Valhalla Virus

by Nick Harrow

  That meant the only way Bogie could grow his army was to recruit existing monsters or find some humans to turn to his cause. He was thinking about his options when Raj nudged him with an elbow.

  “Who the fuck is that?” the big monster asked, nodding his head toward a human leading a pair of jötunn through the intersection.

  “Hello, gentlemen.” The normie, a tall, slender guy wearing an expensive suit and designer sunglasses, wasn’t armed. His allies, though, cradled AR-15s in their huge mitts. The whole group strolled right up to the Golden Nugget’s entrance like they didn’t have a care in the world. “I’m looking for Bogdan Demezerov.”

  Bogie’s lips pulled back from his teeth at the sound of that name. His eyes narrowed into hateful slits, and he stepped out of the shade of the Golden Nugget’s entrance to ram his long, gnarled finger into the man’s chest. He smiled when he saw the smudge his finger left on the human’s white shirt. Served the fucker right for coming into his place acting all high and mighty.

  “Ain’t no one here with that name,” Bogie said, his voice still carrying traces of his Eastern European ancestry. “Now get out of here before my boys rip your arms off and feed them to your bodyguards.”

  Some of Bogie’s boys had drifted out of the casino when they heard the shouting. The mismatched guns and knives they’d taken from the pawn shop were enough to scare the shit out of unarmed punks, but the bodyguards behind the human were far from that. Even Raj, the dumbest of Bogie’s supporters, couldn’t ignore the professional way the newcomers carried themselves.

  “My apologies. Allow me to introduce myself.” The human gave Bogie an elegant bow, low enough to reveal the pair of twisted black horns that encircled the top of his head like a crown of burned laurels. “My name is Arthur Drake. I am, as they say, the new sheriff in town. I’ve been making my rounds this morning, extending the same offer to every jötunn war chief. Pledge your forces to support my cause, or I’ll carve your cock off with a rusty grapefruit spoon and stuff it up your festering asshole.”

  Bogie’s temper flared, a white-hot spark of rage that burned all rational thought out of his skull. He’d dreamed of a new future in a lawless world where twats like this Arthur Drake wouldn’t dare tell him what to do. If this little prick believed he could steal that dream away, he was in for a very nasty surprise.

  “Fuck off,” Bogie said, his hand resting on the titanium gold Desert Eagle Mark XIX holstered on his hip. He’d picked up the weapon years ago but had been too afraid the damned thing would rip his shoulder out of socket if he dared to shoot it. Until, that is, he’d gained a foot and a half of height and a couple hundred pounds of muscle thanks to the transformative powers of Hyrrokkin’s titty juice. He’d fired the enormous gun a lot since then. “Fremont Street belongs to me. You and your pair of butt buddies can fuck right off back to New York City or San Francisco or wherever you came from.”

  Arthur chuckled and gave Bogie a sarcastic golf clap. “Oh, my friend, you will make a delightful addition to my team. Such enormous balls and tiny brains are exactly what her army needs. Now, take your hand away from that ridiculous weapon, kneel, and kiss my hand to show fealty to your new lord commander.”

  A rush of burning red flooded Bogie’s vision. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This skinny little fuck, horns or not, had no business telling a real man what to do. Hyrrokkin had chosen him to conquer Vegas, not this scrawny little fucker. Bogie’s hand moved without conscious thought, closed around the Desert Eagle’s grip, and ripped the weapon free of its holster. A thunderclap roar split the relative quiet of Fremont Street, and Arthur Drake folded up like a cheap lawn chair. The man landed on his back, twitching, blood pumping from the savage wound in the center of his chest.

  Bogie roared victoriously and thrust his gun into the air. “That’ll teach you to come here and—”

  One of Arthur’s bodyguards swung his AR up and unleashed short, controlled bursts that punched through the air around Bogie in a blistering flurry. Bullets ripped through the casino’s open doors and slot machines burst apart in sparking showers. Raj shouted in pain and surprise, and more of Bogie’s men howled as bullets found their marks. The second bodyguard grabbed Arthur’s suit collar and dragged the human behind the cover of a traffic barricade, then popped back up and fired his weapon at Bogie.

