Two hours later, just as Jack was placing a spiked rabbit's head into a trash bag, he felt a dark and terrible presence behind him. The air grew cold. The wind took on the distinct smell of fire and decay.
"Hello, Zu'ar."
He heard the rumble of the god's voice inside his head.
"Greetings, Cowardly Weakling."
"I wish you wouldn't call me that," Jack said.
"I call you that because that is what you are," the god thought. "My followers would have used you for chattel in their day."
Jack made a mental note to look up the word chattel tonight.
"Look, you can't keep going out and doing this." He waved his arms around him, indicating the front yard and the flowerbeds. "I already told you that you could kill whatever comes into the back yard. The inside of the fence can be your realm of terror. I don't care. But you have to leave the front yard alone. That sounds like a fair compromise, doesn't it?"
"Zu'ar does not compromise with mortals, Weakling. Mortals beg him for mercy."
Jack turned. Zu'ar stood before him defiantly, with his muscular legs spread apart. He glared at Jack with bone yellow eyes. His beard was the color of blood. He was wide, powerfully built, and just a few inches taller than a Barbie doll.
Zu'ar was wearing one of Jack's old sweat socks as a shoulder bag. The bag-sock was filled with tiny spears. He had apparently carved their shafts out of the missing table leg, and used the broken lamp to make the tips.
The smell of fire and decay intensified. The little guy was obviously due for a bath.
"You really need to stop destroying my stuff. That lamp was an irreplaceable antique."
"I laugh at your sentimentality, Weakling. I was old before the mountains were young. My followers were among the first men to climb out of the Living Mud that spawned your kind.
"Your 'antique' bauble was less than one hundred years old. That time is not even the blink of an eye in the span of my existence."
Jack studied Zu'ar. He stared straight at him, meeting his tiny gaze head on. One second ticked by. Then two. Then three. On the count of fifteen, the god blinked.
Jack laughed to himself. "The 'blink of an eye,' huh?"
"I was attempting to put it in terms your feeble mind would understand, Weakling. Perhaps I failed."
Jack sighed. "Right. I don't suppose you'll help me clean this up, huh? I've had a long day at work. I'd really just like to get this over with so I can relax."
"You do the work of children and wet-nurses, Weakling. I exist for greater things."
He watched Zu'ar go to the corner of the yard to relieve himself, before proudly walking through the gate and into the back yard.
JACK WOKE WITH THE sun shining through the shades. He rolled over sleepily and looked at the display of his alarm clock. It was blank.
Jack shot bolt upright. What time was it? He stumbled out of bed, dragging half of the sheets with him. He fumbled in his pants pocket for his cell phone.
He flipped the phone open and read the time: 10:37. He was more than an hour late for work.
Jack swore. He looked back at his alarm clock. The power cord was gone. It had been ripped completely off.
"Zu'ar!" he yelled. "Zu'ar, where are you?"
"I am here, Weakling." He walked into the room, carrying the wound-up cord in one of his tiny fists. He held up the frayed end with an evil smile. "I have created a scourge so that my enemies may know pain."
"You destroyed my alarm clock!"
"Time is a human contrivance. I have no use for it."
"But I could lose my job!"
"Fear not. I am confident that your sniveling ways will earn you another master to grovel before."
Jack rushed to his closet. He hurriedly started laying out his work clothes. "You aren't going to think this is funny when I don't have any rent money this month."
"On the contrary, I believe it would strengthen your character to live beneath the stars and fight for your food."
But Jack was already more worried about what he would say to his boss when he got to work.
THE BOSS HAD CHEWED Jack out when he arrived. He gave him a speech about responsibility, commitment to the company, and work ethic. Jack took the lashing like a whipped dog. He said "Yes, sir" and "No, sir" in all the right places. In the end, he'd escaped with his job. Now Jack was enjoying a very late, very short lunch break in the cafeteria.
"Have you tried obedience school?" Cory asked.
