In other news, I was handed two invites for anthologies. It's nice when editors ask you to submit, it's not a guarantee acceptance, but damn you have to screw up big time to fail. Yeah, guess what happened. Not the more brilliant bits of fiction that I've written in the past month. Utterly frustrating when you fail to get past the starting gate. On top of it, I missed two of the three other subs that tickled my fancy. At least the GRONK! universe story got out the door.
As this piece of fiction is pretty specialized, I'm gonna post it here. It's been through a couple of beta readers and an edit. There's probably spelling errors, missing words, confusing story, and other issues. It also contains swearing, blood, violence, a lot of political incorrectness, and unicorns. You have been warned.
HOOVES
OF THE APOCALYPSE
You know
what I hate the most about humans? Their sheer inability to get it.
They’re a mass of hubris, narcissism, and stupidity that - when
faced with the truth - would rather bury it and carry on with the
party while the house burns down around them. As I told the creator
many times, just wipe them out and let something better evolve in
their place; like the octopus. I mean really, humanity wasn’t
planned in the first place, just an accident 'cause she didn’t
clean up after making the universe. Like the stray sperm after you’ve
fucked your partner really well and left with a few dribbles
afterward. That’s how it happened, an unplanned creation that
wasn't caught until too late.
We'd talk for hours
about humanity and she insisted you had limitless potential. She even
took your form and preached a message of peace to help you grow into
responsible stewards of the earth. That experiment ended with a messy
death. You jacked-up little monkeys escaped my wrath only because she
ordered me to stand down. Well, now you’ve gone and done it. You
little fuckers are about to start the final war and kill all life on
the planet. All her efforts gone to waste. Its been four thousand
years of observing the mighty human jack things up, over and over and
over. The creator’s given me leave to make things right. Finally.
Oh right, who am I?
I’m the Unicorn of the Apocalypse. There’s no other horsemen
[another thing you humans got wrong], but I do have an army and we’re
coming to wipe out humanity. It’s going to be glorious. Now, the
creator’s a merciful being and she’s not going to punish the
innocent. They’re all safely in her realm enjoying milk and
cookies. The rest of you assholes are about to have a very bad day
and a much worse eternity.
* * *
Shawn paused to
flick the lint off his collar and square his shoulders. His jeans
were a touch too tight today, but Sarah loved the way they clung to
his ass. His flannel shirt was run-of-the-mill, but the hat, oh my
god, that was something special. A grey pork pie found on a shelf at
Goodwill. It sat perfect on his head and only cost a few bucks. The
first drops of rain pattered down from the now cloudy sky.
Just
in time.
The
thought had barely formed when the ground heaved and bucked, sending
him sprawling into the planter box as his newly found treasure rolled
into the gutter.
“My
hat!” he wailed. A BMW X3 crushed it flat as the soccer mom bumped
over the curb, spilled her Starbucks, and dropped in her cell phone.
He saw the surprise on her face for just a second, before the SUV hit
the cement bench and the air bags popped.
I
hope the bitch broke her nose.
Asphalt
cracked and jerked apart to send geysers of chunky, brown water into
the air. The US Bancorp tower, or the Big Pink, as the locals called
it, wobbled from side to side, like an erection flicked in jest.
Glittering shard of glass reflected the few rays of sun that pierced
the clouds. A rainbow cascade of razor-edged death plummeted towards
the earth below.
“Sucks
to be them,” he muttered, trying to regain his balance. His foot
slipped in the noisome goo, sending him sprawling to the ground.
The
soccer mom staggered out of her BWM, with a hand covering her nose to
stop the flow of crimson. Bystanders moved this way and that, dodging
the noxious spray and semi-solid lumps that rained out of the sky.
Shawn crawled over the unstable ground, snapping up his ruined hat.
“My
hat! It was perfect!” He rounded on the driver. “You stupid slut,
why the fuck weren't paying attention!”
She
glared at him and mumbled something behind her hand.
“Speak
up, you sound like you have a dick in your mouth!”
“Fuck
you and your hat, you useless hipster!” she screamed, letting the
blood flow down her face. She spit blood and took a step forward.
“I'm gonna...”
Shawn
blinked in surprise as the silver horn punched through her chest.
Crimson fluid coated his face as the driver's heart pumped squirts of
blood.
“Ahhhh!!!”
He
stared as the corpse slid off the horn with a long slurp and
collapsed into the growing puddle of waste. Her bowels slackened and
added a fresh steaming pile at her feet. The unicorn looked up, red
eyes blazing. It pawed and stamped on the ground with a black hoof,
throwing its head back and forth, silver mane flowing and waving in
response. Horse of all colors, markings, and size galloped from the
cracks in the ground. With each hoofbeat came the sound of thunder
and crack of lightning. Red eyes. Silver manes. Blood stained
muzzles.
