Lesser Gods

by Duncan Long

  I won’t bore you with the details. They did their best to extract the truth from me, and I did my best to make them think I was trying to hold out. They worked their way through my fingernails, then started on fingers and eyes, saving my private parts for the pièce de résistance. Finally I got to the place where I could blurt things out and have them think I was really telling the truth against my will. “Okay, okay. I’ll tell you,” I said, gasping around the pain that radiated from various parts of my body.

  “We’re listening.”

  “Lido Beach. New Sarasota, Florida, Caribbean Union. That’s where Huntington is.”

  “Street address?” one of my tormentors asked, pushing a cigarette into the socket where my eye had been.

  I cried out, then gave them the address. They worked me over some more to double-check the facts I’d given them, then placed a bullet in my brain.

  As I reformed myself in a distant place, I mulled over the odd fact that criminals and the civil servants charged with protecting us from them, are so alike.

  Chapter 31

  Alice Liddell

  Our plan set in motion, Ralph and I waited for the action to begin, hiding in plain sight right under Huntington’s nose.

  I had become a tall palm in the garden next to the living room window where Huntington spent his evenings hooked to his computer, his powers growing as he extended himself through the net to encompass more and more of the world.

  Ralph had become a small green lizard that now remained unnoticed in Huntington’s home.

  Reptile, I teased Ralph. Type casting.

  Funny, he replied, swishing his tail back and forth in mock anger. But I must say, he added, those are nice coconuts, lady. He scurried across the floor to position himself near a wall so Huntington’s wheelchair didn’t turn him into road kill.

  I tried to ignore the dark stains on the carpet, realizing that Ralph’s blood had put them there. After this is over, I thought, I’m going to have to erase a few of Ralph’s memories so he doesn’t go nuts.

  No way, Ralph announced, to my surprise.

  It’s okay for you to read my private thoughts but I can’t erase bad memories?

  I need to remember the bad so I’ll be strong enough to defend myself when the need arises.

  True. You like to act gruff, but you’re not. You’re softhearted.

  I guess that’s supposed to be a compliment.

  It is. Now quit reading my private thoughts.

  If you want your thoughts private, you need to make them that way.

  We’ll talk about that later.

  Good. My little lizard toes feel the vibrations of someone coming up the walkway.

  And his sensor cells were correct. The government agents were arriving right before sunset as we had suspected they would. They tossed in flash-bang grenades, and the usual contingent of Ninja-clad SWAT members streamed in. Three of the team efficiently surrounded Huntington, keeping the invalid in the wheelchair covered with their submachine guns while other members of the outfit ransacked his home.

  After rummaging through his belongings and failing to discover the jet, they ruffed Huntington up, trying to coax the whereabouts of his stash out of him. Battering him was a big mistake because it angered him.

  And an angry Huntington is a fearsome sight to behold. The ashen figure in the wheelchair closed his eyes.

  “He have a heart attack?” one of the SWAT team asked.

  Worse, I thought.

  Far worse, Ralph added.

  The figure in the chair turned into sawdust, crumbling into a fine powder that trickled through the fingers of the agents trying to catch him, as if they had hoped by capturing the disintegrating parts they might somehow reassemble their Humpty Huntington once again. The dust dropped into the wheelchair with the surplus overflowing onto the floor.

  After some muttered oaths, the SWAT team stood and observed a moment of tongue-tied silence.

  Finally one tried to speak: “What the…?”

  That was all the farther he got, fear cutting off his voice as first one and then another Huntington stepped into the room. Eventually fifty of the Huntingtons entered, each armed with a glistening meat ax.

  All was silent and then the Huntingtons started swinging their axes like the Grim Reaper’s scythe during the worst of plagues.

  The ensuing battle was one-side and anything but pretty. I wished I had Ralph’s lizard-high vantage point on the floor because I was suffering direct hits to my trunk from the exploding bullets the SWAT team unleashed, sending projectiles flashing through the air, striking members of both sides of the fray during the confusion.

