By Isaac Law
It is almost time. Go Egbert, save the world from Eggpocalypse.
Egbert rose from his bed, the bookcase where the family recipes were stored being the first thing that he saw. His hand slowly reached for his bedside table through the chilly morning and picked up his phone. With a click and a sigh, Egbert slipped out from his cozy bed and bunched blankets gazing out of his window into the inky stillness of 4:30am.
Today is the day, Egbert thought.
His fingers reached across the keyboard typing, How to make the perfect omelette on his keyboard its keys worn with use, and dust lining hard-to-reach places. Sitting in his wooden straight-backed chair, he heard the vigorous activity of mid-morning float into his home, the loud chatter of children drifting through the open kitchen window. Looking up to relieve his stiff neck, he glanced at the eight cardboard boxes each containing one hundred eggs next to the kitchen top. Each was emblazoned with a humanoid chicken on the side, its left wing giving a thumbs up while its right held up a sign that read Eggs-R-Us, wearing a large farmer’s hat woven from straw.
Egbert remembered yesterday driving up the dry gravel road to the Eggs-R-Us farmhouse to collect the eggs. When the farmer guided him in, he saw then all stacked on a well-used wooden pallet by the door, the edges worn by the elements and spattered with dirt.
The farmer leaned against the wall, observed Egbert as he put each box into the trunk of his car stained with dust, carefully layering blankets on top and in between each box.
‘So, what’re you goin’ to use them for?’ the farmer drawled, waving a fly away from his face.
Egbert put in the last box before shaking them to test if they were secured properly ‘To make the perfect omelette,’ he replied closing the trunk of his car with a low thud.
‘I see,’ the farmer said taking in the statement ‘I won’t see you off, just make sure you understand what the perfect omelette is before you waste my eggs,’ he said heading back inside, the security door closing with a low hiss then click.
Egbert stood there thinking about what the farmer said.
He must hate waste Egbert thought
But he couldn’t help but feel something strange in his gut. Then with a shrug, he got in his well-used car and drove back home, the crunch of gravel fading into the background.
The sound of an electric saw cut through Egbert’s recollections, it seems the Davidsons were renovating their front porch again. Glancing at his notes once more he stood up from the chair with a sigh and turned on the television to be greeted by the news.
‘And now a follow up from our story last week,’ the news anchor said folding his hands and placing them on the desk, ‘the crime wave has been accelerating. Multiple objects throughout the city have continued to be stolen, with eggs being left at the scene,’ the image of an egg displayed proudly where an antique once was surrounded by a police cordon appeared before Egbert. ‘Police have determined that this is a new gang, tentatively labelled “Eggang” and urge those with information to step forward,’ the news anchor finished looking down at his pages once more.
Egbert strode towards his bedroom, intent on going through the family recipes from 1800 – 2010. He stood before the bookcase stuffed with yellow notebooks, each rewritten throughout the years, the originals displayed in a culinary museum. He then grabbed a notebook off the shelf and looked at the cover.
1950-1960 (rewritten 2000)
Perched on the edge of his bed, Egbert worked his way through the notebooks on the shelves. As he continued to read his surroundings began to quiet, pages became easier to read, and he found that he could turn the pages faster and more easily. Eventually as Egbert finished poring over the notebooks he groaned in defeat, the scent of roast meat from the barbeque restaurant across the street flooded his nose. His empty stomach ached and groaned in protest with which he then decided to satiate himself.
The yellow shimmering free flowing oil coated his hot pan as he slid in the diced spam. The pan let out a loud hiss followed by a fragrant white cooking smoke; Egbert then prepared the egg, cracking it in a black ceramic bowl he poured in some milk, added few drops of oil, salt and chicken stock before whisking it all with wooden chopsticks turning the mixture orange yellow.
Poised above the pan, bowl in hand and pan tossing in the other, he scrutinised the near-cooked spam. The colour had become a scarlet red, and Egbert knew that it was nearly time to add in the egg. He could smell the saltiness of the spam, and his stomach roared in impatience and just as he was about to pour the egg in, the television broke his concentration.
‘Breaking news,’ the news anchor said, his eyes flickering towards the teleprompter ‘The Crown jewels have been stolen,’ switching to live footage police and redcoats sealing the area off and, in the display case lay an egg, the light of the cabinet shone upon as though the egg were a magician showing off its headline act. The news anchor continued ‘Preliminary reports have concluded that ‘Eggang’ has struck once more, in broad daylight no less. Discussions of a special task force is now underway for this group of heinous criminals.’
Egbert stared at the news, eyes widened and head feeling faint, it was the flying oil that stung his hand that slapped him back into the present. At this point Egbert had missed the perfect opportunity to add in the egg, he could tell that it was ruined but poured in the egg anyway and completed lunch.