Jack popped a potato puffer into his mouth. Cory was the company's IT wizard. He'd been solving Jack's tech problems for years. He'd also been listening to Jack's personal problems for a large chunk of that time.
"I was going to," he said. "I signed up for the class and everything. But Zu'ar ended up fighting with one of the other gods. It got so bad that the trainer asked me to leave."
"That bad?" Cory asked.
"You have no idea." Jack remembered the woman's shriek of horror as Zu'ar strangled her precious little love goddess with a leash. He remembered the awful looks he got as he carried Zu'ar out of the store.
"I don't know," he said finally. "Maybe I'm just not cut out to be a god owner."
"Well, what about in-home training?"
Jack gave him a quizzical look. "I don't know. Isn't that expensive?"
Cory shrugged. "No more expensive than replacing all that stuff the little guy destroys on you."
Jack thought about it. Maybe Cory was right. He popped another potato puffer into his mouth, and chased it with a sip of Diet Pepsi.
THAT NIGHT, he did an online search for in-home god training. There were several trainers in the area. He wrote down the number of the one that seemed the most promising, a woman calling herself "The God Whisperer." He'd call from work tomorrow.
"AND HOW LONG HAVE you had this god in your home?"
Doris the god trainer sat on Jack's couch. She was a friendly, big boned woman, with dark hair that she wore teased up into a beehive. She had both the breath and the voice of a lifelong smoker.
She'd need to interview Jack first, she'd said. Get a feel for the Zu'ar's living situation. Once she identified the problem areas with the god's behavior, she'd be able to figure out what training steps were needed.
"Um, I adopted him about six months ago."
She scribbled on her notepad. "Did his aggressive behavior start right away? Or did it develop over time?"
"No. He was always pretty aggressive."
"Mmm-hmm. And I'm sorry, but I don't have my notes from the phone call in front of me. Did you say he was a rescue?"
"That's right. I got him at the humane society."
She was in the middle of asking how much exercise Zu'ar normally got, when the tiny god stalked into the room.
"Who is this woman, Weakling? Why is she in my house?"
Doris wrinkled her nose. "Does he always bring that burning and decay scent with him?"
"Yes."
"Answer me, Weakling. What does this woman want? Why does she ignore me when I speak into her mind?"
"That's actually a very common sign of dominance with war gods," Doris said. "They use it as a way to mark their territory. The scent is supposed to terrify more passive gods and mortals into submission. Have you ever tried to get him to stop?"
"No, I mostly just ignore it."
Doris nodded. She scribbled a few more notes into her pad.
"I will see this woman's bones bleach beneath the sun, Weakling. Tell her I will not be ignored. Tell her she will hear me, or she will suffer the consequences."
Jack swallowed. "Um, he says . . ."
The trainer held up her hand. "No. Don't pay any attention to him when he's sending prophesies of doom into your mind. When you acknowledge that kind of behavior, it just encourages him to keep it up. You should only give him attention when he communicates in benevolent prophecies."
"Okay."
Doris closed her notepad. "Look, I'm going to be honest with you, Mr. Foster. War gods are some of the
most difficult deities to care for. Their owners have to be assertive and in control at all times. They aren't inherently 'bad,' but they only respect strength and ruthlessness. Their behavior can get out of control if you don't prove to them that you're the strongest member of the household. Do you think you're ready to do that?"
Jack looked at Zu'ar. He remembered how small and defenseless he'd looked in the cage all those months ago. Zu'ar had been sitting by himself in his little corner, while all of the other gods played and performed miracles together.
He was alone. He had nobody. That was why Jack had taken him home. And now Jack couldn't imagine putting him back in that situation. He loved the little guy.
"Yes," he said. "I'm ready."
"Do not make me laugh, Cowardly Weakling. You will never be stronger than me. My followers were feared all across the ancient world."
Jack turned to say something. But he caught the trainer's look out the corner of his eye.
"Do not ignore me, Weakling. You will come to regret it."