  Are you injured? Ralph asked me.

  I wasn’t sure. But thought, Don’t worry about it — I’m a palm tree, right? Only dead wood at my core.

  I hoped I was right. I turned my attention back to the fight proper, where panicked screams mingled with the blood and moans of the dead and dying. Much of the horror resulted because the Huntingtons fought vigorously, well beyond what any SWAT team had ever encountered in the past. With limbs or even heads blown off, the duplicates continued to battle, crawling or staggering forward to fight, stopping when they had been shot to pieces and completely drained of blood. Only then did the flesh discontinue battle.

  In the end, the meat cleavers proved to have an uncanny ability to cut through ballistic armor, the wide blades gravely slashing exposed flesh. After ten horrific minutes, the gory brawl drew to a close.

  When the gunsmoke cleared, only two SWAT team members remained, wounded but alive, standing back-to-back in the room strewn with bodies and enough wilting body parts to make a grown Harvey weep.

  The brave pair of government fighters loaded the last of their ammunition into their submachine guns and waited.

  But only for 20 seconds.

  Another salvo of Huntingtons appeared at the front stoop and the final chapter of the battle ensued, ending swiftly when the firearms were empty and the madmen with cleavers swarmed over the pair. Ralph climbed up the wall to avoid being drowned in the blood flowing across the floors of the wall-to-wall slaughterhouse.

  The massacre over, Huntington reappeared, his duplicates vanishing as his wheelchair creaked out of the closet it had taken refuge in, the red sea of gore parting so its wheels passed over dry ground.

  “My, my,” Huntington said, settling into the contrivance. “Looks like I’d better get into the government’s database and remove my files again. Can’t have thugs dropping in unannounced like this.”

  His voice bore the artificiality of an amateur actor, and for a moment I wondered if he was aware that Ralph and I were there, watching him. Then I decided he must surely be unaware of us.

  He carefully wheeled himself across the room, surveying the damage like a vengeful prophet. “Better get this mess cleaned up while I’m at it.” He closed his eyes and like the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, summoned an army of brooms, along with scoop shovels and mops.

  “Use this mess to fill up the old sunken garden,” Huntington ordered them. “I’ve been meaning to fill it in anyway and this will save having to haul in dirt. Should help fertilize the earth while we’re at it.”

  Even with a hundred implements of housekeeping, it took most of the morning and into the evening to scrub and clean away the mess.

  Ralph Crocker

  With timing that couldn’t have been better if I’d planned it that way myself (well, okay, I had), the doorbell rang at eight PM, just as Huntington had settled in for a long summer’s nap.

  “Who could that be?” Huntington muttered, wheeling himself to the entryway in his PJs. He opened the door a crack. “What do you waaaa —”

  Death’s two mesos thundered in like rhinos in heat, ripping the door from its hinges and dumping the old man onto the floor with a bone-jarring thump. One of the mesos tossed Huntington’s wheelchair across the room while the other broke his arms, softening him up for the main act.

  This overture complete, the curtain r
ose and Death made his grand entrance to begin his aria. “Well, well,” his voice intoned as he stepped over the fallen door, his antenna waving with sadistic anticipation. “So this is the great Jeff Huntington? Frankly, I’m disappointed. I expected something more than an old prune slobbering on the floor.”

  Huntington glared at the figures towering around him. “You caught me off guard is all — I’ve been busy today. I’m exhausted.”

  “You’ll have your beauty rest real soon,” Death promised. “That long last one.” Then he and his men cackled at his marginal attempt at humor.

  They laughed for all of five seconds.

  Then the mesos’ chuckles morphed into hideous gargles, necessitated when their mouths vanished, replaced by solid expanses of flesh. The damper to the festive mood continued as Death’s mask melted into a drooping frown.

  One of the mesos passed out, proving that being a mouth breather has a downside; the other panicked and attempted to carve a new mouth into his face with a sheath knife. Not a pretty sight.

