“Why the hell not?” replied William H. Taft XLII. “They were paying well.”
In the course of re-inventing the internet, Japan accidentally found a way to raise the dead. While most countries would have stopped what they were doing, prayed to various deities—as religion was still valid at this point—and then shit their pants, this was Japan.
The internet had been powered by ghosts ever since.
“Good god,” said Queen Victoria XXX. “These steaks are delicious.”
Due to the increasing frequencies of apocalypses, the various heavens had been forced to add cover charges and dress codes, as well as patrol their respective borders more thoroughly than before. As a result, a large number of atheists and other “undesirables”—not exactly evil enough for Hell, but not quite qualifying for this new, more stringent definition of good, either—were denied their eternal rewards and, instead, found themselves tethered to their decaying mortal frames for all time.
Luckily for them, Japan’s complete disregard for the established policies of the universe freed those spirits from that never-ending boredom. As a result, there were a large number of vacant corpses.
With ethics no longer an issue—seeing as how souls were now not only confirmed, but, most assuredly, otherwise occupied—these empty corpses were brought to life by a rejuvenated USSR. The Soviets almost immediately lost control of the experiment. This swiftly led to the Zombie Holocaust and ended the world for the sixth time.
Amidst the widespread death, the ensuing chaos, and the newfound efficiency of the internet, the idea of coupling free-ranging, mercenary spirits with the marauding hordes of zombies managed to escape the collective thinking of the world’s remaining populace.
“Yes,” said the reanimated, rotting cadaver of a police officer, held together by duct tape and staples and currently being possessed by the ghost of Jesse James, “they sure are.”
At least until Chester A. Arthur XVII realized there was good money to be made in it.
Twenty-Five: Expletives Ahoy
“Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit”
“Oh my god, why won’t it die? Why won’t it die?!”
Dr. Meola and Dr. Ramos ran through the hallways of the research facility, desperate for an exit and, hopefully, an extension on their lives.
“The door’s locked. The door’s locked!”
Things were not going well.
“Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit”
The roar of the atomic werewolf echoed throughout the building. Dr. Meola wet his pants.
“Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit”
“Alright, OK, alright,” said Dr. Ramos, his back against the locked door and his pants still dry, “we’re scientists, damn it, we can figure a way out of this.”
The wolfman roared again.
“No, no, we are going to die. We are absolutely going to die.”
“Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit”
The beast’s roar was momentarily interrupted by the sound of a shotgun firing.
The shotgun went off again. And again. This was followed by a short silence and then another, significantly louder roar. Windows rattled. The shotgun fired one more time, and was quickly followed by a large number of high-volume obscenities.
George Saint, the facility’s janitor and appointed executioner, appeared at the end of the hall opposite the doctors.
Well, parts of him anyway.
Dr. Ramos’ pants ceased to be dry.
“I don’t want to die. Oh god, I don’t want to die.”
The escaped werewolf appeared at the end of the hallway, holding various pieces of George Saint. The beast reared up on its hind legs, its shoulders brushing against the ceiling.
“Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit”
The atomic wolfman growled and charged at the doctors.
“Ohgodohgodohgodohfuckohgodfuckshitfuck”
The doctors closed their eyes and clutched each other in a damp and terrified embrace.
“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck”
They could hear the beast racing towards them. There may have been defecating.
“FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK”
There was a loud crash, wood cracking and glass shattering, and then silence. As near as the doctors could diagnose, there had been no further dismemberment. They were also pretty certain they were still breathing, albeit rapidly.
“What the hell?”
The doctors looked around. The door that had been impeding their flight was no longer in existence. There was a large hole and some splinters in its place. Beyond that, nothing but the vast, swampy expanse of the New Jersey Meadowlands.
“You know,” said Dr. Ramos, still clutching Dr. Meola and more than slightly confused as to why he wasn’t in little, itty-bitty chunks, “I really can’t imagine this ending well.”
Interlude: Thor, God of Chronological Narratives
“Been a pretty boring couple of days, hasn’t it?” asked Thor.
“Sure has,” replied Catrina.
The two of them sat atop the concierge desk of the Secaucus Holiday Inn, looking out across the empty hotel lobby.
“You think everyone’s week has been this uneventful?”
“You mean, like, ‘everyone everywhere’ everyone?”
“Yeah. You think maybe the whole planet’s just been sitting around on their asses going, ‘Man, what the balls. This has been one boring-ass week.’”
“Not the entire planet, no way,” replied Catrina. “There’s bound to be someone doing something somewhere. Most people are far more enterprising and adventurous than us.”
“I guess that’s true,” said Thor.
A grizzly bear wearing a shirt and tie and carrying a skateboard stepped off the elevator into the lobby and walked to the concierge desk.
“I’d like to check out, please,” said the grizzly bear, putting his keycard on the counter.
“Sure thing,” said Catrina, swinging her legs around, hopping off the desk, taking the keycard, and logging into the computer. “And how was your stay, sir?”
“Pretty uneventful,” said the grizzly bear, shrugging.
“Tell me about it, man,” said Thor to the grizzly bear. “I think it’s an epidemic.”
Twenty-Six: Meanwhile, Back at the Compound…
“The matter,” said Phil, “is entirely on our shoulders. It is our… responsibility to rise up, to take the reigns.”
Quetzalcoatl had been staying with the cabal of philosophers for nearly a week. They had been kind enough to give him his own corner of the basement and a Sunday newspaper, to be used however he saw fit.
He spent the majority of his time squatting against the wall and wearing the Business section as a blanket, observing the endless parade of stoners and liberal arts majors and listening to the various theories being thrown about. He also spent a good deal of time trying to identify the free-wheeling odors they shared the building with.
“But we cannot simply… impose our goals,” countered Bill, “without at least… offering the populace the opportunity to dissent.”
Quetzalcoatl had tried to be a gracious guest, but it had proved to be astoundingly taxing. The philosophers continually asked him questions that had no answer. They answered questions that weren’t asked. Quetzalcoatl spent one night outside and discovered that the cigarette and gum adorned sidewalk was more comfortable than his corner. There were beards everywhere.
“Allowing dissent,” said Syl, “is no different than conceding our argument… preemptively.”
Quetzalcoatl couldn’t pronounce or identify most of the food they offered. He had, instead, been subsisting entirely on Spaghetti-Os. Most of them thought he was doing it ironically.