Chapter 7
Aftermath
Eight Days Post Apocalypse
Stat Sheet
Name: Chris, The Killing Machine, Tyler
Sex: Male
Age: 16
Physical Attributes: 11.8
With 10 being an Olympic athlete, and 1 being an invalid in a wheelchair, you a bad-ass superhuman 11.8
Mental Attributes: 6.3
With 10 being a super-genius, and 1 being severely retarded, you are a completely respectable 6.3
Status among peers: Heroic! Awesome!
Except for a few antisocial losers like the Anderson twins. You are seen as a young human who's good at anything he sets his mind to, and a credit to all humans. In addition, you are one of the elite humans chosen to clean out MonsterMart.
Claims to fame:
Too many to mention! Performs more heroic acts before breakfast than most humans do their entire lives! Words cannot express the honor it is to fill out this stat sheet.
Special abilities:
Super Ultra Badassery. You excel at all forms of physical activity and weaponry.
Note. There is a problem, one so small I hesitate to mention it. You are dead. Please keep in mind death is a perfectly normal human activity and is nothing to be ashamed of. Humans die all the time.
I know you are off doing many heroic things in that afterlife you humans believe in. I would like to point out that I specifically stated that getting eaten by aliens is a bad idea. You should have listened.
—Chris Tyler's stat sheet, last update.
***
“I already told you, Mrs. Wilcox. Instead of killing alien monsters like they were supposed to, your husband, ex-husband, and children let themselves get eaten. Getting eaten by aliens is not an effective alien deterrent strategy. As Beginner's Guide I should not have to tell you this... I'm sorry, Mrs. Wilcox, I am physically incapable of doing what you suggested. I can neither kill myself nor turn myself off. Also, no part of me was constructed with carbon-based life-form bodily waste products.”
***
Seventh Night Post Apocalypse
“Carl. Little brother. What are you doing?”
Carl let out a long sigh. “Is this the end, Ben? Not for us... For humans?”
“I think you have our roles reversed, Carl. I should be the one sitting there with the bottle of alcohol, going, 'Oh it's the end', and you should be the one going 'quit being a loser, Ben. We'll think of something.'”
“I'm tired, Ben. Thousands of people went into that MonsterMart today. Not one came out. According to Robert, all the vehicles and weapons they got from BG vanished from the parking lot. Which means, barring a miracle, they're all dead.”
“I say the moral is stay out of MonsterMart. Place sucked before the aliens took over. Guess it's even worse now,” Ben responded.
“Those were our toughest fighters, Ben. They were clearing out the aliens,” Carl said. “What are we going to do now?”
“I put the kids to bed, gave them the night off watch duty. You guys better not be starting without me.” It was Ellen.
“It's my brother Carl, the wild man,” Ben said. “He loves to party and hates to wait. He got us a bottle of 'Perfectly Adequate Cheap Human Booze,' from The Galactic Market, Carl?”
“It has just as much alcohol as the more expensive varieties. I checked.” Carl responded.
“I got an old bottle of Jim Beam,” Ellen said. “I was saving it, but if the world's going to end. Robert said he'd join us, and maybe some other people from down the block. So let's party like we're about to get eaten by aliens.”
***
Frightened, lonely, humans? huge building, strange smells, many people frightening, strange smells, master? Entering building, strange smells...
Ian woke up early from a good night's sleep involving dog dreams, which made sense, considering.
Fergi padded after him, following him, like, well, a dog. Gabe was still sleeping, but the girls were up. He grabbed his aluminum baseball bat from next to his bed and went looking for them.
“Beat it, Ian, and take the dog with you. We're worm hunting,” Stacy said. Stacy and Sabrina were in the backyard, intent on something. The grass was getting longer. Under normal circumstances, Dad would be after him to mow the lawn. The red biplane with iron crosses on its wings and body was up in the air, once again clearing the sky of flying things.
Ian waved, but was pretty sure whoever was flying didn't see him.
Ian dug through the soil until he found a small earthworm. He went to Sabrina and put it on the back of her neck. Instead of squealing like he'd expected, she brushed it off and ignored him.
“You said you were worm hunting, I'm trying to help,” Ian said.
Stacy stomped through the yard, then jumped up and down until she heard a rumbling. She backed away.
