ECOPOCALYPSE CH. 4 - I WANT MY DADDY

ECOPOCALYPSE CH. 4 - I WANT MY DADDY
By Nandy Ekle

He’s gone. Milo is gone. Your best friend’s death is like a sharp finger poking you right in the middle of your forehead. You’re sitting across from Madge and she’s just going on and on, talking about what you have to do to fix this, but all you can think about is the fact that Milo died in a stew of his own sewage.

“Hello?  Earth to Mr. Poopy President. Are you listening to me at all?”

You look up from where your eyes are fixated, staring at a brown stain under your fingernail. Where exactly had that brown stain come from? Was it from the flying fecal matter at your house as you ran away? And what about that running away thing? What kind of leader runs away from his problems?

You look up into Madge’s eyes. “What?”

“I said, what kind of a leader runs from his problem?”

A gasp blasts out of your mouth. Did she read your mind? You’re sure you thought the question up yourself; or did she plant it in your brain? Does she have psychic abilities you never knew about? And how come you never got a share of that?

“I, um . . .”

Her eyebrows are scrunched up and her mouth is posed in a pucker as if she actually expects you to say something intelligent.

The answer suddenly pierces through your consciousness. Screw it! Screw them all! Your business is tanked. Your reputation looks like the offending crap all over your house. Your best friend is dead. And now your sister demands you pay attention to her as if she were the smartest person in the world. You don’t need this. You don’t need any of it and you damn sure don’t have to put up with it.

You stand up and turn your back to her in mid-sentence.  “Go to hell,” you say as you walk toward the door.

“Get back here! We have to get this worked out!”

You run out the door and head for the stairs leading up to the roof. You need to get away just for a moment to mourn Milo, your mom, your career, your life. You need . . . fishing. Madge said your dad was on the yacht in the Pacific. You feel a sudden urge to pull on Daddy’s pant leg and beg to be hugged and rocked to sleep.

As you reach the roof you jump in the chopper and aim it toward the west, your main thought: “I want my daddy!” The sun glints off the water below you—or is it the water leaking from your eye?

Surprisingly, Dad’s boat is not far out on the sea and the size of the yacht makes it easy enough to spot. Lowering the copter to the deck you jump out of the aircraft. You see your sixty-year-old father running toward you.

“Dad!” You throw your arms out to him as you yell his name.

Instead of taking you in his arms for a comforting paternal hug, he pulls his fist back and punches you a hard one across your jaw. Rubbing your face, you look at the man who raised you. “What the?” You ask in a stunned tone.

“Get the hell off my boat, you murderer!”

“It wasn’t my fault! The lab substituted components in the formula! I didn’t do it! I swear!”

“You sold those things all over the world and got rich off people’s doody, boy. I don’t want your disease close to me. I don’t want anything to do with you again. Now get this confounded whirlybird off my boat before I throw you and your toy overboard.”

“But you’re my dad. You’re supposed to be on my side.” The man who had helped you build a Pine Derby race car for scouts when you were eight years old now looks as though he would harpoon you like a whale and gut you like a fish.

“My wife is gone, and your sister probably will be too if she keeps working with your zombies. Even the dog died. You’re no boy of mine.” He takes a couple of steps toward you. “I didn’t raise you to turn the world into sewer zombies.” 

As you stand there rubbing your jaw, your father grabs your arm, runs you to the side of the boat and pushes you over. You hit the water and the only thought in your head is that the brown stain under your fingernail will finally be washed away.

The rhythmic sound of a cello plays from somewhere in the air. Your dad looks not in your direction, but past you. He laughs and points, and you’re afraid he’s gone crazy and will jump in and drown you.

As you start to swim toward the yacht, the cello music gets louder and more intense. Then a new thought jumps into your mind as you feel something massive brush against your leg. You know that music! As the identity of the sound gels in your mind you see the circle of red around you grow larger. Suddenly your left leg is cold. LEG? What leg? You realize your left leg is missing and the blood is coming from you.

You open your mouth to scream for your daddy when the giant great white shark clamps on your other leg and pulls you under.

Oops...return to chapter 4

ECOPOCALPYSE CH.3 - ROOKIE BLUE POOP THUNDER

ECOPOCALYPSE CH.3 - ROOKIE BLUE POOP THUNDER By James McShane

On any other day, flying your helicopter over the vast metropolis would be a thrill akin to becoming the world’s first triple Nobel Prize winner—of course, seeing that you are unable to make change of a ten, write a poem worth reading, or even know what a goddamn quark is, Nobel is no-dice—but this is not just any other day. Mankind is smothering under the weight of its own shit, and it’s all your fault.