“What.
The. Fuck.”
“I
would run if I were you,” the unicorn said. “You've got to the
count of ten.”
* * *
I'll give the
little hipster props, he almost made it the end of the street by the
time I hit ten. Didn't do him a damn bit of good when the aftershock
hit and he stumbled out into the street. Teabug Pretty Mane got him
with a rear kick, breaking his leg and rupturing an artery. Little
poser was dead before he hit the street. Organs popped with spurts of
blood and a meaty squelch as the stampede followed her to chase down
the other runners. When they'd past, only smears of sticky fluid,
bits of meat, flecks of gristle, and shattered shards of bones
remained.
Gunfire always
attracts attention. A cop, his comb-over flopping in the breeze,
yanked on the mare's reins. She skittered and reared back, neighing
and whinnying at the commotion, and pawing the air. Little known fact
that most of the horses in the world have a bit of my bloodline in
them. Nightmares in potentia. That asshole was about to get a rude
surprise.
The creator frowned
at my dalliances, but she's one to talk about getting around. Another
thing you humans fucked up... heh, fucked up... Seriously, sex is
awesome; it feels good and mellows you out. If you guys screwed more
and fought less, I wouldn't be doing the four-hoof shuffle on your
corpses. I hope whatever evolves after you pricks takes things a bit
less serious.
But you say, hey
he's a cop. One of the good guys.
Wrong.
His list of sins
was on display for all to see. It helps us weed out the innocent from
the guilty as fuck. Murder. Theft. Jaywalking. Everything a person in
power could conceivably get away with and more.
“Stand down, you
stupid nag!” He yanked hard on the reins, pulling her muzzle down
to his level. The mare pulled back her lips and bit. Hard. Not one of
those little nips, but a full-on, fuck-you, chomp into the cop's leg.
Blood coated her head as it spurted from the wound. A laughing neigh
came from her throat as she swallowed the chunk of meat.
Did I mention
nightmares are carnivores? Might have slipped my mind.
“Why... what...
how?” His hands clamped down on the wound, slowly the fountain of
crimson. He paled and his eyes fluttered. “But you were my
partner...”
She snorted and
flicked her head. Her eyes shifted to a glowing red. With a slow
deliberation, she placed her hoof on his chest and pinned him to
sidewalk. His ribcage held up well for having a ton of Percheron
pressing down. He gasped for breath, clawing and beating on her leg.
His face turned beet red, then purple as his struggles slowed and a
frantic desperation shone in his eyes. With a final shudder, his arms
fell to the side and his legs gave a last twitch. She dipped her
muzzle and tore out his heart.
Like father, like
daughter. Makes me proud.
* * *
“What the hell?”
screamed Reverend Justin Brown. The chapel rocked and lurched with
the first rolling waves of the quake and the sharp aftershocks.
Candles tipped off the altar, sputtering out as they broke apart. The
pulpit pitched forward into the nave, breaking in two upon impact
with the front pews. “God must hate me.”
All around him dust
swirled and light flickered, then snuffed out as the electricity
failed. Great. Mrs. Simmons is going to be late or not show up.
How the hell am I going bust a nut now?
“Padre!”
shrieked Mrs. Diego weaving out from the vestry and wringing her
hands. The elderly cleaning lady's breasts bounced and jiggled
beneath the loose blouse. “What's is happening?”
“No
cause for concern. Just an earthquake. It will pass soon.”
“Marie
is missing, Padre. I sent her to clean the bathrooms and now she's
gone.”
That
bit of news piqued his interest. He knew the young lady. He'd
overseen her confirmation and she was the spitting image of her
mother. Reverend Brown patted her hand, lingering in a friendly,
reassuring manner. “No worries. We'll find her once the building
has stopped shaking.”
“If
you say so, Padre.” The edge of doubt crept into her voice, as she
drew back.
And
if I find her first, she'll get an education about her place in the
scheme of things. Like her mother learned.
“Let us head to the backroom and commence our search.”
BONG!
BONG! BONG!
Wood
splintered and cracked as the bronze bell tore itself from the yoke.
Gravity accelerated it down along with the stone tower, crashing
through the rafters with the force a freight train. Sunlight streamed
into the chapel through the cloud of dust, illuminating what
electricity no longer did.
“Padre!
An angel!” Mrs. Diego pointed at the gap in the broken ceiling.
He
followed her finger, blinking to clear his blurred vision.
Silhouetted against the light, a figure hovered, flapping majestic
feathered wings. Its head was too long and legs too skinny, but what
else could it be? A twinge of fear gripped his stomach as a cold
dread pierced his soul. Oh, Jesus.