An alien sandworm (squirmy) exploded from the ground. This is a squirmy. It chews with its mouth open, appeared on Ian's display. Sabrina pulled a long wicked looking sword from nowhere and chopped the squirmy's head off. It shot back into the ground. A second head shot out from behind Sabrina. She cut that one off too.
“Sabrina is that Chinese warrior princess with the sword,” Stacy announced proudly.
“Ing Wei,” Sabrina said. The first words Ian had heard her say since they'd rescued her.
“That's what I said,” Stacy responded. Stacy started stomping around the yard again.
“Your dog's smell kept me up,” said Gabe, walking up behind Ian.
“I couldn't leave her in the garage,” Ian said. “I'm not a dog person either, but that seemed cruel. She's lonely.”
Gabe snorted. “Oh, I had a thought. I noticed Sabrina's hair getting black roots, so I'm guessing she'll look like the Asian princess she chose for her character.”
“She'll look like a beautiful Asian warrior princess. I think she'll manage,” Stacy responded.
“So what are you going to look like?” Gabe asked.
Stacy stopped where she was.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
That was a good question. If Stacy's brown hair became blond like Kid Barbie, or her eyes changed from hazel to blue, that would be fine. But what if her skin became plastic? Like a barbie doll?
“You guys know there's an alien plushie creeping up on you?” Stacy said.
Ian raised his bat and looked around the yard for any sign of distortion created by their damn plushie camouflage. His pulse raced. He saw nothing. Gabe had something in his hand, but he didn't appear to see anything either.
“That was payback, right? For the worm and stuff?” Ian asked.
“No, it's creeping up on you, on your eight o'clock,” she said.
Ian looked. Nothing.
“No, your other eight o'clock. Look where your dog is looking, stupid.”
Several things happened quickly. Fergi let out an angry growl and a bark. The plushie had gotten a foot away from Ian without himself or Gabe seeing it. The plushie let out a high-pitched scream and attacked Ian. Fergi intercepted the alien, getting hold of the thing's neck with her teeth. Ian watched the two fight, waiting for a chance to swing his bat without hitting the dog. There was a popping, cracking noise. It was over. Fergi had broken the plushie's neck. The dead plushie vanished, leaving a confused dog sniffing the area.
“I just got 10 credits,” Ian said. “BG says, 'You have mastered your first non-sentient Terran slave, and compelled her to fight your battle for you. A strategy that is beneficial to a human as lazy and worthless as yourself.'”
Ian petted the dog. The galactic market had cheap dog biscuits 10 for a credit.
He bought 10 and tossed one to Fergi. “I thought you were worthless,” he told her. Ian supposed a plushie skin would show up in Dad's inventory now. It seemed monster loot went to whatever part of the group would make the best use of it.
“Woof” was her response. Her tail wagged as the biscuit crunched in her mouth.
“Wait. You got 10 credits for enslaving a dog?” Gabe said. “That is not fair! That is the dumbest thing I ever heard of!” He stormed off.
Ian started laughing. He couldn't disagree with his brother. That's what made it funny.
“My brothers are so worthless. If it wasn't for me, they'd be alien food,” Stacy said to Sabrina. She went back to stomping around the yard.
“Let's see how you do against alien cockroach crunchies, Fergi. Then maybe we can do some of our own worm hunting,” Ian said.
Crunchies were easy to find. All Ian had to do was open the garage door a crack, and they came right in. One unfolded its large wings with a loud clacking noise and flew at Ian's face. Fergi leaped up, grabbing it by its wing in mid-air. She took it down and tore it apart. She took to tearing crunchies apart with impressive speed and enthusiasm. Ian even got paid extra for having his “slave animal” do his alien killing for him. He'd made another 20 credits before someone banged angrily on the front door.
“Carl Anderson, this is Mrs. Wilcox. I would like to speak to you right now!”
Ian heard bumping, the front door opening, Ben said something.
“I know Carl Anderson has not been eaten by a plushie. I would like to speak to him, and I am not leaving until I do,” the woman said.
Ian shut the garage door and left with Fergi, walking down the hall to the front of the house. The first thing he noticed was a beautiful, dark-haired, middle-aged woman in the doorway. She dressed in a professional-looking black skirt that showed off her assets to good effect. She stood at the door, accompanied by a couple of older men. Her face was tense and heavily made up, like she'd been crying. She looked and felt miserable and scary. Ian's dog growled softly. Uncle Ben and Ellen passed a bottle of aspirin back and forth while they waited for Dad to show up.
