Goin' Extinct: Tales From the Edge of Oblivion

Goin' Extinct

Tales From the Edge of Oblivion

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By WPaD

(Writers, Poets and Deviants)

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Goin' Extinct

Tales From the Edge of Oblivion

By WPaD

(Writers, Poets and Deviants)

Second Edition

Copyright © 2014 WPaD Publications,

acting publisher, Mandy White and all authors named in this book.

All Rights Reserved

All stories and poetry in this book remain the property of their respective authors. No individual or agency other than those named may reproduce, copy or publish any part of this book in full or in part, in any medium printed or digital, without the expressed permission of the owner(s) of those works.

Thanks to:

David Hunter for providing the title for this book.

J. Harrison Kemp for providing the subtitle and the hand-drawn image for the cover.

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Table of Contents

Existence is No Longer Profitable ~ David Hunter

Zoila’s Zombie ~ Jade M. Phillips

Battle of the Bean ~ Mandy White

~ His Beating Heart ~ Poetry by Marla Todd

Zombie Days ~ Marla Todd

Skeet Beecham’s Confessions from the End of the World ~ J. Harrison Kemp

~ The Quell ~ Poetry by Diana Garcia

Quietus ~ Diana Garcia

Purple ~ David W. Stone

It’s All Over on Elm Street ~ David Hunter

Dead Matter ~ Mike Cooley

~ Electrical Chaos ~ Poetry by Sara Jane

Survival of the Fittest ~ Michael Haberfelner

The Last Summer Storm ~ Val Fox

Captain Sandy and the Airship at the End of the World ~ Marla Todd

Insectisorium ~ David W. Stone

~ Untitled poetry by S.E. Springle

Finding Tennessee ~ Gina McKnight

Never Mind the Humans, Here’s the Rodents ~ Michael Haberfelner

Lullaby ~ Nathan Tackett

Just One Kiss ~ Mandy White

Books by WPaD

The Authors of Goin’ Extinct

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Existence is No Longer Profitable

By David Hunter

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13 men were seated around the large boardroom table, each with a small glass box in front of them. They all wore grim faces and double breasted suits and played with their computer tablets, clucking their tongues and making unpleasant noises. The man at the head of the table called everyone to attention. He was known as Member 1.

I suppose you all know why I’ve called this meeting here today, he began.

They all nodded, except Member 13. He raised his hand.

Yes, Member 13?

I was away last week...

Yes, I’m aware of that. Let me go over the situation then, for anyone else who may have missed the memo.

The others looked over at Member 13, stony faced and cold.

As you know, Planet Incorporated has been a hugely profitable venture for the past 100 years – we net 30 trillion dollars a year – but we’ve maxed out in all our departments.

Member 13 raised his hand again.

Yes, Member 13? said Member 1, getting a little agitated.

Maxed out?

Member 1 let out a long, exasperated breath. Yes, maxed out. If you’ve ever bothered to study business, you would know that once a venture ceases to make a profit it becomes a burden, a loss, a failure.

Member 13 scratched his head. But you just said we make 30 trillion dollars a year...

Yes, I did say that. A large screen came out of the ceiling and started projecting numbers. We made 30 Trillion this year, and last year, and the year before that...

Member 13 sat back in his chair. I don’t get it.

You’re in charge of our Canadian Department, aren’t you? said Member 1. Members 2 through 12 turned to look at 13, awaiting his answer.

Yes, but...

And have your numbers gone up? Have they stayed static? Have they done anything other than remain the same, year after year after year?

Yes, but...

When a company is no longer profitable, it becomes a burden, and when things become a burden, we rid ourselves of them. Is this not a sound philosophy, Member 13?

Member 13 said nothing.

And, in the interest of fairness, I will also say that the same goes for the rest of you and your departments, every last one of you.

They all nodded grimly.

Another image scrolled across the screen – a graph with piles of data. Member 1 aimed his laser pointer as he made points related to each one. We’ve maxed out on Education, Healthcare, Food, Water, and Procreation...

Member 13 interrupted again. I don’t understand, aren’t we still making money?

