The Gods' Day to Die

by David Welch

  “Point noted,” he noted.

  “I’m thinking a large family, and a life lived in the mortal sense, is all that’s left,” she said. “Which, luckily, you can give to me.”

  “So nowhere in your centuries did you have a large family with somebody?” he asked.

  “Several times,” she said. “But I always knew it would end. When I dreamed of having a big family, I was a teenage girl, oblivious to immortality or the Rot or any of this. But if Jedrick’s procedure is all it’s cracked up to be, then I’ve basically been given a reset button.”

  “Really? Just because these next six decades might be your last doesn’t mean the previous millennia didn’t happen,” Desmond said. “You’ll never be that naïve girl again.”

  “Naïve, no,” she said. “Not innocent. But certain dreams remain even when the scales have fallen from your eyes. Even you must realize that, with all you know now that you didn’t know when you were a brash teenage boy.”

  He thought for a moment, knowing she was right. All the puerile dreams of being a player with a thousand ladies or being some Marine commando hero had fallen away. Experience had taught him that women were far more interesting than mere sexual playthings, and that actual Marine commandos had a mettle and a strength that went beyond superficial dreams. Though, given recent events, part of him dared to hope that maybe he possessed some small part of that strength.

  And he figured that since he was still here, still living, and still feeling some urge to be with a woman and to be heroic, some part of those childish dreams had tapped a deeper well within. Those parts had remained and pushed him to keep going, as they pushed all people who managed to grow out of adolescence.

  “You’re making me feel old,” he said with a fake pout. “Stop it.”

  She laughed, first loudly, then lower as the children continued their painful good-byes behind them.

  She grabbed his arm reassuringly. “Good. I’m too old for boy toys anyway.”

  Westchester, New York

  Hera stepped out of the airport terminal, walking across the tarmac toward the aircraft. One of her vice presidents, Amy Stanisluski, followed like a beleaguered secretary, nipping at her heels. She was one of the higher-ups in a sporting goods company that Hera held a majority share in. Hera had spoken with her the night before, briefly, when she called to say she needed the company jet fueled and ready.

  “. . . it’s just that George wants to talk to you about the hockey company buyout and—”

  “Amy, the point of hiring George as president and paying him such an outrageous salary was so that I didn’t have to bother with day-to-day stuff,” Hera declared.

  Behind them came the rest of her family, bags in hand. That was part of the ruse. Should somebody be watching, they had to think the immortals were in a hurry, too much so to stop and let others load their luggage.

  “Day-to-day?!” said the woman, astonished. “We’re talking ninety-seven stores and a big chunk of the Michigan market!”

  “And I trust George’s judgment,” Hera said. “He’s made deals before.”

  “Well, with the economy the way it is, he didn’t want to put so much of your money at risk without getting your input,” Amy went on.

  They approached the jet. Hera watched the men wheeling a mobile stairway up to the side, wondering if one of them was Lenka’s spy. It was an irrational impulse. There was little chance Lenka would have a man as a workman on the staff of a random small airport. His resources weren’t that impressive. Most likely he had a plant in one of her organizations, who would notice a company plane being taken unexpectedly and send word.

  “Ma’am?” Amy prodded.

  “Tell George I’ll back whatever play he wants to make,” she said. “He hasn’t been wrong yet.”

  “And if he is?” Amy asked.

  Hera shrugged. “I’ll fire him. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  Amy paused for a moment, her face conflicted, as if she wanted to say more. Hera’s harsh gaze met her look, and she scurried away, past the family and back toward the airport. Hera sighed. Whatever Amy had on her mind was probably important, so far as the business went. But Hera didn’t have time for that now.

  The others reached the plane. Desmond stopped, taking it in approvingly.

  “Grandma travels in style,” he declared.

  “Call me that again, and this ‘grandma’ will take you across her knee,” Hera replied with just the right amount of malice.

  Desmond chuckled.

