ECOPOCALYPSE CH.5 - HOME SWEET LAB

ECOPOCALYPSE CH.5 - HOME SWEET LAB
By Matthew C. Plourde

Your hands shake as you connect the wires to the companion cooling tank. Sweat greases your fingers. Your face rotates between flushed and clammy. You know you’re not sick. This is just that sinking feeling you get before totally losing it.

Mum and Milo are dead. Your life is dissolving to shit around you. And you may be responsible for more deaths than any other individual in the history of the human race.

Great. And here you are, affixing a souped-up coolant tank to a shitter.

Flush the release chamber. Connect the ground. Wipe brow through the hazmat suit. Release the gas into the vapor chamber. Fill the caustic chamber—slowly. Steady hands.

“The suit will protect you,” Madge says, her voice muffled behind her oversized, protective helmet.

Deciding she could do more good at the lab, Madge decided to accompany you in the helicopter. Though you saw a few sludge zombies shambling around the outside of the building, the lab’s only reminder of their presence is long streaks of fudge along the walls and floors. Thank God for the hazmat suit!

“There,” you declare, stepping away from the Environaut as it quietly purrs to life.

Madge steps to your side. “What did you do?”

“Connected a supplemental cooling system to account for the caustic soda from the mercury. It should block the mercury poison from going gaseous and causing… well, you know.”

She looks into your eyes and asks, “Should?” Memories of your childhood together leap to your mind—it was a typical Madge I’m not sure you know what you’re doing expression. She wore that look a lot. You never were in control of anything. Especially not now.

This time, however, you know your own stuff. Milo’s notes refreshed your memory about some early mercury units which failed. Milo had a solution. The co-coolant unit will do the trick, but you slouch into a chair when you realize the truth.

“It’ll work,” you say, defeated. “But what’s the point? We can’t produce and get this out to millions of units today. I’m not a fuckin’ medical doctor or pharm expert. I can’t make a cure for the mercury poisoning. All I can do is fix the Environaut, not the frothing feces-flingers. The damage is already done.” You kick the table. “Shit.”

Never one to surrender, Madge puts her hands on her hips and stares down at you. “You fucked up. Fine. That’s in the past. I told the president’s CDC liaison that we’ll have a fix for the millions of units in American homes.” She turns to the altered Environaut on the table. “Am I looking at that fix?”

You nod, still empty with defeat. Only one thing makes sense.

“We just have to wait it out,” you say, your voice barely a whisper.

“Wait. What?”

You glance at your sister and say, “The people know to avoid the Environauts. And those who have used them are fucked anyway. Without a cure, we’ll have some new infections crop up. We just have to give this design to whoever can mass produce and distribute installations of it.”

“The president ordered the shutdown of all power grids!” Madge said. “And who knows how many can respond to that request. For all we know, the employees have been turned into shit zombies, headed home to try and save their families—or died in the chaos.”

She’s right. How could anyone possibly manufacture and distribute this fix to millions of homes across America and the world? Never mind convincing thousands of skilled handymen/women to install the units while poo monsters fling chocolate sludge-pies at them.

A laugh escapes your lips involuntarily. Then another. Soon, you are cackling like a maniac as you realize what you've really done: you caused the apocalypse. It wasn’t meteors or aliens or nuclear war that did the earth in; it was you and your magical toilet.

You close your eyes to the world and laugh because it’s the only thing that makes sense at the moment. The only thing keeping you totally from the dark chasm of total insanity. The only thing you can do.

Eventually, you snap out of your moment of hysteria and only the occasional half-laugh interrupts you.

Madge sighs. “Wow. Thought I lost you there for a moment. What the fuck was that?”

You don’t answer as you keep your dead eyes fixed on a blinking light near the corner of the room.

“Well, I don’t think that’s an option,” she says. “Let’s get this unit to the CDC and see if they can help. It’s why they exist, after all.”

You look up at your sister and see determination in her eyes.

What do you do?

A. Hole up in the lab and wait out the shit storm. It'll all blow over, right?

B. Go with Madge to the CDC with the fixed Environaut. They will will know what to do, right?

C. Get your shit together and call in all your favors--maybe you CAN make an antidote to save the poo zombie population. You are a scientist, after all...

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.3 - SWEAT OUT SOME ANSWERS

BLOOD ON THE HARDWOOD CONCRETE CH.3 - SWEAT OUT SOME ANSWERS

By Matthew C. Plourde

The broad from Different Happyness wasn't kidding; someone actually lived in those complexes beside the sewage processing facility. The smell here on those sweat-locker summer days must be as rancid as the Chief's daily swamp ass. Slowing down, you notice a few lights valiantly attempting to give the dilapidated apartments the semblance of civilized life. Even when you were desperate you had never lived in a place like this. At least, you hope you never would... good thing you refrained from popping the Chief.

Your rusty Ford Escort, with all 200,000 miles heaped upon its weary frame, shudders to inactivity and you sling your feet into a puddle. 

