Apocalypse NOPE!!

By Deidre Huesmann

Creepy. Grudge Girl. Bigfoot. Also known as Ivy-Jean, a tall, gloomy teenager whose only friends are wild spiders. One day she commits a federal crime by opening her neighbor’s mail and summons War, one of the Four Horsepeople. Suddenly it’s her job to bring about the apocalypse.
In fact, she has no choice. End humanity, or the one person who cares about her will be sent to hell. To protect her mother, Ivy-Jean agrees to give the apocalypse her best shot. But plans unravel at horrifying speed when Pestilence usurps the high school debate team, War infiltrates the D&D club, Famine aspires to become a world-famous chef, and Death finds love for life in an unlikely place. If Ivy-Jean doesn’t correct their course, she’ll lose the horsepeople to the forces of good forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evernight Teen
• Release date: Apr 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9780369502940

Book preview

Chapter One

The mailperson screwed up. Again.

Ivy-Jean fisted her keys in one hand and fanned her mother’s mail in the other. Just her mother’s mail, of course. Sixteen-year-olds didn’t pay bills, nobody wrote letters in the age of texting, and Ivy-Jean had no friends or even cordial distant families to speak of anyhow. And yet, for whatever reason only moms knew, it was Ivy-Jean’s task to retrieve the mail every day after school. Like Mom didn’t walk by the same five-by-fifteen set of mailboxes in the grungy apartment lobby. Like Mom didn’t have a key. Like Mom somehow believed that this one task would bestow a sense of responsibility unto her only daughter.

None of that explained why, for the third time this week, someone else’s mail got mixed up in theirs. The same someone, in fact. The old man on the second floor with the crinkled eyes and a white halo for hair.

The idea of seeing him again soured her mouth. She’d have to be polite. Exchange words. Say, Sorry, Mr. Arcangelus, but it seems we got your mail, for the umpteenth time since moving into this downtrodden complex. All of it sounded like wasted energy. Not something she wanted to do after a long day.

Screw it. She could do it tomorrow.

Ivy-Jean tucked the mail beneath her arm and trudged to the elevator. She mashed the up arrow, grimacing at the greasy stickiness left on her thumb. Probably one of the unruly toddlers she always heard wailing, I want to push the button!

The elevator pinged. As the doors opened, two women stepped off. Both gasped as though Ivy-Jean had appeared before them like a blade in the night.

Oh, said one, her eyes wide.

The other grabbed her friend’s arm and dragged her away.

Ivy-Jean tried not to slump in defeat. Mom said poor posture made her look like Frankenstein’s monster. Mom might have decent advice, but it didn’t seem to matter if Ivy-Jean stood tall or slouched. Existing was an exercise in self-defeat when everyone reacted to her the same way: surprise, then wariness, then running in the other direction. Maybe it had to do with her six-foot-two-centimeters height, or the limp hair that hung around her face like a horror movie curtain, or the dusky pallor of her flesh that indicated she might be close to dead. Or maybe even the black clothes that, whether people realized it or not, made her look smaller, because that was what fashion articles said black clothing did.

She stepped onto the elevator and thumbed the button for the fourth floor. As always, the doors took forever to shut, so Ivy-Jean occupied herself by looking at the ceiling.

There, mere inches from her eyeballs, sat a fat black spider. A house spider, if she recalled correctly, large but fairly harmless. It stood stock-still, its spindly legs arched in perfect symmetry, a dark ballerina caught in mid-pose.

Hello, she whispered.

The spider said nothing. Then, to Ivy-Jean’s surprise, another spider wriggled out of the jagged slats of the ceiling to join the first.

Hi, said Ivy-Jean.

Both spiders said nothing.

When a third joined them, the doors finally closed. The elevator shuddered and began to rise.

"One little, two little, three little spiders," she whisper-sang.

The spiders lowered themselves. Ivy-Jean smiled for the first time in two days, resisting the urge to giggle as their legs tickled her face. Then, as though recognizing her call, more of their brethren joined them.

