by Eve Langlais
“Armies of the dead, I call you to my banner.” A pole suddenly appeared in War’s free hand. Atop it fluttered a tattered flag that bore a symbol. The same squiggle that was on his ass. χιϛ. An ancient way of saying 666.
My symbol.
And to that banner flocked the dead, rising from the earth, their decayed fingers poking first as they clawed themselves from the grave until they stood behind War.
That’s my army.
Mine…
The susurration of his mother reached him, a whisper through the tempest. “Yes, yours, my son. Call them to you. Make them obey their true master.”
Rather than tell her to fuck off, he reached inside for the magic. Reached deep, expecting to find a cold, empty well. Instead…
He gasped aloud in delight as it filled him. Lovely power, strength to do it all. To order the army to, “Tickle War until he cries uncle.”
Dead fingers reached for the red warrior, who slashed at them with his sword before dashing away on his mighty steed, all while Chris’s mother applauded. “About time you took control of your power again.”
“Speaking of control…”
With the magic flowing through him, he now had the strength to cast aside this dream. “A la shazam cheese and pickle sandwich,” he yelled. The world around him twisted and—
He awoke with a mouthful of dirt. Since this was a familiar experience, he didn’t immediately spit it out and let anyone know he’d woken. Not until he assessed the situation better.
First, he took stock of his body. Toe wiggle? Check. Arm jiggle, finger twitch. Check and check. Crack open one eye, up close encounter with stubby grass and soil. Not a prison cell or the dump or Hell or some other nasty place. Also, it wasn’t his bed or his house, which meant another blackout.
But on the good news front? Still alive. Seemingly unbroken. Oddly craving a cup of tea and…
He blinked. He felt as if something hovered just out of reach, a feeling of sunshine and the smell of baked goods.
Which was completely opposite to the face full of dirt and drizzle of rain on his back. Where am I? He stretched his mind back to the last thing he recalled.
Roast beef dinner—so fucking delicious. Beers, a lot of them. His cousin Jesus, a cool fellow. Smoking some epic weed in the backyard. Then…nothing.
What happened? Accidentally spoken aloud.
“What happened,” declared a sultry female voice, “is that you’ve been avoiding me, little brother. Not to mention you’ve been getting into trouble.”
“Trouble is my middle name.”
“No, it’s not. Lucius.” Said with a snicker by his sister, Bambi.
“It’s a wonder you get any action given you’re so good at deflating a man’s ego.”
“I’ll deflate you for pulling that stunt.”
“What stunt?” Being prone on his belly, he had to turn his head fully sideways in order to admire the stiletto heels at an impossible height, arching his sister’s feet into a surely excruciating angle. “Why are you here, and while we’re at it, where is here?”
“As if you don’t know.” She crouched down but thankfully kept her knees pressed together. Some things a brother should never see.
“Let’s pretend I don’t know where I am. Enlighten me.”
“We are in your graveyard about fifty yards outside that remodeled church you call home.”
“In my yard?” His extended cemetery yard. He rolled onto his back and noted the cloudy skies overhead. What time was it? “How did I get here?”
“Epic bar hop.”
“Really?” He didn’t recall but still smiled. “Cool. Is that why you’re here then, to give me shit for having a good time?”
“No, I’m here because the damned departed want you to stop playing with their bodies.”
“I am not into necrophilia, no matter what my biology teacher said I did with that skull.”
“Don’t you pretend like you aren’t, little brother. I know what you did with those bodies.” Bambi stood and managed to tower over him with a disapproving air.
Bad enough he had to deal with that kind of shit from his wife, he wasn’t taking it from his sister, too. He scrambled to his feet. “I didn’t do nothing because it wasn’t me.”
“Liar, liar, pants on fire.” She tossed her head, and pursed her pouty lips while wagging a finger at him. Bambi was all about the act. Even this early in the morning, she looked slutty—which those who knew her would realize was the utmost compliment—in a furry mauve bolero atop a curve-hugging dress that barely covered her cooch.
