Mythmaker

by Tim Waggoner

  Dean had ordered a half-dozen chocolate crullers, and he’d already downed two and was working on his third. He’d planned on saving the other three for later, but as good as they were, he wasn’t sure he was going to have the willpower. Sam had passed on the donuts, but they both had large cups of coffee. They were going to need the caffeine.

  Dean took a sip of his coffee, considered for a moment, and then shrugged. “It’s all right, I guess. At least it’s hot.”

  The place wasn’t very large: a half-dozen booths, donut display case, register on the counter, kitchen in the back. A short man with a huge bushy black mustache worked the counter, and Dean tried not to think about the guy shedding mustache hairs all over the donuts. The man stood behind the register, wide-eyed and alert, as if he were anticipating a sudden rush of customers. Dean had a feeling Mr. Mustache would be waiting for a while. Right now, the brothers were the only customers in the place, and it seemed likely they’d remain so for some time to come.

  The donut shop had free Wi-Fi, and Sam had brought his laptop in with him. He surfed the Net, searching for any lore that might apply to Corinth’s god problem, while Dean enjoyed the hell out of his crullers. He’d learned long ago to take pleasure in the little things in life, because when you were a hunter, you had no idea when it was going to be your time to move on to that great donut shop in the sky.

  Sam didn’t take his eyes off the screen as he spoke. “How are you doing?”

  Dean didn’t have to ask what he meant. He was talking about the Mark. “Fine.”

  Sam glanced up at him quickly, but then he returned his attention to the laptop. Wonder of wonders, Dean thought. His brother had actually accepted his word at face value. No skeptical looks, no follow-up questions, no arguing. But the truth was he did feel fine. Of course, the power of chocolate-covered crullers made anything possible.

  Dean polished off his last donut and washed the final bite down with a large drink of coffee.

  “How about you?” he asked. “Anything?”

  “I’ve found a few things,” Sam said, “but I don’t know how useful they are. In ancient myth, the Greek gods battled their forebears who were called the Titans. Remember them? The gods defeated the Titans and imprisoned them, taking their place as the rulers of creation. The Norse gods fought the giants of Jötunheimr, but in the end the gods and the giants died in a battle called Ragnarök, after which a rebirth took place, giving rise to a new group of gods. And of course there are lots of stories about individual gods fighting each other. It’s a common theme among the world’s ancient religions: gods battling to see who’s stronger and decide who gets to rule…”

  “Couldn’t some of those stories have been based on real events, though? I mean, like one human warrior fights another, people exaggerate over the years as they tell the story, and bam! A few centuries later, you got yourself a myth about a couple gods duking it out.”

  “I’m sure that’s how some of the stories started,” Sam said. “But given what appears to be going on in this town, I’d say that at least a few of the myths got it right. Maybe not the specific details, but the basic idea.”

  “All right, let’s go with that for a minute. If what’s happening here is the same kind of thing that took place in the ancient world, why is it happening again? And why now, after so many thousands of years?”

  “Maybe it’s part of some kind of natural—or in this case, unnatural—cycle,” Sam ventured.

  “You mean like how cicadas only come back every seventeen years?”

  “Yeah.”

  Dean shuddered. “Man, I hate cicadas. They look like flies that OD’d on steroids.”

  “So if it is a cycle, and we can figure out why it started up again—”

  “Maybe we can figure out a way to stop it,” Dean finished. “I don’t suppose you ran across a set of instructions on how to wipe out a god infestation during your last search.”

  “Afraid not.”

  “Damn Internet. It’s only good for porn and cute cat pictures.” When he realized that Sam was giving him a Look, he hastily added, “Uh, not that I’ve ever seen any of those cats. I mean, c’mon—this is me we’re talking about here.”

  Dean took another sip of his coffee and waited to see if Sam was going to make a comment, but all he did was smile, which was worse.

  “So what do we do next?” he asked.

  “Talk to some worshippers,” Sam said. “They must know something about how these new gods operate.”

