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

TIME DOUCHE CH. 5 - TAKE ON NAPOLEON

TIME DOUCHE CH.5 - TAKE ON NAPOLEON

By MJ Heiser

The fires of a red-hot rage fueled by injustice and fatigue spread through your limbs. Damn it! This isn’t fair! You only wanted to eat some chicken. Instead you end up scrambling for a new wardrobe and getting blasted back to Revolutionary France to deal with a runaway royal and her douchebag boyfriend.

All you know is that you aren’t going to take this anymore. You frown. “Oh yeah, tough guy?” you say. There’s a strange, breathy, needling quality to your voice, and you realize that you sound a little bit like Sugar Ray Leonard. Or Mike Tyson. Through the scrim of your exhaustion, you’ve also noted that you’ve started the “float like a butterfly, sting like a bee” shuffle made famous by Muhammad Ali. The adrenaline in your system is making you giddy. I don’t know how to fight! you think gleefully to yourself. And I haven’t watched wrestling since Hulk Hogan’s day!

Napoleon watches you carefully. Suddenly, you see it: That strange twinkle in his eye that tells you that not only does he understand combat, he really, really enjoys it. He’s studying your moves for danger. A smile on his face makes it clear he knows there is no real danger.

“Monsieur,” he says politely with a deferential nod, “are you in need of a way to relieve your bladder?”

Marie giggles.

You stop shuffling and gape stupidly at him. “Huh?”

With a lightning quickness you can hardly believe, he draws his sword and draws a line across your guts. You feel warmth spreading down your abdomen. Blood. You also feel warmth spreading down your thighs. Piss.

“Or shall I do it for you?” he laughs, as the lights in your mental attic dim and go out.

The last thing you hear is the electronic squawk of Nubleman’s voice: “You ridiculous moron.”

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 5

TIME DOUCHE CH. 3 - DIREGÉ COMME L’ENFER (Run Like Hell)

TIME DOUCHE CH.3 - DIREGÉ COMME L’ENFER (Run Like Hell)

By James McShane

Okay, Boney’s lady is smokin’ hot and you know that in your finest hour you’d give her the loving of the century. But this is not your finest hour; it’s not even your century. And no matter how your heart says otherwise, discretion is the better part of valour – especially in your situation. You kiss her lightly on the cheek and say in your best historical French, “Not tonight, Josephine.”

She spits in your eye. “Never mention that woman in my presence again, you scum bucket. He loves me more than he loves his wife.”

“Lady,” you whisper, “some dudes will say anything to a woman, if it gets them a free pass through your corset.” It is at this point you want to say vive la revolution, but you think something will be lost in the non-translation. “Thomas,” you say to the air, “I’m making like Moses and getting the flock out of here.”

"Now is not the time for bad jokes!" Nubleman screams. "Don’t forget my machine. Get your ass back there, as quick as you can."

“On my way, TN.” You bid the mademoiselle au revoir. (This comes out as “until the next time” due to the inbuilt translator.) To which Marie replies, “There will be no next time.” Ever the pessimist, this Marie is. C’est la vie!

Using your memory, you manage to reach the outside once more. You look around, but you see no one in pursuit. You breathe a sigh of relief. To the time machine, you think. Tout de suite! Now where the hell did you leave it? Oh yes, further up the hill, you remember. Your stomach lurches at the memory. You pick up your pace, hoping that you’re one step closer to the machine, and one year closer to your own time. Then something out of the ordinary happens.

In front of you, about thirty paces from where you are, the air shimmers. You stop in your tracks as you feel a wave of energy surround you like a tornado. But this, as you know, is not Kansas anymore. You’re quite sure, from what little you learned from history books, that 18^th century France never experienced tornados. Whatever is happening in front of you is caused by science, not Mother Nature.

Merde! you think desperately. Sacre-fucking-bleu! Nothing like a little Franglais to get the blood boiling nicely. The shimmering air and energy wave intensify but seem centred on one spot. Out of nothing something altogether different materialises. You half expect a blue telephone box, with some bloke in a bow-tie coming out of it, waving madly at you. But it’s not a box of any sort; it’s a 16 foot replica of the Washington Monument. At its base, there is a hatch, and you shiver as it begins to open.

“Thomas,” you say through the confusion, “did you by any chance send out for reinforcements?”

"Why do you ask?" Nubleman says.

“I think I’ve found another time machine. And someone is coming out.”

"Fucking NASA," your host spits. "I have a spy in my company. Someone has sold my secrets to the bloody government."

“Welcome to the big bad world of business,” you retort. “So what do I do now?”

"Go with whoever it is and see what they know. Then steal their secrets. I’ll pay handsomely."

You shrug. As long as it gets you back to your own time, and away from the smelly French, you’d go with Doubya if that’s who it was in the monument. But it’s not the former U.S. president; it’s someone more famous, more deadly and better dressed.

The new arrival is leather-bound, wearing sunglasses, built like a brick shithouse, and sporting a crew-cut that is instantly recognisable. He walks over to you, and then holds out his hand.

“Come with me if you want to live,” he says. You take his hand and immediately feel your bones crushed by his incredible strength.

“Oy, be careful, will you?” you shout. “I use that hand for nocturnal entertainment.”

“Where is Bonaparte?” the Governator says gutturally. You point behind you with your good hand. He nods and looks down at you. “Your presence here has disrupted FoxNet’s plans. You must be terminated.”

You freeze. “I thought you were here to save me.”

“I lied,” he monotones. “I am to wipe the French from history, and it is unfortunate that you have allied yourself with cheese-eating surrender monkeys. For that you must pay.” He grabs your head and squeezes until your brain mass seeps from all your facial orifices.

You know you should call for your mother, but all you can think as you die, as the last of your grey cells exits through your nose, is Fucking Republicans!

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 3