by Carmen Kern
The watchers of Good Morning, Vancouver, saw a handsome, slightly eccentric man who seemed almost embarrassed to speak of his success. And when Thanatos spoke with his melodious voice and golden words, they leaned in to hear more.
“Names should tell you something of a person. It is part of who they are and give you a hint of their character. Of course, when we thought about opening our first funeral home, we tried various versions of our family name, Night. And although we thought some of those variations could have worked, we found another that was more suitable. One that would lend itself to its own mythology, if you will.” At this, he smiled into the camera shyly. “The name Cimmerian came from stories of a mythical people who inhabit a land of perpetual darkness. Or what we like to believe of as a land of peaceful rest. It seemed a good fit.”
“It seems perfect.” Sheryl paused, now more in control with the pace of her interview. “That must feel like so long ago that you started your first home. It’s been just six years, and you have a chain of funeral homes in thirteen countries, five homes locally, opened between Vancouver and the Puget Sound area. To many of our listeners out there, you’ve lived the entrepreneurial dream.” Sheryl looked into the camera. “And then came the deadless phenomenon. Almost six months of no deaths…and no funerals.” She turned her body expertly to the side, facing her interviewee. “Your literal bread and butter disappeared overnight. We’ve seen many stores, factories, and manufacturers close their doors due to issues with absent employees and a lower demand for their products. The fear of contagion, of the unknown, is sweeping across our continent and our world. People are sheltering in their home as they wait for answers. And in the middle of such uncertainty, some business owners are walking away from their shops for good, while others try to ride out this economic disaster with a reduced overhead.” Sheryl raised a perfect eyebrow. “Mr. Night, how are you coping with this downturn?”
“My heart goes out to the other business owners in this city and all around the world. The needs of the people have changed in the blink of an eye. I think it’s important to focus on what we can do right now. To help those we can and move through this together. We’ve opened up three of our local homes to those people who no longer have a place to live because of personal circumstances—”
“When you say personal, you mean they were essentially shunned by their families or sent away for exhibiting early signs of becoming deadless. Isn’t that right?”
“Well…yes, most of them. We’re encouraging our other homes, some which have been franchised, to do something similar, with our support, of course. We will keep our doors open as long as we can. Provide a safe, secure place for those in need.” He smiled into the camera, this time with a little charm and charisma mixed in.
And for a moment, those who were watching felt a little better, a little safer with someone like Mr. Night fighting for them.
Sheryl gazed at Thanatos with her wide gray eyes. “None of us could have predicted this worldwide event. What would you say is the key ingredient for the success of your business, or any business, as we go forward?”
Thanatos looked down at his shoes. “I don’t believe in a one-size-fits-all answer. Each of us has our own storyline to live out, and we never know the ending until we’re there.” He slowly raised his head and looked straight into the camera, straight at the listener and into their souls. “We’ve chosen to be here for our community. We will continue to be here for you.” He stopped. A deep silence fell, as if the street and everything in it had inhaled and waited for a sign to resume breathing. “Sheryl,” he said her name as a whisper, “you asked what the key ingredient is for success…I’d encourage all our local businesses to ask themselves this question. Success is defined in so many ways, don’t you think?”
Sheryl nodded her head.
“So my question to my fellow business owners is: How do you define success? Maybe that’s where we start. Because if the answer is money, the more the better, you might have to rethink your mission. Two of the richest companies in the greater Vancouver area are doing little to support the people who are most in need right here in our communities. Our import-export issues stem from mismanagement of the largest shipping company in the area. And what are they doing to solve the problem that so few supplies are making it to the people? There’s a building just a few blocks away, owned by a hedge company that bought up sixty-seven percent of the buildings here in the downtown core. Yet most of the buildings are empty, locked up. Could this space be better used for the people? These questions…these challenges are for my fellow CEOs, for those who have the power to make a change. Be there for your community. I’d say that’s the secret ingredient for success. In the long run, that’s what matters. And I think when we as businesses need help, when we run out of our own resources, the community will come through for us in whatever way they can.”
A scattered round of applause rang out from the small crowd of people that had gathered behind the cameraman. None of the crew had noticed the small audience while they filmed. All of them were mesmerized, taken in by the words and charm of a new city celebrity.
“Mr. Night, you’ve challenged us all. Thank you for taking the time to speak to us.” Sheryl turned to the camera zooming in on her perfectly painted face. “I think I speak for us all as I thank Mr. Night for his generous spirit. I’d encourage you all to think about what we can do for the people in our community during this time of crisis. I encourage you all to phone in, text, or leave a comment on the CTV website, and let us know your thoughts. Thank you for spending a part of your morning with us, Vancouver…I’ll see you tomorrow.”