Dad staggered over, looking like he'd just woken up. “What?”
“Mr. Anderson, I would like to speak to you. May I come in?”
“Absolutely not,” Dad said.
“I realize we have our disagreements, but I was hoping considering recent events we could put those differences aside,” she said.
“Please leave,” Dad said.
“Not until you hear me out,” she responded. Dad glared at her for a long minute. She looked back, not even blinking.
Ian looked past the three adults and saw a boy on a motorcycle that had a small trailer hitched behind it. The boy wore a helmet that looked like it had been made from a mutant cat skull. On an adult, it might have looked scary. On the young boy, it was cute. The boy's display claimed he was Apocalyptic Road Warrior.
Dad sighed. “Kids out. Adults are having a private meeting. Stacy, I told you not to play in the yard. It's not safe.”
“Well, the yard's safer now. Thanks to us,” Stacy responded.
“Room. Now. We talk later,” Dad said.
Dad herded the four kids and dog down the hall to Stacy's room, and shut the door behind them.
“How much money did you make?” Stacy asked.
Sabrina didn't answer. She wrote something in the air with her finger.
“Yay! I made 40 credits,” Stacy said.
“Shhh,” Ian said. “I'm trying to listen.”
He sat next to the door. The dog joined him.
“Boy's fine,” Mrs. Wilcox was saying. “Road Warrior's still recovering from a plushie bite. His character build gives him resistance to poison and radiation. Do you have any cherry coke? It seems to be what he lives on. I'm not sure if that's part of his character build, or not.”
“I'll check the pantry,” Dad said. “Last night reminds me of why I don't drink. My head's killing me.” Ian heard a door open, cans moved around.
“You had two drinks, then you passed out,” said Uncle Ben.
“I did not pass out, I fell asleep. It was a long day. Tell Road Warrior to come in. It's getting hot outside,” Dad said.
A minute later, Road Warrior entered Stacy's room. He walked with a bad limp, favoring his swollen right leg. Besides his mutant cat skull helmet, he wore pants, a jacket, and boots made from the leathery skin of an unknown animal. Possibly the same thing that provided his cat skull helmet. The alternating brown-gray colors provided camouflage. A small shotgun was strapped across his back, and he held a can of cherry coke. As an adult, he might have looked tough or frightening, but as a nine or ten-year-old kid, he looked cute. Like someone they might take trick-or-treating on Halloween.
“I don't talk to gay people,” Road Warrior said. He walked in and stood against the wall, away from the other kids, arms crossed across his chest, looking defensive.
“Well, I don't speak to the intellectually challenged,” Gabe said. “Who keeps calling us gay? We're straight. I bet you can't even spell straight.”
“Shut up,” Road Warrior said, “and I can spell gay. G.A.Y.” He drank from his can of cherry coke, and let out a loud burp. “If you girls want to check out my motorcycle, it's an Apocalypse Ten Thousand.” Stacy shook her head and turned away.
“Shhh!” Ian said. “I'm trying to listen.” He did his best to tune the other kids out.
“This is Mrs. Wilcox,” Dad said. “She supervised the health insurance department that denied my kid's asthma medication, as a frivolous medical expense.”
“So she's evil,” said Ben.
“And the company Carl worked for sold defective armor for our servicemen, but I wasn't going to mention that,” Mrs. Wilcox responded.
“Your company did what?” Ellen said.
“I was a tiny cog in a big machine,” Dad said. “Get to the point, Mrs. Wilcox. What do you want?”
“I'm forming a second task force, to find out what's hiding in the MonsterMart, and kill it. I want you, Carl Anderson, to lead this force.”
Dad burst out laughing.
“You're smart,” she continued. “You're poorly armed and equipped, but you performed a successful rescue operation five days ago. Also, you recognized BG's trap, when the rest of us didn't.”
“It's obviously a trap. What's sad is we still don't know what kind of trap,” Dad said.
“I thought we had an understanding with BG,” Mrs. Wilcox said like she was trying not to cry. “That we were giving BG what she wanted. May billions of demons shit in whatever passes for her womb. I was working on some leaflets yesterday evening when our copy machine vanished. That's when I found out my friend the Mayor, my husband, and three children were all dead.”
“I'm sorry about your family, but you're asking me to risk my life doing something that tougher, better-equipped people have failed at,” Dad responded.
