ECOPOCALYPSE CH.7 - BATMAN REIGNS

ECOPOCALYPSE CH.7 - BATMAN REIGNS By Nandy Ekle

Your public execution. After all the work you did to find an answer to this crisis, they still want to kill you. And this comes directly from the President of the United States, well, the acting President of the United States. Your face feels like it is on fire while your hands and feet feel like icebergs. Worst of all, your insides have become melted wax.

            “No!” Madge screams at Sneedon. “No way! My brother might be a partying bigoted homophobe, but he’s got a huge heart. He cannot be executed.”

            “Madge,” you place your hands on her shoulders. “I don’t think you’re going to stop anything here.” Your life passes before your eyes in a split second—playing house with her when you were kids, Madge playing Daddy and you playing the baby. You sitting on the curb crying while she whips all ten bullies standing in the yard demanding lunch money. The fifteen year fight (she still hasn’t forgiven you) over her g-f, Suzi. Inventing the Environaut and the financial success that followed. Parties with Milo. Then, today’s crap. You realize what an immature jerk you’ve always been, from letting Madge fight your battles to the endless parties with Milo.

            Five words float across your brain. Five one-syllable words, but five words that bring a 180 degree turn around to your life. This one little phrase turns you into a hero. Time to be a man.

            Madge sees it in your eyes. The look on her face changes from a worried sister to a grieving sister to a proud sister. “You mean . . .”

            “Yes, Madge. I’ll let them take me. All my life I’ve done nothing but hide behind you and partay harday. But today, I’m bringing out the tights and cape and becoming a hero.”

            She throws her arms around your neck and hugs you tight enough to push all the air from your lungs. You hug her back, then you tap on her back, begging for her to release you so you can breathe long enough to do what must be done.

            She drops her arms. “Sorry. I keep forgetting how much stronger I am than you.”

            You stand up straighter and your voice drops two octaves. “It’s okay, Madge. I wouldn’t be where I am today if you weren’t stronger.” She grins as she wipes her tears and snotty nose on your shirt.

            You turn to face Sneedon. “Okay. I give up. Take me in.”

            “You’re full of crap, you know it? Just because China, Russia and the entire Arab nation are calling for your public execution doesn’t mean we’re going to give it to them. They’re not our bosses, afterall.”

            At that moment an alarm sounds with a volume so loud you nearly jump out the window. You all look toward the red phone under the glass dome and notice it bouncing up and down. Sneedon removes the dome and picks up the receiver.

            “Yes?  Yes, sir. I understand.” He replaces the receiver and the glass dome and turns back to the room. You hold your breath while he collects his composure. He looks at you, then down at the floor. He looks at Madge, then you, then down at the floor. Finally he brings his head up and appears to be looking out the window behind you.

            “That was President Gantly. Russia, China, and the entire Arab nation have threatened to launch a nuclear missile directly to your hometown if we don’t show your torture and execution in the next 24 hours. He doesn’t really want to kill you, but it appears we have no choice.”

             You throw your arms out together, hands knotted into fists, waiting for the handcuffs to snap around them. When the cold steel touches your wrists, you gasp. The metal is so hard and cold. They really intend to go through with it. Forget the noble intention, an entire world is at stake.

             Walking silently to the beat of Madge’s sobs, you, Sneedon, Madge, and Ernie march toward the door. The whole party enters the elevator and begin the trip to the ground floor where you all will walk to the front lawn of the White House in front of cameras from all over the world and a firing squad standing ready for the order to fire.

            Just as you and the rest of the parade is about to leave the front door, Madge stops and turns you toward her. Her hands reach to pluck at a potted plant on a shelf by the door.

            “You know that stuff about not forgiving you over Suzi?” You nod your head, afraid to speak. Tears would spoil the heroic music playing in your head. “I forgive you.”

            “Madge . . .” you manage to say.

            “Get moving, you two.” Sneedon does not appreciate the tender moment you and Madge are sharing.

            As you stand on the green grass, you look at Madge one final time standing far away from the line of soldiers with guns pointed directly at you. You feel your previously melted insides begin to rise as if trying to run away from the guns. The world takes on a brown tinge.

            President Arthur Gantly is speaking to the cameras. “Ladies and gentlemen of the world, I bring you this, this miscreant who nearly destroyed our world with pooh. I will give you his head on a platter.”

