“C” is for Apocalypse

Chaz’s stomach roared mightily as he gunned down the endless hordes of undead that had taken over the small African village. He tried to ignore it. He was busy enjoying himself and his brand-spanking-new mini-gun. Dozens more infected villagers exploded into piles of molten gore at his feet, and he rushed forward to collect the bullets and medical kits that exploded from their entrails.

His stomach roared again and Chaz pressed pause.

“Fuck it,” he said to the empty game room. He pulled himself off the couch and brushed the crumbs from his chest onto the graveyard of malt liquor cans on the floor. He waded across the piles of garbage to the slick black door in the far wall. He pressed his forehead against the door and said, “foooooooood.”

The door buzzed with energy then slowly irised open. Chaz stepped through the hole and out into the kitchen. Sunlight flooded into his eyes from the thirty foot glass walls that looked out over the valley below the volcano. He raised one hand to cover his eyes and slowly made his way across the bright room.

He rummaged through the fridge for a long time, digging through molded leftovers and rotten pools of green sludge that he thought might have been vegetables at one point. That didn’t make too much sense to him. Refrigerators are for food. There shouldn’t be any vegetables stored in there. When he got to the smoldering disembodied head of Raul Julia in the back corner he slammed the fridge closed in disgust. He was about to start screaming in rage when he saw the note taped to the door.

“Vacuum Coolant parts needed for Special Project XVI. – Jay.”

So Jay had cannibalized the refrigerator again. These experiments were getting out of hand. Chaz was going to have to call an emergency meeting of the crew and complain to Thad about this. In the meantime, however, he could at least get some cereal. If you made sure that you bought the right kind, you could use vodka in place of milk and no one would even notice. Hell, sometimes you could just skip the cereal all together.

He opened the pantry and leaned in. The brand new box of Coke Frosted Mini-Wheats was exactly where he left it, fortunately for his crew mates. Instead of diving in for the powdery goodness, though, his hand was drawn to a slightly shining white package with raised golden lettering. He’d never heard of the brand before, which was strange considering his devotion to consuming only prepackaged foods. He pulled the package out and tore open the end.

Inside was a sleeve of yellow-and-white sandwich cookies. Each cookie had a cross stamped into one side and the words “Do this in remembrance” pressed into the other. He shrugged at the package and stuffed it into the crook of his elbow along with the box of Coke Frosted Mini-Wheats and a gallon of plastic-jug vodka.

He stumbled back across the kitchen and through the portal to the game room. It slid closed behind him and he crashed his way through the empty cans back to the couch. He flopped down into the well-worn ass-grove and hit the start button on his controller. On the other side of the planet, his remote controlled robot went back to work on eradicating the infestation of Seychelles.

As the mini-gun began to warm up its continuous rain of death, Chaz popped one of the cookies into his mouth.

* * *
 

Jesus looked up at the clock on the wall. In just a few more seconds the buzzer would sound and his two millennia shift would come to an end. He was really looking forward to that first break time. He hadn’t had a chance to hang out in the break room since he got this gig, and all the angels and other guys seemed so cool when his boss first introduced them. He was really hoping he could convince them that he was a good manager, not just some schmuck who’s daddy ran the country.

Most importantly, though, he was really, really looking forward to scarfing on some Gloreo’s.

The little sandwich cookies were his only true vice. He promised himself when he got this job that he would let himself have one every break. The thought of those delicious cookies made his mouth water. The dream of gulping one down with a tall glass of vino or goat’s milk had kept him going through the toughest part of his first shift. That stretch from the fifth century to the tenth century had been brutal, and he’d made a few big mistakes. Now that he’d gotten most of that straightened back out, he was totally ready for the cookies.

The buzzer sounded throughout heaven. Jesus was officially on break, and what a sweet fifteen Heaven-minutes they would be. He climbed down off his ergonomically correct chair and tapped the windows+L combo on the keyboard to lock his screen. He stretched, sending a series of loud snaps crackling down his spine. He scratched at the holes in his wrists, those things itched horribly.

He took one last look around at the productivity charts on the wall and smiled. He’d definitely earned this break. Things had been touch and go after the introduction of the Holy Roman Empire, but the subjects really seemed to respond pretty well to that LSD thing he sent down a few decades back. That had undone centuries of problems with one fell love brush. He was really starting to get the hang of this. Now, if he could only figure out that whole “Arizona” thing, he’d be set.

But that was a problem for later. For now, he had other duties to attend to. He needed to mingle with the underlings, schmooze some of the up-and-comers, schedule that golf game with Mastema. But, most importantly, it was time to get his grub on with those dad-damned cookies.

The break-room was lively when Jesus came in. A handful of angels and principalities were sitting in the smoking section hitting the hookah, and Jesus gave them a wave as he crossed to the row of lockers at the back of room. He stopped in front of locker number 888. Some knuckle-head had hung a wooden cross with a doll glued to it on the front of his locker and he chuckled as he took it down. “Guys, it doesn’t even look like me. This guy is like, I don’t know, super white.”

He sat the crucifix on the top of the row of lockers and touched the glowing lock. There was a clicking noise and the locker sprang open. His mouth watered at the thought of the delicious sleeve of cookies waiting for him. There, on the top shelf of his locker, where the Gloreos should have been, was an empty outline in the dust.

“Jesus-fucking-Christ,” he screamed, “Who ate my dad-damned Gloreos?”

How is Jesus going to handle his munchy-deprivation? Is Chaz ever going to clean up the stacks and stacks of cans?

Find out in Alcohologist Chronicles Episode 2: “C” is for Apocalypse!