  “Plane like this . . . I’m thinking your business interests aren’t a small thing,” he said.

  “I own five percent of your father’s company,” she said. “Among others.”

  “How many others?” asked Des.

  “I’ve lost count,” she replied.

  Desmond nodded as he moved to board the plane. “Well, Dad always did like Citations. Good plane.”

  He disappeared up the stairs, following Artemis. The others filed on after him, and Zeus brought up the back of the group. He had a large garment bag, filled to near bursting, thrown over his shoulders. One of the airport porters dashed up to him.

  “Load that for you, sir?” the young man asked.

  “Nah, I got it. Thanks anyway,” Zeus replied. He dug into a pocket with his free hand and offered the man a five. The porter took the bill, shrugged, and moved to the pile of luggage a few feet back. Hera released a breath. A tranquilized Duscha was in the garment bag, taped to a wooden dowel to keep her upright. They’d thrown a few coats around her to obscure her body. Zeus, unfazed by the close call, moved up to Hera.

  Hera paused, turned, and watched as her vice president disappeared back into the airport. The woman had a cell phone at her ear, and her other hand was gesturing wildly.

  “Think she’s the mole?” he said.

  “Possibly,” Hera said. “She’s nondescript enough.”

  “It’s always the ones you ignore,” Zeus sighed. He slung his arm over his wife’s shoulders. “Shall we? This evil great-granddaughter of mine is getting heavy.”

  The plane’s engines whined behind them.

  “Yeah,” she said distantly, still watching Amy. “Let’s go.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said, sensing her unease. “If she is the leak, when this is over, you can always fire her.”

  “If she’s the leak,” Hera said, images of Keilana’s body flashing through her mind, “I’ll strap her to the God damned engine.”

  27

  Somewhere In Ukraine

  “Macedonia,” Lenka whispered as they drove west. “Why in God’s name would they be going there?”

  Nicholai, driving, shrugged. Lenka was glad the man was back. Nicholai was the only one of his “lieutenants” who had survived the battle at Ares’ house, and Lenka found his presence comforting. Nicholai knew how Lenka operated, knew what he was up against. Arkady had displayed an appropriate level of aggression, but Lenka still had reservations about him. Tormenting a beaten and bound Athena was much different than staying alive against an armed and focused Ares. And their other passenger, Sergei, was little more than an ex-grunt with a gun. He’d been lucky to survive California. Lenka doubted his luck would hold.

  “They did have the ancient Greeks believing they were gods,” Nicholai wondered aloud. “Macedonia is close to Greece. Perhaps they’re retreating somewhere they feel safe.”

  “There is nowhere safe for them,” Lenka growled.

  “So . . . ,” Nicholai said uneasily. “How exactly are we going to find where in Macedonia they went?”

  “I have a man in Interpol,” Lenka replied. “He’s en route. We’ll have to play policeman again.”

  “That usually works,” Nicholai commented.

  Lenka nodded to himself, wondering idly if the man was right. Eastern Europe wasn’t known for having as “hon
est” a police force as America. With the right bribes, you could make police turn a blind eye. And the immortals had plenty of money lying around.

  “How far are we from Sava’s?” he said, to force his mind onto something else.

  “Half an hour,” Nicholai said. “Are you sure we should use him? Sava himself may be up to the task, but he doesn’t always have the best men working with him.”

  “No choice,” said Lenka. “Even with his people, we’ll still need to find more in the Balkans. If the immortals are going to ground, you can bet it’ll be somewhere easily defended.”

  “No doubt,” Nicholai agreed. “But forty men raises attention. People notice groups like that.”

  “I know,” Lenka replied. “But it has to be done. They all have to die.”

  Nicholai frowned at the words. Lenka knew the man’s fears without having to ask. Taking down immortals one by one was dangerous, but doable. Defeating a group of them was something altogether different. The fact that most of Nicholai’s “coworkers” had died during the last attempt didn’t help matters.