         “Mexico will have to wait,” you shout over the sound of the chopper as it veers first one way, then another.

 “So where to?” Milo screams back. You suddenly remember to turn on communications. No use wearing headphones if you can’t hear for shit, right?

Shit. That word again. If you make it out of this alive, you’re going to petition Webster to remove it from the dictionary. The guys over there owe you—big time. It was you who asked them to include iPoop as a new word.

You still have to answer Milo’s question. You hover over the city for a while, taking in the disaster below. You look around and see the police station. As you fly closer you see that the cops are performing their civic duty as only they know how: They’re shooting at anything that moves. Political correctness be damned!

“We’re going to need guns,” you say into your mouthpiece.

“Lots of guns,” Milo says.

You've always wanted to use that line and are pissed off with Milo for stealing it from you. “Yeah,” you mutter. “A fuck-load of guns?”

“Is that bigger than a shed-load?” Milo winks from behind his visor. Okay, you can’t see him actually wink, but as sure as eggs is eggs, the twerp is winking.

“Let’s go and see if the boys in blue have any spare weaponry. See if we can shoot our way out of this.”

“Would be better if we just flew our way out of this,” Milo whines. “I don’t see how we can help them.”

You ponder this as you look for a place to land, then nod in agreement. “Okay, they’re on their own, but we will still need to defend ourselves one way or another. We’ll stop here, on the roof, bail downstairs, grab some guns and ammo, then fly the fuck back to the lab.”

“The lab?” Milo is agog. “Why the fuck would you want to go back there?”

“I started this,” you say as you expertly land on the roof of the police station. “And I’m going to finish it. Properly.”

Milo opens his side of the chopper and jumps out. “This is where I bail, boss,” he says. “I’m sorry it had to come to this, but you’re on your own.” He runs in the direction of the door at the far end of the roof. You shake your head. All these years, having my back, and he has to bail now, when I need him the most. You’ve given Milo enough room in your thoughts. Now it’s time to do what needs to be done. You follow him, head through the door, and run down the stairs. There is an elevator, but you’re over elevators now. Stairs are the only way to go.

The further you go down, the louder the commotion becomes. You hope you’re not running straight into a Cop vs. iPooper free-for-all—that shouldn’t be the case, because as you flew over, you saw the cops shooting out of rather than back into the station. You gamble that the station is free of iPoopers.

No, the commotion is something else entirely. The cops are fighting amongst themselves, and at the heart of it all is Milo. He points up at you and shouts to one of the cops nearby. All of a sudden you’re the centre of attention, like at a Playboy party when all that the guests want is a piece of you. These cops want a piece of you all right—but not to play with. There is vengeance in their eyes. They wish to call down the wrath of the Maker and smite you from where you stand.

“Smite this, motherfuckers,” you rant, grabbing a service revolver from a nearby cop. (There are a lot of nearby cops, by the way. Well, there would be; it is a police station, after all.) You shoot in the air. “This is your last warning, gentlemen. I need some guns so I can put things right again.”

Milo stands near the front of the vengeful policemen. “See what I mean, guys? My ex-CEO wants to cure the world once more! My former employer wants to return to the scene of the crime and bring more madness upon us. I say it stops. I say it stops now! What say you all?”

The shot that hits your thigh is answer to Miles’ question. Maybe coming here was a bad idea after all. Back to the chopper! You beat a hasty retreat back up the stairs. You thank the Maker for all those hours you put in the gym, but the pain in your wounded thigh isn’t getting any better. The higher you climb, the fuzzier your head gets. You can’t slow down. Milo and his Keystone friends are hot on your tail.

You make it up to the roof and into the chopper before you just about pass out from blood loss. You start the motor running and slowly ascend into the sky. You feel a weight from underneath the helicopter. You look out and see Milo and some cops hanging on the landing blades. There are enough of them to keep you from climbing too high, but not enough that you can’t move away from the roof. Your awareness of what’s happening around you begins to fade. You wish you had more time to stem the loss of blood. There are things you must do to make this right again. You have to atone for your own misjudgements and the actions of your motherfucking Board. They are too dead to answer for their own crimes.

