Anatali: Ragnarok

by A. C. Edwards

  “I never cared about it either,” Trent said. “My parents forced me into it. Calvin’s next; getting strong-armed is why he’s here.”

  “You must come from money then—no offense.”

  “None taken. My girlfriend calls me spoiled all the time. She’s probably right. My family owns a plantation.”

  “Plantation? Which one?” she said.

  “Winslow Citrus.”

  “Get the fuck out of here! My dad delivered from you guys all the time.”

  “Small world,” he said with a laugh. “I’ve never been into the family business, so I wouldn’t know him.”

  “That’s where he picked up Ayla. Runt of the litter and all that. Brought her home for Jacob’s—my brother’s—birthday.” The dog perked her ears. Jessica dropped her another slice. The only thing Kahn seemed interested in was devouring the dead cat, thankfully out of sight in the hallway.

  “You don’t say. She’s a damn fine runt.” Trent’s brow wrinkled, though he smiled. “Pretty weird, huh?”

  “Nicky would have a field day with it. He thinks it’s all connected. Destiny and shit.”

  “He might be right.” Calvin entered the kitchen, slapping his poker onto the countertop. He followed with a suede jacket, a pair of gloves, and a box of bullets. He handed his brother an antique revolver without comment.

  “Hey, kiddo.” Trent pointed to the untouched pizza. “This one’s yours, unless you’d rather raid the fridge.”

  “Nah, I’ll get something else.” He presented Jessica a pair of socks and hiking boots “Try these on.”

  “More for us!” she cheered, accepting the boots. “Thanks, Calvin.”

  “No problem.”

  Maybe they weren’t as different, or dysfunctional, as she thought.

  ~ 15 ~

  Talk to Me

  November 30, 4124 — 10:53 AM

  “Why’s it so fucking hot?” Jessica tap-danced, barefoot on scalding pavement. The boots had been two sizes too big, total shit for running. How hard was it to find a pair of size eights anyway? Goldilocks plus Cinderella equaled her footwear dilemma.

  “I’m not saying armor is a bad idea,” Trent said, “but you might want to have Nicky hold it till dark. No use being stubborn.”

  “Admit it, you want me to strip.” She wrestled out of the jacket, smirking as both boys hid stares. “The leather ain’t it—it’s never this hot in November. The Umbrella isn’t just broken, it’s baking us.”

  “I don’t even see the thing,” Calvin said. “Was it that ring at city limits?”

  Nicky’s butt-box flipped open. “Designation CCA-4121-001, the Umbrella is a bio-synthetic climate control membrane that was activated soon after The Spire’s completion.”

  “It’s alive?” Calvin gawked skyward.

  “Creepy, right?” Jessica dropped her jacket beside the one he picked up at the house. “Though I don’t think it works with, like, blood and stuff.”

  “You would be correct,” Nicky said. “It uses photosynthetic chemistry to enable and sustain its regulation.”

  Trent elaborated, “And since dark energy radiation is what it is, an artificial lifeform, no matter how big, would be affected, probably for the worse.”

  “So it’s a big dying leaf.” Calvin waved them on across the canal bridge. They’d been zigzagging between the Dvorak-over-laden downtown, and the FireBot threat of City Centre. The hobo and BeetleBots hadn’t reappeared.

  Morgal Avenue ran across City Centre’s northern border, a divided thoroughfare that doubled Market Street in boutiques, bistros, nightclubs, and corporate department stores. Even a city as poor as Nome generated some commerce, The Spire’s construction and subsequent tourism draw accounted for most of it. However, the east end of Morgal was far from any ritz or polish. This stretch, stuffed between north downtown and the Bay District, showcased Nome’s seedy bars, immigrant restaurants, adult stores and pawnshops. After a block of hushed marching, Jessica stopped them at a row of storefronts with barred-windows.

  “Take your pick,” she said.

  Trent shrugged, looking up and down the avenue. “Suggestions?”

  “Got it,” Calvin pointed. “Talk to Me.”

  “Eh?” Trent said. “If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking.”

  “No, dumbass. The store: Talk to Me.” Jessica nodded first to the pawnshop, then to Calvin’s rifle. She shouldered her stick and called Ayla back from the perimeter. “We’ll check it out. Cover us.”