"Four little, five little, six little spiders…"

The elevator pinged. Ivy-Jean stepped off, catching sight of more spiders along the ceiling. With the blistering heat of summer fading to autumn warmth, it seemed these creatures were seeking a new home. She lifted a hand and caught a couple more along her arm.

At her apartment, Ivy-Jean turned the knob. Locked. She jiggled her key in, careful not to squish her new friends, and opened the door.

"Seven little, eight little, nine little spiders," she continued.

She turned to the kitchen and came face-to-face with her mother.

Mom screamed.

Before Ivy-Jean could react, Mom swatted her. The spiders skittered and fell and scrambled. Mom shrieked, stomping about in her clogs. Ivy-Jean flinched at the sight of her new friends’ guts splattered across the cheap tile and flat-painted walls.

The panic over, Mom gasped and pressed a hand to her heaving breast. Her mussed scrubs lent credence to her wild eyes and hair. What… Ivy-Jean…

Continuing the tune, Ivy-Jean murmured, "Now my friends are dead."

Mom leaned against the wall, staring at the mess in disbelief. She shook her head, looked at her daughter, and retrieved a shaky breath. Ivy-Jean, please. You can’t keep doing this.

Ivy-Jean looked down—even Mom was shorter than her—and retrieved the mail from under her armpit. Two of the envelopes had stains now. That didn’t matter so much compared to the innards of her friends splattering a gruesome Pollock reproduction in the foyer. Got the bills. Sorry they stink.

Just … put them in the kitchen.

Shrugging, Ivy-Jean complied.

Mom followed her the entire four steps—two-and-a-half for Ivy-Jean—from foyer to sink. A tremulous breath padded the air between them. Sweetie, I know things are rough. And it hasn’t been the best start to the school year.

Ivy-Jean shrugged off her backpack and let it fall to the ground with the weighty thud of a thousand textbooks. Today sucked.

But you’ve got to stay out of trouble this time. This is a chance to start over, you know?

I lost my science homework. It was a small white lie. Stuffing it into a city trashcan seemed less humiliating than turning in incomplete work.

The principal called, said Mom.

Ivy-Jean extracted her cell phone, a cheap foldable that not even the most unpopular of the unpopular kids owned. Plus Olivia’s spreading rumors again.

"He said you were disruptive. Ivy-Jean, that’s the fifth time this month."

She told everyone I texted my boobs to her boyfriend.

We can’t afford to transfer schools again, said Mom. Do you know how many strings I had to pull to get into this E.R.?

Ivy-Jean held up her phone. This is the picture making the rounds.

Mom glanced and frowned. That isn’t you. They’re fake.

Well, the principal didn’t much like my offer to prove it.

Mom leaned against the fridge, her small frame seeming to curl in on itself, and pressed her face into her hands.

Disappointment. Another emotion Ivy-Jean was used to receiving yet had long since stopped feeling because it took too much mental energy to process. Much like anger. Excitement. Joy.

Oh, well. It couldn’t be helped.

After several long minutes, where neither said a word, Mom lowered her hands and forced a smile. Have you tried joining any clubs at least? And please tell me you didn’t try to start a taxidermy club again.

Ivy-Jean shook her head. I learned my lesson after Mrs. Hannod called CPS on you.

Mom grimaced. She was the worst.

That, at least, they could agree on. Ivy-Jean almost smiled a second time, but the movement didn’t quite make it to her lips. The gardening club looked okay, but they got upset when I put all the crab spiders into a pot instead of releasing them outside.

The … what now?

The crab spiders. You know… Ivy-Jean wiggled her fingers. Those white spiders with the big butts that sit in flowers?

Mom shuddered and glanced at the tiny greasy gut-marks on the floor. "I really wish you’d find more … conventional hobbies."

The whole world did, it seemed. Even peers who kept tarantulas as pets seemed put off by the ease in which Ivy-Jean could summon wild spiders onto her fingers. I play video games.

Horror games. Which, last I recall, you stopped because you said nothing scared you anymore.

True. I also read.