  A moment of utter calm descended over the warlord of the Golden Nugget. He’d killed a dozen humans and nearly as many jötnar. He was fucking invincible. That he still stood while lesser jötnar lay bleeding and dying behind him was proof of that. These bootlickers who served a twerp like Arthur Drake were no match for him. He would prove that to them. Oh, yes, he would.

  Bogie marched away from the Golden Nugget, his oversized handgun trained on the nearest enemy jötunn. He howled a bloodthirsty challenge at the creature and squeezed the Desert Eagle’s trigger. The gun roared and bucked in his hand, the shot missing its target by inches. The fifty caliber round blasted through the corner of the traffic barricade, spraying powdered concrete into the bodyguard’s eyes. Bogie’s next shot hit the target’s left eye, opening up the back of its head and spraying a cone of brains for thirty feet. A rush of power exploded through Bogie as his foe died. A pulse of static electricity rippled over his deep blue skin, filling him with new energy.

  That was another nice perk of being a monster. Killing other monsters gave Bogie a portion of their strength. It was like a spike of adrenaline, filling him with energy and vitality. It was the cherry on top of the mayhem sundae he’d been shoveling into his mouth from the moment Hyrrokkin’s magical slit had remade him in her image.

  “Drop it, motherfucker,” Bogie howled at the second bodyguard.

  Arthur’s surviving ally let his AR drop on to its shoulder strap and raised his hands. He took one step back, then froze as the staring black eye of the Desert Eagle’s muzzle pointed at his face.

  “You really fucked up today,” Bogie snarled, advancing on the remaining jötunn, his knuckle whitening as he took the slack out of the trigger. He stopped next to the fallen human and aimed his gun at the remaining jötunn’s forehead. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t blow your head off right now.”

  Arthur coughed, then laughed. Bogie wasn’t sure what the fuck the human found so funny, seeing as how he was lying on the ground with a bullet hole in the middle of his chest and half his forces were missing their brains. The jötunn looked down at the fallen man, cocked his right foot back, and prepared to punt Mr. Drake’s testicles into the next county. Bogie launched his kick, a nasty grin rolling over his face as he imagined the agonized howls this asshole was about to make.

  And then searing pain lanced through the jötunn’s leg. Arthur had seized Bogie’s clawed foot in both hands and whipped him up and over his prone body. In the blink of an eye, the jötunn warlord of the Golden Nugget had been hurled from the top of the world into the gutter. Stars danced across Bogie’s vision, and pain rippled through his brain as his skull slammed into the pavement. Bogie’s ludicrous weapon bounced out of his hand and skittered across the concrete, the barrel spinning round and round like a kicked beer bottle.

  “Don’t make me kill you,” Arthur Drake said as he regained his feet. Despite the bloody hole in the front of his suit, the thin man looked no worse for wear. He brushed his hair back, revealing a pair of glossy black horns jutting from twin patches of deep blue skin, adjusted his sunglasses, then knelt next to Bogie. “I tried to play nice, my friend. I only brought two of my soldiers so as not to provoke you. But you had to play the fool and waggle your dick in my face. You’re strong, brash, and ambitious. Those are admirable traits in an ally, but it’s clear you’re a little rough around the edges. I’ll give you a second chance. Get up on your knees. Now. Swear you’ll follow me into battle against our enemies. Do that, and maybe I won’t have to show you who’s boss in a much more dramatic fashion.”

  Bogie stared up at the man. He understood the words coming out of Arthur’s mouth, but the
y still made little sense. Hyrrokkin had chosen him. He didn’t know how this twerpy fuck knew the smoking lady, but Bogie wasn’t about to bend his knee. All he needed was one opening, and he’d pull this twat’s head right off his shoulders.

  “Okay,” Bogie said. “I get it.”

  The jötunn got up on his hands and knees, shook his head to clear the cobwebs, then glanced toward the casino where his surviving soldiers were still watching. They had pistols, shotguns, even a couple of hunting rifles. It would be enough to deal with these two pricks. And this time, he’d burn Arthur Drake to ashes.

  Bogie willed himself to stand, ignoring the wobbling wave of nausea that tried to rip him down to his knees again. He was stronger than that. No fucking concussion would keep him on the ground.

  “I said kneel,” Arthur barked. “Unless you want another lesson.”