  But Lenka wouldn’t budge. Couldn’t. They had to die. They had to. An immortal had brought him into this world, then abandoned him to a sociopath. An immortal had killed his daughter. God knew what other chaos they’d caused over their long lives. Pretending they were gods? How many had died at their command, or even by their hands, when they’d held that power? How many mortals had chafed under their rule?

  And how many other children like him had they brought into this world?

  The thought struck something cold deep within him. It was all insanely unfair. All there was to see and experience on this Earth, and he was stuck in a decaying body with only a few decades to cram in as much as possible. But somebody like his mother? Somebody who’d had fifty-six hundred years to explore and see?

  Did somebody that old even qualify as human anymore? When the whole of human experience was bound by the transient nature of life, could somebody who was naturally immortal truly be said to belong? In a biological sense, perhaps, he figured. Their bodies were remarkably similar to a human’s. But humanity had never been entirely biological or evolutionary, not since sentience had cropped up. Man’s mind and experience defined much of his behavior, and the inescapable reality of death had always loomed over both. How could a person capable of eternal life possibly understand the effect of mortality?

  He liked such thoughts, even if he knew they were a smokescreen. Throw in all the reason and philosophy that you want; when it came down to it, he knew they were mere attempts to justify what was, at heart, a personal quest. Such thoughts always ended with an emotional reality pushing its way through. An immortal destroyed your life. An immortal’s failing led to you being a monster. An immortal killed your daughter. All of it was on his mother’s head, on their heads. They couldn’t just walk away without paying a price.

  “They all have to die,” he repeated under his breath.

  “Sorry, what was that?” asked Nicholai.

  “Nothing,” Lenka replied.

  They drove on.

  Near Sasa, Macedonia

  Once again Des found himself on a mountain. The immortals seemed to have a thing for them. This one went by the name of Carev Vrv. How that was pronounced, Des didn’t know.

  They worked their way up a forested slope, leaving a dirt road that rose from the valley below. Above them the forest tailed off into open terrain. Whether it was alpine tundra or pastureland, Des wasn’t sure. But Artemis had assured him they weren’t going up there, that the entrance to Olympus was hidden in the forest on the lower half of the peak.

  They ascended the slope in a line, not one of them stopping to look or take their bearings. They knew where they were going, and even the broad forest wouldn’t deter them.

  At the front trudged Zeus. Behind him marched Ares. He had an assault rifle, currently pressed into the back of the bound and gagged Duscha. He wasn’t the only one with a gun. After touching down in Skopje they’d immediately gone to one of Hera’s many safe houses, where they’d rearmed. Then they’d rented a car and driven here. Under other circumstances, Desmond would have liked the drive. Macedonia was beautiful, mountainous and green, vaguely like the Appalachians. But the drive had been rushed, and the car had been left on the side of a dirt road in the valley far below. The Olympians were not going to waste any time getting to their destination.

  “Ah, here we are,” Artemis said.

  Ahead, Zeus moved across the slope, to a small fin of rock that jutted from the hillside. He slowed, feeling along the steep slope where it came down next to the rock. Finally he paused, digging his fingers into the earth.

  He jerked back, the edge of a buried canvas tarpaulin in his fingers. Dirt cascaded down the slope, pooling at his feet. Zeus tossed the tarp aside, revealing a small opening, just over five feet in diameter.

  Des stared at the tarp for a moment, noticing that it still had leaves pinned to it.

  “That’s it? A tarp covered in leaves?” he said.

  “Nobody’s found it in six thousand years,” Artemis answered with a smirk. “Come on. It gets better.”

  They clustered around the cave mouth. Zeus and Ares removed lanterns from their backpacks, casting light into the cave. Hera stepped forward to keep her gun on Duscha. The captive looked on curiously, taking it all in, no doubt trying to formulate some plan of escape.

  “You turned the power on?” Zeus asked his son.

  “Yep. Just gotta get to the switch,” Ares replied.