On anyone else, especially Isobel, he would have drooled, but on his sister, he winced. “Dammit, sis, put some damned clothes on. You’re making me cold looking at you.”
“Prude. I swear, sometimes you have more in common with our uncle.”
“Speaking of whom, I met his son.”
“Charlie?” Her voice lilted. “Well, I’ll bet that was a treat.”
“I rather liked him.”
“Of course, you did. I’m sure he was nice to you.”
“Nice?” He wouldn’t have said that, not with Charlie’s sense of humor. But then again, what did he know?
“Surprised you had him over given your jealousy issues.”
“What are you talking about?” Then it hit him. The memory of certain words returned. “Isobel used to date Jesus,” he blurted, and the anger hit him at the same time. He whirled and threw a fist, the crack of his knuckles on stone enough to draw a sharp gasp from him.
“Temper, temper,” chided his sister. “She might have dated him, but she never fucked him, even if he says otherwise. Hard to believe he is related to Elyon given his mouthy ways.”
“Are you implying he talked trash about Isobel?”
“Not implying, stating. He bragged to everyone he could about shagging Rasputin’s granddaughter. Which we know is a lie. Isobel was a virgin when you married her.”
That fact was the only thing that didn’t send him off into a blind rage. “How is it Jesus can lie?”
“Because he never actually said anything.”
The statement confused him. “Hold on, if he never said anything, then how did he brag?”
“People made assumptions. He didn’t correct them. Never said a word. Which is how he keeps himself free of most sin. He lets others do his dirty work.”
“Does Isobel know this about him?”
“Everyone with half a brain cell who meets him notices it.”
“If he’s a passive-aggressive douchetard, then why did she invite him into my house?”
“One of two reasons I’d guess, starting with she genuinely wants to find you more family to bond with.”
“I have you,” Chris stated.
“Gee, don’t I feel all soft and mushy inside.”
He crossed his arms and moped. “You should. I wanted to be an only child.”
Bambi laughed. “And here I always wished for a cute younger brother I could boss around.”
“You said there were two reasons Isobel might have invited Jesus. What’s the other one?”
“Why, to shove it in Charlie’s face that she married his nemesis.”
“Well, that backfired. He and I decided not to be enemies.” One of the few things he was certain of regarding the previous night.
“Ah, how cute. You and your cousin bonded.”
“As common allies, not family.”
“I guess it didn’t last that long since, last I saw, Charlie was running from you because you were trying to kill him.”
“I tried to kill Jesus fucking Christ?” Just how drunk and high had he gotten after dinner?
“Don’t worry, you failed. But that’s not why I came. You’ve got to stop raising the dead.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You.” She jabbed a finger at him. “Dead people.” Aimed at the ground. “Stop.”
“Hate to break it to you, sis, but I can’t raise them anymore. Haven’t since
the wedding.”
“Yes, you have,” stated Bambi with firm certainty.
“No, I haven’t. You think I haven’t tried?” Every day for the past month he’d been out there calling to the bones under the ground. To no avail.
“Why are you lying?”
“About?”
“I was there last night. I saw what you did.”
“Isn’t that the title of a movie?”
Bambi grabbed him by the ear, and like many a boy—and man—before him, Chris yelped and followed where she yanked. Because it fucking hurt.
“Let go of my ear.”
“No.”
“You can’t treat me like this. I’m the bloody Antichrist.”
“Right now, you’re just my sodding hung-over brother who is pissing off damned souls who don’t deserve it because he’s got Mommy issues and he’s only able to deal with them in a violent fashion using other people’s body parts!” she shouted.
More spectacular than the fact that he’d managed to make Bambi blow her top was what she said.
“I do not have Mommy issues.”
