Timothy Long - The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole

By the time Pestilence pulls his tightly wrapped kit out of his robes, the corpses are swimming around one another as the diseased Cockbugs reanimate every relatively intact human body they find.

Pestilence unrolls his kit with a grin and removes his needle and spoon. He leans on the general and dumps the entire contents of the baggie onto the well-worn spoon. The Cockbugs tuck all of the general’s brains back in his skull and use strands of his own bushy white hair to sew the wound shut. As Pestilence fills his needle, General O’Coddle begins to twitch.

The ground rumbles as Famine stomps over to them. “So now you’re just gonna tie off and…” Any further words are lost when Pestilence pulls up the sleeve of his robe with his teeth, revealing his pale arm. Thick veins and arteries run the length of the visible arm, each swollen and discolored and stretching hard against the milky skin. He winks at Famine and jabs the needle deep into a dark orange vein. His skin tints yellow, and his bloodshot eyes roll back in his head. The need and the anticipation within him give way to the needle full of bliss.

Famine recovers from the shock of Pestilence’s disgusting arm and resumes yelling at him, “You junkie piece of shit! YOU fucked up everything! The only reason we exist and YOU fucked it off for all of us! War will kill you, and I will hold Death’s hand as he reaps your sorry-ass soul!”

Her massive chest heaves with each shout, and a vengeful grin spreads across her fat face, making her eyes squint and the corners of her mouth turn up. Pestilence closes his eyes and tells her, “You are so fat your horse is trying to kill itself.”

The smile dissolves under the flesh of her cheeks, and she raises a foot above his head. “Enough of your mouth, you junkie asshole. If Satan has already risen, we don’t need you.”

Pestilence smiles his graveyard grin without opening his eyes and tells her, “I’m not playing.”

Famine turns to see her emaciated horse climbing on the ever-shifting corpse hole. It screams as the reanimated bodies below shift and give. Large jets of hellfire shoot through the bodies, sending smoke and gore into the air. Famine shrieks and follows her weakened steed. Pestilence squints and sees her dark shape stomping through the mob of corpses.

“Careful, fatso,” he mumbles. “All the demons in hell are under there… including the wicked things from hell 133… oh, fuck us, hell 78 is gonna set loose…”

She continues screeching even as a reanimated hippy wraps his filthy arms around the horse’s neck and starts chewing on its throat. Famine jumps and tackles the dead man. A jet of hellfire explodes nearby, weakening the clog. Famine, her dying horse, and the tackled zombie fall down through the corpse hole and into Hell. A colossal jet of fire erupts, sending loose limbs and gore skyward. Behind the fire come legions of winged demons darkening the sky, laughing and shrieking at their long-awaited freedom.

“Shit,” Pestilence mumbles as he strains to sit up, “there goes the neighborhood.”

He does his best to snap his fingers. The most he can manage is a weak rub, but his steed understands and walks from the shade of a transport truck, drawing the hungry eyes of the hundreds of risen soldiers, to Pestilence’s side. Pestilence reaches up for his reins. He misses the first few times, but finally catches them. Once he has a firm grip, the horse tosses its head and tugs him to his feet. Pestilence throws his body onto its back.

“Come on, dead guys,” he tells General O’Coddle and his troops, “Let’s go find more shit.”

He leads his half-rotten caravan through the desert toward Reno. Above them, demons fly in wide circles, shrieking, screaming, and looking to raise Hell.

“No Antichrist and no Christ!” Pestilence yells at the circling horde above. They shriek and whoop, all flying in different directions.

Pestilence smiles his rotten smile and nods off as he and his zombies trudge slowly through the sand. No one to stop him. Or War. Or Death. Or Satan. Time to party. But still, deep in his warped junkie’s mind he wonders, “How fucked can one Apocalypse get?”

Back in the truck. Loaded and ready for war. Guns sprout out of every window and door like the big rig is a giant moving porcupine. The graveyard they leave behind looks like an army rolled over it. Corpses everywhere like a lost battlefield. Nothing moves when they move on.

Nothing.

They shoot every godforsaken thing they see on their way down the winding hillside, and there are some very fucking godforsaken things out there. It started to get dark a half hour ago, and then the moon made an appearance. A moon that was drenched in blood. The air took on a sultry feel, like they stepped into a sauna that smelled of piss. The reek is everywhere, and even the open windows blowing air in at over seventy miles per hour can’t suck the smell out.

Conversation is impossible. They tried to yell back and forth, but it was just irritating, and Darla told them to shut the fuck up. Music blares through the cab. It’s almost as loud as the wind, and it does help to cheer everyone up. Missus ManHole is one of the angriest femme bands on the planet, and they play them constantly. The current hit, I Smacked up a Tranny Bitch is rooting around in their brains, making them think happy thoughts.

Another hour goes by, and the sky is lit by fire as more red streaks flare across it. Dark at first, then bright red, now orange as the things rip at the atmosphere. Concussions rock the truck, and every once in a while Edwina wonders if they are in another earthquake.

“How much longer?” Marcel shouts.

Edwina has the map plastered to her legs, and she is pretty sure they are on the right road. The Sons of Satan’s Redeeming Cock are about to get a wakeup call. Apocalypse or not, there is going to be blood spilled. Screw the end of the world. No one breaks into their camp and tries to kill them like some kind of bad slasher flick. Leave that shit for the big screen.

“Soon. If we’re on the road I think we’re on, then you are going to take a left in about five minutes.”

“I’m on the lookout for it.” Darla hits a button, and lights on top of the big rig illuminate the night like it is midday.

“How are we on gas?”

“Fine. As long as we keep it steady. We won’t be able to run the engines when we rest, but I’m sure we can all cuddle up in the back.”

Edwina smiles and leans over to pats Darla on the leg. When she pulls her hand back, Marcel slips a leg toward the console, and she ends up brushing the tall woman’s thigh. Edwina looks at her, an apology on her face, but Marcel smiles at her. Eyes teasing. She leans back in her seat and swallows, thankful for the noise in the cabin, which covers her nervous actions.

“So what’s the plan?” Darla looks in the rearview mirror. Eyes on Marcel, who is cleaning her automatic. Edwina glances back. Marcel has the gun stripped and is checking the barrel. She peers down it, and when she seems satisfied, she snaps it back onto the stock of the gun.

“Shoot first.”

“Because that worked out so well with the angel.”

“It did. Didn’t it?” Marcel smiles a tight little grin that makes Edwina want to punch her in the face.

“No it did not! I can’t believe you shot before it could even say a word.”

“You know how I know it’s not an angel, Ed? Because I was able to shoot it. I don’t know if you are up on the Bible, but angels are these nasty things that show up when there is trouble. Big trouble. They kill firstborn by the boatload. Forget all that angelic shit. You see these guys and you run. It’s that simple. Don’t ask questions; don’t ask for help or directions to an orgy. You turn the fuck around and run!”