The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole! (1) (28 page)

Rage flashes in General O’Coddle’s dead eyes, and he stumbles toward the closest runaway zombie. He grabs the dead soldier by the back of his head and pulls it to him, dragging the soldier’s heavy boots across the road. The soldier zombie fights in vain against the general’s
 
iron grip, moaning and shouting loud enough that all the others turn to look. General O’Coddle shakes the dead soldier back and forth until he is sure all are watching.

“I said GET THE FUCK BACK IN LINE!”
 

With the horde still watching, General O’Coddle digs his meaty fingers into the dead soldier’s eyes. The zombie writhes and moans as O’Coddle lifts it off the ground simply by raising his arms. It kicks its dead legs weakly as General O’Coddle twists his hands in the zombie’s eye sockets and rams his thumbs through the side of the dead soldier’s skull. The zombie’s legs quit kicking as General O’Coddle roars and tears the head from the body in one quick brutal movement. The headless corpse crumples to the highway, and all but one soldier zombie stumble quickly back in line.

General O’Coddle points to the sole deserter and says, “He must have been a hippy at heart,”
 
to Pestilence, who is reaching into the folds of his robe.

The general puffs to yell more, but Pestilence grabs his arm to silence him and help pull
himself
up. The hooded Horseman regains his feet and pulls a crossbow made of steel and used medical equipment from his cloak.

“My turn,”
 
he grins and winks at General O’Coddle. He takes aim with superhuman speed and shoots a hypodermic needle at the fleeing zombie. The dead soldier stumbles in a zig-zag in an attempt to avoid the projectile.

“So,”
 
Pestilence says to the general while continuing to watch the deserter. “Where next?”
 
 

The dart swerves in midair and hits the zombie in the back of his thigh, sending small yellow chunks of bone flying. Yellowish-green bubbles sizzle from the wound as the acid devours the zombie’s flesh. The dead soldier howls, but the acid takes only a matter of seconds to silence it by reducing it to a smoldering pile of ashes.

“I have a junkie brother who is a priest at a church close by,”
 
O’Coddle smiles, “and I’d love to pay his whore-stealin’ ass a visit.”
 

Pestilence tucks his crossbow back into the folds of his robe and slowly mounts his steed. Once atop his horse, he nods at the general.
O’Coddle grunts and steps in front of the horse to lead the horde to Our Lady of Eternal Melancholy. They head off the freeway and into a neighborhood that looks to be accustomed to chaos. The houses that line the street are small and old, their paint peeling away in huge swaths. Most of the windows are boarded up. Demons screech and howl from nearby, but the horde ignores them. Human screams respond to the demon cries, and a muttering of discontent rumbles through the horde, forcing Pestilence to draw his crossbow and level it at the murmuring pack of zombies.

General O’Coddle leads them to a pile of rubble and stops. Across an old wooden sign, the message “A stoned congregation and a disemboweled priest”
 
is smeared in blood and shit. The smell of death hangs in the air around the ruins of the church, and the horde of dead soldiers pushes forward.

“Whoa!”
 
Pestilence yells to his steed.

“Whoa!”
 
he yells to the dead.

Both ignore him. The horde stumbles like a bunch of drunken frat boys, forcing Pestilence out of their way as they converge on the rubble. He stares at the zombies digging away bricks, his eyes bugging out of their sockets. Sweat beads and drips off his forehead, and his throat dries out when he tries to speak. Two zombies pull a body from the rubble and then fall on it with hungry mouths. Soon, the entire horde is feasting on the freshly killed congregation.

General O’Coddle moves toward the ruins, but Pestilence taps him in the back of the head with his crossbow. Pestilence twitches as his gut clenches, and he tells O’Coddle, “None for me, none for you.”

General O’Coddle smiles his black grin at Pestilence and sticks one meaty hand into the front of his pants. Drool drips at the corners of Pestilence’s mouth, and he wipes it away with the back of his slender hand. The general pulls his hand out and tosses Pestilence a bag of heroin three times the size of the last one.

“Hold out on me again and I’ll tear your soul into tiny pieces and cram it up the ass of every soldier here,”
 
Pestilence smiles at the tan in his hand before dumping the entire contents of the baggie onto his spoon. He snaps his fingers, and a sickly green flame sparks to life from his fingertips. He heats the spoon, fills the needle and slams it into his forearm, only hitting a vein by sheer chance.

Pestilence’s eyes roll back in his head, and he tells the general, “Fine. Eat. We’ll … find … more … shi ...”
 
He nods off midword while the horde enjoys the congregation buffet.

Three Pervs and an Ice Cream Truck

Nathan Chuzzle lives on a big-ass hill in Southern Oregon that overlooks an idyllic valley. In this valley sits the small town of Spewmuller. Named after some old fart who settled here about a million years
ago.
They said he came out west to make money. Dig up gold. But all he found was a big puffball of nothing. So he built a bordello and filled it with every kind of woman he could find.
Big girls, little girls.
Girls in fine clothes and some in rags.
Every madwoman, outcast and recovering nun he could get his hands on ended up in the place.

That’s how the town started. Built on the backs of whores. Literally. Chuzz once read on the Web that the city is one of the most promiscuous in the United fucking States of A. Hallelujah, brother.

There used to be a lot of trees in Spewmuller. Rows of green that would inspire penis envy in the evergreen state of Washington if it could put down the coffee mug long enough to swing by.

