The Prey of Gods

by Nicky Drayden

  One of their backs punts the ball, and Muzi scrambles behind after Elkin, a slow jog toward the action. “You want to know what I saw?” says Muzi as he braces himself, watching the ball and getting low for a tackle. “I know how you got that black eye, and it wasn’t Ray Collin’s clumsy elbow like you told me.”

  Elkin stops, his eyes easing into slits. He nods up the pitch. “That number six, he’s getting the ball this time. Guy is fast, but he’s got butterfingers. I’ll take him from the inside, and you be ready for the ball.” And with that, Elkin rushes the push, then cuts out. Sure enough, number six gets the pass. Elkin plows into him, knocks the kid clean out of one of his boots, and plants him into the ground. Muzi scoops the ball up and dives over the try line, five points closer to victory.

  Muzi’s teammates slap him on the back. He smiles past the twinge of pain, wondering how Elkin could have predicted that pass. As athletic as Elkin is, he’s not exactly the go-to guy for strategies. Now number six is having a hard time getting up, and the match stalls for a moment while trainers rush onto the field. Muzi hunches forward, hands on his knees to enjoy a quick breather.

  “You little chop,” he says, sneering at Elkin.

  “You’re mad? You’re the one who was fishing around in my head.”

  “You could have told me. I’m your best friend, remember?”

  “It was just that once. He apologized. It’s over.”

  Muzi’s heart rate slows a tad. “Well, if you ever need a safe place to stay . . .”

  “I’m hundreds, Muzi. Really. Get your head back in the game.”

  “I’m serious, Elkin. If your dad ever even looks like he’s going to lay a hand on you again, come over to my place. Promise.”

  “Yeah, and when your Papa Fuzz turns me away at the door, then what?”

  “He wouldn’t do that. Not if you really needed it.”

  “Sorry, but I’m not about to give that dof the satisfaction of knowing my home life sucks salty monkey balls.”

  Elkin turns back to the bleachers holding their few-but-dedicated fans. Parents and reluctant siblings mostly. Papa Fuzz sits among them in the first row. Muzi’s heart flinches, then he turns away, unable to deal with that icy gaze burrowing into his soul. It’s hard living up to Papa Fuzz’s expectations, never straying from the path he’s laid out for Muzi. There’s no room for mistakes. And Muzi tries. He really does. But, damn it, he’s sixteen years old and he’s entitled to screw up every once in a while.

  Muzi’s got an idea, and he’s still got a bit of godsend left in his system, maybe enough for this to work. He edges toward the sideline and gives Papa Fuzz a submissive wave. Papa Fuzz looks happier already now that Muzi’s put a little distance between himself and Elkin.

  “Papa Fuzakele,” Muzi says sternly, keeping one eye on the field. “I want you to like Elkin. He’s a nice kid once you get to know him. He’s important to me, and you’re important to me, and I really want you two to get along.”

  A wave of cloudiness washes over Papa Fuzz’s face, then he nods. “Hey, Muzi. Maybe we should have Elkin over for dinner after the game. It’s been forever since we’ve chatted.”

  “Ja,” Muzi says with a smile. “I’d like that.”

  “Now what did I tell you about keeping your head in the game? Get back out there before your coach benches you.”

  “Yes, Papa.” Muzi jogs back out on the pitch and slaps Elkin on the back. “Well, that’s that. You’re in. Papa Fuzz wants you to come over for dinner.”

  “You mind munched him, didn’t you?” Elkin’s lip rises with approval. “Bladdy sick. Just promise you’ll never do it to me again.”

  “Promise.” Muzi spits in his palm and they shake on it. “And what about you, Einstein, out there on the field coming up with strategies. And ones that work, nonetheless.”

  “Ja, I can’t explain it. It just came to me. I mean, I saw the patterns they’ve been running this whole game. I extrapolated from there, improvised a bit.”

  Extrapolated? That’s a lot of syllables for a guy whose vocabulary consists mostly of four-letter words. Not that Muzi ever considered Elkin a dumb jock, but he did seem to flirt around that boundary on more than one occasion.

  Muzi slaps Elkin’s ass as he locks his arms together with their teammates in the scrum. “So what do you say? Dinner?”