  Eventually, they were going to have to confront one of these gods. Dean knew it, and he knew Sam did, too. But they needed to learn as much as possible about the gods before they approached any of them, and the best way to do that was to talk to the poor schmucks who’d been dumb enough to follow these divine poseurs.

  “Let’s get to it.”

  The brothers stood, took hold of their coffee cups, and headed for the door. Dean tossed the empty bag that had held his crullers into a trash can, and they stepped out into the cold December night.

  SEVEN

  Geoffrey made sure to walk at least three steps behind Adamantine at all times. He’d gotten too close once, and she’d spun around to glower at him, literal sparks shooting from her eyes in anger. He’d stammered an apology, certain that he was going to be the next to feel the wrath of her lightning, but she’d merely glared at him before turning back around and continuing onward. Of course, he couldn’t remain too far behind either, or she’d chastise him for that as well. He was learning that being a follower of Adamantine—a surviving follower—was all about maintaining the perfect balance. The problem was, you had to find that balance by trial and error. And where Adamantine was concerned, errors could be deadly.

  Adamantine gripped the spear she’d taken from Wyld in her gauntleted hand and held it vertically at her side as she walked. She led a small procession along the sidewalk consisting of Geoffrey, the three followers of Wyld’s she’d claimed, and three other people, all of them witnesses to her victory over the cat god. They’d been so impressed by her display of power that they abandoned whoever they were with and whatever they were doing, and rushed to join her followers. Not that she seemed any more interested in them—Geoffrey included—than a farmer trailed by a line of cheeping baby chicks.

  It was cold tonight, and he wasn’t the only one shivering. The others had winter coats, but most of them didn’t have hats or gloves. They hadn’t expected to be spending so much time outside, and they hadn’t prepared. As a homeless person, Geoffrey was used to living with the weather, but even he was getting tired of the cold. Adamantine had said she wanted to build her temple—whatever that meant—but so far all she’d done was wander the streets of Corinth, seemingly at random. Far be it from him to question his god, but he was beginning to think that she was crazy.

  Knowing that he was taking his own life in his hands, he stepped closer to her and said, “Mistress?” He had no idea if this was the proper form of address. Trial again, and if it turned out to be an error this time, he hoped it wasn’t a fatal one.

  She stopped, forcing everyone in the procession to come to a halt. She remained facing forward as she answered Geoffrey.

  “What is it?”

  She sounded irritated, but she hadn’t electrocuted him yet, and he took that as an encouraging sign.

  “Your people are cold. How much longer must we keep walking?”

  Adamantine didn’t respond right away, and Geoffrey feared that he’d somehow offended her deeply. When she finally turned around, he couldn’t help taking a cringing step backward, certain that she was going to kill him for his insolence. But instead she looked at him quizzically.

  “You choose to speak to me about the others,” she said.

  It took all Geoffrey had to make himself answer. “Yes.”

  “You attempt to intercede with me on their behalf.”

  “Yes.”

  She smiled slowly, as if an idea was forming in her mind.

  “Then th
at means you are my priest.”

  Geoffrey tried to say something, but words failed him. After all, wasn’t that what a priest or priestess did? Serve as an intermediary between a god and its worshippers?

  “I… suppose I am.”

  “Good. Then tell the others it shall not be long now.” With that, she turned back around and continued walking.

  Geoffrey turned to Adamantine’s other followers. “You all hear that?”

  They nodded.

  “Then let’s keep moving.”

  Everyone continued walking, and although he was just as cold as before, Geoffrey was surprised to find that he felt warmer inside. When he’d woken this morning, he’d been homeless, but now here he was—priest to an actual, living, flesh-and-blood god. He shook his head in amazement. This had been a day of miracles for him, and it wasn’t over yet. Who knew what wonders the rest of the night might hold?

  * * *

  “There.”

  Adamantine pointed to a large building with a glowing sign above the entrance that said TECHEDGE. Fluorescent lights illuminated an empty parking lot, the asphalt plowed clear of snow. New snow had begun to fall while they walked, just light flurries, but the slowly descending flakes looked beautiful in the blue-white wash of the parking lot lights. There wasn’t much homeless folk liked about winter, but Geoffrey had to admit that it sure could be pretty sometimes.