Jack didn't answer him. In a rage, Zu'ar kicked the wall. Then he stormed up the steps. A few seconds later, Jack heard him slam the bedroom door.
"Good," Doris said. "Now I'd like to ask you about his eating habits."
JACK CAME HOME FROM work to a pile of bloody pigeon feathers on the front walk.
"Oh, no."
The training sessions had been going good. Zu'ar hadn't slaughtered anything in weeks. He was even beginning to listen when Jack told him to do something. Things were actually getting peaceful around the house for a change.
Now this.
"Zu'ar? Zu'ar where are you?"
"I am here, Weakling."
"I told you not to call me that," Jack said.
Zu'ar looked at the ground and slumped his shoulders, adopting a submissive posture. "I am sorry. I meant no offense. That is how I have named you for so long, I merely forgot. Please, forgive me."
Jack pointed at the pile of feathers. "What is this? I thought I told you, no more killing things in the front yard."
"I know. I am sorry I broke your edict."
"What are you holding behind your back? Give it. Give it here."
Zu'ar held up a small necklace made of twine. Two fresh birds' feet hung from the loop.
"The eagle's claw was a status symbol among my people, Mortal. I wanted to make you a similar gift."
"That's touching. Thank you." It was also a little gross. Jack was very careful to hold the necklace by the loop.
Zu'ar peered up hopefully. "Is the Wise Woman coming to the house today, Mortal?"
That was his name for the god trainer. "She is," Jack said. "She'll be here in a few minutes, in fact. We should go inside."
"The Wise Woman has much strength and authority. You should ask her to bear you some children. She would raise them into fine warriors."
Jack shook his head. Gods. What could you do with them?
"I think she'd prefer a check," he said.
This story originally appeared in Writers of the Future 31 anthology, Galaxy Press, 2015.
Daniel J. Davis was born and raised in Massachusetts. Early exposure to Elvira’s Movie Macabre gave him a lifelong appreciation for funny horror, although he readily admits most of the humor on display was unintentional. His other stories have appeared in the anthologies Unidentified Funny Objects 5, Swords & Steam Short Stories, and Alien Artifacts. He currently lives in North Carolina with his wife and two dogs. You can follow him at danieljdavisblogs.wordpress.com, which he swears he plans to update more often.
Meat and Greet
Jamie Todd Rubin
SO THERE HE IS, Borges, returned from the dead and sitting across the table from me smelling of dust and moldy books as if he'd spent the last quarter century scrambling through the stacks of an old and cavernous library. Gone from this universe and now returned, to a pitch-an-agent event, and seated at the table representing the Billy Morrow Literary Agency. He frowns when he sees me and then wastes precious seconds by asking for good old Morrow himself, perhaps not realizing that the dead are not typically resurrected and that when an agent dies he has the honor and integrity to stay dead. In death, as in everything else, authors are never that reliable.
Two more days of this, I think. Today. And next week. The large hall is filled with the sounds of desperation as a thousand would-be writers give their spiel to a few dozen agents who have the misfortune of drawing the short straw. I give the resurrected Borges a wan smile.
Flummoxed for only a moment, Borges says, "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Vance." He extends a gray hand. There is an empty look in his eyes. I am uncertain of the protocol in these situations, shaking hands with the formerly dead and what have you.
"What do you have for me," I say, somewhat ashamed that I am asking this of the immortal Borges.
"Imagine if you will," he says, licking his gray lips, "the story of a famous writer, returned from the dead and pitching his next masterpiece, which itself is the story of a famous writer, returned from the dead." He grins awkwardly, his breath exuding decay.
The buzzer startles me. Borges' two minutes are up. "Hits too close to home," I tell him. "Try one of the small presses." I feel compelled to offer these feeble suggestions to the great Borges. "Consider self-publishing." The floor of the conference center has erupted into momentary chaos and the blind old man nods his head and shuffles away, lost in the crowd.