Everyone was staring back at him again, as if he was a stupid child asking a stupid question.

Let me explain it in terms you can understand. We cannot charge any more for goods and services because we’ve gone as high as we could possibly go – people are beginning to revolt; they’ve stopped spending; they’ve stopped paying the taxes we’ve levied. They’ve moved off the grid, are farming the land. We’ve maxed out any possible profit we can glean; food is no longer profitable, water is no longer profitable, life, death, sex, birth - indeed existence itself is no longer profitable. Even our ground forces are being stretched to the limits, the masses are out of control. So you see, the firm can no longer function in this capacity.

Members 2-12 all mumbled in agreement.

Member 13 scratched his head again. So what are you getting at?

I put forth that we dissolve the company, immediately. We’ll all take it to a vote. Members?

All 12 Members put up their hands in a yes vote, a tuneless chorus of ‘Aye’ filled the room.

That leaves you, member 13, Said Member 1.

He sat forward in his chair. So what you’re saying is, we dissolve the company, and go back to a free democracy, a free Capitalist system? Is that what you’re saying?

Member 1 looked down at Member 13, his dark glasses resembling two sinister black holes. No, Member 13 that is NOT what I’m saying. We will vote to dissolve the company’s assets, thereby destroying them forever. They have become a financial burden, as have the human race; Time to cut the cord.

You’re insane, said Member 13 as he stood up and glared at all the other Members, All of you. You need my vote to forward this... motion. I won’t do it.

The screen behind Member 1 filled up with some kind of legalese. It scrolled down and highlighted a paragraph that Member 1 had apparently memorized. Said Member of the World Order may not leave or attempt to vacate his position or regulated duties while under contract. Said Member is legally obligated to participate in any vote taken by the board, a state which is deemed mandatory, he read aloud.

Member 13 kicked his chair back - it wheeled and crashed into the wall behind him. Then I quit!

Member 1 continued reading as if he heard nothing. Said Member is also appointed for life, and may not abdicate his/her position for any reason, save death, or should him/her become unable to function due to brain injury, mental illness, etc, etc, any of which would tend to impair judgment or reason.

Member 13 began to chuckle. What are you gonna do, kill me?

Member 1 pulled out a gun, and pointed it at Member 13 across the room.

Gentlemen, it’s time to finish the vote. Member 13, would you kindly tell us your vote for the dissolution of Planet Inc.?

The 13 glass boxes lifted up, revealing a red button under each.

You’re insane, said Member 13.

So you’ve said. Your vote, Member 13. I won’t ask again.

I vote ‘NO’ to the disillusion of Planet Inc.

Member 1 kept his gun pointed at Member 13. Is that final?

I believe so, Said Member 13.

Member 3, an attorney by trade, cleared his throat. Member 1, is this in the charter? I don’t believe it’s legal to procure a vote by threatening death...

Shut up.

The gun went off, a horribly loud bang in the confines of the board room, and Member 13 let out a yelp. He looked up after a few moments, holding his bloody hand in front of him, his previously white shirt now spreading crimson. Shot through the heart, oh the irony – his last thought before he toppled over and landed on the red button. Members 2 through 12 were still covering their stinging ears, staring at Member 13.

On a screen behind Member 1, a map of the world appeared.

Canada flickered, and disappeared.

Member 1 put his gun on the table. He sat in front his own button, placed a hand on it.

So, we’re all unanimous, then?

Everyone nodded, and they pushed their buttons.

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Copyright © 2014 David Hunter

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Zoila’s Zombie

By Jade M Phillips

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Hurry up! Zoila said, tugging on the chain to urge the zombie along. The morgue closes at sundown. It stared at her blankly with bloodshot eyes. The zombie’s face was decaying and a small section of its skin was hanging from its cheek, showing the inside of its mouth and a very bad set of rotting teeth.

Oh, don’t look at me like that! You want to eat, don’t you?

The zombie moaned in response and began dragging its feet slowly across the dirt, stirring up dust. Zoila and the zombie headed toward the morgue.