But you can’t atone now. You are powerless to do anything except glide the chopper along the roof. In a moment you’re over the city, with Milo and Company keeping you company. Your demise is imminent, you know. Perhaps you can take a few fucking iPoopers with you. You barely have enough strength left in you to position the chopper over a hoard of shit-stained, shit-smelling, shit-excreting maniacs. You switch off your motor.

You plunge.

You sit back and enjoy the ride.

YEEHAW!!

Oops...return to Chapter 3

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.5 ENJOY THE HILTON

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.5 - ENJOY YOUR STAY AT THE HILTON

By Nina Bau

You watch as Bob disappears into the men’s room. The temptation to run is strong, but you’re not sure where you’d run to. You don’t have any evidence and you don’t even know who the target is in Malloy’s plan. You decide to play along a little longer, and if you get to soak in one of the Cydonia Hilton’s massive massage tubs in the process, so be it.

Bob ambles out of the restroom and wordlessly heads towards the shuttle station.

“What about that drink?” you ask.

“We can order something at the hotel. Saleen will be expecting to hear that we’ve checked in, and you know how she is when she’s kept waiting.”

You nod, mustering up your best been-there, that-bitch-sure-is-crazy look.

The shuttle ride through the city is pretty uneventful. Bob drums his fingers against his leg, occasionally allowing them to morph into a taffy-like consistency and stick to his pants. No one but you seems to notice. The other passengers are busy drinking in the sleek buildings and seductive lights of downtown Cydonia, Mars’ largest city.

The lobby of the Cydonia Hilton looks like it was dipped in gold. A night’s stay in a place like this would cost you a month’s salary in zircons.

“Be right back,” Bob mumbles, and heads in the direction of the public restrooms.

This guy has a bladder like your 95-year-old grandfather.

Moments later, a buxom redhead sidles up to you and slips her arm around your waist. She’s wearing an emerald green slip dress and matching, impossibly high, heels. You’re confused, but going with the flow has kept you alive this long.

“Let’s go, love.”

She gently steers you in the direction of the registration desk. The young clerk behind the counter does a classic double-take at your new companion. You glance over your shoulder, looking for Bob. He’s still in the bathroom.

“Welcome to the Cydonia Hilton.”

“Reservation for the Blanks.”

The clerk types on a keyboard, consults the monitor and then he smiles.

“Ah, yes. The honeymoon suite. Top floor. Do you need assistance with your bags?”

“No,” the redhead purrs. “They’ll be arriving later. Show them up when they do.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The clerk slides your… spouse?… a room keycard.

“And please make sure we’re not disturbed otherwise.”

The redhead grabs the back of your neck and pulls you in for a long wet kiss.

The clerk gives you a salacious wink.

In the elevator, you ask, “Where’s Bob?”

The redhead morphs into Bob.

“Right here.”

Vomit gathers in the back of your throat.

Once in the suite, you can barely appreciate the plush carpet, fully-stocked bar, and dazzling view.

“Was that kiss necessary?!”

You wipe the back of your hand against your tongue.

“Yes,” Bob replies, grabbing a bottle of champagne from a bucket of ice and brushing aside rose petals to plop down on the king-size bed. “The devil is in the details, my friend.”

Bob gives you the once-over.

“You know, you sure don’t act like any assassin I’ve ever worked with.”

Oh, crap.

“Well, I just don’t like things sprung on me, is all. I’m a professional, you know. And that was all… very… unprofessional.”

“Uh huh. I’m wondering if maybe Saleen and Malloy made a mistake.”

You’re starting to take all of this doubt personally.

“Listen, I can get the job done! I’m going to assassinate the shit out of… um… him…”

“Her.”

Gulp.

“Right. I meant her… and then we’ll see who’s the mistake. I’m an assassin for God’s sake. Don’t question me!”

You’re raising your voice, but you don’t care. You start waving your arms around to let him know you mean business. Bob looks both suspicious and amused.

“Fine. I won’t question you…”

You relax. Acting like a crazy person worked. No one likes to fuck with a crazy person…

“… after you lay out the plan. I need to know you can handle this. My ass is on the line if you can’t.”

… except Bob. Apparently, Bob likes to poke crazy with a stick.

“If you insist, Bob!” You sneer, giving him a look that says you’re offended, but you’ll tolerate his little game.