  “But why that one?”

  “Careful, Valkyrie.”

  “Gosh, Dad, I’ll be fine. Just make sure the boys don’t pick another fight.”

  Soft-stepped with her bloodhound and feline guardian, scouting had become her forte. The pizza had put some strength in her arms and strides. All the brothers could do was talk shit and stir up trouble. Maybe they and Nicky weren’t worth the risk. Depending on what she found inside, slipping out the back wasn’t out of the question.

  She heard Calvin whisper; likely explaining what made this store stand out among the others. On the outside, it didn’t. Two stories tall with faded plastic siding, Talk to Me faced Morgal Avenue with a trio of metal-barred and chipped plexiglas chicken-wired windows. The solid metal door looked more expensive than the sign, an orange and blue eyesore with hand-painted bubble letters. However, after a windowed peek into the florescent-lit interior, Jessica knew the sign didn’t lie.

  ‘Talk to me’ was street slang, a not-so-subtle invitation to do business—the illicit sort. Evidence that the sign’s paint was new meant that the owners kept their thumb on the streets’ pulse, changing the name as needed, suggesting they could find whatever the customer wanted, over the counter or under it. She hadn’t noticed it until Calvin pointed it out. He’d proven himself streetwise, even if he was a moron.

  Given the Black Wind’s business hour arrival, she expected the door to be unlocked. The glance in the window revealed a weapon’s rack, but no movement. With a nod to Nicky and the brothers, she twisted the knob and pushed it open. ‘Ding-dong’— Jessica cursed. Kahn knocked her off balance as he shouldered into the store, slinking out of sight along a wall. Ayla took time; sniffing past, tail wagging low.

  She whined, the low-tone trailing away into a growl.

  Business as usual.

  Jessica entered the pawnshop, offering the boys a final thumbs-up. She double-gripped the stick and followed Ayla’s lead. Talk to Me’s ceiling was forty feet above, the second floor a curtained loft, roped-off at a wide staircase rising from the main floor’s center. The register sat atop a glass case featuring handguns, from conventional semi-autos to clippers such as her own. The rifles behind it were all hunting rifles and shotguns, nothing as crowd-pleasing as their plasma rifle. Her experiments with Tabby proved the uselessness of even a high-powered railgun, if this shithole had one.

  Across from a nearby jewelry stand, racks of military uniforms and footwear competed for space with the music section: keyboards, guitars, and the like. The boots were tempting, but she needed to find whatever Ayla sensed first. The pawnshop’s rear showcased a wall of holo-monitors, all grayed-out or fuzzed with static. Now that she knew the world was fine, the lack of outside transmissions had to be a local problem. Was it the radiation? Was it being jammed? She wondered if they could call for help later on.

  Ayla led her past second-hand couches and boudoirs, under the rope, and onto the staircase. Kahn was nowhere in sight, as usual. Jessica waved her friend back—the dog had two speeds on stairs: run and stop. Halfway up, she heard shuffling, then a thunk. The loft’s entrance was a seam in the curtains, dark urban camo. She resisted the urge to call out.

  On the fifth stair from the top, she dropped to a knee, lifting the bottom of the door with her stick. Pitch black inside. She reached, gripping the seam’s edge.

  Steadied against the banister, Jessica yanked.

  Ten feet of fabric ripped from the ceiling. Her eyes flew wide as a wave of heat and flames blasted out th
e hole, inches from her hand. The fireball ignited the racks of uniforms below. Breathless, she fumbled for her clipper, activating it close to her chest. Ayla ran up the stairs, barking nonstop.

  “Hold up!” she shouted to the loft, tackling her dog in a roll. “I’m alive!”

  Another fireball bounced off the top and splashed down the stairs. Jessica flung herself and Ayla aside, hearing a whimper when she landed. At least his angle was shit—until he moved. She cooed at her dog while sliding away, up the stairs, elbows and knees. Smoke from the ground floor set off the alarm and sprinklers. Another fireball burst at the stair’s crest, this time lighting Jessica’s pants. Choking back a scream, she slapped at the flames. The plasma jelly stuck to her hand, sizzling her skin in blinding pain. The sprinklers eventually reduced the blaze to a smolder.

