Tesla's Apocalypse Software Update

This is the best investment I ever made.

Keylessly, I open the door and slide into the white vegan leather seat, running my hands over the material. Both my morals and my ass can relax in comfort.

The dash— its stark, simplistic design is more reminiscent of a spaceship than a vehicle. All the controls are operated out of the central touchpad. I squint. A tiny smear! That won’t do. I pop open the centre console and grab a microfibre cloth. While I’m at it, I buff the mirrors, checking out my reflection. I grin, seeing the face of a genius.

All the haters with their gas guzzling cars are sure paying for it now! I shake my head, marvelling at my good fortune as I click in my seatbelt.

What’s this? A software update? Neato!

In no rush, I press the button for it to sync. Twenty minute wait. No problem. I navigate through the touchpad to the games and spend the next few minutes in peaceful solitude, sipping my coffee and harvesting virtual pumpkins. I’ll feel totally and completely at ease before the start of my busy commute.

Ah, the update is complete. Let’s see here— oh, that’s a nifty feature! Mhmm, yep. Got it. Time to go.

The heavy, double-reinforced steel frame garage door shudders and squeals as it lifts.

I click the stalk to go into reverse; the gentle woowoowoo never ceases to bring me joy.

Once out, I shut the door and wait for it to be fully closed before leaving my home. Can’t be too careful these days.

An old Cranberries song pops up on a playlist from my youth. Fitting. Humming along, I drive out onto the road. I press my foot down on the pedal and the car accelerates with all the grace of a hawk in flight, dodging various turned over cars left abandoned on the side of the road. The steering is so light, you’d never know it weighs as much as a truck; it drives better than a Porsche! Not that I’ve driven one. I wouldn’t stoop so low.

Up ahead, there’s a group walking on the road. I let my foot off the acceleration and the car slows down with its regenerative braking system.

“Alright, let’s see how this new update works,” I say, navigating to the new feature. It’s a bright red application with what looks like a scope sight on it. Fitting. I press it, and the car jumps into action. The screen changes to views through the front and side cameras, zooming in automatically on the group ahead.

Analyzing. Analyzing. BEEPBEEPBEEP.

A machine guns pops out the frunk and locks in on its targets. It shoots four times, the noise barely audible within the well-insulated interior. Four now-headless bodies fall over, clearing my way.

“Well that works quite nicely,” I say to myself, impressed that the sensors were able to pick up the zombie’s lack of a pulse from way back here. Not to mention the accuracy!

No need to waste bullets, nope. Not in the apocalypse.

I press the app again and the gun disappears back into the frunk. The update had mentioned that it couldn’t take full advantage of its aerodynamics with the machine gun popped out. And, oh boy, was I going to take full advantage of those aerodynamics.

I press my foot down on the pedal and the car shoots on ahead, past the lumps of decaying flesh on the road.

“Aw, rats,” I mumble a few minutes later. A whole herd of them. Luckily I have this handy dandy new software update! I press the button once more and the app locks in on the group.

BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP

The machine gun pops out of the frunk and starts blasting. I laugh maniacally as I steer around the city streets, blowing off the heads of all the zombies in my way.

BEEP-BOOP

A different notification. I glance down at my screen as it flashes green light with a rectangle locked in on a figure ahead. I zoom over there, guns blasting away.

Well, would you look at that? A survivor! He’s a damsel in distress— whatever the male word for damsel is.

I press a button on my steering wheel. “What’s the male word for damsel?”

“The male word for damsel is damoiseau.”

Interesting. I’ll try using that in a sentence later today.

I arrive just as the swarm starts overwhelming him and his plebeian sawed-off shotgun. My machine gun makes quick work of the hoard, easily differentiating the living from the dead.

The man looks from the pile of dismembered bodies splayed out around him and up to me, his mouth agape.

I roll down the window and press the button on my wheel that’s mapped to the fart sound. The man is greeted by my car’s flatulence.

“Need a ride?”

The man nods and climbs in. Looking around, he’s awestruck by the artwork that is my car.

“Nice Tesla! Can you do that cool launch thing?!” he begs, wiping the zombie blood from his face.

I laugh. “Nothing would bring me more pleasure.” 
Before I can show him how this beast can go from zero to sixty in two point five seconds, the centre console lights up.

The screen comes to life with the face of Daddy Elon himself. I gasp, marvelling at his glory. He smiles as if he can see me. Maybe he can. I smooth my hair. His one eye is still the same smouldering brown we’ve all come to know and love, but the other is a black orb, connected to the Neuralink implants he had installed.

“Greetings, Earthlings. We’ve done it. SpaceX is ready to launch. With the zombie virus running rampant, this planet no longer habitable. We can now make our escape to Mars and begin anew. Your ticket to board is your Tesla. Follow the coordinates on your map to the Pentagon in the former United States. See you soon, astronauts! Elon out.”