Setting the plate and cutlery down before him, Egbert once more confirmed that it was a failure. Judging from appearance alone it was as though someone had thrown golden yellow paint onto the canvas before using a block of wood to put square shapes within it flicking flakes of black into it.
Perhaps it would count as modern art Egbert thought.
Spearing the egg onto his fork he could immediately tell that it was overcooked, which was confirmed as he brought up the cut piece to eye level. The spam wasn’t distributed evenly either throughout the omelette and the egg seemed like a piece well-done steak rather than an omelette. Putting it into his mouth, his judgement was reinforced, the spam was salty, while it would be considered slightly salty by the ordinary, for Egbert it was as though a nuclear bomb of salt had exploded within his mouth.
‘An absolute disgrace,’ he said his eyebrows twitching, managing to finish it all, though he had to drink ten cups of water between each mouthful.
That night as soon as Egbert closed his eyes, he was greeted by an overbearing fog so thick that he could not even see the tip of his nose even if he tried. He could feel the soft grass beneath his feet and soft clucking in the background and so he decided to move forward, though he could not see where he was walking to. The sound of the clucking grew louder as he walked reaching a fever pitch forcing Egbert to cover his ears when a baritone voice echoed within his head.
Your legacy holds the answer. Seek it out.
‘… Reports of ‘Eggang’ activity are evolving where omelettes are now being left instead of the previous eggs,’ the news anchor said ‘Is this crime wave a phased plan? What could be happening next? Join us after the break where invite criminology professor…,’ at this point Egbert dragged his focus away from the television.
Sat there at his dining table Egbert flipped through the pages. Surrounded by notebooks and his sixth cup of coffee, he was currently flipping through the 1810 family recipe hoping he’d find what the ‘answer’ was. It was like his gut feeling had become a highly sensitive detector, growing hot when near the answer and growing cold when away from the answer.
Setting the final plate down with a still-warm fried egg in the centre of the ritual circle Egbert haltingly lit the candles. Satisfied the candles burned healthily, with a few flicks of his wrist the match he used went out, a trail of white smoke drifting lazily. Stepping outside the circle, Egbert constantly glanced at the pages in his hand comparing with the circle before him with eight overlapping ovals creating the outline of a circle created with chalk powder, where the outermost points of each oval was a flashlight already turned on.
Putting the pages back into the pockets of his black robe, Egbert raised his arms and began to chant ‘Magna deitas ovorum, audi vocem meam et manifesta ante me,’ the candles began to sway, the torchlight began to flicker, and the egg dishes, save for the fried egg in the centre began to glow. ‘Ego, Egbertus, novem fercula obtuli, unumquodque sincerum laborem ad ovum perfectum coram me manifestandum,’ he said his voice now barely heard over the howling winds and the billowing flames that bathed the room in fire.
The glowing egg dishes now at the brightness of a lightbulb floated from their plates, being whisked away into the centre of the circle where they melted and became one becoming something akin to a sun. The flames that had bathed the whole room in fire then contracted and surrounded the core until it became the shape of an oval and sizzling sounds could be heard.
Finally, the lines of white chalk began to swirl around the flames, slowly melting and solidifying into a light cream eggshell like the colour of human skin. The sound of sizzling became louder, and Egbert winced at the loud sounds it unexpectedly stopped replaced by the sound of an egg being put back together.
No, that’s not it. It’s the sound of an egg being cracked in reverse, Egbert thought.
At that moment he heard the hum of a choir manifest throughout the room, his felt his ears stop bleeding and his exhaustion dissipate. Egbert closed his eyes savouring the feeling of not-bleeding ears only to discover that the egg before now had clothes.
Furthermore, the egg had now become humanoid with a face and limbs it moved with graceful ease. It sat at his dining table eating the fried egg that had been at the centre of the ritual circle. It seemed to enjoy it immensely, as after the first bite it paused, then began to inhale what was in front of it, his hands moving at supersonic speeds as Egbert watched in awe. Satisfied with its meal he conjured a white handkerchief from falling feathers, wiping his mouth he turned to Egbert.
‘Thank you,’ it said with a cheesy wink and a gravelly tone ‘I was famished,’ it said. Then with a bow and the sound of a cracking egg he disappeared before Egbert’s eyes.
As Egbert stood there his neck craned forward and mouth wide open his phone buzzed, numbly bringing it before him he saw that it was a notification from the news outlet he had been following.
Breaking News! Were the ‘Eggang’ magicians? All stolen objects have hatched from the eggs left at the scenes!
Egbert spent the next few minutes in silence looking between his phone and the place where the humanoid egg had disappeared.
‘What the hell,’ he said taking a few steps back, his legs began to tremble, his breathing quickened as he sprinted through the front door of his house, surprising his neighbours.
As he ran the world began to grow, everything became larger for him and his strides became shorter, until he became nothing but an ordinary egg rolling down the bright street unnoticed by anyone or anything.