  Bogie had learned a lot about himself since Hyrrokkin had changed him. He was faster, stronger, and a hell of a lot meaner than he’d ever imagined possible. Instead of kneeling as Arthur commanded, he put all those new gifts to work. He lunged forward, grabbed Arthur by the lapels of his suit jacket, and ripped the skinny man off the ground. The jötunn yanked his foe toward him and brought his forehead down into his tormentor’s face like a sledgehammer.

  It was like slamming his skull into a brick wall. Bogie’s forehead split wide open, gushing blood in a red sheet down his face, and his world exploded in a violent fury.

  Windows on the buildings across from the Golden Nugget smashed open as hidden enemies revealed themselves in a torrent of gunfire. The sudden attack caught Bogie’s soldiers unprepared and tore them to pieces before they could retreat deeper into the casino.

  The barrage went on for what felt like hours while Bogie stood in the middle of the street, half blinded by the blood in his eyes, his head ringing like a gong.

  The jötunn realized he was only alive because his enemy had shown mercy. The fire of his anger dwindled and died, leaving only the gunfire smoke that wreathed the air on Fremont Street.

  “This could have been avoided,” Arthur said. “It’s a shame about your friends. I didn’t want to kill them. But that is the way of our kind now, I suppose. Only the strongest will survive. Now, put me down, or the next bullet fired will go straight through your skull.”

  Bogie grunted, lowered Arthur back to the ground, and released him. His dreams of a world where might made right had come true. Unfortunately, he’d discovered too late that he wasn’t the strongest. Hyrrokkin had chosen him, but she hadn’t chosen only him. She wanted the strongest, but she’d make them prove it to earn her favor. It was a big splash of cold water on his dreams of ruling Vegas like a pimp warlord.

  But if he played his cards right, Bogie could still land on his feet. He’d miss Raj and the rest of them, but if Arthur had a better plan and more guns, then Bogie knew there was nothing to gain by pushing the fight. “No more trouble from me. What do you need?”

  Arthur turned his back on Bogie, walked across the street, and picked up the gaudy Desert Eagle. He gave it a quick once-over to make sure the safety was on, then returned and handed the weapon back to Bogie by the barrel. “I want you to do the same thing you did here at the Golden Nugget. Gather more of our kind. Hyrrokkin needs an army.”

  The jötunn nodded and fumbled his way through an awkward bow. “I’ll do it. Where do you want them to gather?”

  Arthur considered the question, tapping one finger against his chin. Finally, he shrugged. “You’ll know where to bring them when the time is right.”

  “How?” Bogie asked. It was bad enough he had to take orders. He didn’t want to be left in the dark.

  “I’ll tell you,” the burning woman’s voice slithered into his mind. “But first, do me one little favor. Find this place and kill everyone inside.”

  The sight of a long, low building with a peaked roof floated into view. Snow surrounded the wooden structure, but that made no sense because it was also buried deep underground. The vision dissipated even as Bogie tried to fix the details in his mind. A vivid sunset in a cave, fake trees bursting through concrete. It still didn’t make sense, but that was all right.

  Because, for the first time in Bogie’s life, someone had entrusted him with real responsibility.

  “I won’t let you down,” he whispered.

  “Good,” Arthur said. “I’ll be seeing you.”

  Bogie nodded, but he’d hardly heard his new boss. His thoughts were on his important job.

  He’d find the hidden lodge and burn it to ash.

  Along with whoever sheltered inside it.

  Hyrrokkin would reward him well for that.

  Chapter 8

  MIMI PAUSED AT THE elevator door and motioned for Rayleigh and Bridget to gather around. “Nothing can get in here,” she explained. “The elevator is a reinforced box of steel and bulletproof glass. You’re totally safe as long as you stay in the bunker.”

  “We should go with you,” Ray protested. “We’re all in this together. You know that.”

  Mimi put a hand on Ray’s shoulder and shook her head. “Gunnar and I don’t know what we’re walking into at Corso’s,” she explained. “We can handle ourselves in a fight, but I couldn’t live with myself if you two caught a bullet. And if something happens, we need you two to carry on.”

  “Can’t you just call him or something?” Bridget asked. “Explain what you need. Meet up somewhere neutral and make an exchange.”