His seat is filled instantly by Mark Twain. I glance quickly to my left and right. The people sitting across from the other agents seem in no way extraordinary; or rather, they seem perfectly ordinary and more specifically, alive. Twain has that same empty look in his eyes, that same sallow expression in his cheeks that Borges had just a moment earlier. His hand, when he extends it in greeting, feels like recently defrosted sirloin.
But time is wasting and I say, "Let's have your pitch, then."
Twain is an old pro and gets right to the point. "It's a reboot," Twain says, "much like me. I want to re-imagine Tom Sawyer, tell the same story, except that Tom drowns in the river, only to come back to life, as a kind of empty husk of person, soulless, to witness his own funeral."
Of course, now I am suspicious that this whole racket is a put up job, but there is something about Twain and Borges, undead as they are, that is visceral. And besides, the agency is in real trouble and despite the fact that their pitches are universally awful, their names alone might carry the agency through to the next set of royalty statements.
The buzzer sounds and I ask Twain to leave his pitch with me for further consideration. I'd like to talk to him some more but already he is being shoved out of the way by Edgar Allen Poe, who reeks not only of moldy flesh but of whiskey. I had no idea that the recently dead could drink.
He starts his pitch, and his breath is flammable. I already have a glimmer of where this is going. Poe says, "A man murders another man and to cover up the crime, he buries the body under the floorboards of the house." He speaks in a slurred monotone, his soft voice barely audible over the din of a hundred simultaneous pitches. I have heard enough and I try to stop him but he continues. "But the murdered man returns to life, and he slowly chips away at his grave, scraping and clawing at the floorboards, and driving his murderer insane in the process."
He finishes his pitch with time to spare and there is an awkward silence as the two of us face one another. This theme is a dead end, and fame or not, I'm not about to go in for any more of it.
Finally the buzzer rings and I nod politely at Poe who fades into the crowd. The other agents have stacks of manuscripts. They are handing out business cards. My table top is empty, save a coffee cup, and the lingering odor of rotten meat and Jameson. I feel like slipping away, like coming here was a terrible mistake but before I can stand, a slender, pale woman takes the seat across from me. She has striking features, is dressed in tattered black, and is, of course, recently dead like all the rest. However, unlike the others, she seems happy.
I'm havin
g trouble placing her until she starts her pitch, which she describes in pleasant monotones as a collection of poetry about the joy of death. And then it hits me. This is Emily Dickinson. She glances around the auditorium, distracted.
"Isn't this wonderful?" she says. I think I see a glimmer of something writhing at the corner of her lip. "I've never been happier. I don't really care all that much about the pitch, you know, which by the way centers around the theme of death and rebirth. And rebirth in death."
I am relieved when the buzzer rings. There is only a single two-minute session left. I simply cannot take this anymore. I don't understand the appeal of these stories and I will not tolerate it further. And yet there is the agency to think about, old man Morrow's final legacy. I sit frozen, nerves frayed, wondering who will be next, Kafka? Sartre?
The final buzzer jostles my very bones. The bearded man who sits across from me is easily recognizable, despite his disheveled appearance. He nods calmly at me and begins speaking at once with an Irish brogue, "This is an epistolary tale—"
I shudder at the words. "Mr. Stoker—" I try to interrupt, seeing at once where this is going but he flaps a crumbling hand at my objection.
"Think fangs," he says. "Creatures that drink blood. That require it for their immortality. Vampires!" He exclaims this last word with a proud force. "Very popular with teenage girls, too," he adds, as if I needed a further angle.
And though he is right, the timing is all wrong. All is wasted. He has missed the point, has come back for nothing. And though I hate doing it, I am forced to plant the verbal stake firmly into his heart.
"Mr. Stoker," I say, "I'm sorry but this meet and greet is centered around zombie stories which, for whatever reason, seem extraordinarily popular at the moment." And then, with a sardonic smile escaping from my lips, I add, "The vampire meet and greet is next week."
This story originally appeared in Orson Scott Card's Intergalactic Medicine Show magazine, 2015.
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