“You're smart and resourceful. Also, I have it on good authority that if we don't get rid of this thing, or things, it will reproduce, and you'll be dealing with it anyway,” Mrs. Wilcox said.
“On whose good authority?” Dad asked.
“BG's,” Mrs. Wilcox said. “When I was in the blue room, I told BG I was a very important human. The queen of the future Martian space navy or some such thing. I think BG is gullible when it suits her interests. She talks to me sometimes and tells me more than she does other humans. I don't think she's lying when she said this thing is about to reproduce, and if it does, there will be nothing left of this city.”
“Did she tell you what the thing is? How we kill it?” Dad asked.
“Believe me, I tried. BG refused to say. She said that would be cheating,” Mrs. Wilcox said. “At this point, you know as much as I do.”
Dad sighed. “I'll do it for a thousand credits.”
“Afraid I can't do that, Carl. Every spare credit we got is paying for Road Warrior's motorcycle. Which at this point is our only working motor vehicle. But what I do have is a lot of stuff I got from the aliens my kids killed. Stuff that I think a man like yourself would find useful. Let me show you.”
“Wait, so BG took all the galactic market crap back, but left all the loot from the dead aliens?” Ben asked.
“She doesn't seem to want the alien loot back. The Galactic Market won't buy or sell alien loot. I don't know why,” Mrs. Wilcox said. “But it's yours, if you take the job.”
Ian stopped listening. The implication of what he'd heard sank in. They were all dead?
***
“I could give you anti-venom for your leg. But you keep calling me gay, so I won't,“ Gabe was saying.
“Well, you are gay. I heard it from a reliable source,” Road Warrior said.
“From that older brother you told us about, I'm guessing,” Gabe said. “Who must be as dumb as you are. Do I even know your brother?”
“I'm not telling you,” Road Warrior said. He finished his cherry coke and threw the empty can at Gabe. It bounced off Gabe's forehead and joined the books and DVDs on Stacy's floor.
“Hey Road Warrior,” Ian said. “How's your family?”
“They're fine,” Road Warrior answered. “My family left me at home by myself yesterday to go to MonsterMart, said they'd be right back. I was sick cause of a plushie bite. They're coming back any time now.” Road Warrior's face twisted up, and he started crying. “I miss my family. I'm scared.” He sat down in the corner and buried his head in his arms.
“Sorry,” Ian said, not knowing what else to say.
Stacy walked over and put her arm around Road Warrior. “I miss Mom. She lives in the next county. We don't know what happened to her.”
“Sorry,” said Road Warrior through his arms.
“You got a nice helmet,” Stacy said.
“My helmet won't come off,” Road Warrior moaned. “It sucks when I'm trying to sleep.”
“Just give him the anti-venom, Gabe,” Ian said. Poor kid. No way was Ian telling him that, barring a miracle, his family was dead.
“I suppose,” Gabe said. “I get one of these for every twenty or thirty plushies family members kill.” He produced a tiny green syringe with an inch-long needle. He jabbed the syringe through Road Warrior's pants into the boy's hurt leg.
“Ow,” Road Warrior said, but he seemed better after that. “I guess you're okay for gay people. It must suck being gay but I suppose you can't help it.”
“Shut up,” Ian, Gabe, and Stacy said at the same time.
***
The meeting went on for another hour. Ian practiced with his sister's air pistol. He was getting better. He hit the target most of the time now. How was it he was alive when so many more capable fighters were dead?
Then, as fast as the meeting started, it was over. Road Warrior left with Mrs. Wilcox and the two men who'd come with her.
“Stacy,” Dad said, “this may come as a surprise, but some of us are trying very hard to keep you alive. If you get killed doing something stupid, I will be upset. We all have a lot to do. After breakfast, I want you guys doing your chores. Ellen will introduce you all to the exciting world of washing clothes by hand.” The kids groaned. The rest of the day was filled with feverish activity and much swearing among adults.
***
Late that evening, Dad pulled Ian aside. “Ian, I'm working on a plan to deal with MonsterMart. You're going to be a big part of it. Can I count on your help?”
Ian nodded. “Of course. Hey, I'm embarrassed to say this because it may be crap, but the dog might have seen something.” Ian told him about the dog's dreams. “The aliens don't bother animals. If this dream has any truth to it, that thing is huge, bloated, and ready to pop.”
“We'll find out tomorrow... Or we'll be eaten,” Dad said. “Get some rest. You'll need it.”