  The seconds she’d lost were too precious to measure. Did this asshole honestly think he was under attack? His next shot might splash her spot on—no way to dodge.

  Clipper in her good hand, Jessica planted a foot and leapt to the top, elbows crashing to composite floorboards. The pawnshop’s light didn’t penetrate the darkness beyond a semicircle, but she knew whoever was inside could see her silhouette perfectly. She gritted her teeth and took aim at a feeling: be it the fireballs’ origin, a heavy breath, or just an honest to God shot-in-the-dark.

  Jessica squeezed the trigger. Twice.

  A red glow swirled towards the stairs. It splattered in mid-air as her tiny rail round zinged through it. Her second shot was met with a grunt, a gurgling cough, then a thud. The sprinkler killed the flames before they illuminated anything but tiny splotches on the loft’s floor.

  The clipper shook in her hand, her fist clenched against the pain and adrenaline. Nothing moved. There was no sound other than her racing heart and the indoor rain. Should she shoot again? Had she done enough?

  What had she done?

  The sprinklers stopped, the fog in the air as much steam as smoke. Ayla whined at her side, prodding her hip with her nose. Jessica’s right hand was black, her pinky and ring fingers withered to the bone. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Tears welled in her eyes.

  “H-Help…Help!” she shouted, sliding down the stairs, clutching her hand against her stomach.

  “Jessie!” Trent was already running towards the stairway with Calvin close behind. Nicky thrashed the clothing racks, beating out the final embers in puffs of sparks. The elder brother knelt by her side, though gripped his revolver, glancing upstairs, “It’s ok, Jessie. We’re here.”

  When he moved to follow Calvin up, she dropped her clipper and grabbed his shirttail. He twisted; his eyes ready for action but softening as she revealed her torched hand, stammering, “I-I killed him. Dead. He’s dead.”

  “Jessica…” Trent pulled her to his shoulder.

  “I-I…” Her tears became sobs, her head buried in his shirt. “I can’t—”

  “You’ll be fine—fine,” he whispered. “You did what you had to.”

  Did she? It was either not enough or too much. Jessica couldn’t understand it, let alone accept it.

  ~ 16 ~

  Killer

  October 14, 4112 — 4:13 PM

  Dad took careful aim, crossing a forearm over the wrist. The clipper’s buzz mimicked the bugs, or perhaps they mimicked it. A blue-winged butterfly hunted pollen on the wind, fluttering over the range.

  Tick.

  The butterfly vanished in a wisp of dust.

  “Wow, Daddy, good shot!” Jessica stood shoulder to his hip, looking up through yellow shooting glasses. They brightened the overcast day by four shades. She wiped sweaty palms on grass-stained jeans and a tugged at her miniature copy of dad’s rugby jersey. Her blond ponytail bounced with her excitement. She’d been waiting weeks for this.

  “You watched what I did, right?” he said, sporting a jogging suit, having picked her up just after practice. His daughter nodded. “Ok, so get your arms steady, breathe out, and squeeze the trigger. Don’t jerk it or close your eyes this time; it’s not going to hurt you.”

  Jessica accepted the pistol’s weight in her hands, the vibration tickling up to her shoulders. It was heavy—she knelt, bracing her forearm under her knee. She lined up the target, a hay bail with beer cans atop. Arms steady. Breathe out. Squeeze.

  Tick.

  The leftmost can flipped up, end over end, before landing top-down. A tiny hole glowed near the bottom.

  Jessica blinked, mouth agape. Last month, she hadn’t hit the hay bail, let alone a can. Remembering to breathe, she cheesed a smile, looking up at Dad. He grinned and patted her head. “Next one.”

  Tick. “Next.” Tick, tick. “Nice! Remember: squeeze it. Keep going.”

  After eight shots, all five cans were upended or lying in the grass. She stood, squared her feet, and aimed for the first can. The clipper wanted to dip and jiggle, but when she breathed out, it stayed steady for a moment—tick. One more time, one on the ground—tick.

  She pressed the safety like he’d shown her and shut it down. The barrel was warm. Jessica handed it back, pumping her fist. “Daddy, I did it!”

  “Fancy shooting there, partner.” He tipped a make-believe cowboy hat, twirling the pistol before holstering it. “I knew you could do it. It just takes practice.”