“Oh, please. ‘My mommy left me, and my daddy was never around, so I’m going to act out until one of them pays me attention.’ Did it ever occur to you that Daddy is watching? He just doesn’t have time to pat you on the back and tell you you’ll never live up to expectations.”
“He watches me?”
“He watches everyone. It’s his job. But he especially keeps an eye on his kids. Mostly because he fears them backstabbing him in rebellion, but…” Bambi shrugged. “In his defense, he’s had sons before who tried to kill him.”
“What of his daughters?”
Bambi smirked. “He dotes on us. Why would we hurt him?”
“He’s an asshole.”
“He’s Daddy.”
And with that, he knew he couldn’t count on Bambi to help him if—no, make that when—he went after his dad.
“Change of subject.” Since Daddy was a sore one. “What exactly have I been doing while drunk?” The events that left him covered in dirt and other things. He plucked a hunk of desiccated scalp from his shirt and dropped it to the ground.
“You seriously don’t remember?” Bambi eyed him and then whistled. “Goodness gracious to Betsy, that whore in garters, you really don’t recall, do you?” Bambi laughed, a rich sound that caused a few heads to turn in disapproval, early mourners come to pay respects.
“I keep saying I don’t. What’s the scoop?” They walked away from the visitors towards the road, where she’d parked.
“I can do better than tell you. I can show you. Get in.” By in she meant her car, a little red number, two doors, low to the ground, and capable of Mach 3.
“My house is right here.” The wicker hanging chair on the front porch called to his aching body. He didn’t ignore it. He left his sister on the sidewalk so that he might collapse in his chair. He spun in half circles a few times and blamed that for feeling dizzy when he grabbed the phone thrust at him and began to watch the video.
“What is this?” he asked, even if he could see.
“It’s you. And no, it wasn’t me who took the footage, but someone in the audience. This is from last week, apparently.”
The words, “it can’t be,” hovered on the tip of his tongue, but ultimately remained unspoken because it was him. While the video itself jiggled as the person holding it got jostled, he didn’t have a problem deciphering what he saw.
Standing tall in a clearing bound by glowing silver lines on the floor was Chris. Chris—or at least his twin wearing the same clothes, albeit cleaner—his expression blank. And arrayed at his back, the dead. The fresh ones at the back, the more decayed taking up the area at the front. The zombies, while cool, were only a distraction to tire his opponent. A troll with a few ogres as his backup. Once that video finished, she loaded another.
“This is the fight from last night.”
He felt a little bit like Kevin Bacon in Tremors as the giant worm reared its ugly head and opened a maw full of jagged teeth. Chris sat riveted and watched as he launched his army of the undead and his hands moved in complex patterns, throwing magic. And, oh yeah, he floated.
“Is that really me?” Because the guy in the video was badass. A true mage and fighter.
“It’s you. According to a security guard I talked to, you show up at random, asking to be pitted against the toughest they have to offer.”
“What is this, like a fight club?”
“An underground one for non-humans.”
“How did I find it?” Because he sure as hell didn’t have the slightest clue where he’d go about getting an invite to a secret underground club. Kind of cool, though.
Rather than reply, Bambi questioned, “How come you didn’t tell me you could wield your magic again?”
“Because I can’t. At least not once I’ve sobered up.” He stared at his hands. Working hands, the dirt creased in the calluses. “I can’t feel the power at all.”
“Obviously, you can. Or do you need to watch the video again?”
He’d watch it again. Just because he looked damned slick!
He forwarded himself a copy to his mailbox then handed Bambi’s phone back. Leaving his fingers empty, drumming on the edge of the chair. He no longer felt like spinning. Especially since his world was tilting already.
“How come I can’t remember?”
“Are you sure you can’t?” she asked. “Maybe it feels like a dream?”
“I don’t dream.” Most especially not of gardens, a random thought that made him frown. “Since you’re here, I’m going to guess Dad is pissed I’ve been raising the dead.”
“A little. Lucky for you, he’s still strutting because of his marriage to Mother Nature. You missed a beautiful wedding, by the way.”