You read internet articles. It’s really not the same thing as reading a book.

How else would I know that embalming requires N-sutures or that a woman got addicted to paint thinner and made a hole in her throat? Also, did you know injecting plumbing fluid into the veins won’t actually kill someone? It just hurts. A lot.

Those things aren’t really conversation starters.

Ivy-Jean frowned. But yelling about which football team head-smashed the other more last weekend is? Why do you want me to be into brutality?

Don’t start. Mom’s back straightened as she took on her parental authority once more. For one, it’s not football season yet, and for another, I never said you had to like it, just try watching it once.

If I start getting excited about sports, the world will implode.

And wouldn’t you just love that? Mom sighed. God, I’m tempted to pull the plug on the internet.

Ivy-Jean scratched her arm, her nails dragging over a tiny yet notable pink scar, courtesy of the last time Mom shut off the internet. "Please don’t. What if it happens again?"

Mom rolled her eyes. "It won’t if you exercise self-control."

I blacked out, Mom.

You did not.

I did, insisted Ivy-Jean. I told you, I don’t remember that whole week.

Mom threw her hands up. That’s medically impossible. And so is trying to plug the internet into your body! Honestly, what were you thinking?

"I blacked out, Mom!"

"For god’s sake, Ivy-Jean, you did not. And in case you would prefer the reminder, coaxial cables do not go into veins. Mom glanced at the stove clock, groaned, and grabbed her keys from a small hook on the wall. I’m going to be late. Do your homework before internet tonight, and make sure you eat. Her expression softened. I’ll talk to the principal tomorrow and see if we can resolve this Olivia problem. Just … please, keep trying to make friends?"

Ivy-Jean tugged at a thread on her sleeve, wrapping it around her finger until the flesh beneath whitened. Every time she tried to approach people, they freaked out. Those who didn’t could only be nice as long as she didn’t cop to her default topics or spouted off the more morbid findings of her midnight internet searches. Why didn’t more of her peers want to talk about the fascinating process of decomposition or that there very well could be a child out there with poison ant powers?

Still, she nodded.

Mom leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed her cheek. Call if you need anything. There’s leftovers in the fridge and twenty bucks if that doesn’t work.

Okay.

And if you wouldn’t mind, please clean up your … friends?

Ivy-Jean sighed. Yeah.

It looked like Mom couldn’t escape fast enough, her clogs tracking more spider innards on her way out. She didn’t even apologize for stomping on the poor creatures.

As usual, Ivy-Jean was alone. Just her own hulking figure, spider guts, and sweaty junk mail for company.

She wasn’t hungry, so she cleaned up the gooey remains and said a small prayer for their tiny souls. Once that was done, she leafed through the mail again. One or two looked important, so those she set aside, but the rest was either stuff Mom always tossed or coupons for things they never bought.

Ivy-Jean squinted at a card-like envelope. While the bills were addressed to Janice Sauvageau in Apartment 409, this one bore the name Gabriel Arcangelus in Apartment 209. How many times had this dude’s mail come to their apartment in the past two months? A dozen? More?

Just go downstairs and give it to him. That was what Mom always said. But Ivy-Jean was tired of hand-delivering the old guy’s mail.

What was so special about him, anyway? There must be something for the universe to declare that the Sauvageaus needed to keep receiving his mail.

Before she gave much thought to it, Ivy-Jean took a butter knife from the cutlery drawer and slit the envelope. Maybe there would be money. Money never hurt. And the old guy probably wouldn’t miss it.

Guilt pulsed through her at the very thought. Why did she do stupid things like this? What if he needed that money?

Stupid, stupid, stupid. She shook her head. But what could she do now? She’d already opened the envelope.

She extracted the card, the textured paper rubbing her fingertips. It felt expensive and looked to be made of creamy vanilla, with gold, embossed letters swooping across the front.

Ivy-Jean scanned the words, her eyebrows knotting in confusion.