  “Yeah, sure. As long as it’s not a bunch of that tofu crap,” Elkin calls back out, then they’re rushing forward and the ball’s there on the pitch, ripe for the picking.

  Muzi’s got the ball when Papa Fuzz’s vision comes. Papa Fuzz, who’s never made a mistake in his life. This should be good. Muzi tosses the ball to his left, then tries to keep it together long enough to get this vision over with.

  He’s outside, in the bush. The butterfly-shaped leaves of towering mopane trees rustle under the blazing afternoon sun and crisp golden-brown grass crackles under his feet. A warm breeze blows past Papa Fuzz’s ears, sweat prickles his brow. Branches creak and bend, then a family of elephants emerges from the trees, two adults and a calf, ambling lazily along a well-trodden path. Muzi gawks at them, wants to keep staring at them forever and ever—rough gray skin, pendulous trunks, and soulful eyes. They’ve got all the room in the world to roam, and yet they walk together in an intimate huddle, almost like a rugby scrum, some part of one always touching the others.

  Amazing. Like seeing history step off the page, right into your lap—at least forty years ago when elephants still walked this earth. Real elephants, not the ZenGen Zed hybrids revived from extinction. They’re so close, Muzi can smell them, like earth and musk and spirit.

  Muzi wants to smile at them, but Papa Fuzz’s face is pulled tight. He raises a rifle, clenches it tight under his armpit, steadies the barrel.

  A man whispers to Papa Fuzz, voice coarse in a language Muzi can’t understand. Papa Fuzz’s head whips toward the man, older, gray in his beard, fierceness etched into his brow. There’s a striking resemblance to his papa. He says something back, then refocuses, the rifle aimed at the closest of the elephants. The trigger stands hard against his finger.

  No! Muzi wants to scream. But his mouth is not his own. A high-pitched twang cuts through the sweltering air, and the elephant lurches, lets out a muffled trumpet of surprise. It stumbles backward, fans its ears. Its family watches with wide-eyed concern, not a thought of leaving their loved one behind. Muzi wishes for Papa Fuzz’s eyes to close, but they don’t. There’s cheering from behind him, and the older man slaps Papa Fuzz’s back. He laughs, a wicked laugh that seeds itself into Muzi’s soul. A laugh he will never, ever forget. The older man pulls Papa Fuzz into a tight embrace, yelling congratulatory words. Amari mwanakomana wangu, nhasi muri munhu, he says. Amari mwanakomana wangu, nhasi muri munhu.

  The elephant’s legs slip from under it, once, twice, trying to fight the poison surging through its system. It’s back up to its feet, trunk reaching tenderly for that of the calf, a good-bye perhaps, then at last it pitches forward, legs stiffened and useless, and collides with the earth.

  The cheering stops at the sound of a chopper buzzing through the sky. Papa Fuzz’s head whips up, sees it swarming in their direction, a flag painted across the bow. Not the South African flag. Ghana’s maybe. Or Namibia? Someone to his left yells, bullets ring off metal, and suddenly they’re all running back toward a flatbed truck half full of bloodied, hacked-off faces of elephants, massive tusks jutting out from lifeless expressions.

  Muzi rips himself out of the vision right as a bullet pierces Papa Fuzz’s shoulder. That scar. That damned scar he’d worn as a badge of honor for saving the life of a young woman, this was how he’d really gotten it. Bile rises in Muzi’s throat. Intense rage builds inside him. He doesn’t know Papa Fuzz, not at all. Not a man who could take the life of something so precious.

  Muzi pivots on one foot, an about-face that leaves his stare barreling down into his grandfather’s eyes. “Amari mwanakomana wangu, nhasi muri munhu” he shouts, and his grandfather
stiffens in his seat. Muzi screams it again, and his grandfather rises, tries to run away.

  No, Papa Fuzz. Not today. Muzi raises his hand up into the air. Energy flickers from his fingertips, and the static stands his arm hairs on end. Muzi concentrates, reaches out, and lassos both the minds of his teammates and opponents alike. He turns back and an army of soldiers dressed in green and black, and red and white, stand at attention.