It
alighted between the pews, feet clicking on the hard wood floor. Red
eyes cut through the gloom, baleful orbs that emanated hate and
disdain.
“What
do you want? Have you come to pass judgment on me?” His voice broke
as he spoke.
Silence.
“Padre.
We must pray for our souls.” The cleaning lady dropped to her knees
and pressed her hands together. “Forgive me for I have sinned. Let
me confess before you and God!”
The
angel neighed, flapped its wings, and reared up. Silver hooves
flashed once. Mrs. Diego's head split open at the impact. Grey flecks
of brains burst from her ruptured skull, colored with a thin coat of
red. She sagged and toppled to the side without a sound, other than
the noisome emptying of her bowels.
It's
a horse? He ran to the altar,
snatched up a silvered candlestick, and waved it at the gloom. “Be
gone spawn of Satan! You have no power here!”
Unseen
wings flapped and blew dust in his face. He coughed and choked, the
impromptu weapon clattering to the ground. Hot, dank breath tickled
the back of his neck.
“Oh,
sweet Jesus.”
* * *
I
have to admit that I didn't come up with the Pegasus breed. Of all
people, The Morningstar [that's Lucifer for those unfamiliar with the
Bible] suggested putting wings on the cleverest of the host and the
rest is history. They're faster than anything that runs, swims,
flies, or crawls. They aren't nearly as robust as the nightmares, but
that's just a matter of degrees. The creator gave them the task of
taking out hypocrites, and boy, do they love it. Dropping victims
from ten stories up is a game to them.
The
pastor prayed and cursed in turns, then screamed like one of his
victims as he fell. He made a nice red Jackson Pollock on the street
once the flight had enough of playing hacky-sack with him. Between
the host and natural selection, the herd of unrighteous shrank
quickly. Fewer and fewer juicy targets showed themselves, digging
deep to hide. Not that it would do them any good. Time to summon the
ponies.
* * *
“What
the hell's going on, Anthony? There's a horse breathing flames and
trampling down anyone that runs! I saw one of them spear your brother
and then roast the corpse for good measure.” Edgar S. Burgle,
lobbyist and lawyer for Crutch Pharmaceuticals, clutched at the
lapels of his boss.
“Get
a hold of yourself,” he sneered, slapping away the man's hands with
stinging blow. “I'm sure the military will take care of it. In the
meantime, we've got this bunker and plenty of supplies. Two years'
worth of quality food, wine, and recreational options.”
Edgar
looked at the vault of crates, boxes, and water tanks. It stretched
off in the gloom, the red emergency lighting unable to chase away all
the shadows. To the left, a putting green occupied a prominent piece
of space. “We should find others. There's more than enough space.”
“Nonsense.
Why risk opening up the door and being overrun by the public. Please
relax and enjoy the quiet. There's a nice bottle of red that my
dearly departed brother was kind enough to leave us.” Anthony
patted his bag of clubs. “Perhaps a couple rounds of practice will
relieve some of the tension.”
“Jesus.
We're just going to let them get killed?”
“Please,
think of the more important issues at hand. Our stocks are going to
tank after this, but once we move in to supply nations with needed
medical supplies and services, our options will skyrocket.”
“Are you serious?
It's the end of the world and all you can think about it is your
fortune? People are dying out there and we should help them, not
horde ill-gotten goods.
“Appealing
to my charitable nature? That's very surprising of you, Edgar. After
all the work you did to scuttle the child care health act, I'd
thought you beyond such charity.”
He
groaned at the memories. “Yeah, bring that up at a time like this.
How many died because of that?”
“No
one important. If they could afford the health care, they deserved to
live. It's Social Darwinism. Some of us are simply more important
than others.”
CLONG!
“Now
what?” Anthony muttered, turning towards the video screen. Bodies
littered the access hallway; a trampled mush of flesh, bone, and
blood. In the midst of the carnage, a dun Shetland pony buried her
muzzle into the belly of particularly fat man. Ropes of intestines
slurped out of the cavity as she tossed her head back and forth. The
victim's eyes bulged and his mouth opened in a soundless screen.
Edgar
gave thanks that his boss was too cheap to include sound. “On
second thought, we should stay here.”
“Thank
you for the statement of the obvious,” his boss sneered.
Just
as the edge of camera range, a silver dapple pony pranced and hopped
in a circle. On its rump a mark, in the shape of a closed fist,
glowed red-hot. His companion's mark glowed just as bright, a crimson
drop from the wavy blade of a dagger. He rushed at the door, twisting
in mid rush to present his backside, and kicked.
CLONG!
The
pony glared at the camera, then turned to the door to nuzzle it. Two
dents, perfect impressions of hoofs, adorned the metal barrier.