            You watch as Ernie leans down and whispers something in Madge’s ear. He has a leering look on his face. You laugh as she knees him so hard in the crotch he hits the wall.

            The President stands facing the line of gun-wielding soldiers with his hand in the air. You hear a scream. It’s not Madge, her voice is much lower than what you heard. You hear the noises of bedlam and look beyond the firing squad. People are running everywhere, trampling each other, climbing over cars and trees to get away from the gruesome scene about to take place. You envision your blood splatter on the ground and look down as if it already has. You do see a drop of something near your feet, but it isn’t red, it’s brown. At that moment, another drop of brown liquid falls from your eyes.

            You remember the clod of dirt Madge rubbed in your face during the tender moment in the hallway. You can still taste the mud as she suggested you even swallow some of it. It works. People everywhere are convinced you have contracted the same disease that has been turning the rest of the world into zombies. Not wanting to catch anything from you, the on-lookers, officials, gunsquad, even the news people who would withstand a hurricane or a blasting volcano for a story, drop all their equipment and run full speed away.

            It seems you will not die of a hundred gun shots today. 

THE END.

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

ECOPOCALYPSE CH.4 - KABOOM

ECOPOCALYPSE CH. 4 - KABOOM 
By MJ Heiser

As you watch your sister introduce herself to the switchboard operator at the White House (can you believe they still process phone calls through a freaking switchboard?), something inside of you snaps.  Last night you were partying Bruce Wayne-style: lots of strangers—most of them in varying states of undress—gallons of booze, and lines of narcotics laying around. Through it all Milo was there as he always was, suspended upside-down and beer-bonging his way into the record books.  Now those party guests have the world's nastiest case of rotgut, and Milo . . .

You've just watched Milo die.

"Gotta go," you tell Madge.  She looks up from her phone call, her mouth slack as she registers the look of madness and desperation in your eyes.  You turn your back on the room even as she begins to fling at you reasons for you to stay.

"Wait!  I can get the President to neutralize everything!"

Fuck that, you think to yourself.  Somebody's got to pay.  Something's got to blow the fuck up.

You decide you need backup and you burst into a silent waiting room full of quarantined and terrified people.  In one corner are several burly guys you hope are either football linebackers or Navy SEALs.  You can tell already that the hospital staff are none too happy with the way you violated their weak excuse for quarantine; somebody has taken it upon themselves to set off a loud, insistent alarm.

Considering the fact that unknown numbers of security personnel are on their way to throttle you, you decide to cut about 98 percent of your speech.  "You guys want to just sit here and wait to find out if you're carrying the shits, or do you want to do something about it?"

Just as you'd hoped, the big burly guys stand up, biceps and pectorals twitching.  The biggest of them—your mind has already nicknamed him Hoss—smiles menacingly and says, "We thought no one would ever ask."

You're suddenly glad you've never been the publicity hound Steve Jobs was.  You're a virtual unknown.  "I know where the asshole who caused all this is keeping the master switch."

A guttural cry of assent breaks out among Hoss's friends, and they—along with several other twitchy people—follow you out of the waiting room.  You run towards the Emergency Room, and you hear distressing noises behind you, like Hoss and his friends are using their fists to prevent your capture.  You refuse to look back.  It will only slow you down. 

You burst through the Emergency Room doors to a scene of depressing chaos.  There's shit on the walls in a startling variety of colors.  The smell in here is ghastly.  Your eyes start to water from the smell.

"Cover your mouths and noses!" you yell through your hand, hoping you haven't already caught the airborne nastiness.  You then spot the crash doors leading outside, and—miracle of miracles—there's an open ambulance waiting there.  "Come on!"

You weave your way through the equipment in the back of the ambulance and sit down at the driver's seat.  You feel the back of the ambulance sag a little under the weight of your burly new friends, and, without waiting to ensure everyone's on, you gun the engine.  You smell a distressing aurora of gasoline fumes around you and wonder if the last EMT driving this rustbucket ruptured a fuel line. 

Fuck it.  The gas gauge says I have enough fuel even if I spill half of it on the way.  Okay, I have my crew, you think to yourself, giddy with excitement and high on adrenaline.  Now I need some explosives.

"Any of you guys know where I can find a few bombs?"