Now the town doesn’t look so good.

Chuzz remembers driving to the grocery store just a day ago. No way he can do that now. The street is on fire. As are what trees remain, and most of the houses around him. Streaks of yellow crisscross the sky as rockets burn away clouds and anything else that gets in their way. A flock of fighter jets streaks overhead with a large shape in pursuit. It looks like a dragon, an actual dragon, with three heads and black oily spikes that drip ichor as its mighty wings beat at the air.

Chuzz drops his gaze to the horizon just in time to see a foot swing into view.
A really big foot.
The thing looks like it’s the size of a bus, but maybe it is just his perspective. He tries to assure himself it’s just the angle, until the foot smashes the city into kindling. A horde of giant demons follow in close pursuit.
Big red bastards about the size of minivans.
Another one exits a house near Chuzz’s—just smashes through the wall like it’s not even there.

Big horns all over its body.
A human guy follows the demon, not out
of any desire to be near it, but because he has no choice, impaled as he is on two of the demon’s ass horns. The red spikes protrude from his stomach and shoulder, and all he can do is flail and scream.

Chuzz plucks a thorn out of his own ass.
One of Stretch Bangstrom’s little gifts.
Without thinking, he flings it at the demon. It falls short, and the creature turns to regard him.

“Tasty.”

“AHHHHHHH!” yells the punctured man. All Chuzz can see of him are his feet flopping from behind the red demon.

The thing has a face like a movie star who has been through five or six too many plastic surgeries. Tight, bulbous, perched on a long neck that stretches at least three feet from its emaciated upper body. The lower body is where the mass is. Like a snake just finishing digesting a sumo wrestler.

“Go away!” Chuzz yells.

“AHHHHHHHH!” screams the guy stuck to the demon’s ass.

Phil picks that moment to wander outside and investigate all the noise. He takes one look at the demon and screams in his best Phil.

Fucking Phil!

The monkey reaches behind himself and pulls a turd out of his ass with his one hand. He throws it at the demon and hauls ass back inside.

“Oh real nice, Phil. You useless shit-flinging ass-monkey!” Chuzz calls after him.

Stretch Bangstrom peeks over Chuzz’s shoulder. “We can take him. He ain’t so tough. Probably a second-circle
fuck
. Just use the microphone and toss him.”

Chuzz looks at the little face from the corner of his eye and feels another sliver of sanity slip. Like a big block of cheese at which someone has been hacking all day. The chunk falls away and melts into a gooey lunacy dip complete with bell peppers and a side of fuck you corn chips.

“You aren’t real. This isn’t real. None of it is real,” Chuzz whispers. The demon turns in a full circle as he seeks the source of the flung poo. The man stuck on his backside continues to scream.

“I’m real, fucker.
Real enough, bub.
And you better get your act together or we are gonna be dead meat. You wanna die stuck to that demon’s ass? I don’t think you do!”

“Get off my back!”

“Idiot! Just pick him up with the microphone. Do it!”

Stretch Bangstrom unsticks one arm and reaches into Chuzzle’s rear pocket. He pulls out the microphone and holds it up. Chuzz takes it in a trembling hand.

“DO IT!”

Chuzz stares at the demon, and the demon stares back. Blood drips from the thing’s mouth in a steady stream that sizzles when it hits the
ground. Nathan P. Chuzzle points the microphone at the beast and wiggles it.

Nothing happens. The demon takes one massive earth-pounding step toward him. Chuzz wiggles the thing again, but it doesn’t do anything.

“AHHHHHHHH!” the poor bastard screams from behind the demon.

Another flight of jets roars overhead, this one pursued by a squadron of harpies. They screech and howl as they close in on the jets. A couple of them sweep close to the ground, and Chuzz realizes the things are massive. Wings the span of a housetop.
Maybe larger.
They drip blood as well, and Chuzz is pretty sure he sees little chunks of people and metal hanging out of their mouths. Then they break straight up and rip the fighters out of the sky.

“Hit the button!” The demon is so close that Chuzz picks up the distinct smell of rot and burning rubber.
Or melting electronics.
Maybe it is a combination of the three. Whatever it is, it is the smell of wrong.

He hits the button while pointing the device. The demon breaks into a full charge. Big bug eyes swivel around in sockets the size of serving platters. They are green and brown, like diarrhea swimming in Jell-o. They lock on him, and Chuzz feels his knees go weak. Screw this hero shit. Screw going to Vegas to stop the Apocalypse. What was he thinking? These things are monstrous. They tower over him and drool blood. How the hell is he going to stop them?

The toy! He triggers it again, and nothing happens. Then he remembers that he has to move it to make the thing do his will. He moves it up like he is going to toss the demon in the air. But he makes the trip instead.

“Wrong button, fucktard!” Stretch Bangstrom yells in his ear so loud that it goes deaf.

They are tossed fifty feet straight up. The chunk of asphalt on which Chuzz is standing is still beneath him, but the ground below is FAR away. He holds the microphone as steady as he can
considering
he is shaking like a leaf on one of those burning trees.

The demon storms over the spot where Chuzz just stood, vaulting the hole where the missing asphalt should be and smashing into the side of the house.

“Phil!”

Chuzz whips the microphone back down, which makes the chunk of asphalt move so fast he loses contact with it. The piece is big, bigger than a pair of pickup trucks laid side by side, and when it smashes into the ground, it crushes the demon into a pulp that makes its former smell seem like cotton candy.