milo are thrown forward as the engines pushes through the firewall, crushing both of your legs against the seat. Milo’s seatbelt snaps from the strain. Your head bounces off the steering wheel while Milo’s bursts through the windshield. A broken nose for you, to go with the mangled legs. Milo’s nose breaks, too, but not until his head rolls off the crumpled hood, bounces off a tire of the loader and lands face first in the dirt. Blood is running out of your nose, but not as much as is pumping out of Milo’s neck stump and you frantically pull at the seatbelt, thumb jabbing the button to release it. The pain in your legs and nose is making you dizzy as you struggle with the door. It won’t open. You start to puke from the smell and sight of Milo’s headless corpse. Knowing a human body voids waste when it dies is not the same as being trapped in a car with the body doing the voiding. The vomit splashes against the window when you turn your head. Physics being what it is, some of the nasty bounces back into your mouth, which sets off another round of ralphing. Somehow you manage to crank down the vomit-covered window and pry your useless legs free. The smell of smoke kicks a burst of adrenaline into your bloodstream.  You pull yourself through the window and tumble to the ground eight feet below, landing on your left shoulder and snapping the collar bone. A scream escapes your lips as the bone breaks and your mutilated legs flop into the dirt. A loud whump! makes you look up at the car teetering in the bucket above you. The gas tank has exploded, upsetting the delicate balance of the car. Bits of flaming debris hit you, scorching your clothes, your face, your arms. But it’s nothing compared to sight of the flaming DeLorean tipping backwards and slipping off the bucket. The last thing you see is the vanity plate.

Up close.

SHT HPNS

Oops...Return To Chapter 1

ECOPOCALYPSE CH.1 - MONDAY

ECOPOCALYPSE CH.1 - MONDAY By Tomara Armstrong

You’re vaguely aware that the sun has risen. Shades of pink paint the inside of your eyelids, while the memory of last night is a blur of alcohol-scented flesh-colored money. You just want to sleep it off, but the swamp of saliva you’re resting in keeps bubbling and tickling 

your nose, preventing a deep, restful sleep.

The door rattles and footsteps cross the room. You’re pretty sure it’s Monday, which means Rosalinda, your cleaning lady, is here to clean up your weekend shenanigans.  She kicks a gaming controller across the floor on her way to the kitchen and flicks on the television. You don’t care that she’s cursing you in a foreign tongue—your leather sofa is like a cloud 

sent from heaven, cuddling you ever so gently.

Your head throbs, and you groan as Rosalinda pitches last night’s bottles and cans into the enviro-bin. You roll over, covering your head with a pillow, exposing your bare ass.

At what point last night did you lose your pants?

You shrug it off and smile, trying to ignore the draft and push further into your cavernous sofa.

She turns up the volume on the television, loudly announces that she intends to run the vacuum, and strongly suggests that you seek the comfort of one of your many bedrooms. You grunt, pulling the pillow tighter around your head, trying to drown out the TV.

… Our investigative reporter Gail Silverman is live on the scene. Gail?

Thanks, Dave. I’m standing outside of Smart EcoGen, President and CEO...

Your eyes pop open. Did she say your name?

Surely not. You close your eyes again, trying to get comfortable.

Picketers have started camping out in front of the mansion since reports first started pouring in that their popular waste recycling generator, the Environaut, is responsible for a slew of health related problems cropping up around the world. President and CEO…

You sit up. She definitely said your name. You fumble for your glasses and accidentally spill a beer on your cover of Scientific American. “Shit!”

...has yet to make a comment, but a Smart EcoGen representative stated early this morning…

You jump up, flinging the beer across the floor and onto the TV. Rosa shoots you the stink eye and stomps off down the hall.

…are looking into the reports, but insisted that the safety of the public has always been first and foremost…

You’re ashamed. Ashamed that you had too much to drink, ashamed that you had too many friends over, and ashamed that you burned the other copies of Scientific American to make s’mores—ten copies with you on the cover, sacrificed in the name of snacks.

…What started as a peaceful display of vulgar signs and chanting has become more…

While you mentally make the vow to NEVER drink again, something hits your window.

