* * * *
There had been no fireballs or floods or famine or pestilence. None of that. They had arrived quietly, unnoticed at first until word got around, and by then business was booming. Four Gods in our Metropolitan area alone, and who knows how many more across the globe.
And they look just like us, too. I know that's not so strange in itself, especially since we were always taught that they—or He—would resemble our form, with stories of Him creating us in His own image. But to see one crossing the street or sitting across from you is another thing entirely. Weren't you supposed to feel something more? The divine architect, the Alpha and the Omega, love and forgiveness. Weren't you supposed to sense that you were in the presence of something great? Well, that's not really how it is with these guys. Firstly, they're all men, so the whole “love” thing, at least for me, is a little weird. The only aura they give off is one of complete and utter indifference. None of this should come as a surprise, when you think about it. I mean, why should He or They or whatever give a shit about each and every one of us? How could they? We can't possibly expect them to know us all individually. Even now, the question of whether they had a hand in our creation remains unanswered.
This is all moot anyway, since the reason they came back wasn't out of love or concern, but something closer to cleaning house.
The first time I met one in the flesh was about a year ago. The Gods had recently landed and, naturally, there was a lot of talk. Some good, some bad, but overall, people were mostly curious. One of the first transfusions was given to a guy I knew from across town, and this had caused quite a bit of panic among the other residents of our community. In an effort to calm things down, our friend Bud had decided to throw a party at his place. The turnout was huge, and I always figured this was because people were expecting something...I don't know, out of the ordinary. What they got instead was a run of the mill garden party. Barbecue, beer, play area for the kids. But that was exactly what the doctor ordered. Bud knew that plain-old ordinary was what everyone needed, and it worked, at least for a while. For a couple of hours, we were all able to forget about our worries, the changing times, and remained frozen in an earlier time when our problems were… I guess, better. I mean, sure, we had problems, but they were pissy little problems nobody would give a shit about today. Isn't that how it always works? You're not happy with what you have until something new comes along and shuffles everything around, making what you had seem fucking peaches, and then you wonder why you ever complained about it in the first place.
So there we were, sitting on deck chairs on the grass, simultaneously sunburned and eaten alive by mosquitoes, sipping at cheap beer from plastic cups, munching on hotdogs, listening to one of the other neighbors complain about immigrants (because, really, that's the sort of thing I want to be worrying about again), and life was pretty fucking pristine. Until that prick Dane showed up and had to go and start spouting conspiracy theories and getting everyone all riled up. That was when the party ended.
I spent the next day bitching to the wife about her jackass brother and what an asshole he was for ruining the party, and she agreed with me, at least that's what I thought. It was hard to tell what she was thinking, but I'm pretty sure she was angry with him, too. And that was when she said it, the words that would change my life from then on: "He's your best friend, there must be something you like about him."
As soon as she said that I shut the hell up. I had to. With the few beers I had in me, I knew that if I kept talking I would let on what I was thinking, and the whole thing would be blown. She'd find some way to talk me out of it. No, this required a lot of focus on my part. A lot of solitary contemplation. And so, the next day, I drove to see the God in his office on the top floor of the one hundred and fifty story tower downtown. No appointment required, just show up and get it done before you lose your nerve.
The transfusion part was meant to be straight-forward, from what I'd read. Basically, you go there, you offer up someone’s life, and the God gives you money for doing it. Piece of cake. There's a little more to it, but that's the gist. So you might ask, what's to stop the nastiest meth-head street scum low-life motherfucker from going back again and again, not a care in the world, killing one person after another after another and making a mint? Well, there's the catch. The financial remuneration is commensurate with the amount of guilt and sadness and mourning the seller experiences in connection with what they're doing. So if you don't give a shit, you don't get paid.
I had my questions, naturally.
"So, what kind of person do you get coming in here, then?"
The God smiled. There was no warmth to the smile, only a certain glee at the opportunity to explain to me what assholes we humans all are.
"The desperate kind, the kind on the edge of their humanity, just about to be pushed over by their own greed."
And my response to this: "Cool."
The God laughed a humorless laugh and tossed a pen across the length of the wide desk onto my lap. The pen moved in between my fingers, warm and alive, convulsing like living tissue, beating through the platinum casing and up through my fingers into my arms and neck.
"You're familiar with the concept of actual cash value, I'm sure," he said. "What I pay is the monetary equivalent to what the victim is worth to you."
It had to be someone close, someone I cared about losing.
"Well, can I get a quote?"
The God sneered and tossed something else into my lap. It was a piece of slate, maybe eight inches by eight inches, and carved into it was the contract. "Sign or get the hell out of here. Your choice."
I nodded and closed my eyes. What did I know about Dane? Well, he was my brother-in-law, and the best man at my wedding. I thought of the good times we'd had together, and asked myself what he was really worth to me. He'd been my best buddy since we were in diapers. We'd battled school bullies, braved the harsh reprimands from our fathers, built forts in the woods, and talked to girls. As adults, we’d got drunk together, worked together, picked up girls together. And best of all, he’d been totally fine when I hooked up with his kid sister. The guy had always been there for me, through thick and thin, and although we'd drifted apart, I had no doubt that ours was a friendship we could pick up again in a heartbeat if it came to it.