  “Uh huh.” She spun on a heel and reached for his elbow, pressing her face into his hand. “Can I do it again?”

  “Sure, sweetie, just let me set it up.” He walked her towards the hay bails, his palm enveloping hers, warm, rough. “I’m very proud of you.”

  Jessica giggled. ”I love you. I know you’re busy.”

  “Never too busy for you. Do you know what mom’s making tonight?”

  “Tuna noodles.”

  “Oh.” His shoulders slumped, but he turned to her, smiling. “At least it’s not casserole.”

  “I don’t like fish,” she said. “I want pizza.”

  “Mom does her best.”

  When they reached the bails, Jessica heard a tiny squeal, like basketball shoes or an old car. Dad stopped, kneeling by the last can she shot, the one in the grass. It looked as if the hay behind it twitched; the wind? The squeal broke into stutters.

  “What is it, Dad?”

  “Jessie, be a sweetie and grab me a beer from the car.”

  “But Dad—”

  “I’ll take care of the targets.” When he locked eyes with hers, she thought he looked sad, like he looked at Mom sometimes. “Be quick about it, Ok?”

  “Ok!” She didn’t like making him sad, so she ran back to the car, not looking back, even when she heard the clipper’s buzz. Even when she heard a tick.

  Over the next two hours, he taught her how to shoot lying down, how to reload, and gave another long lecture about safety. From ten meters to thirty, her accuracy got better, not worse. She never heard the squeal again.

  Years later, Jessica returned to that field with her boyfriend. She poked around the twin iron poles, the hay bails long since decomposed. She didn’t find a skull, or bones, but she knew. And in her heart, she thanked her Dad.

  A girl’s innocence doesn’t last long, but preserving that day, and the years after—it was a gift only a father could give.

  * * *

  November 30, 4124 — 12:15 PM

  “He’s alive,” Calvin called from the loft.

  “What?” Jessica’s head snapped around, her hand in a sling, tingling under a club of gauze.

  Nicky had produced nano-dust from his box, ‘a limited supply.’ He explained that the vial of green powder contained an army of microscopic robots, tissue synthesizers that recognized DNA and blood type, able to repair all but the most severe wounds. The dose was barely enough for her hand, and not enough to include her leg. Though it would take a few hours, Nicky said the crippling injury would be good as new by nightfall.

  While grateful, it’d taken Jessica a while to calm down. The gravity was too much. Everything was too much. She didn’t even know why it bothered her—it was e
ither him or her—but having that weight off her heart, of being a killer. It felt important.

  “Pierced lung, unconscious. Looks like the clipper cauterized the hole.” Calvin walked down the stairs, an odd, knobby pistol in his hand. “His breathing was too shallow earlier. Must have been in shock.”

  Jessica heaved a deep sigh. She braced to stand, but the head rush forced her back on her ass. Ayla whined, licking her good hand.

  “Easy there,” Trent said, hand on her shoulder. “You’ve had a shitty day. Take it easy for a while. Nicky has the door.”

  “I agree, Valkyrie. The situation is under control.”

  The FireBot’s version of ‘under control’ was blocking the still-open door against a massive mob swirling at the pawnshop’s face. While metal door would have held as well as the barred windows, Nicky claimed crowd control was a priority. The Dvoraks arrived soon after the alarm stopped, and didn’t seem to be in ‘limited supply.’ His axe prodded, hammered and sliced, sometimes disabling three attackers three at a time. Dripping with black blood, his tentacles struck as vipers, relentless as the corpses hurling themselves forward. He seemed to get even quicker with practice; she'd just now realized he had no programming for this sort of thing.

  “What’s that?” Trent squinted at the knobby gun.

  “Jessie’s trophy,” Calvin said, eyes cool. “Plasma pistol. Since you’re all gimpy, looks like you’re sticking to small arms.”

  “Fuck. You.” She caught the gun in her lap. The Molotov cocktail generator was crap at long-range and impractical in short—on the other hand, it had certainly worked a number on her.

  “Wait for back up next time. Unless you were planning on something else.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like leaving us on the curb.” Spite flashed across his face, gone as soon as it came.

  “Next time, I will!” She stomped to her feet, now without problem. Her fist clenched around the new weapon.