…Oh my god, Dave! Protestors are flinging…feces at the mansion! This peaceful protest just got ugly.

Your stomach turns as the clods of human waste thud against your home. Rosalinda is going to quit for sure.

“What happened to your pants?” You swing around and see your best friend, Smart EcoGen VP, Milo Sabe, sprawled out on an angora rug. While he has pants, he also has a moustache and “DERP” written across his forehead—you’re guessing with Sharpie.  You keep the information to yourself as you dig a pair of shorts out from under your couch.

“You hear what’s going on?” you ask, slipping on your shorts.

“Protestors outside—throwing shit? Yeah, I heard.” He rubs his eyes, shaking his head.

“What’s that about?” You walk over to the window and peer outside. “Uh…”

Outside, picketers have scaled the outer walls of your property and are quickly crossing the lawn toward the house. They’re dirty—real dirty. So dirty, in fact, you think that they’ve covered themselves in the very stuff they were flinging at your home moments earlier.

Milo jumps as a window breaks. You back away slowly at first, but as the bodies begin pulling themselves into the room and blood drips down the broken class, you decide it’s time to go.

“Come on!” You pull Milo’s shirt and run off down the hall, leaving the protestors' incoherent shrieks behind you. They’re still trying to get into the house and starting your way.

Heading toward the center of the house, you slip in a puddle of water in the hallway. You skid to a stop, but Milo slams into you, sending you through a bathroom door. You quickly hop to your feet, averting your eyes. “Sorry, Rosa.”

She is sitting on the toilet with her head down. The water is on, and the tub is overflowing.

“Rosa?”

She lifts her head, and looks at you, chewing on her thumb.  “Are you ok?”

Her bloodshot eyes stare through you, as she peels the fingernail off with her teeth and spits it at you. You watch it hit your chest and fall to the floor, sinking into the pool of water collecting at your feet. Drops of blood swirl for a fraction of a second then disappear with the current.

You feel beer vomit tickling the back of your throat as Milo pulls you back into the hall and gives you a shove. “Time to go!”

The sickness fades as you run toward your bedroom. Once inside the room, you slam and lock the door.

“What now?” Milo’s eyes scan the room as you palm your bookshelf, remembering the access combination for the secret passageway. “Plan ahead” was your motto when you had the house built five years ago—it’s finally paying off.

“Aha!” The door swings open and you pull Milo into the dark hallway.  You can hear protestors banging on the door as you close the entrance and head down toward the emergency bunker below the house.

Your hand traces the wall, flipping on the light. The fluorescent bulbs buzz and pop, illuminating a massive room filled with cutting edge technology.

“What the hell, Bruce Wayne? How long have we been friends? You never told me you had a Batcave. I hate you,” Milo says.

“Oh, shut up. What’s the point of having all this money if I can’t indulge in a little frivolous spending?”

“A little?” Milo snorts, looking over the extreme gadgetry and flickering control panel. “I want a raise.”

You fire up a large display, push several buttons, and instantly you can see the whole perimeter of the house as well as many of its rooms. It’s quickly filling with protestors. You see their painted faces and wild eyes on the monitors. A thought creeps into your head and you shiver. They’re hunting you.

Milo is staring at the screen too—the color drained from his face. “What button do I push for the Batmobile? You have one right?”

“Uh… Yes and no.”

You press a button and the room begins to vibrate. A door opens, revealing an impressive display room filled with boxes of comics ordered alphabetically. Action figures fill glass displays—some loose, others with original packaging. In the middle of the room, on a pedestal, sits the Batmobile—a miniature replica fit for a circus clown.

“Shit.” Milo deflates. “That’s not going to get us out of here.”

“No, but I have a car.” You smile and press another button. A garage door opens, exposing a custom DeLorean DMC-12.

“Of course you do,” Milo rolls his eyes. “Does it run?”

“Sh-yeah.”  You think it does anyway.

Milo hops in the car and you grab the keys, pondering your plan of action. 

Should you:

A. Head to Smart EcoGen HQ and see if you find out what's going on;

B. Hold your ground and take back your house; or

C. Screw this! Just drive!