Yeah, it was worth a fair price, I'd say.
My hesitation grew, and quickly turned into panic. A part of me wanted to throw down the pen and leave, find some other way to handle things. The God seemed to sense this and he smiled. A real smile this time, genuine hunger. I glanced down and saw that the pen was still in my hand and the dotted line was right there in front of me, so I emptied my head of any further consideration and signed my name. When it was done, I looked up. I was in sort of a daze, and not really sure what was going to happen next or how it would work. But then I saw it.
Dane was standing right there across the table, beside the God, an expression of bemusement on his unshaven face. He looked over at me, at my contract, then raised his hands and ran them over his buzzed head. It was a gesture I'd seen dozens of times before, and it meant he was scared or confused. The God smiled, and I felt my right hand shiver around the pen. It was as though the pen had sprouted nerve endings of its own and was connecting with my whole body. Then, it rose into the air. The nib swelled into a bulging head and pointed in the direction of my best friend.
Dane gave me one final look of desperation. The only words I could squeeze out were, "I'm sorry," before a bright light gushed from my hand and slammed into Dane's chest, hurling him across the room and out through the open window. His cries drifted down and down, fading out gradually until they were simply no longer audible.
I choked, suddenly unsure how to breathe or function as my chest leapt up and down like a fucking jackrabbit. What the hell just happened? I had expected some sort of a bang as he hit the ground; something to mark the significance. But instead Dane got a quiet, meaningless passage, like someone turned down the dials until h
e was nothing.
Tears filled my eyes and the God stood and walked over to me with a canvas sack in his right hand. The pen was still red hot in my hand as he took it away from me.
"Payment," he said, and dropped the sack onto the desk with a thud. "Pretty good turnout, as it happens. That's just as well, really. There's always a risk of miscarriage, though it's rare on a first try."
As bad as I felt, my attention was caught and I was unable to resist opening the bag to peek inside.
"It's all there. Forty-thousand dollars and change," he said. "That ought to tide you over for a few months. Then, I suppose, I'll be seeing you back here again."
I wanted to tell him that wasn't going to happen, that this was one big dumb mistake that I would never make again, but I wasn't so sure that was true. Instead, I walked out with my loot and drove home.
* * * *
I spent the next month or so out of work, drinking away the foul memories. I wasn't so great with money, so that forty grand didn't last too long, and I noticed the wife spending more and more time hiding away in the bedroom as we neared the bottom of our funds. Her tendency to hide from her problems instead of facing them was one of her many character flaws.
It was around then I decided to sober up for long enough to consider the next transfusion. Someone had to take responsibility, and we needed money. So I asked myself, what about Papa? Well, my father was still around, though we didn't speak much. I considered how I actually felt about him, and what he was worth to me. This was a tough question, but after much mulling, I figured what the heck, and headed back into the city for another unscheduled appointment with the God. By then I considered myself an expert at the transfusion. A seasoned professional. I was confident in my ability to dig up all the good memories right at the last minute before I signed the contract so as to achieve the maximum cash value.
Papa had netted me only twelve grand, but one of my old girlfriends, a woman named Patty, had yielded fifty-five and change. My remorse was short lived when the God informed me she had been considering a transfusion of her own and had yours truly in mind as a possible candidate. No, that was a damned good payday for me, and that fifty-five lasted nearly six months.
One morning, I got up and the car was gone. Not a biggie in itself, but since the wife was still at home and so were the kids, that missing car got me scratching my head.
"I sold it," she said, no trace of remorse or any notion of what the fuck we were supposed to do without a goddamn car.
"You sold it?"
She nodded, then wiped a tear from her cheek.
"Jesus fucking Christ," I said. "You're still crying? You're always crying. What the fuck for? The last one was my friend, not yours. The only one you're missing is Dane, and you said yourself he was a deadbeat fuckup anyway. What's your problem?"
All she could do was shake her head and point at a canvas bag that sat on the table. I hadn't noticed it before, but I had a pretty good idea what was in it. I picked it up and it felt light.
"What's this?"
"Five grand," she said.
I laughed and shook my head at that. Five fucking grand? For the car? "You know something? I got eleven times that for some worthless bitch I used to bang," I said. "And she was cheap to replace, too. Not like that car."
The wife continued to gaze down at the ground, that pathetic look of defeat on her face. "You do realize I'm just going to have to buy another one, right? I mean, what do reckon you've achieved here? You think we could somehow retire on that five grand? Head off somewhere warm and leave our problems behind?"