  Seeing his men’s capabilities vanish before his eyes, Death rushed Huntington, attempting to stomp him. But before he got within a yard of the old man on the floor, he went hurtling through the air to smash against the wall with a jarring thump of flesh and metal.

  Huntington spent the next five minutes transforming the three monsters in the living room into fine, pink confetti that swirled into a slime tornado. The mini-cyclone thundered out a window that opened before it. Once outside, the flesh storm grew, twirling its way off Huntington’s property and crossing the dark ocean waves beyond where the gale dissipated, dropping the remains of Death and his pre-digested men to feed the fish in the briny grave.

  His savage work over, Huntington floated into the air as his wheelchair came to him, then he settled into its padded seat, his broken arms draping on either side of him. He bowed his head and wept.

  It was at this point, when he had been exhausted in the two battles we had brought to his home front, that Alice and I had planned to attack him, banking on the fact that the intense mental activities involved in thwarting two savage attacks would stretch his abilities to the limit.

  Our plan seemed to have worked. He was obviously worn out.

  But we had overestimated our own resolve.

  Neither of us any longer possessed the will to attack the pathetic figure sitting in front of us.

  It’s crazy, I told Alice, but I don’t think I can attack him. I transformed myself into human form and shook my head. Killing him now would be cold-blooded murder.

  I feel the same way, Alice agreed, her voice strangely distant as she reappeared as herself.

  I glanced at her and then did a double take, turning with alarm toward her. Bright red splotches were blossoming on her blouse, soaking through the fabric from massive wounds. I ran and caught her as she tumbled to the floor. My heart in my throat, I asked, “What has Huntington done to you?”

  “Nothing,” she replied, her breathing labored. “The gunfire. I thought — since I was a palm tree — that the bullets would have no effect. Palm trees don’t have a nervous system.” She forced a smile as I cradled her in my arms. “But the damage remained and when I transformed myself… I’m so exhausted. I love you.”

  “Wait,” I ordered her. “I can heal you.”

  I concentrated on repairing the extensive damage she’d suffered, closing my eyes and holding her tight. Some of the wounds were healed when I opened my eyes. But I had been too late. The healing was a success, but the patient was dead.

  I felt only emptiness. One moment she was there; the next her spirit was gone leaving only her lifeless body in my arms. I sat helpless, rocking on the floor, arms across my chest.

  A distant voice moaned, “No, no, no,” over and over again. Only later did I realize that the sorrowful cries were my own. Knowing I might have kept her alive if I tried to save her more quickly tore at my mind. I had failed her.

  Now she was truly and utterly gone, and the room, the whole world, was empty of her.

  Then I realized that perhaps, just perhaps, I could resurrect her.

  I had grown very powerful over the last few days, more powerful than Alice. I knew that if I concentrated I could bring her back right then. I would call her spirit back from wherever her soul might be. I placed my hand on her forehead and closed my eyes.

  “No!” Huntington warned in a gentle voice. “You mustn’t. Remember your dream.”

  “What dream?” And then I remembered the chilling nightmare in which I had called Alice back from the dead, and how she had returned with a body that should have remained in the grave.

  But if Huntington knew about the dream, it only meant he’d put it there to torment me. Surely I could bring her back.

  “Don’t do it.”

  “Why should I listen to you?”

  “Because I’m not the monster you think I am.”

  Abruptly all my emotions of sorrow, love, and anger vanished.

  I realized what had happened. “You’ve robbed me of my emotions?” I cried.

  “They’ll be back soon enough,” Huntington replied, his arms mending themselves as he stood, straight and tall, on his own two feet. “Now there’s something I must do and I can’t afford to have your emotions getting into the way at the moment.”

  Chapter 32

  Jeff Huntington

  I was prepared for the knock-down, drag-out, scratch and bite battle with Ralph. But Alice’s death had taken the fight out of him, which was just as well. I’d had enough fighting for one day. More than enough for ten lifetimes.

