It's the Apocalypse, Dave. Try to Have Fun.

It’s the Apocalypse, Dave

Try to Have Fun.

By: A.R. Wise

Cover image sourced from istockphoto.com

Cover designed by A.R. Wise

Dedicated to all of the fans who’ve stuck with me since the beginning, and all of the fans who just made it to the party. My career, and most of my happiness, are thanks to you.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

1 – The Gas Station Catastrophe

I had thirteen dollars in my pocket, a stack of overdue bills, and a rip-roaring hangover the day the apocalypse started. All in all, not a bad time to hit the reset button on life.

When you hear the word ‘apocalypse’, the first thing that pops in your head is probably meteors falling from the sky, zombies munching on brains, or ancient Aztec prophecies. That’s not the way it happened. Our apocalypse started with a simple news report that I barely paid attention to on my drive to work.

‘Scientists in Hamm, Germany have announced the creation of a metamaterial that was meant to collect positive ions, but might also attract antimatter. The creators say this synthetic material could give us insight into the origin of planets, and answer some questions about gravity that have puzzled physicists for decades.’

That was it. I would’ve forgotten about it entirely if not for how I chuckled at the fact there was a town in Germany named Hamm. The next blurb in the report was about how some reality TV star was suing the makers of his show because they didn’t blur his butt crack. The news about the experiment that would threaten the entire world was breezed past.

You can hardly blame me for not paying attention. I was late to work, and I’d already been written up twice. Over the past couple of weeks I’d smashed my alarm’s snooze button so many times that it finally stopped working, requiring me to actually turn off the alarm to get it to stop. This morning my solution was to pull the clock’s cord out of the wall and throw it across the room. It worked fabulously, and allowed me another hour of blissful sleep that was interrupted by the terrified realization I’d overslept.

I didn’t bother with a shower, and gargled with some mouthwash instead of brushing my teeth. I gave my clothes a sniff test to see if they were clean, or at least smelled relatively clean, and settled on a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt from a recent Faith No More concert. The front of the shirt was emblazoned with massive red text that said, ‘Mother’, and the back had similar letters that said, ‘Fucker’. It wasn’t the ideal work outfit, but at least it didn’t stink. I threw on a hoodie as well, to cover up the bad word on the back of the shirt, leaving people the impression that I was attempting some feminist declaration about how a man could be a mother – or something like that.

I debated whether or not it was too warm out for the hoodie. Any job that hires a guy like me has got to be prepared for the possibility that I’m going to come to work with some inappropriate attire from time to time. My arms are covered in tattoos of skulls and grim reapers, and I’ve got the words ‘Game Over’ tattooed on my knuckles, one letter per finger in a font reminiscent of old school videogames. I’ve got a beard that’s the result of laziness instead of fashionable grooming, my last appointment at Supercuts was four months ago, and most of the time people can pick up the faint smell of weed on my clothes. Long ago I lost the ability to smell it on myself, which is odd considering a person could be taking a hit two blocks away and I still manage to sniff it out.

My hoodie reeked of weed. That’s exactly why I decided to keep it on. I loved the idea of my boss wrinkling his pug nose as he got a whiff of dank every time I passed. Perhaps that’s a good example of my self-destructive, anti-authoritarian streak coming through.

I grabbed my phone on the way out the door, and was about to call work to give them some BS story about how my car wouldn’t start. Unfortunately, the phone’s battery was dead. I’d left it on overnight watching movies. Whenever I get so drunk that the room starts to spin, I like to lay down with my cell phone, and focus on a movie. It helps take my mind off my whirling surroundings, but eats up my battery. Just as well. I didn’t feel like explaining myself on an empty stomach.