  “You have electricity?” Desmond asked.

  “Generator off the road about a half mile back, hidden in a shack in the woods. Should cast enough light for me to get to the main one inside,” Ares explained.

  He disappeared into the cave mouth. Aphrodite watched him go with a worried look, clutching her rifle in her hands. A half-dozen loud clunks reverberated through the cave, then Ares reappeared.

  “It’s all on,” he said. “We’re good.”

  Desmond looked at the cave again. It didn’t appear any lighter.

  “Let’s go, then,” Zeus said.

  He walked into the cave, the others following. Ares waited until everybody was in before entering. He pulled the tarp back into place, shutting out what little natural light entered. Only the glow from his and Zeus’ lanterns illuminated the narrow passage.

  They moved across a relatively level floor. Looking around, Des could see that the walls and floors had undergone some smoothing over the years. The rock still protruded here and there, but it wasn’t jagged or natural. Hammers had worked it over long ago.

  “How long does this go?” he asked as they made their way through.

  “Not long,” Artemis said. Just as the passage began to curve, a heavy steel door blocked the way. Zeus worked on several locks, taking a minute to open them. Stepping through, they worked their way around the remainder of a ninety-degree turn, then came to another section of corridor, this one only a few yards long. At its end was a dim stream of light. Desmond followed the others toward it.

  He found himself standing on a ten-foot-wide terrace overlooking a vast cavern. The light came from several large spotlights mounted on the rock ceiling. Smaller lights protruded from the walls as the terrace spiraled a half-dozen revolutions to the bottom. Dozens of smaller passages, many of them artificially widened, led off from the main terrace, disappearing into the mountain.

  The group spread out, and Desmond made his way to the far edge of the terrace. A wooden fence ran the length of it, a few inches back from the edge. Peering over the side, he gazed down to the base of the cavern, some three hundred feet below. There too the cave had been smoothed out by human hands, forming a large, relatively flat floor.

  “You guys built this place?” he asked, astonished.

  “Our ‘worshipers’ did,” Aphrodite said.

 
“Worshipers . . . ,” Ares grumbled. “Try slaves.”

  “Oh,” Desmond said awkwardly. “So this is Olympus . . . why not the actual Mount Olympus, in Greece?” he asked, as the group began the long walk down.

  Artemis explained. “Gods are kind of like celebrities. Word spreads that they have a retreat in the mountains far to the north, and of course everybody wants to find it and see what secrets we’re hiding. So we throw up a few temples on Mount Olympus to fool them, and keep the actual ‘home of the gods’ hidden.”

  “I see,” Desmond said, staring at one of the side tunnels as they passed. It too was illuminated. He could swear he saw sculptures on the wall.

  “We’ve been coming here since the beginning,” Zeus said wistfully. “I was born three miles south of here. When invaders swept in, my village would hide in here with whatever valuables we could carry, then wait until the coast was clear.”

  “So this is basically where it all began?” Desmond asked.

  “Or where it all ends,” Aphrodite muttered as they passed a side tunnel. It was larger than the last, and Desmond paused. This time there was no mistaking it. Carved into the wall were life-sized bas-relief sculptures. Niches had been cut into the rock beneath them, and filled with trinkets and goods.

  Grave goods, he realized.

  “So these are—” he began.

  “Yes,” Artemis said. “Husbands, wives, sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, even some fathers and mothers.”

  “Every person we every loved and every child we ever had,” Aphrodite said. “Mortal or immortal.”

  “Their image, mementos of their life, their stories,” Artemis said, pausing as they approached another tunnel. Desmond moved up next to her, staring at the nearest sculpture. From the look of its carving, it was clearly ancient, the image unmistakable. It was a young man, maybe five foot five, in the prime of his youth. Beside him, carved into the rock, were letters in an alphabet he’d never seen before.

  “Actaeon,” Artemis whispered sadly. Her hand reached out and touched the rock for the briefest of moments, then fell back to her side.