Dead silence from the back of the ambulance.

You turn around and see that all of your new friends have brown fluid leaking from their eyes.

Fuck.

"Did you think I wouldn't know who you are?" Hoss asks you as he advances on you.

"Wait," you say, whipping your head back around to not crash into a building.  "Come on, man."

"Were you really so arrogant to think that big guys like us don't keep up with scientific principles or breakthroughs?  What did you think we were, linebackers?"

You say nothing.  Again, you're hoping he's just angry and, of course, sick.  "I'm not the person you're looking for, dude, remember?  I'm taking you to the person responsible."

"We're fucked," Hoss says, inching closer.  You think you hear a clinking noise.  Shit is getting too real, so you swerve the ambulance to the emergency lane on the freeway and put it in park.  Then you turn back to see what's waiting for you.

Hoss now has something brownish coating the inside of his mouth.  His eyes are producing so much brown fluid it's falling in droplets from the edge of his square jaw.  You see that he's carrying a cylinder of oxygen in his hands.

"We're so . . .fucked," he says, his voice slurring a little.  He stumbles, but regains his balance on the edge of the gurney.  "I speak for all my guys when I say we aren't going to wait for this shit to take us.  We're going out, man.  But we aren't going alone."

You know enough about oxygen to know it can't burn by itself—but suddenly, you realize it doesn't have to.  That spilled-gas scent is stronger.

One of Hoss's friends has a match.  Another one has the emergency escape axe.

What happens next is so quick you'd think it had been rehearsed.  The guy with the match strikes it on the matchbook, then sets the rest of the book on fire, dropping it to the bottom of the ambulance.  Next, the guy with the axe buries it in the oxygen cylinder's neck with such force it splits the tank open.

The concussion from the explosion isn't the worst of it.  The worst of it is inhaling pure fire down your throat.

Oops...head back to chapter 4

ECOPOCALYPSE CH.3 - TO THE LAB!

ECOPOCALYPSE CH.3 - TO THE LAB!

by John Elrod

Without saying anything more, you turn and walk right back out of the boardroom, leaving the actual suits to deal with public relations, lawsuits, and market projections. Frankly, you’re not usually any help with those things, anyway; you’re a scientist. You belong in the lab, which is exactly why you spend so much time there that, when you were having this state-of-the-art, skyscraping monolith constructed, you had them incorporate a private express elevator with three stops: the basement lab, where you almost always want to be; the boardroom, where you almost never want to be; and the roof, for when you want to be anywhere but here.

It takes a total of 47 seconds for the elevator to go from the boardroom to the lab. There is no ignominious Muzak or senseless dinging noise. In fact, the inside of this elevator is entirely without distraction; without those things shopping malls employ to keep you from realizing you don’t need to spend half a month’s salary on those shoes; without those tactics hospitals use to make you forget you’ve just seen a loved one for the last time. Yes, this elevator was absolutely boring in every way; you'd made sure of that because it takes a total of 47 seconds to go from the boardroom to the lab, and that’s 47 seconds of pure, unadulterated thought. It was in those 47 seconds that you had finally been able to think of how to bring the Environaut’s consumption-to-production ratio over 200%; it was those 47 seconds that had given you the idea for the iPoop, a toilet USB port that attaches to any toilet and uses your waste to directly charge any compatible device; and, on days like today, it’s those 47 seconds that simply keep you from going insane.

The opening of the elevator doors brings your serenity to a screeching halt as your ears are flooded with an expletive-laden tirade.

“How the fuck could this fucking happen? I fucking told those motherfuckers not to fucking use fucking mercury. This is un-fucking-believable.”

It’s Milo. He’s yelling at an empty room, but you know exactly what he’s upset about. Back when you and Milo were developing the Environaut, you hit upon a problem: it was introducing too much toxicity into the surrounding environment. Your solution was to replace the mercury you were using as a coolant with a gallium-indium alloy. It was an easy fix, but the Smart EcoGen board members weren’t thrilled about the expense of controlling the alloy’s wetting and aggressivity; it wasn’t cost-effective, but they agreed to the change—or so you thought.

Milo sees you come out of the elevator. “Can you fucking believe this? You’re the President and CE-FUCKING-O!”

“I know.”

“I’m the Vice Fucking President, for Christ sake.”

