Timothy Long - The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole

She smiles, and the place of death is illuminated as though someone has switched on a light of peace over the field. Edwina falls under her spell immediately and wants nothing more than to be loved by the apparition. She wants to fall to her knees and worship the beautiful creature with the ten-foot wingspan.

The moment is interrupted by the chatter of automatic fire. Marcel hefts her rifle up and fires eight rounds at the celestial being. Feathers fly. Blood splatters. A scream tears at the air and makes Edwina want to cover her ears and join in the shrieking. Then the apparition crashes to earth.

Darla turns to regard Marcel in shock.

The tall woman has the gun on her hip, barrel sticking up to the side. Smoke still pours out of the hole.

“That was unexpected,” Marcel shrugs.

“What the hell have you done, Marcel?”

“Shot an angel, I think.”

It is only in the sudden silence that Edwina realizes the music of Heaven had just filled the morning air with its subtle grace.

“You couldn’t wait and ask a few questions like who and what are you? Or what is going on? Fucking Christ!” Edwina is pissed. She wanted to touch that beautiful creature. She wanted to worship it.

“I didn’t think I could hurt it.”

“So you shot it anyway? Couldn’t take a minute to say ‘hey angel chick, are you immune to lead?’”

“Oh stop your whining. We just killed a fuckload of zombies and you’re freaking out about this? Really? We have bigger things to worry about. Like how we’re going to hunt down those assholes who tried to kill us. Or why the world’s gone all to shit.”

The women circle the motionless figure on the ground, but none of them dares to touch her. Edwina bends down and peers at the woman’s face. The angelic features move. Eyes open to stare at her. Mouth opens to take a stuttering breath. Edwina drops beside the creature and tugs her head into her lap. She strokes the being’s beautiful hair back and whispers that everything will be all right.

“Bloody idiots,” the girl whispers, then her eyes roll up in the back of her head and her last breath passes like a spring day. Her hair loses its luster and then falls away in a puff of gray ash. Her face collapses inward, and her body deflates like a molested balloon.

Edwina scoots backwards, away from the puddle of bubbling green ooze where the body used to be. Darla reaches down to help her up.

“What the hell is going on?” she gasps as she comes to her feet.

“Doesn’t matter, we got stuff to do. Men to track. And we need to get a move on,” Marcel says. The stock of the assault rifle rests jauntily against her hip and she looks like she is more prepared for a fashion show than a hunt.

“It does matter! There are people coming out of the ground. Dead people. Zombies! And we just shot a crapload of them. What the hell is going on?”

“Those weren’t zombies,” Marcel snaps. “Those were… I don’t know what, but there’s no such thing as zombies.”

“And I suppose there’s no such thing as angels either?”

“Not since I shot it down!”

The bubbling green goo that is the ex-angel smells like sewage, and the girls take a step back, pinching their noses.

“That ain’t no fucking angel.” Marcel touches Edwina’s shoulder softly.

“What the hell is going on?!” Edwina screams.

Nathan Chuzzle picks up his keyboard and contemplates smashing the stupid thing against the desk. He’d tried to dig up some dirt online for the blog, but the connection kept dropping. He jiggled some cables and cursed a good bit. One minute he was on, and the next he got a blank screen. He tried to stay patient, but it was a long lonely walk up that road for Chuzz.

If he ever gets online, he will go double Chuzz on Chuzzles-guzzle.com ‘where the world can eat my shit.’ He might be a little nuts, but it’s all good, ’cause his fans love it. All fourteen of them. They adore his ranting, and he tolerates them for it. Most of them. Some people don’t like him, and that isn’t good for them. Chuzz likes to be confrontational. He likes to get back at people, and he has the perfect tool for it.

He has a computer.

With just a name he can dig up stuff from everywhere. Facebook, Twitter, Myspace. He can hit them all. He can start posting against his enemies right away. Emailing their friends and telling them what bad people they are. He can start fake Twitter accounts with their names and have a field day.

He masks his IP by swinging through Sweden, hitting a proxy in Paris, then it’s back to the good ol’ USA where he can do his work and have his revenge.

Take the aptly named Travis Hole. Hole spoke out about Chuzz on his own forum. Said he was a loser, had a pathetic life. Oh he was going to show Hole what a pathetic life he had, all right. He’d already found out where the guy worked and even gotten an address.

The craigslist post was pretty easy. It read:

My name is Travis and I am suffering from a disease that leaves me crippled in a wheelchair. I like men but they are repulsed by me. Please send cock shots to my address because if I stare at a computer screen too long it causes pain from a rare form of eye disease. Call me names, show me cum shots. Please.

Chuzz logs onto his forum on Chuzzle’s Guzzle. He’s been warning people all week about the end of the world, and now they are all freaking the fuck out saying it isn’t going to happen. Some make fun of him with snide little comments that are slathered in butter. Like he won’t see through them. Like he won’t see what they are really saying.

He breaks out the banhammer and tosses the worst of them from his board like the little piggies they are. ’Bye piggies. Have a nice loser piggie life.

Phil rolls over and tugs a blanket over his bare monkey ass with his one arm. He farts then sticks his finger up his ass, extracts it and sticks it in his mouth. Chuzz tosses him another Jenny Craig bar. “Suck on that, you gross bastard.”

RING RING. The phone detonates little bursts of color in his head. Pain pills haven’t kicked in yet. Depakote hasn’t wormed into his head. Buspar hasn’t helped him chill out. Zoloft hasn’t mellowed him yet. The Viagra sure as fuck has kicked in. Took that shit by accident because TransMedTard sent him the wrong thing. Took a few days to realize it, and now that he has stopped, he can’t lose the hard-on. Probably explains why his vision is tinted blue as if he were wearing cyanotic sunglasses.

His felt posters look good in blue, and when he turns on the black lights, they really freak him out. He stared at one last night for almost an hour while drool ran down his chin. Blame the fucking Depakote. That shit would probably fix Phil if he got a few down his monkey throat.

RING RING, the phone sounds again and he goes to dig it out from under a pile of old army blankets that are quietly moldering away in a corner.

The phone is ancient. Seen better days. Hell, it saw better days when Nixon was in office.

RING RING the stupid ding-fuck-a-ling! What the hell! Hardly anyone ever calls him; he’s not even sure why he has a phone. He got a call from Father Fannery once, down at the Old Bitch Conception Church of Erecting. Thought it was a joke at first until the old fart asked if he knew where he could meet a nice young man and the way he said ‘young’ left no doubt that he meant altar boy age. Then he screamed at the old man, “Why the hell would I know? I hate men and the gays and the people who help gays!” and ended the call with a spectacular spit-blown FUCK YOU.