My hangover was twisting my gut into knots, and in my infinite wisdom I thought a greasy fast-food bacon, egg, and cheese belly bomb would cure my ills. To counteract the edible poison, I ordered orange juice instead of coffee (you know, for the vitamins), which ended up being another decision I’d come to regret. I’m sure there are lots of people in this world who enjoy swallowing chunks of pulp with their orange juice, but I’m not one of them. I told that lady at the drive-thru, No pulp, but apparently they had a quota to meet for screwing up orders, because my juice was packed so tight with pulp I’m surprised there was any liquid in it at all. It was like trying to suck the water out of a cottage cheese container – and I’ll just let that image toy with your gut for a minute. Maybe then you’ll start to get a sense of how my stomach was feeling.

I finished my sandwich, and then crumpled the wrapper. I tossed the greasy paper over my shoulder onto the mountain of similar trash in the back seat. Don’t judge me. The last serious relationship I’d been in ended almost eight months earlier, and I’m a testament to the old adage of how a man is only as good as the woman beside him. If you were hoping for a story about a strong-willed, quick-thinking protagonist with all his shit together then you came to the wrong place. I’m a mess. A proud, lazy, mid-thirties mess with more skeletons in my closet than a mausoleum, and no shits left to give except for the ones headed to the toilet.

My car, Betty Boop (I wish there was a great story behind the moniker of my old Ford Escort, but I just named it that because I had sex with a girl named Betty in it once), chugged along dutifully, spitting out enough blue-tinted exhaust to poison whole neighborhoods. Someone had warned me that blue exhaust was a bad sign, but the car cost me less than four hundred dollars. I’d be damned if I was going to pay for it to get fixed. Betty was the type of lemon where the minute you fixed what was wrong with her, something else broke. Best just to leave her be.

The brakes squealed as I pulled into a parking spot outside of the warehouse where I worked. I saw my friend and coworker, Otis, standing outside waiting for me. That was the first sign of trouble.

He approached the car as I got out. Hey Dave.

Now I knew there was trouble. Otis rarely used my real name. He normally greeted me with a jubilant, ‘Double D’ because both my first and last names start with a ‘D’, and also because he liked referring to me as a big tit.

Otis was an assistant supervisor at the warehouse. Some begrudged coworkers suspected it was an affirmative action appointment, but I knew he got the job because our boss was a sniveling puke of a coward who tried to avoid conflict any way he could. Otis got promoted because of his size, not his skin color. Otis stood somewhere between six and seven feet tall, with shoulders as wide as a fridge, and a chest that put barrels to shame. He was an imposing figure, with arms that dwarfed most men’s thighs, and hands that could palm watermelons. That’s not racist, he really could. I saw him do it once.

How’s it going, Oatmeal? I asked with a lighthearted smile as I headed towards the warehouse. I kept trying to get other people to call him ‘Oatmeal’ as well, but the name never stuck.

Otis moved to block my path.

Don’t tell me, I said as my shoulders sunk.

Sorry, brother, said Otis.

Let me talk to him. I can change his mind. Trust me. I looked around the titan in my path, searching for our chicken-hearted employer’s frightened face peering around a corner to watch as his lackey did his dirty work.

Not going to happen, said Otis. It would be a mistake to assume Otis was one of those kind-hearted giant stereotypes you see in popular fiction. He was willing and able to deliver a punishing beat down to anyone who deserved it. Even though we were friends, I knew better than to cross him.

Is it because I’m late? I asked as I checked the time.

You’re not being fired, said Otis, and I could tell by his tone that he knew he was serving up a load of bull. We used to joke about how the majority of his job was what he called ‘shining turds’. The boss would make a crumby decision that negatively affected his employees, and it was Otis’s job to figure out a way to sell it to them. It’s a lay off.

A lay off?

Jim got word from the investors that they’re restructuring the department. It’s not just you. I had to let Chris and Jay go too. I’ve been out here waiting for you to show up. We still haven’t turned on any of the equipment today. We’ve just been waiting for your ass. Didn’t you get my calls?

Phone’s dead. What about Tony? I asked about our mutual friend.

He’s inside. He’s one of the three of us keeping our jobs.