The hour is nigh

End Times are near

Fulfill your duty

Our angel lumiere

Pestilence thirsts and War awakes

Famine starves and Death partakes

So rejoice, angel, for what shall be done

Open your voice and call forth…

She opened the card, half-hoping and half-scared she’d find some beautiful green paper. Instead, it was a single printed word, the letters large, blocky, and at drastic odds with the cover.

COME

Huh? Ivy-Jean scratched the side of her head, startled when something tickled her finger. She drew her hand out carefully and almost melted at the little friend on her knuckle. You survived…

The house spider from the elevator crawled onto the card, its voluminous butt swaying as it walked back and forth like it was underlining the word.

What’s up, little buddy?

The spider continued its walk. Its pace quickened, legs almost invisible in its mighty speed.

Okay, I don’t understand you when you talk like this, she informed the arachnid.

Her friend stopped. Turned. And then continued its frantic underline-pacing.

Ivy-Jean shook her head and carefully turned the card so the spider wouldn’t fall. She found no further evidence of what any of the words meant. A prank? Some sort of weird new chainmail? If she didn’t send this to someone else, would ghosts hunt her down her like some sick version of that horror VHS tape?

I don’t want to be haunted, she said.

The spider twitched its way to her hand. A single leg reached out, touching the tip of her finger. For a moment, though she couldn’t see its eyes, Ivy-Jean swore it was looking at her. After what felt like a meaningful pause, it went back to the word.

What, am I supposed to obey the card? She read the front again and then the inside. Come?

Something thumped the wall outside. Probably one of the neighbors stumbling around drunk—

The front door exploded.

Ivy-Jean’s thigh smacked the counter. Wood splinters pattered on the tiles. Plaster dust wafted through the air, lazy and listless. She stared agape at the door, which was now half-embedded in one of the walls.

A heavy footstep sounded, along with an ear-grating scrape of metal on linoleum. She saw the sword first, then the booted foot, then the dark pants, then the silk red shirt and … was that a cape?

A guy who couldn’t be any older than her stood in the entrance of her kitchen, a feral grin stretching his lips. He swaggered with more confidence than a five-foot-three man ever should and slammed the pointy end of the sword into the tiles before dropping to one knee.

Ivy-Jean glanced at the door again, the weighty slab of wood and metal still sticking out of the wall. Was … was that him?

In a guttural voice, amber eyes never leaving hers, the stranger said, War, second of the Four Horsemen, at your service.

Chapter Two

Ivy-Jean rubbed her eyes. The guy who called himself War still knelt before her, black-on-crimson cape aflutter, the sword so close she felt cold radiating from the metal. Tempting as it looked, she wasn’t about to poke a sharp thing. If this guy was cosplaying, the sword was at least real enough to make a hole in the floor.

He had to be cosplaying. Nothing else explained his costume. Black pants, crimson shirt, armor that broadened his shoulders to impossible widths on his lean frame, and solid boots. Brass gloves glistened on his hands. He looked like he’d walked out of a video game convention. Or a LARP meeting.

Did this city have LARP meetings?

Ivy-Jean glanced down at the spider and whispered, Am I having another mental break?

The stranger stood. His ridiculous cape and black ponytail swirled in an unseen breeze dusted with plaster particles.

No, wait, she muttered to her tiny friend. The internet hasn’t been cut off. I should be safe, right?

War tutted. "Gabriel, Gabriel, Gabriel. Don’t tell me you’ve started drinking in this life. A certain pest will be very upset."

Gabriel? Like her neighbor? No, it was a common name, that was just a coincidence. What would a mellow old man do with a weirdo like this, anyway?

Ivy-Jean dared a look at him, not bothering to be surreptitious. This was not a person she’d ever met before—and she’d have remembered because he was the first one in a long, long time who hadn’t flinched from her.

You approached me, she said.

His fingers curled around the hilt of the sword. Of course, I did. You’re the angel.

If this is a new pick-up line, it won’t work.

War gave her a perplexed look. Did rebirth alternate your head?

Huh? The more he talked, the more confused Ivy-Jean became. What did he mean by that? Was he even using the word correctly?

