And Then I Woke Up

I’m typing furiously on my technicolor keyboard. I’ve been arguing with a netizen over what animal Uniqua from The Backyardigans is for so long that I’ve lost track of time. Right now, my theory is that she’s a ladybug, but I can’t be certain. After all, it’s the end of the world, and anything can change.

“A cow. Where did you get that she’s a cow?” I scoff into my crackling headset. “She’s pink.”

“She has spots, genius!”

I shudder as a cold breeze tickles the nape of my neck, filtering in through the broken window beside me. My dirty laundry has formed a sad, crumpled, quasi-nest around the crooked, tarnished legs of my old plastic chair. Rubble, debris, and empty jelly bean jars litter the tattered, dusty carpet. Brown, foamy water drips from a rusty exposed pipe clawing its way out of the brick walls of my apartment.

“Ladybugs have spots, too!” I shout.

“Ladybugs are red, not pink!” they shriek from over the other end.

“It’s an artistic choice, you moron!”

A barrage of loud knocking from the other side of my worn, splintered door snaps me out of my debate. I slam down the lid of my laptop and whip off my headset.

“Someone, is that you?”

An ink-black, shapeless entity with hundreds of neon green eyes peeking out of its lumpy flesh slithers through the door, his tentacles leaving behind a trail of purple goo as he slinks over to my side and claps a tendril onto my shoulder. His vulture-like beak splits apart, his stringy saliva intertwined with the circles upon circles of serrated fangs within his maw.

STEVE, COME UPSTAIRS FOR DINNER, a disembodied voice hisses in my mind.

“Okay, I’ll be right up.” I dismissively wave my hand through the air. Someone grumbles in a dead language from another dimension. I turn around to chastise him, but he has already vanished.

I brush the slime off my shirt and peel myself off my chair. I straighten out my spine, grimacing as it cracks sickeningly from hunching for hours. I stumble haphazardly up the stairs, leaning against the railing for support, my tingling legs dragging behind me as I follow Someone’s pathway of glowing mucus into the kitchen.

A huge, spherical bomb sits on the table, a red-hot spark fizzling as it races down the wick, only seconds away from the base.

“There’s a bomb,” I say.

It explodes. Blinding smoke suffocates the kitchen. The force sends me crashing into the pile of grimy pots and greasy pans in the sink. I cough and spit, the bitter taste of ash coating the back of my throat. I have tomato sauce all over me and I don’t know why. I untangle myself from the ladles, whisks, and spatulas and tumble onto the tile.

Someone offers me a tentacle.

THERE GOES OUR LASAGNA.

I nod solemnly in agreement as his suctions shuck off my wrist. I calmly wring the tomato sauce out of my clothes as we make our way back down the stairs. There’s a bomb there, too, and it explodes.

“Well, that’s inconvenient,” I remark.

“Murder the boy!” a man screams from below, pointing his torch at me. The mob of stinking, decaying corpses behind him roars in assent, raising their pitchforks and charging towards us. Actually, I’m not sure if they’re corpses. They could just be normal people with no sense of hygiene.

Someone disintegrates into a swarm of flies, sweeping me off my feet and propelling me up the railing and into my room. I shut the door, putting my back up against it. I grit my teeth, a vein popping out of my forehead, and sweat trickling down my face as I strain to hold back the crowd ramming against me from the other side.

“Someone, barricade the door!”

The swarm of flies transforms into a massive, clawed hand that plucks my desk and chair off the ground, propping them against the hinged side of the door. Which means it can still open.

Someone gives me a thumbs up. I wince, but maybe logic works differently on his planet, so I won’t hold that against him.

Obviously, the mob breaks in. The leader grabs my waist and tackles me to the carpet. I struggle to scramble out from under his skinny frame, but he’s a lot heavier than he looks. His eye dangles from its socket, brushing the tip of my nose. He brings the torch closer and closer to me, singing off a tuft of my hair. Someone swats him off. I dodge a swipe from one zombie, kick another in the stomach, and punch a third in the jaw before leaping out of the window.

Someone shifts into a sheet of fabric and envelops himself around me, morphing into a parachute that gracefully lowers me into the parking lot.

The man and his cronies glare down at me from the balcony.

I glare back.

Someone sticks out a forked tongue at them.

Then the zombies shrink back into the apartment. They’re going to use the elevator, circle around the building, and surround us from all sides. There’s no way I can beat all of them. There’s only one way I’m making it out of here alive.

I dial 9-1-1 into my phone and call Chris Pratt.

“Yo, Chris.”

“Stevie! What’s up?”

“Sorry to bother you but, uh, people are trying to kill me.”