  “Phones are dead,” Mimi said with a sigh. “There’s no way to reach anyone right now. Our best chance is to meet him face to face. He’ll listen to me, even if he’s still got a hard-on for Gunnar.”

  The bodyguard hoped Mimi was right. He and Cal had parted under very unpleasant circumstances.

  “We won’t be gone long,” Gunnar said hopefully. “Don’t get into any trouble while we’re out.”

  “No promises,” Ray said. “There’s no telling what kind of trouble two hot chicks left alone in a swinging seventies love bunker might get up to. Especially without a big strong man around to make all the important decisions for us.”

  Ray’s sweet smile didn’t take the bite out of her words. She was angry again, and Gunnar couldn’t pretend he didn’t know why.

  “This is the smart move,” he explained. “Mimi can handle herself in a tight spot, and—”

  “I can’t,” Ray said. “I get it. But you could have asked.”

  “Ooookay,” Mimi said. “Time to go before you two kill each other. We’ll be back soon.”

  “Don’t let anything happen to him,” Ray said to Mimi. “You know how stupid he gets. I’m still mad at him, but nobody gets to kill him but me.”

  “Hey,” Gunnar protested, but the three giggling women drowned him out. Ray gave him a quick hug, and to Gunnar’s surprise, Bridget did the same.

  She was tall and firm, all muscles and sleek curves. Her lips brushed against his ear as she whispered, “Thank you.”

  “Cop a feel on your own time,” Mimi said as she stepped into the elevator. “We’ve got work to do.”

  “You’re just jealous,” Gunnar said.

  He followed Mimi into the elevator and leaned back against the car’s back wall, arms crossed over his chest. He and Mimi had gnawed on the problem of how to get the Valknut for a few hours and kept coming back around to the same dilemma.

  They couldn’t take the thing from Corso. He had more men and more guns than they did, and there was no chance Gunnar could round up any reinforcements. Sneaking and stealing the thing was out of the question, too. Neither of them was an accomplished burglar, and Cal would have gathered a small army of troops around him to hold down the fort after the city lost its mind. He’d be bunkered up snug as a nun’s tampon until he figured out what had happened and how to capitalize on the disaster.

  That only left talking to the gang boss. Mimi hadn’t gone into details, but she clearly had connections with Cal still. She’d wanted to go in there alone and talk to the man, exp
lain why they needed the Valknut.

  Gunnar had been one hundred percent against that idea. He didn’t just feel protective of Mimi. Something had happened, and he physically couldn’t let her walk into danger without his protection.

  There was still every chance that Cal would shoot first and talk never. But Gunnar didn’t think that would happen. Call it a hunch or instinct, but he believed Cal would let him get close enough to talk. With any luck, they could take their first step on returning the world to some semblance of normal without a shooting match.

  Not that Gunnar believed anything would ever return to the old way of life. The virus had ripped the lid off some deep, dark shithole, and even if they screwed it back on, the stink would hang around for a long, long time.

  Gunnar tried, and failed, not to imagine what his old man would say about all this. He’d tell the bodyguard to stay put in his bunker and wait this out. Gunnar had the woman of his dreams by his side in the safest place in the city. Going out would only jeopardize that.

  And the old man would be right. Holing up was the sensible thing to do when the world went crazy.

  But Gunnar couldn’t do it. Ray deserved better than a man who’d cower underground. She deserved the kind of man who’d risk his own neck to make her life better. All the women he’d allied with did.

  “Ray’s right,” Mimi said as the elevator came to a stop. “Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

  She led the way to the garage, where the battered Accord sat next to a factory-fresh black Dodge Charger. The contrast between the rusty beater and the blacked-out, debadged muscle car made Gunnar chuckle.

  “Nice car, Mimi,” he said. “Who’d you steal this from?”

  “It’s mine, Jolly,” she said and grinned when he frowned at the name. “Get in and shut up.”

  Mimi piloted the Charger with practiced ease. She stuck to side roads once they left their gated bunker and navigated around piles of burning rubbish and wrecked cars. Bloodstains marred the pavement in far too many places, and scraps of stained clothing lay on the sidewalks. Strange graffiti, symbols that made no sense to either of the car’s passengers, was scrawled on the sides of buildings. “This is bad, Gun,” she said.