Impatience laced his voice. You summoned me. Now is the time.

Ivy-Jean looked at the spider. It seemed perfectly content in her palm, and utterly unwilling to help her out. Figures, she thought.

Out loud, she said, I don’t know where the nearest convention is.

Now War looked puzzled—and angry at his own confusion. Convention … conventional … I don’t remember this… His face contorted in a way that made Ivy-Jean think he should model. Not for hair or underpants, but warning signs on house fences would be appropriate. BEWARE. LARPer Within. Trespassing May End in Stabbings.

War continued to mutter to himself. She decided this was getting them nowhere fast and tried another tact. What are you doing here?

War gave the sword a sideways yank, still glowering at the floor. Ivy-Jean cradled the spider away from potential debris. Look, Gabriel, I’m happy to catch up, but we got work to do. I’m here, the others are waiting. We need to summon them for the end times!

It still didn’t make any sense, but she had to admire his dedication to whatever role he played. Maybe he’d gotten lost and figured she was supposed to be in his cosplaying troupe. It wouldn’t be the first time someone hoped her eerie aura was due to costuming. Though he could’ve done better by not breaking the door in.

Either way, making waves didn’t seem smart right now.

Makes sense, she said.

Good! The word crackled with fragile cheer. Then call the others.

She brought the spider closer to her lips. What do you think, Spinderella?

The spider said nothing.

Ivy-Jean looked up and found the tip of the sword at her nose.

Stop dawdling. Call the others. War spoke calmly and plainly, though his expression warned it would be unwise to argue.

Uh…

"Now. Amber eyes flashed. The air crackled like the sky before lightning struck. Before I poke a hole in your gloomy face."

Accurate, she thought with little emotion. Go ahead.

He blinked.

Ivy-Jean’s voice flattened. If I’m dead then I won’t have to go back to school tomorrow. Or worry about homework. Or how Mom’s going to kill me when she sees that door.

He didn’t look the least bit sorry.

Thanks for the hole in the floor. She’s going to string me up by my toes for that, too, she said.

Intrigue lit his gaze. Is that still an acceptable torture method?

Quashing the strange stirring his fascination with such a morbid image evoked, Ivy-Jean said, You want to kill me? Fine. High school’s already the most effective torture known to man, and everyone’s a bully. Even I’m susceptible to internalized misogyny, so we’re just doomed to hell.

"Now you’re speaking my language."

The misogyny or the doom?

He rapped the sword against the tiles, spiderwebbing more cracks. Do I look like a woman-hater to you?

No comment.

War frowned.

Either way, I won’t do it.

The sword lowered. Then, with a splitting boom, War stabbed another hole into the floor.

Ivy-Jean groaned. Please, just kill me.

Listen, Gabriel. An odd smile played on his lips. I think we’ve had a bit of a misunderstanding.

His misunderstanding was getting old. I’m not Gabriel.

Sorry. Gabrielle. You’re clearly presenting as a woman this time around.

No, I’m—

I don’t judge. Since when did you care so much about gender or what’s between your legs?

I’m not the one worried about it!

He acted like she hadn’t spoken. Look, the world sucks, right?

An odd yet true observation. Ivy-Jean nodded.

People are the worst. His voice sweetened, cajoling the bumblebees of her soul with words of nectar. Everything’s gone to hell. Politics, murder, suicides, bullies, homework, zoos, plastic bottles—he gestured grandly with each point—it’s all cruel and senseless. And nobody wants to fix anything. It’s the same mistakes over and over again.

This was also true.

So, wouldn’t you agree the only way to make the world right is to blow it up and start over from scratch?

Ivy-Jean hesitated. It sounded good in theory, but there were a few obvious issues with that. Mom doesn’t suck.

And that’s the beauty of the apocalypse, he said. The good are saved and the rest are obliterated.

Apocalypse … he had said something about the four horsemen, hadn’t he? It sounded like a subject she’d fallen down the rabbit hole in the internet before. Something about four violent cismen—because of course they were—riding horses and bringing about the end of the world. War, Death, Famine, and one other whose name didn’t quite jive with the rest.