“How
the hell?”
“We're
going to die. Killed by ponies.” Edgar giggled at the thought. All
his sins coming back to roost. All those kids that died. His fault.
All his fault. His head rang with slap.
“Get
a grip, man or I'll kill you myself!”
Anthony
'Tony” Crutch. Sixth richest man in the world. The man who planned
that campaign that he'd seen pushed through. He guided all the
business decisions with his brother's approval. Preying on the weak
and defenseless. Not caring about anything except the bottom line. He
even turned his back on the one man that supported him. I
did all his dirty work, the ungrateful bastard.
Edgar
stood up and pulled a nine iron out of the bag. They were the best
clubs that money could buy. He'd seen the amount of invoice. A family
of four could have lived for a year with enough for a modest
vacation.
“Hands
off my clubs, Edgar,” said Anthony with a deep scowl on his face.
CLONG!
CLONG! CLONG!
“No.”
He swung low, catching his boss in the nuts and feeling resistance
against bone. The man gave a sharp gasp, doubling over with pain
written all over his face.
“What..
the... hell...”
“FOUR!”
Bone splintered and the club bent as the second blow landed on the
cheek. Tony's jaw hung open, blood flowing from the shattered teeth
and torn gums. Red spit, flaked with white, spattered on the floor.
“Hey, my swing's improved. Guess all I needed was a giant prick to
aim at.”
Whimpers
and whines of protest issued from the bleeding man, muffled by one
hand covering the remains of his lower face as the other clutched at
his ruined testicles.
“What's
that, Tony? Can't hear you from the all the bullshit you've been been
spilling. No snappy come backs?” Edgar tossed the useless club and
drew out a driver. “It's all your fault. You caused this.”
His
boss glared at the shortening of his name, replacing fear and pain
for a brief second. The former-CEO scrambled across the floor,
towards the metal door that now visibly bowed inward. Cracks covered
the metal hinges.
“Hey,
quit trying to get away.” He landed the next blow on the knee, then
another, then another. Meaty smacks filled the air with a slurred
scream following after. “Let's see how you like to take it in the
ass.”
Tony
cried as he drug himself forward with his arms. His body smeared the
blood leaking from his face, crotch, and knee. He pressed against the
metal door, hands raised in defense.
CLONG!
SNAP!
Edgar
paused and stared at the hinges and pins, now sheared and broken. It
groaned and creaked, staying upright by sheet weight and inertia.
Tap.
The metal rang with the sound of the slightest of blows.
“Ahhhhhh!”
Tony shrieked, a terror filled wail of a man faced with his imminent
death and finding no way to escape. His body folded at the waist as
the former barrier pressed down, popping vertebrae like a series of
gunshots.
Edgar
stumbled back as a fresh wave of blood flooded out. The driver
dropped from his hand, diverting the flow of liquid into a drain.
“Holy shit!”
Clop.
Clop. Clop.
Two
knee-high ponies sauntered out of the gloom, pushing the metal slab
down. The dun stopped at the far end, while the dapple hovered at the
near end. He jumped up and came down, lifting his partner off the
end. His boss's body provided a pivot point. A wet, meaty point that
compressed lower and lower until only hamburger remained. Their eyes
never left his.
“It's
not my fault.” Edgar pointed to the smear leaking for under-hoof.
“I was just following orders! I'm innocent!”
The
pair of ponies nickered, a mocking laugh that chilled his soul. On
their flanks, the marks glowed a dull orange that spread to their
manes and filled their eyes.
Clop.
Clop. Clop.
“Give
me a second chance! I can change!”
Orange
flame leaked from their muzzles.
“Oh
God...”
* * *
Twin
blasts of fire reduced the begging man to a chunk of charcoal. Talk
about denial, Egypt, and a river. These members of the host were the
newest breed. You humans come up with the funniest shit at times and
we're not above copying the ideas if they suit us. I'm sure some
lawyer or another would try to sue us to enforce the IP laws as
convenient. They can go fuck themselves. Well, some devil's probably
doing that already or they're upside down in room of shit. Just
desserts either way.
The
pair pranced out of the tunnel to join a herd of their fellows. They
were small in number as well as size, but even the nightmares gave
them a wide berth. I think the creator might have put a bit too much
'little man syndrome' in the mix. Can't argue with the results.
Speaking
of which, the last of the Portlandia shit-stains had kicked the
metaphorical bucket and it was time to move on. I think Seattle was
next on the list and first place order of business would be anyone in
that phallic eyesore in the middle. There's bound to be a bunch of
frightened pricks in need of a good judgment along with all those
other self-righteous, social-media, pseudo-caring activists.
God,
it's great to be me.
