copyright: Daniela Attard

by A. A. Garrison

Killing myself was the last on my list of fears to conquer, after Get beat up by jerks. I took to this final fear immediately after leaving the ER, still wearing my PUNCH ME YOU ASS tee-shirt.

The other me took a long six months to manufacture; the world-class art career, decades. Constructed from state-of-the-art silicone molding, and viscera leftover from Hunt and slay a wild boar, my double was remarkably lifelike, indistinguishable from myself in all manners. The exhibition was simple but effective: After a still-life drama of my effigy’s struggles, when it seemed that he would take the coward’s way, I appeared onstage and used a set of increasingly dull spoons to “kill” him, to a soundtrack of Sinead O’Connor and other early-nineties classics. Entitled, simply, Kill Yourself, it was received to great applause and sterling reviews, hailed as a highlight of my career. When I went to cross it from my fear-list, however, I was unable: I was unworthy, a charlatan, and I knew this all too well.

Thus began my cloning operation.

After completing yet another doctorate, this one in genetic engineering, I spent months studying my own cells in an effort to create a true recipient for my suicide, secretly, so no one would miss the bastard. Progress was slow, exhausting, and, ultimately, futile, though I did come away with a self-replicating, HeLa-like line of cells, which I patented and sold for no small sum. This was fortuitous, if unfulfilling, and the cells went on to spark a medical revolution, bringing genetic manipulation to the household. Cosmetics were the most affected: hair-, eye-, and skin color alteration; breast- and penile augmentation, of some consequence; nasal hair a memory. There were also cancer cures and the like, but these went overshadowed by the world’s hunger for vanity products. For all my failure, I felt a shiver of pride as I watched my cells circle the world–until they mutated and turned people into zombies, at least.

Now, this was, at first, a disaster. My cells turning their users into brain-hungry, arm-windmilling savages. Then, I saw the pictures: the zombies looked suspiciously like yours truly. Intrigued, I ventured into the war-zone streets and retrieved a specimen for study, and sure enough, the devil was, excepting an oversized phallus, identical to me in every way. I felt quite conflicted.

Despite the temptation, I released the poor fellow back into the wild and returned to studying my mutant cells, hoping for a fix. Unfortunately, my genetic tomfoolery was irreversible, as was Mother Nature’s little improvements, forcing me to stand back and watch. Meanwhile, the cells spread virally across the globe, leaving mankind in my image, and very hungry for brains (and, usually, with a terminal case of tented pants). It even extended to the wildlife, me-looking creatures alongside their human counterparts. The authorities launched several attempts at control, but this was as hopeless as my own. The infection spread faster than was polite. There were some mobs, naturally, cries for my head on a stake, pitchforks and bobbing torches, etc, but nothing came of this, with all my imitators running around. The cells had no effect on me, personally.

I did in time come to fulfill my initial, suicidal aim–many times over, in fact. Left the lone survivor of this accidental apocalypse, I got to use the Batcave-like facility necessitated by Become a superhero, where I had cached a massive armory. Fatigue-clad and in epaulets, Uzis akimbo, I roamed the cities and towns of this great nation, killing my selves in their hundreds. The first, a female me with a well-filled top, felt good; the rest, meh.

My new life is a blend of post-apocalyptic clichés: I have a dog that miraculously survived the outbreak; I travel in an armored car torn from GI Joe; my house has embrasures. My vest is extraordinarily well-stocked with bullets and grenades. I’ve gone mohawk. I swear I saw a three-fingered cowboy pushing a woman in a wheelchair, looking intent on unlit towers. I’ve gone through another create-a-cure phase or two, but I’m kind of past that now, more into searching out paradise-communities and the like.

But things aren’t entirely bad. Not all the me-zombies are violent; some are docile and herbivorous, quite house-breakable. I’ve taken a female as my wife, allowing me to literally [redacted] myself. I’ve named her Irene, and I think she understands it; she has this way of grunting twice for yes.

So, in conclusion, I would advise whatever posterity finds this memoir to settle for safer, less-satisfying means of self-destruction. I, however, have indeed earned my Kill yourself.

***

A. A. Garrison is a twenty-eight-year-old man living in the mountains of North Carolina, writing and landscaping. His fiction has appeared in various magazines, anthologies, and web journals. His website is http://synchroshock.blogspot.com.

‘iella’ is a ’89 kid, typically at the back of the class doodling, not paying any attention. Often seen smearing paint on walls, iella is dependent on caffeine and runs on lack of sleep.

December 5th, 2011
Categories: Apocalypse . Author: schlockmagazine

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