  “Is this where we’re going to build your temple?” he asked, then belatedly added, “My lady.”

  She gazed upon the building, silver eyes shining, a broad smile on her face. She looked to Geoffrey like someone looking to buy a house who’d just discovered their dream home was for sale.

  “When I said build, I was speaking metaphorically. I believe the word you would use is repurpose.”

  Without waiting for Geoffrey’s response, she started walking toward the building with a brisk stride. Geoffrey turned to address the other followers. “We’ll be inside and warm soon.” I hope, he added mentally. Then he turned back around and hurried to catch up to his mistress, the other followers close behind him.

  Adamantine had led them out of downtown and to a section of Corinth where a number of retail stores were located. The town was too small to have its own mall, but it had the usual fast-food joints, chain restaurants, and shopping centers. Geoffrey had never been inside TechEdge, but from what he gathered, they sold all kinds of technology there—TVs, phones, game systems, computers… You Need It, We Have It was their slogan. He wasn’t sure why the place appealed to Adamantine. Maybe it was because with her silvery body, she kind of resembled a robot. Or maybe she was obeying some inner instinct that told her this was where she belonged. From what he’d seen since becoming one of her followers—and now her priest—it seemed she acted on instinct more often than not. Well, if it wasn’t broke, why fix it?

  A trio of compact cars sat in the store’s side parking lot. They were all the same make and model, painted ugly green and white, with the words TechEdge Geek Fleet emblazoned on the sides. The store’s interior lights remained on as an extra security measure, and as they drew closer, Geoffrey could see that everything inside—walls, floor, ceiling, display shelves—was white. Signs hung from the ceiling, indicating the store’s different sections, and the registers and shopping carts were located up front. He knew the glass doors of the entrance would be locked since it was well after the store’s 9 PM closing time, but Adamantine didn’t slow as she approached the doors. For a moment, he thought she would use Wyld’s spear to break the glass, but instead she placed her gauntleted hand over the metal lock. There was a brief flash of light, a soft crackle of electricity, and then the doors slid open. The followers, Geoffrey included, applauded their mistress. Adamantine acknowledged their appreciation with a slight nod, and then she walked into the store, Geoffrey and the others trailing after her.

  The instant that Geoffrey stepped inside, he was struck by a wave of dizziness and his vision went gray. He feared he was losing consciousness for some unknown reason, but then his vision cleared, the dizziness abated, and he felt more or less normal once more. But now that he could see again, he realized he wasn’t inside TechEdge. Instead, he stood in the midst of what appeared to be a vast, featureless desert that stretched in all directions as far as the eye could see. A blazing sun hung high above, set in a cloudless blue sky, wind blew rivulets of sand across dunes, and the heat was so oppressive it felt as if he were standing directly in front of an open blast furnace. Sweat began trickling down his face and neck, and he squinted his eyes against the glare and the wind. Adamantine and the others were here, too, and from the way they were looking around in confusion, and—in the case of the humans—protecting their eyes, he knew everyone else was experiencing the same reality as him.

  Geoffrey stepped to Adamantine’s side. “What happened? Where are we?”

  “I… do not know.”

  For the first time since he’d met her, Adamantine sounded uncertain, and this frightened Geoffrey more than the sudden transition from night to day, cold to hot, and town to wasteland. Normally Adamantine was strong and sure of herself, and Geoffrey had come to rely on those qualities—qualities he himself didn’t possess. She was a god, and if she didn’t know what was happening, if she didn’t know what to do about it, what did that mean for the rest of them, mere humans that they were?

  One of the followers gave a cry of alarm and pointed. “Look! Something’s coming!”