Jim’s too scared to come out here and tell me himself?

Otis glanced over his shoulder to make sure our boss wasn’t eavesdropping. Of course he is. You know how it goes.

Man, this really sucks, I said. Is there a severance or anything like that?

Not unless you’ve been here a year, so you’re out of luck.

What about vacation time? Do I get paid for that?

Vacation time? asked Otis with a smirk. You ran out, and you used all your sick days.

Great.

Don’t go feeling sorry for yourself, said Otis with a characteristic lack of sympathy. One of the things that made him a good fit for his position was how he refused to accept excuses, and didn’t pity anyone. He worked hard, and didn’t have any patience for laziness. Otis had moved here alone to get away from a dark history he didn’t like to talk about back in East St. Louis. We’d become friends because we didn’t know very many other people out here. You knew you were on thin ice as it was. And then you show up all late like a jackass. What’d you expect?

You don’t get to bitch at me, Otis. I don’t work here anymore. Remember?

Yeah, all right. Then I’ll bitch at you ‘cause you’re my friend. Stop being a jackass. Go get another job, and try getting to it on time for once in your life. You’re not a kid anymore. Stop acting like one.

All right, Dad, I joked.

Shoot, Otis snickered. If I was your pop, you’d have a size fourteen steel toe shoved so far up your ass…

I’m not interested in your weird sex fantasies.

That’s not what I heard, said Otis, continuing our light-hearted banter. You going home to sulk? Or are you going to get out there and try to find another job?

The way my life’s going, I’ll be flipping burgers at noon and back on my ass by five.

Otis rolled his eyes and said, Oh brother, give me a break. Quit your belly-aching. You’re a middle class white dude in the suburbs. No matter how tough you think you’ve got it, trust me it could be a whole lot worse.

Otis, you suck at pep talks.

And you suck at keeping a job.

He had me there. There’s nothing I hate more than going to work. I wish I had that fabled Midwestern work ethic that my grandfather did, and that I could whistle my way through the drudgery of a work week so that I could try and enjoy life a little on the weekends, but that’s just not me. I abhor every minute that gets wasted in a warehouse, or a kitchen, or a factory chugging along like a cog in a machine that’s making money for the fat cats up top. Of course, the downside to my sort of attitude is that those fat cats are more than happy to bury a shit like me in the proverbial litter box of lower-middle class.

I’ll give you a call tonight, said Otis. Maybe you, and me, and Tony can go out for a drink.

I laughed and said, Not unless you guys are buying. I don’t have a job, remember?

Water’s free.

You could buy me a beer.

Nah, I’m not enabling your lazy ass. He clopped that thick paw of his on my shoulder and squeezed. He meant the gesture as a kind one, but it hurt more than helped. I’m pretty sure he left bruises. I’ll talk to you tonight.

I said goodbye, and walked back to Betty Boop, who was still smoking and making an odd clanging noise. I had no idea where to head next, and sat in the driver’s seat as I tried to decide. The hangover headache that’d caused an ever-present throbbing behind my eyeballs had spread to my temples, and I decided the best thing for it was the tallest cup of coffee I could buy. There was a specialty coffee shop down the street, but considering I had to stretch the thirteen dollars in my pocket to near miraculous lengths, I decided it was a gas-station-coffee sort of day.

I drove over to the Kum and Go (which I still think is the worst name for a respectable business I’ve ever heard), and went in to plunder their burned coffee selection, a taste sensation that I’d mask with a zealous helping of hazelnut creamer. The coffee station was set up beside the rotating hot dog rack, and the smell of those sweaty meat sticks made my stomach churn. As poor as I was, I couldn’t fathom resorting to buying a hot dog at a gas station. That was a low I hadn’t yet reached.

No dogs, said the Middle-Eastern gas station attendant behind the counter. I looked up at him, befuddled by his declaration. I wondered if he’d read my mind.

He’s a service dog,