"Shit."

You sniff the acrid air and aren't certain the puddle is composed entirely of water. Did someone actually piss beer in the parking lot? 

Let's get this over with, you think as you approach the crooked apartment complex.

You light a cancer stick and inspect the scrap of paper again: Building 3, Apt 21. The cracked path winds behind the first complex and you see them. They beat you here and they are already on a basketball court.

Sweetwater notices you and trots in your direction.

"Where's my phone?" he asks.

You savor the moment by blowing a cloud of smoke in his face. Rocking on your heels, you smile.

"Give it up!" Sweetwater pleads as he reaches for your coat.

You push his hand away and produce the goods. "Simmer down, Nancy. It's right here. I only used it to call your mom and thank her for a great night last night."

Sweetwater snatches the phone and checks the device as he walks away, muttering to himself about someone's mother. Or, maybe it is some other phrase with the word "mother" in there. You didn't hear and you don't care.

You approach the scene with the rest of the team and groan.

"Are you guys really gonna play? Now?" you ask.

Twiggy does his one eyebrow up and one eyebrow down thing, bulging one eye comically, and says, "These kids think they can take us old men! You believe that?"

Curly slaps you on the back and says, "We'll be here if you need us for backup. Yeah, backup."

"Lousy, good-for-nothing..." You traipse off towards building 3, one hand inside your coat and your cig in your other hand.

Your ascent to the second floor via the concrete staircase is serenaded by the sound of bouncing basketballs and hoots. Unfortunately, the stench of the nearby sewage has now inundated your clothes. One more thing to throw onto the fire with your office chair. First, the pork-filled rage from the Chief, then the tiny flasher, and now the shitbox. 

This is going to be one long night.

You find apartment 21 and you realize the night just got longer: bogus address. Nobody lives in building 3. Only building 1 appears to be occupied.

"Fuuuuuuuuuuccck..." you whisper to yourself as you check to ensure nobody is around. Nope, it's all clean. Well, dirty, but empty.

"Arrrgghhh!!"

 

You pull your pistol and scan the area. The scream came from the basketball court. Rushing to the scene, you see Meadowlark clutching his ankle.

"It's just twisted," he says.

"I'll call an ambulance," Sweetwater says as he touches the screen of his phone.

Meadowlark limps to the grass and says, "I told you I don't need no ambulance! Put that shit away."

"Aiight."

Curly looks in your direction and says, "You find yer guy?"

You shake your head and reach for another cigarette.

"You gotta play, then," he says and you nearly spit your unlit cigarette from your mouth. "Hey, I got fifty bucks on this game!"

You examine the other team: youthful and muscled teens from building 1, no doubt. They grin as they inspect your squat, just-shy-of-300 pounds frame. God certainly designed you better for sitting in a car (or couch) and navigating the occasional staircase, not basketball.

"Go to hell, I'm not playing," you say.

Curly puts his lanky arm around your shoulder and says, "If you do, Sweetwater will look up that address on his phone. It can find all kinds of wacky shit. Like, say, who used to live there. Maybe your guy gave an old address and you can still find him?"

Damn. The 'Trotters know their crime, no mistaken that. The idea makes sense. Heck, you played basketball in high school. Well, you went to a few games. That's gotta count for something! Doc said you need to exercise more, so maybe this can count for the month. —year?

"Fine," you say as you remove your jacket.

 

You do your best to stay out of everyone's way. The game flows from one side of the court to the other and you jog to at least feign some interest. Luckily the ball never comes in your direction.

 

After a few minutes (hours?), you start huffing. The lasagna sits like a cinder block in your gut and you swear it tried a jailbreak more than once. Panting at the center of the court, you decide you are finished. Heart thumping. Sweat drenching. Knees shaking. Screw the Harlem Globetrotters for blackmailing you into this. Screw them all.

"Look alive!" Sweet Lou shouts. "We need this score!"

Your sluggish brain catches up with the action around you and you notice one terrifying fact: that Spaulding is headed right for you!

Somehow, you wrap your meaty fingers around the ball's bumpy surface and your arm erupts in pain. Did he have to throw so hard? Then, your eyes widen. Those young boys on the other team are streaking towards you!

Like a maniac, you try to dribble and run towards the hoop at the same time. You reign in the ball using two hands and pump your legs faster to try and avoid the inevitable clash of athlete vs. lasagna-lovin'-never-has-been. Exhilaration arrives when you realize you are going to get your shot before they reach you. 

You stretch skywards with the ball and collapse as your chest explodes in torrents of agony and ripping. You convulse and vomit some of the lasagna, though most of it just stays in the middle of your throat, stuck in traffic. Your chest constricts like someone is pulling your skin and bones from your spine. As everything tightens beyond your ability to remain conscious, you know what's happening. It's exactly how your father and grandfather died.

Before the world goes black you think you hear Sweetwater say "Heart attack!"

THE END

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