Either way, it was difficult to keep doubting the ethereal nature of his existence every time she looked at the door half-buried into the wall.

Only the evil will suffer. War’s amber eyes took on a solemn quality that juxtaposed his arrogant flamboyance. "And as you’re the angel who summoned us—or will be, once the rest are here…" He trailed off, eyeing her meaningfully.

Ivy-Jean didn’t quite get it. Angel?

Those are the rules. ‘Ye, for the watchful angel shall pass judgment upon those it has lived amongst.’

Yeet?

"No, ye."

"Don’t you mean yea?"

War scowled. No.

She considered his words for a moment. Sounds like a load of crap.

"You will be a literal load of crap if you don’t summon the others. Pistachios?"

"Do you mean capiche?"

War slammed the sword into the floor a third time, startling her and poor Spinderella. Just summon the others already!

Okay, he wasn’t the most convincing entity, but his weapon sure was. And she had to admit, the idea of meeting the four horsemen was kind of cool, though the jury was still out whether this was real or some strongman in cosplay.

Prove it, she said.

His free hand flew in exasperation. Why such mistrust?

Was he serious? You’re talking about ending the world. If you’re lying, my mom gets caught up in that. So prove this is real and I’ll summon the rest.

War closed his eyes, muttered something about reborn angels, and then snapped his head back to look at her. I prove it, you summon the others?

"You prove it, and you promise to fix the floor, said Ivy-Jean. Then I summon the others."

For a moment, he looked like he wanted to lop off her head. The world’s going to end, and you want the floor fixed?

She shrugged. Mom’ll ground me.

He looked at her feet.

No, I mean… She fumbled for an explanation. It was like talking to an alien—which weirdly lent him some credibility. She won’t let me leave my room. Going to be hard to help you end the world that way.

That… War trailed off, rubbing his jaw. At least he appeared to be giving her words serious consideration. She hoped so. Mom really would kill her if she saw the apartment like this.

A tickling in her palm reminded Ivy-Jean of her friend. She brought Spinderella to her face. You okay?

Spinderella skittered off her palm and onto her cheek. After a few moments of spinning in circles, the arachnid seemed content to rest just below Ivy-Jean’s ear. She smiled and carefully stroked its bulbous back.

War let out a long, low sigh, like a man defeated. All right. Deal.

Ivy-Jean tingled. If he wasn’t lying, she’d just gotten War to cow to her demands.

What power can I wield now?

She shook her head. Now wasn’t the time to get ahead of herself. The burden of proof that any of this was even real lay on him.

But if she could command War, there were endless possibilities. She imagined the expressions of her classmates when her monstrous form arrived with an oversized sword straight out of a fantasy game. The looks her neighbors would wear—abject terror—when she unleashed War with her spider comrades to freely infiltrate their homes. She could use her height to her advantage, the queen of a new, obliterated world…

Fingers snapped in her face, jolting her from the pleasant haze. I said, deal. So let’s go.

Huh?

Summon, he said. Now. Please.

His tone wasn’t near as polite as his words, but the fact he kept knuckling that sword didn’t inspire her to point it out. How do I summon the, uh, others?

Just like you summoned me. He peered up at her through enviably long lashes. What kind of angel are you?

I’m not into roleplaying.

He sighed, rolled his eyes to the ceiling, and muttered, Dear deity above, what have I, your faithful servant, done to deserve this?

Ivy-Jean almost wondered what she’d done to deserve this but recalled that she had also just committed a federal crime. Maybe this was divine retribution. Or a really prompt FBI investigation. Mail tampering was serious business, after all.

Her cheek tickled, and the sensation continued down her arm. She looked at Spinderella. The arachnid rested on her thumb, as though urging her to open the card again.

Ivy-Jean took a breath and nodded. Anything to get the apartment fixed before Mom came home.

Okay. Her voice warbled awkwardly. War’s intense stare didn’t help. Um … come?

A whisper of wind answered, too cold to be