“Ugh, I hate it when that happens. Hang in there, buddy, I’ll be there in a second.”

“You’re awesome, man.”

“Not as awesome as you, bro.”

The moment I hang up, I hear the trademark white tires of Chris Pratt’s bright pink Lamborghini screeching across the asphalt. Yes, I have a talent for being able to identify the color of the tires and the specific type of car from the sound.

Someone latches around my wrist and disguises himself as a watch. He’s a huge fan of Chris Pratt, but he doesn’t want to freak him out.

The bright pink Lamborghini pulls up beside me. One of the flowery doors opens and a tall man in a gray suit steps out. His mustache is neatly combed to one side. He lowers his sunglasses.

“Nice watch, kid.”

“Thanks,” I high-five him, “I got it from Pluto.”

“Your fashion sense is always so on-point,” he sighs, "I wish I could be as stylish as you, but I have to resort to just taking inspiration from you for the red carpet.”

He saunters around the hood of the car and opens the door for me, motioning towards the coveted shotgun spot. There are no seat belts because Chris Pratt and I are mad lads who live on the edge. Chris also closes the door for me because he’s a gentleman. I lock it for good measure, and in the nick of time, too.

A zombie plasters itself up against the glass, tugging at the handle and screeching angrily at me. The rest of the herd is right on its heels. They close in on the Lamborghini and rock it from side to side.

“Chris Pratt, can we go home?” I ask nonchalantly.

Chris Pratt judo flips a zombie and hops in next to me. He puts the Guardians of the Galaxy soundtrack on the radio. I don’t know if you can put a movie soundtrack on the radio, but he’s Chris Pratt, so I guess anything is possible for him. Then he floors the gas. The herd’s organs splatter against the windshield as he speeds through them, but their blood is rainbow because this is rated PG-13.

“I hope you don’t mind if we take the scenic route,” Chris yells over the wailing of the dismembered zombies.

My watch wriggles to the beat.

Our bright pink Lamborghini races down the highway, the wrecked skyscrapers and dead billboards flashing by until the dull grays of the cloudy metropolis fade into the vibrant blue sky and lively greens of the countryside. Scenic indeed.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, snapping me out of trance. I take it out. A notification from an unknown number illuminates the screen.

Your house is on fire.

I blink. I rub my eyes. I squint at the tiny text message bubble to make sure that’s what it really says.

Your house is on fire.

“Yo, Chris?”

“What’s up, Stevie?”

“Look, this scenic route is pretty and all, but I really need to get back home because it could be on fire and my family’s in there.”

“Sure thing, buddy.”

Then my brow furrows. This could be a trick from the zombies to get me exactly where they want me to be. I text my older sister.

The house is on fire, what are you doing?

We’re watching Spider Man.

Which one?

The one with home in it.

So, is that Homecoming, Far From Home, or No Way Home?

Yes.

The Lamborghini turns into a cul-de-sac and stops next to the sidewalk in front of my house. I reach to open the door, but then Chris catches me by the arm.

“Hey, kid? A little word of advice. You might want to take a weapon with you. Those zombies could be waiting for you in disguises.”

“I’ll be fine, bro.” I smirk. “Besides, I have a brown belt in karate.”

I tap my watch. It rearranges itself into the deadliest tool I can think of. An ice scraper.

Tears of pride well in Chris Pratt’s eyes, then he hands me his beloved pair of sunglasses. I put them on. I feel Chris Pratt’s powers of incredible swag coursing through my veins.

“You’re awesome, Steve,” he sniffles.

“I’ll call you later,” I say coolly.

I open the door.

The zombies lunge at me with all of their might, but they’re no match for my unusually sharp ice scraper and Chris Pratt’s swag. I slice one’s head off. I do a backflip and stab another in between the legs. I impale five of them through the chest. The leader yells at the top of his lungs as he swings his pitchfork down on me. I parry it and knock it out of his hands, then stick my ice scraper through his throat.

“How," he gurgles, "how are you so strong?”

“I’m Mary Poppins, you moron,” I spit, then I punt his remains aside, climbing over the mountain of cadavers and onto my porch. I smash through my door and sprint inside. My ice scraper returns to my wrist.

The living room is in flames. My parents and my sister are also in flames, but they don’t seem to care. They lounge on a leather couch in front of the television, which is playing Spider-Man Homecoming, Spider-Man Far From Home, and Spider-Man No Way Home all at once.

My sister spots me from over her shoulder. She grins and waves at me with the burning remote.

“Do you want to watch Spider-Man with us?”

I smile and shrug.

“Why not?”