“I was busy. Work.” Car accident. Entire family gone in one fell swoop.
“I take it you heard the news?”
He didn’t bother playing dumb. “You mean that dear old Dad managed to strike gold with one of his swimmers? Yeah.” Gaia was pregnant. With a boy. Yet another person to supplant him.
Pregnancies are fragile things.
Surely, it wasn’t his mind that whispered that?
“Dad’s pretty stoked.”
“What happened to killing sons before birth and all that crap because of prophecy?” Because Lucifer didn’t allow his boys to live, not when all the seers claimed the Antichrist was destined to rule Hell.
I am the Antichrist. For now. What happened when the baby was born and there were two? Would a paradox occur, forcing one of them to die?
Sitting on his front porch as dawn crested the horizon with bright rays, he looked out at the deep front yard. Lush, green grass that took him a whole afternoon each week to groom with a push mower and weed whacker.
But it wasn’t as bad as the care and upkeep of the older home, finished in stone where the old church was originally built, with the newer addition covered in wood siding painted a pale blue. The swing he sat on was on a wide porch that wrapped around the entire house. From his spot in the chair swing, he could see a window laced with curtains and, beyond that, the top of his suitcase peeking from the bushes.
What the hell?
He swung out of the chair and stomped for a closer look. Definitely his suitcase. He yanked it free of the bushes and unzipped it. He peeked inside and spotted his things.
“Isobel!” He roared her name as he went to the door. It didn’t budge when he turned the knob. He pounded on it.
It remained shut. “Isobel! Let me in. What’s going on?”
Silence greeted him.
He hit it again, but the solid door and frame didn’t give. Nor did his wife come to reply. The suitcase on the ground mocked him.
“She did not throw me out,” he muttered, stalking around to the side.
“She might have, considering what she saw last night,” Bambi muttered.
He shot a glare at her. “Who saw wh
at?”
“Isobel. Your wife. I ran into her around the time those groupies started screaming for you.”
“Groupies?” He had groupies? And couldn’t remember them!
“I am going to go out on a limb and say she heard the ladies propositioning you.”
“But I’m married.” A dumb reply but the only one he could think of.
“Which only increases your appeal.”
A disturbing thought came to him. “I didn’t take anyone up on their offer, did I?” Because that might be grounds for a suitcase left outside.
“Are you asking me if you cheated? Not that I saw last night, but it doesn’t matter if you did or not where jealousy is concerned.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Says you, but let’s say we reverse the roles, and about twenty guys started offering to lick your wife until she came, then fuck her—”
The mere thought of men looking, asking, trying to touch Isobel raised his ire. Fire bubbled inside as he yelled, “Enough!” And still, he couldn’t stop the images. The back door to the house blew apart, splinters of wood deflected by an impromptu shield.
Bambi blinked long, mascaraed lashes at him. “Oooh, I bet you get in trouble for that.”
He was past giving a shit. Where was his wife? He strode into their home and noted the empty kitchen, the sink bare of dishes, not even the hint of coffee perfuming the air.
The living room lay silent, the television—a splurged-on fifty-inch flat screen—dark. The stairs creaked as he took them two at a time to the second floor. A peek in the master bedroom and bath showed them empty as well, the sheets to the bed still tucked in tightly.
She hadn’t slept here last night, so where the fuck was she?
Probably off with that do-gooder, Jesus. The moment he had the thought, he cast it aside. His cousin wouldn’t put the moves on his wife. He was Jesus fucking Christ, not some horndog running around seducing married women.
If he applied rational thought to the situation rather than knee-jerk reactions, there were two possibilities.
The first, foul play. If she’d followed him, and to what sounded like a rather disreputable locale, then perhaps she’d run into something she couldn’t handle. A kidnapping for ransom, an auctioning of her flesh because she was so beautiful, perhaps even a robbery-murder scenario.