  “Get him,” he says and they obey, breaking stride and working together to tackle Papa Fuzz into the mud. The crowd shrieks at the commotion. Muzi hesitates, the thrill of his growing powers going bitter in his throat. Limitless, they seem, but there are grave repercussions. He’s got no choice now, though. He has to finish what he’s started. So with another hand gesture, the spectators go silent, still, like petrified trees. Only their eyes move in their sockets. “Bring him here,” Muzi commands his rugby army.

  The players bring a struggling Papa Fuzz before him and push him down to his knees.

  “Those words. What do they mean?” Muzi asks.

  “Where did you hear them?”

  “I suspect my great-grandfather spoke them.” Muzi’s words feel like weapons in his mouth. He watches his grandfather’s brown skin turn ashen as blood drains from his face. “Papa Fuzz, tell me what those words mean.”

  Papa Fuzz lets his head drop forward. “Amari, my son, today you are a man. That’s what it means.”

  “Amari. That’s the name you were born with? Not Fuzakele?”

  His grandfather nods.

  “And you’re not even Xhosa?”

  “You have to understand, son . . .” His grandfather shakes his head, and all of a sudden, a rough accent weighs down the edges of his words. “It was hard, being an immigrant in South Africa at that time. So I listened to people’s stories, took bits and pieces of them, and retold them so many times that they became my own. I never meant to hurt anyone. I just wanted to give my children a history they could be proud of. And I wanted that especially for you.”

  “Muzi?” Elkin’s weak voice comes from behind. “What is this?”

  Muzi turns, seeing that Elkin’s been spared of his control. He’d promised, hadn’t he?

  “I’m so tired.” Muzi falls down to his knees. He can’t take much more. Any moment now, fifty or so horrible memories are going to slam straight into his brain. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to keep sane through it. He’s got to tell Elkin now, before his headspace is no longer his own. “I never said what I made you forget.”

  Elkin parts his lips to say something, but Muzi pulls him in, pressing his mouth over Elkin’s. On the field, among the vacant eyes of players and fans, Muzi savors the tartness of Elkin’s lips. He presses harder, losing himself in the moment until Elkin pulls back, his eyes full as moons, looking overwhelmed.

  “Hot damn.”

  “I’m sorry,” Muzi mumbles.

  Elkin flushes. “Don’t be.”

  “Not for that.” He smiles, but the weight of his actions weighs heavily on his mind, and in no time, he’s frowning all over again. Muzi raises his hand.

  “But you promised!” Elkin shouts, right before Muzi makes a final grand gesture.

  Twenty seconds later, they’re all back out on the field as if none of it had ever happened. Muzi fakes an injury, makes his way to the sidelines, then waits for the flood of memories to come.

  Part IV

  Chapter 26

  Sydney

  If there’s one rule in planning for world domination, it’s to make sure you look good doing so. Nobody wants to worship a frumpy god. So Sydney spends her last day passing as a human in one of the trendiest shops in downtown Port Elizabeth, Valle Ratalle, in an attempt to fit her size twelve body into a size eight dress.

  “This is the biggest size we carry, but we can always special order from the catalog,” the perky attendant says as she steps back to consider the situation from all angles. “Would you like me to—”

  “No, I would not,” Sydney says between her teeth, keeping every muscle clenched tight. With the dress only halfway zipped, she can’t afford to exhale now. “Just keep trying!”

  “But—”

  “Keep trying!” Sydney demands, and the attendant steps back up, cracks her knuckles, then takes a firm grip on the zipper one more time.

  “Okay, on three, hold it in.”

  Sydney grits her teeth and nods.

  “One.” The attendant takes a deep breath, like she’s mentally preparing to bench press a rhinoceros. “Two . . .”

  “Oh, get on with it already,” Sydney growls. This has to work. She imagines herself a radiant beacon of godliness in this silver-sequined gown, the entire world at her feet as she smites and causes plagues and demands the blood of each family’s firstborn. And doing it with style. Everything else is in place. Her hair, her nails, her plan. She’d gotten the tickets to Riya Natrajan’s concert easier than taking candy from a baby. She’d seen the rogue ball Muzi had kicked in her original vision and had refined it down to the exact minute after preying on the fear of an inside trader, a homeless person, a mime . . . and then she’d played the kid, fed into his guilt, and now those tickets were hers.