The mortician had been a good friend of Zoila’s parents before they died – before The Turn – and would kindly save dead bodies for Zoila’s zombie to eat. The Turn, was what everyone called it, but in all actuality it was a devastating epidemic where an unknown – and very contagious virus – spread like wildfire across North and South America, turning anyone infected into a zombie within minutes. Zoila was one of the lucky few who had survived without contamination.

Arriving at the old brick morgue, Zoila kicked the wooden doors twice, making them rattle on their hinges, her hands gripping tightly to the zombie’s chain. There was a rusty, overhead sign that squeaked as it swayed it the hot breeze. It said: Why Morgue.

You could say that again, Zoila snarked as she read the sign.

Why was the unfortunate, and yet very fortunate, little town Zoila had grown up in. And it was quite ironic that Why, Arizona: population 116 – which was now more like 16 – was the only known civilization west of the Mississippi to survive the outbreak. Maybe it was because of the town’s desolation, or maybe it was for the fact that no one really ever knew that Why existed, but the town had survived regardless. Zoila wasn’t sure about the other half of the country, or any other country for that matter, because all communication had been lost.

Zoila’s zombie snarled in response to what sounded like a combination of twenty or so locks and deadbolts being unhinged and unlatched. The doors swung open.

Zoila! the big man chuckled.

Hello, Buddy. Zoila smiled at her old friend. You got anything for us today?

The man placed his hands on his hips. Well, you are in luck, little lady. I picked up one just this morning.

Illness or famine? she asked.

Old age.

Cool.

C’mon in. Buddy waved her into the musty building.

Motes of dust glittered in the air in beams of sunlight slanting diagonally from the pitched plank roof. The particles stirred as Buddy’s large form strode through. He stopped in the center of the room and turned to look at Zoila. He bent down and lifted the latch to the cellar. Cellars are not common in the desert, but back in the olden days, morgues needed a cool, dark place to keep bodies preserved for a longer period of time.

Zoila watched as Buddy opened the hatch and took a few steps forward. He grabbed her zombie and roughly walked it over to the cellar and down the stairs. His head popped up a few moments later and climbed out and closed the hatch.

So what’s new with you? he asked Zoila.

Nothin’ much. You know, hunting, surviving. That’s about it.

You? she asked.

Same here, he admitted. Now that the epidemic has come to a stop, so have the dead bodies. I’ve taken to the art of wrangling rattlesnakes. You wouldn’t know it by looking at them, but they serve quite a few purposes.

Zoila could hear sounds of snarling and biting, like flesh being torn.

It’s a wonder the survivors have let you keep it, he said, pointing to the cellar doors. They’re afraid of getting infected.

Zoila rolled her eyes. Now how is that going to happen with an armless zombie?

Buddy shrugged and said, It can still bite.

Zoila rolled her eyes again.

Since Zoila had been so intent on keeping the zombie as a pet, the local physician insisted that the arms be removed so it would be less of a threat to the community.

Buddy stepped closer, as though he had a secret to tell, his voice low and quiet. You know, I heard a rumor, he said.

What is it? Zoila asked back in a whisper.

I heard that a group of captives escaped from the New World Militia and are headed this way.

Really?

After The Turn, all forms of government had slipped through the cracks, leaving the few known survivors to fend for themselves. But it was rumored that a renegade soldier from the army had started a group called The New World Militia and was taking any found survivors captive for slavery or other purposes. But it was said that they were far to the East, beyond the reach of Why, Arizona.

Where’d ya hear that? Zoila asked as she screwed her foot into the ground.

A traveler came through town just last night with stories of the outside world. It would appear there are a lot more survivors than originally thought.

Zoila shrugged. All the more reason for me to keep my zombie.

Buddy sighed and rubbed his fingers back over his bald head. The others are scared of you, Zoila. They feel that you are a... threat. Because of your zombie.

What the hell do they know? Zoila stomped her foot. She could feel her face turning redder by the moment. Ever since her parents died, and her friends – and just about everyone she knew – she’d felt like an outsider, excluded and shunned. They hide away in their crumbling little shacks they call homes all day long, barely communicating. Barely living!

Buddy shrugged.

Zoila could feel her ears burning. "We could make something of this, Buddy.