“We don’t want this peace treaty signed. And I’m going to assassinate her to make it look as if the aliens’ supreme leader did it… and then… I’m… we’re….”

Before you can come up with any more, the door to the suite blasts open and half a dozen heavily armed men enter. The letters G.B.I. are in white reflective letters across their bulletproof vests. Quicker than you can say, “Oh shit,” one of the men aims a large black pistol at Bob and fires.

Bob stiffens and then goes limp, champagne bottle still gripped in his hand.

The agent that fired the shot speaks into his wrist.

“The shifter is down. I repeat, the shifter is down.”

“Don’t move!” Another G.B.I agent shouts at you, but it wasn’t necessary. Your hands have been frozen in the air from the moment they burst into the room.

The clerk from the front desk saunters into the room. He has a gold shield hanging from a chain around his neck.

“You’re a cop?”

Thank, God! You’re saved.

“Special Agent Tudeski, actually. And we heard everything, Blank. We’ve been waiting a long time to catch the elusive Shadow Assassin. Not quite what we expected though.”

You’re almost offended.

“Oh. No. There’s a mistake. I’m not an assassin!”

Tudeski reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small item that looks like a garage door opener and presses a button. Your own voice fills the room.

Listen, I can get the job done! I’m going to assassinate the shit out of… um… him…

We don’t want this peace treaty signed. And I’m going to assassinate her to make it look as if the aliens’ supreme leader did it… and then… I’m… we’re….

“I can explain!”

Reflexively, you reach for your identification, forgetting that you’re not carrying any. The agents take this as a sign of aggression. They fire simultaneously.

Your body is filled with hot searing pain. Your bowels release. And then you die.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 5

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.3 STUFF (AND SHIT) HAPPENS

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CHAPTER 3: STUFF (AND SHIT) HAPPEN

By Richard "RJ" James

Hoping against hope to finally and irreversibly get the smell of Malloy’s soiled shorts out of your nose, you head left, slamming the door as the sound of footsteps creep down the corridor behind you.

It is soon apparent that maybe you made a mistake.

You can no longer smell Malloy’s sweaty junk, but you can now taste on the air the after-effects the galley’s chicken curry had on the crew. The other downside is that you can see said after-effects bubbling lazily in front of you in a giant pool.

Before you get a good look around the room you see a guard making his rounds. On his hip he is carrying a holster that is devoid of its weapon. The location of the weapon does not remain a mystery for long as the guard takes a long look down the sight of the laser pistol before squeezing off a shot. The red beam neatly dissects a long, brown bowel log that was floating on the surface of the cesspool.

The guard chuckles to himself and secures his laser back into its holster. While he has his back to you, you decide that your need is greater than his and move slowly forward.

You crouch down and use all of the stealthy skills you possess, namely crouching and sneaking. The metal grating is behaving itself under your weight as you move carefully forward. You slowly reach out your hand and place it on the butt of the laser pistol when another turd surfaces for air. In a heartbeat the guard grabs your hand and, mistaking it for a gun, aims it at the floating stool.
Squeezing your finger, the guard fires what he thinks is a shot and you oblige him by making a sound you think is approximate to that of his pistol, namely PEW!

When the turd doesn’t fall apart in a blast of red light, the jig is up. -- Or mayhap it was because a laser pistol actually doesn’t go PEW. Either way the guard is on to your game.

With some quick thinking on your part you pull your hand from out of his grasp and point it at him as if it’s a gun. Your adversary, caught off-guard, raises his hands.

“Right, take your pistol out of its holster and place it on the ground in front of you. I don’t want to have to use this thing,” you say, waving around your “gun.”

The shaky guard does just that. He realizes a moment later that you don’t actually have a gun, and that he has been held up with a finger and a very un-convincing PEW sound.

As he moves to pick up his pistol again you turn your “gun” back into a hand and shove him. The man staggers backwards before flailing his arms trying to regain his balance. The one thing that would be really useful at that moment would be reduced gravity, but sadly – for the guard anyway – that is the one thing he doesn’t have, and he falls into the soup, screaming curses that are both very imaginative and very insulting.

As you bend down and scoop up the laser pistol you hear footsteps close to the door you came through. Glancing around the room you see a service hatch hanging open from the ceiling with its ladder lowered.

You need to make a choice.

A. Rush the door with your newly acquired laser pistol?

B. Pretend to be the guard you've just dumped in the poop?

C. Use the ladder to enter the service hatch?