“I know.”

“This is just—”

“I know, and now we get to say, ‘We told you s—’”

Your snarky quip is interrupted by a video call from the boardroom. Milo is very eager to answer and throw some obscenities their way. He hurriedly presses the button, but on the screen is nothing but an empty boardroom.

“The damn thing must be broken.” Your voice tries to console Milo’s rage.

“Goddammit!” Milo’s rage is beyond consolation.

Suddenly a face come into the video’s frame. It’s Hal, the security guard. He’s still smiling through gritted teeth, but something is different about him. His skin is a jaundiced hue, his eyes are glazed over in a buttery haze, and his face is fixed in the same dead expression as those protesters who stormed your home.

“What the fuck?” Milo’s rage has given way to confusion, now.

“I don’t kn—”

You are interrupted once more, this time by a slurpy growl that seems to be coming from Hal’s throat. The gurgling gets louder, as Hal’s bite loosens just barely and his lips are overtaken by a thick, brown slurry. The sludge dribbles down Hal’s chest, while the lab has become a swamp of palpable fright. Slowly, Hal backs away from the camera, and you notice some of the board members are ambling about. Then you see it. There in Hal’s left hand, held firmly at the tuft of its neck, is the severed head of Smart EcoGen’s CFO, George Quellen Field.

“I second that ‘What the fuck?’” Now you’re the one speaking to the empty room as Milo has hastily evacuated to the elevator.

“Let’s make like Schwarzenegger and get to the fucking chopper!” How Milo can simultaneously make a pop culture reference and shit his pants, you don’t know, but he must be shitting his pants, because this is absolutely a “shit your pants” moment.

25 seconds into the longest 47 seconds of your life, and Milo is still rambling on about not knowing what is going on. Why doesn’t this elevator play music, or fucking ding, or just do anything to distract you from the thoughts wildly rampaging through your mind? There’s nothing to stop you from going insane! What sadistic bastard designed this torturous, 47 second device? But it’s not 47 seconds; not this time. This time, it’s 68 seconds, because you and Milo are going to the roof. More specifically, the helipad on the roof, and the two of you are getting as far away from this building as possible. Let the government come in and deal with this—literal—shit storm.

On the roof you both hop into the helicopter, but not before exchanging reassuring looks with one another. You’re both absolutely positive things are going to be fine. Maybe you’ll head down to Mexico for a couple weeks while things blow over. Sure, it’s a PR nightmare, and the stock is going to take a hit. Blah, blah, blah. None of that concerns a couple of genius lab rats like you and Milo. It’s fine.

You’re the pilot, of course, since you are the one with a pilot’s license. Milo, for lack of a better word, is your co-pilot, even though he can’t even manage to write with a Pilot pen, let alone have anything to do with piloting a helicopter. You set your heading for Mexico, and—

“What’s that?” Milo is gesturing downward.

You don’t want to look, but you have to. What you see are the streets clogged with abandoned vehicles and crowds of people moving at two distinctive speeds. Those running are doing so from those walking; those walking are those who didn’t run fast enough. You’ve seen this in movies, and you’ve lived this in video games. You’ve always thought it might happen, but you didn’t have any idea you could cause it. You can’t go to Mexico; you have to do something, because everything is decidedly not fine.

Do you...

A. Land the helicopter at the hospital, where your sister works, and see if she can help--if she's even still alive.

B. Land the helicopter at the police station, where you're sure to be abel to the get hold of some firearms, them come out blasting.

C. Land the helicopter somewhere outside the city and try to devise a plan.

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.6 YOU ARE HERE

Choose Or Die: Red Planet Stowaway Ch. 6 - You Are Here

By John Elrod

Momentarily forgetting everything about the day, you stand, shoulders squared in confrontational disdain and head pivoting from point-to-point. "Shopping malls? Drive-thru restaurants? A STRIP club? This is Mars?"

Slowly your neck begins to crane upward as the crimson Martian sky overflows from your eyes, leaving you agape. "This is Mars."

"You noticed the bar, too, huh?" Bob practically salivates onto the nape of your neck as he wraps his arm around your shoulder and talks just a little too longingly into your ear, "Yeah, maybe that drink isn't too great of an idea there, Wallace. I've got a bit of a drinking problem..."