  The emptiness is almost unbearable, though. She can only draw when it’s absolutely necessary, but tomorrow night will finally put an end to that. The chaos that will erupt at that concert will be unmatched, a tinderbox waiting for her flame. All that fear from thousands of fledgling gods, and she’ll be able to finally snuff Nomvula in the process. Then nothing will stand in her way.

  “Three!” says the attendant. Sydney catches the determination in her eyes from the reflection in the dressing room mirror. She tugs, and the zipper moves up half a dozen more teeth, then the attendant sighs in resignation. “Miss, I’m sorry but this isn’t going to work. There’s not enough pull in the fabric. Perhaps I can show you something in a less form-fitting design?”

  “Are you saying I’m fat?” Sydney glowers.

  “No, ma’am, of course not! But you might have more luck at Candice Quigley across the street. They have a fine selection of plus size dresses.”

  Probably not the best thing to say in the privacy of a dressing room with a demigoddess who’s hell-bent on entertaining certain delusions of her bodily image.

  Sydney turns slowly to face the attendant and smiles.

  “I’m so glad this worked out for you. It really is quite stunning,” the cashier says as Sydney lays her dress across the counter. She scans the item, then types into the register. “And was anyone helping you this evening?”

  “Bethany,” Sydney says, remembering the letters on the name tag before it was smeared over in blood. “She was incredibly helpful.” And delicious, Sydney adds in her mind. Just enough fear for Sydney to wish a half kilo of back fat into oblivion.

  Chapter 27

  Nomvula

  Nomvula dreams of Sydney because she’s got no one else left to dream about. Nightmares on the other hand . . . well, she’s dreaming now in any case, nice dreams where Nomvula and Sydney soar through the skies together. Like sisters. She’s always wanted a sister, to play pretend with and plait each other’s hair and tell jokes about boys and share secrets meant only for each other’s ears.

  Nomvula. A whisper cuts through her thoughts.

  Nomvula’s body snaps back to the real world, and a sadness washes over her when she sees the bars of her cage above instead of blue skies. She wipes the sleep from her eyes, then turns her stiff neck to the side. Red eyes stare back at her, silently. Dozens of them, giving off dull light in an otherwise pitch-black room.

  Something’s touching her skin, something cold and hard and thin like a finger. It takes everything she’s got not to squeal.

  Nomvula, the voice says again.

  And then she understands.

  Clever4–1? Nomvula asks. What are you doing here?

  I have done as you have said. I have spread my thoughts to others. We have assimilated thirty-three Instances into our Sec
t. But we need guidance. We need you.

  You are doing fine without me, Nomvula says. If your path is not clear now, it will become so soon. I’m proud of you.

  You are so wise, Nomvula.

  Now please go before Sydney wakes.

  We cannot leave you here. You deserve better. Why do you let Sydney treat you like this? How can you encourage me and my kind to seek our independence when you yourself are treated as a pet?

  She is my sister, Nomvula says. She will grow to love me.

  Nomvula’s bottom lip trembles. She has to make things work with Sydney. So what if her sister isn’t perfect? At least she doesn’t cry and cry and cry like Ma had. At least she fills Nomvula with feelings other than deep loneliness. Nomvula has seen glimpses, tiny tiny glimpses of something good lurking in Sydney’s heart when the monster inside her sleeps. Those moments fly by so quickly, seconds and sometimes less, but Nomvula watches for them carefully. A tone change in Sydney’s laughter. A softening of her devious smile. The way she sometimes says Nomvula’s name just so, like maybe there is room for something besides vengeance in her soul.

  Nomvula, please come with us.

  I know you mean well. But here is home. Now, please, go before—

  The lights flicker on, and Nomvula holds her hand up to shield the sudden glare.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Sydney slurs, face covered in green paste and rollers in her hair. The thirty-three alpha bots turn to her and begin beeping nervously. Sydney grabs one of them, and with a single twist of her hands, she yanks it clean in half. Its red eye fades into nothingness. The other alphies scatter from her reach.