  Ralph finally set Alice’s body on the floor and looked up at me. “You suckered us into a well-laid trap, designed to make a clean sweep of all his enemies in one night. Alice and I were lured here just as surely as the government and Death had been by the two of us.”

  Ralph looked more alone and exposed than the day I had first seen him in the children’s orphanage with Alice and the others. “This wasn’t a trap,” I told him. “I could have turned you into a cockroach and squashed you underfoot quite some time ago had I so wished. I’m sorry for Alice’s death — that wasn’t in my plans. But you must not try to resurrect her. I’ve tried this with others and believe me, it always ends in tragedy. That nightmare you had of calling back the dead was comprised of some of what I had experienced.”

  “But…”

  “A soul must never be recalled, even by the likes of you or me.”

  “How can I trust what you’re saying?”

  “You’re confused right now, I know.

  Ralph tried to wink away but I stopped him. “Don’t leave me just yet,” I said. “There is something you must learn.”

  He glared silently at me.

  “Tell me, what happens when a man has absolute power?” I asked.

  Ralph looked me in the eye and said, “He becomes a manipulator who kills on whim, who takes advantage of the innocent, and lives here in New Sarasota.”

  I smiled grimly. “Ralph, I like you a lot — I really do. But sometimes I’m tempted to do something terrible to you to make the world a better place and raise the average IQ. Listen: You have trouble with authority figures. I suggest get beyond that and look at things realistically, because some of your views are half cocked. And I will prove it to you.”

  I closed my eyes for a moment, and took Ralph back with me through time. Abruptly the sun cast long evening shadows as we stood on lava flagstones alongside a lazy, muddy river.

  “You have already experienced Cambodian killing fields and the Soviet Gulag,” I said. “Those are often presented as examples of what happens when absolute power is abused. Now we have one more stop. That, by the way,” I pointed toward the waterway, “is the Tiberis. We’re in the center of ancient Rome. That’s the Emporium.”

  “Another creation of yours?”

  “No. More like an echo in time, bouncing into our minds from the past. You can’t change events here because they’ve already occurred. You
can sometimes interact like a ghost with the inhabitants in the most minor of ways, but mostly you’re here to observe and learn. We travel as leaves floating on a river in the past. We can be carried by the stream, but we can’t change its course.”

  Ralph looked at the empty streets and raised an eyebrow. “No inhabitants?”

  “Their echoes are a bit slower than inanimate objects. But they’re almost here — right about now.”

  The empty street darkened and then erupted in the hubbub of an ancient city, with Plebs and slaves jostling around us. On the river, cargo ships, powered by long oars, eased into docks to unload their bails and boxes before night descended. The air was alive with a multitude of languages and the smell of unwashed bodies.

  “Why did you bring me here?” Ralph asked.

  I ignored the question, dodging my way along the congested street that wound past the warehouses and markets lining the wharf. Ralph followed, ignoring a sharp-voiced soothsayer waving a caduceus above his head.

  A woman stumbled and fell ahead of us. I strode past her but Ralph stopped and tried to assist her to her feet. His hands passed right through her and a look of amazement crossed his face.

  “A noble gesture,” I said. “But I’m afraid that would have been a bit too radical of a modification to the timeline. Remember, we are the ghosts of Christmas Future to these people. They’re long dead. You can’t change history.”

  We continued up the narrow street past a tavern filled with screams and fragments from what must have been a drinking song. A pair of wigged Romans vomited on the pavement in front of the establishment.

  As the evening shadows accented everything, I marveled at what I saw, realizing that without much machinery other than ropes and pulleys, everything had been built with the brute force exerted by slaves and stone masons.

  How many had died to make these monuments to heartless Roman gods?

  I glanced up and down the street, searching. “Nero is said to wander about these streets wearing a mask, frequenting brothels. I thought perhaps we’d find him here. But not tonight. So… To the palace.”