  Everyone, Adamantine included, turned to see a mound of sand moving toward them at rapid speed. At first, Geoffrey didn’t understand what he was seeing. Was it some kind of storm? But the longer he watched the mound approach, the more it seemed to him that what they were seeing was something moving under the sand, like a shark moving through water. When the mound had first been spotted, it was far enough away that judging its size was difficult. But as it drew closer, Geoffrey saw that it was larger than he’d first thought. Much larger.

  Several of the other followers screamed, and all seven of them rushed forward to huddle behind Adamantine, begging her to protect them from whatever was coming. Adamantine ignored them, her attention completely focused on the advancing mound. Geoffrey saw no fear on her face—which reassured him somewhat—but she still seemed unsure what was happening, and he found no comfort in that at all. Now that the mound was closer—too close, he thought—he judged that it was the size of a city bus, and he could make out the sound of its passage beneath the sand, a soft shhhhhhhhhhhh that was almost, but not quite, like rain. Some of the followers wailed in fear while others beseeched their god to save them, reaching for her, touching her silver body, almost as if they were trying to push her forward and make her confront the thing beneath the sand. Irritated, Adamantine sent a small burst of electricity crackling across her back to repel those who dared desecrate her physical form, and those followers cried out in pain and yanked their hands away from her.

  The mound showed no sign of slowing as it bore down on them, and Geoffrey feared that it would hit them full force, sending them flying—bones broken, internal organs ruptured—as it continued on its blind, mindless journey. But when the mound was within twenty feet of Adamantine, sand exploded into the air, and Geoffrey threw his hands up in front of his face to protect his eyes. He heard the creature before he saw it—a loud clack-clack-clacking noise like a gigantic insect might make. As the sand began to settle, Geoffrey was able to make out the basic features of the thing. Not all of it was visible; the majority of its body still lay beneath the desert surface. But a third of it was above the sand, and what they could see resembled a gigantic worm or snake, but its body was covered with thick flexible plates of glossy black that looked like they were made from the same substance as a beetle’s shell. It had no eyes or ears—at least none that could be seen—but it did have a mouth flanked by a pair of wicked-looking pincers that opened and closed rapidly, making that staccato clack-clack-clack. But those pincers weren’t the only weapons the thing possessed. Six blac
k tentacles—three on either side of the head—whipped the air, each terminating in a bulbous tip with a spine on the end, like a scorpion’s stinger. The stingers glistened in the harsh sunlight, as if they were wet with venom.

  Adamantine said something then, speaking so softly that it was difficult for Geoffrey to make out her words over the clacking noises the creature produced, but he thought she said, “Something is not right here.”

  He almost laughed hysterically at that. Damn straight something’s not right, he thought.

  The sand beast’s body remained where it was, but all six of its tentacles shot toward Adamantine. At the last instant before the stingers struck her, she threw herself onto the sand, and the tentacles passed overhead, missing her entirely. They did not, however, miss the followers who’d been standing behind her. Stingers pierced flesh, and screams of agony filled the air. A tentacle slammed against Geoffrey’s shoulder as it buried its stinger in the person standing to his left, and the impact knocked him to the sand. His shoulder hurt like hell, but he was unharmed otherwise. The only other follower of Adamantine’s to avoid being stung was one of the newer members, a twenty-something woman with red-dyed hair and multiple piercings in each ear. Like Geoffrey, she’d received a glancing blow from a tentacle as it sought another victim, only she’d been struck on the head. She now lay on the sand, eyes closed, body motionless. He hoped she was only unconscious, but as hard as the tentacle had struck her, he feared the worst. He tried to remember the woman’s name, but it wouldn’t come to him. Some priest he was. A good priest should know the names of everyone in his flock. He vowed to do better—assuming he survived.

  The men and women with stingers embedded in their bodies shrieked in agony as the tentacles flexed, lifting them off their feet. Some grabbed hold of the tentacles and wrestled with them, attempting to free themselves, while others thrashed and flailed, in too much pain to do anything else. Their skin began to turn black as the venom coursing through their bloodstreams did its work, and one by one the victims began to convulse. Geoffrey stared in horrified fascination as their conditions swiftly worsened, knowing that there was nothing he could do to save them.