She said nothing, which was pretty much what I'd been expecting. I hated her right then. Hated that I still cared about her, but mostly hated that the world had changed and she didn't have the stomach for it. What good was that to her, or to our family? She needed to toughen up, and fast, or she was in for a big surprise as things got darker and shittier than they already were. Because that was the way things were going, I could see that much. Things were still changing, and they were getting really hard. People were dying, obviously, but not just for money anymore. They were dying for no better reason than desperation. They'd seen the greying sunset signaling the end to what had once been a bright, blossoming day, and they weren't so sure whether it would ever rise again in the same way. If you asked me, it probably wouldn't. One way or another, I needed to either talk some sense into the wife, or I'd have to drag her kicking and screaming into reality. It was for her own good.
But she broke my train of thought with a question that came out of left field. "What's a miscarriage?"
"Huh?"
She frowned, concentrating on what she was saying as if the words might otherwise float away. "I heard someone talking about it on the radio. They said it was a growing problem."
I thought about this. Not about the answer, but about why she'd asked the question. What made her think of that, of all things, at a time like this? But I decided not to pick apart her motives for now and just answer the damned question so we could move on.
"I've never experienced one myself, but my understanding is that it's when your remorse and sadness—and that's how they calculate the amount you get paid—is overshadowed by your anticipation at how much you’re going to make. And if that happens just at the wrong time during a transfusion, your suffering barely registers, and you're left with nothing. Pocket change."
The wife said nothing, just stared into space and continued nodding.
* * * *
The next day I sold her sister Franny and earned back the same amount of money she'd made from the car. When I got home I called her downstairs and dumped the five grand baggie on the table. I grinned. "Have you learned your lesson?" I said. She took a moment to figure out what was happening, but when all the little pieces fell into place, her hands came up to her face and she cried out through her fingers in a way that made her sound like a dying animal. I tried to shush her but it was no use. The kids ran downstairs to see what was going on. It really wasn't what I'd had in mind at all. I wanted to teach her about what it took to survive in this world, and instead the three of them blubbered like babies for the next week or so and pretty much ignored me. I could tell the older one wanted to yell at me, call me names, maybe even hit me. But that spineless pussy didn't have the balls. He knew I would put him down in a heartbeat and exchange him for a few bucks if I had enough of him. No, he was a pansy, just like his mother, but at least he was smart.
* * * *
Bud drops me off and I thank him for the ride, tell him I'm picking up a new car in a week or so, after payday, and I'll return the favor. I'm about to get out of the car when he grabs my arm. His grip isn't all that hard and I could easily pull away, but I turn to him anyway to see what he has to say. I'm expecting a lecture, but in true Bud form, I get something else entirely.
"What's the going rate these days for a loved one?" he asks.
I'm unsure if his question is genuine or rhetorical but I decide to answer anyway.
"Anything from a couple grand to sixty, I suppose. There's an art to it, more than anything else."
Bud nods. "Yeah, I read about some guy who managed to pull three hundred grand out of an old school pal. I guess it's all a matter of practice, right?"
Well, this takes the wind out of my sails. Three hundred for an old school pal? Course, Bud could be bullshitting me, but I don't think he is.
"I also read they do seminars now on how to maximize the return on your transfusion. They got some former God teaching the program and he tours the country. You ever been to one of those?"
I'm only half listening to what Bud's telling me, but the key points are getting in, hitting me like bowling balls in a way that makes me want to rethink and redo everything I've done over the past year. For a minute I'm actually thinking about going back and trying Dane again, or Papa, or Franny. That's how fucking stupid I am. And that's when I feel it, for the first time: the idea that I might very well be in over my head. My face must've given
something away because out of the corner of my eye I can see Bud smile. A real smile, like he's just saved a puppy from drowning or something.
"What do you say, friend. Shall we turn around and head back home?"
I look at him for a second, trying to understand what the hell he's thinking about, but I can't hold back any longer and I burst out laughing at the man. It's a mean-spirited laugh that wipes that fucking smile off his face really fast.
"Go home?" I say, incredulous. "To what? You tell me that, Bud. What the fuck am I going home to?"
I was thinking he might lose it, but he's still calm, no trace of anger or frustration.
"It doesn't have to be this way," he says.
This time it's my turn to get frustrated and angry. How could anyone be so naive? I mean, Bud of all people. I shake my head and exhale, muttering something under my breath, though I don't know what it is at first.
"What was that?" he asks.
"I said you sound like the wife. You think if you sit at home and pray hard enough all this will get better? It's never getting better. It's too late for us now. We humans are done. Extincto, finito, and this is just the foreplay. This is a gift, don't you see? We're going to die. Every single one of us. And this is their way—I’m talking about the Gods—of letting us hit the snooze button on that. We get a little more time before we're done. That is, if we want it. If you don't, that's your problem. Some of us will die sooner than others, but it's coming. And I can't believe you don't know that, Bud. I thought you were smart."
Bud's face doesn't change, and I don't know how the hell he does that. "And how do you know all of this?" he asks.
"How do I...?" I'm stumped. Not at the question—I haven't even thought about that—but at Bud's stubbornness. "How do you not know this?" I say. "Have you been asleep for the last couple years?"
Apotheosis: Stories of Human Survival After the Rise of the Elder Gods Page 19