Bob continues, but every bit of your predicament comes rushing back in an instant, with the refreshing click of an idea.

"Come on, Bob," you interrupt his sobriety speech--and his sobriety. "One drink can't hurt, right? I mean, I took you for more of a man than that."

Four shots of space tequila later . . . (Space tequila is much more potent than just your regular, old tequila)

"So that's when I said, 'intergalactic chronoton-collider? I barely even know her!'" Bob bellows as he finishes up a particularly bad joke (and his fifth shot of space tequila). "What's with you, Wallace? You've barely drank any-anything at all."

You have to give him credit. Even in his current, bent condition, Bob managed to be nearly correct; you haven't drank anything at all. You've slowly plied him with alcohol, and it's just about time for you to start getting some answers.

"So, Bob... this mission we're on--"

"Geez, work work work. We have plenty of time to get to that." He interrupts you this time.

You begin again. "Yes, but this mission; what exactly are we doing again? I mean, I know... but... um... who... who's this guy we --"

He interrupts again and begins shifting his appearance haphazardly; first, as Saleen. "Listen, hot stuff, I know you want to get to work; well, so do I." "She" heaves her chest upward before sloppily shifting into Malloy. "Yeah, come on. You know you want some of this. I think my junk is feeling nice now. Why don't you check for me?"

You're feeling all kinds of things, most of them being shades of nausea, but you simply must know the answer. "Who are we here to assassinate?" You blurt out above Bob's nonsense, dampening his inebriation for the time being.

"I don't think everyone over in Cydonia heard you." He quips, through the bottom of yet another shot glass. "Can't you guess? No? Geez, no wonder they picked you. It's Manuel Womack."

Suddenly, your insides feel like they want to be outside. You ask a question you wish you didn't already know the answer to. "P-P-President Manuel Womack?"

"Yes, 'P-P-President Manuel Womack.'" This time Bob morphs himself into a reasonable facsimile of you -- the alcohol seems to be impairing his abilities. He takes on a mock-simpleton tone, "Ugh, I'm Wallace -- or whatever -- and I need shit spelled out for me. Why did I wake up in a storage locker? What am I doing here? Wah-wah-wah."

"What did you say? I --" You stagger to find the words to counter his, but your mind is still mush, and he apparently knows, anyway.

"Listen, kid. You seem nice enough. It's been, what? 25 minutes since I took a leak? I contacted Malloy, and I'm supposed to stall you until he gets down here. Why don't you just run? The job's wrapped up, anyway. There's nothing that will change that. Maybe you can buy yourself a few more days of freedom before they haul your ass in."

You have so many more questions than before, but only one has the stamina to leap out of your mouth. "Are you even really drunk?"

"Oh, yeah; I'm definitely wasted and saying all kinds of things I really shouldn't be. That's why they don't want me drinking; it messes with my programming," he says as he melts into some weird mixture of you and ... Lara Flynn Boyle?

Sprinting from your seat and out of the bar, you speedily survey the still irritatingly terrestrial streets. You spot the shuttle station. Just inside the terminal, you shuffle up to a massive directory, reading "You Are Here" with an arrow pointing to a pictograph "shuttle station.”

You utter beneath your breath, "Everything's so familiar. Where are all the Martians?" With cardiac quickness, a holographic media guide appears.

Bee-Boop
"This is the human sector: Cydonia Mensae. The majority of its inhabitants are human tourists." Bee-Boop

She vanishes as suddenly as she appeared.
"Well, how the hell do I get out of here?" You ask to the space in front of you.

Bee-Boop
"Shuttles leave regularly, going: north to Cydonia, going south to Nanditz, and going east to the construction zone of CITY NOT AVAILABLE."
Bee-Boop

From over your shoulder, you hear the female voice boom, "Pod 1-1-8 docking." The pod doors open and you hear the voice, somewhat muffled as it's now coming from inside the pod: "Welcome... to Mars." Out step Malloy, Saleen, and Peter Tan.

"Shuttles... now boarding," the omnipresent, female voice monotones from above you.

You must make your choice. Do you...

A. Hop on the shuttle to Nanditz and hope there's someone there who can help you?

B. Follow Malloy, Saleen, and Tan to try and find out about what is going on and possibly intervene?

C. Jump on the shuttle to cydonia and try to warn President Womack of the assassination attempt?