No one moved until the cameraman lowered his camera. The street gave a collective sigh while the crew gathered up lighting, rolled up cords, and the congregation of people dispersed. None of them went away unchanged. Each of them had been compelled to answer the god’s challenge in whatever way they could. Many of them called friends, asking if they’d seen the interview. Some of them posted a video or images of Thanatos in his dark suit and shy sexy smile.
It didn’t take long for the local newspapers and competing TV stations to run similar stories, some of them speculating about the other businesses Thanatos mentioned in the interview. Many put in calls to Typhon Consultants requesting interviews with their CEO. Zeus refused the first dozen inquires without a thought. His day had been a cluster of issues, trying to move medical supplies, blood and platelets—in particular, over the southern border. His private fleet of planes waited on standby while they tried to sort out the paperwork, or as some called it, bribe money.
Poseidon also ignored the pile of phone messages and texts he received, all asking for a response to the allegations of mismanagement of both imported and exported goods leaving his docks.
By the time the evening news rolled around, the story had gone viral, and the people were responding to Mr. Night’s message. Donations of time and money rolled into many of the organizations that helped the undead and their families. Many people questioned the inaction of the prominent companies within the city and the province of British Columbia. While most viewers had seen the interview at least once before, they watched it again. Thanatos’s words and his ancient, vast eyes and handsome face were the newest drug for a city in despair.
When the gods finally sipped cocktails in their homes after a hard day’s night, they saw the rerun of the morning interview with the god of death. Glasses smashed against walls and floors. Curses in English and Greek thundered across the city. Fists dripped with blood from punching through drywall and studs and steel while storms erupted in various sections of the city. Mighty winds gusted and thunder shook the very foundations of the city until even the Underworld felt the anger of the gods.
By the mid of night, all gods had seen the news. But none of them had laid eyes on the god of death. It was a night of video calls and texts sent and answered.
Not one of the gods slept. All but Thanatos, who dreamed deliciously horrific d
reams in the comfort of his own funeral home, in a room next to a silent crematorium.
Over the westside of the harbor, talons and wings flexed, flapping like ragged sails, going snap-snap against the wind. The creature appeared to wander aimlessly between treetops and skyscrapers, diving and dipping with careless ease. Time seemed of little concern. It skimmed the skyline above the fenced-off areas of the deadless, breathing in the smells, the compost rot of despair, the minty tang of insanity, the fermented stink of fear. It touched down on quiet balconies and vented rooftops only to soar on to the next.
Aimless though it seemed, the creature had planned the next two hours out with the kind of precision a surgeon needs to perform a transplant. Down to the minute, the second.
Straddling the top of a freshly painted fire-escape ladder, a dark silhouette clung to the metal, descending to a stone ledge with a practiced grace. Keeping low, it scaled the side of the building to a large open window on the fifth floor. With barely a stir of wind, it entered the window, there and gone in a blink.
The moon had scarcely moved in the sky when the figure darkened the face of the building once again, this time with the burden of added weight thrown over its shoulder. This time, it crouched low, springing off powerful legs. It spread wide its midnight wings, sending out gusts of air with each beat. Thump, thump. The playful diving and skimming from building to building had vanished.
It was a straight shot to Yaletown as the creature flew. Its thrumming wings trembled with excitement.
The rain had stopped, but the air was moist, mountain air fresh. When the figure landed, it took in the moonlit night and the soft moan of the trees caressed by the ocean breeze before heaving the dead body down from its shoulders.
The burden it carried, a woman, dropped into the empty dumpster with a thunk. Her head cracked against the metal floor.
“Oh, my dear Helle, your sacrifice has not been in vain. I’ll make sure of it,” Thanatos said, leaping in beside her. He arranged her body on the filthy bottom, straightening the long gown he’d dressed her in, arranging her hair to cascade over her shoulders and down her chest. The rich auburn waves fell almost to her waist. Folding her hands over her chest, he stepped back, checking for any imperfections. He saw a shimmering beautiful creature that had once been human, and then a goddess of the waters, now gutted, her god powers devoured.
“You were tastier than the others.” He dabbed at the corner of his mouth as if her essence lingered on his tongue. “I want you to know that.” He glanced at his watch again, leaped out of the dumpster, and took off running down the alley, a streak of black that burst into the air and disappeared over the soaring tops of maples and elms.
The city sighed…until morning.
FIFTEEN
Morning had that crisp bite that would change to a deep cold within a few weeks. Marlo, previously known as Cottus, the Hundred Hander, swung his pack off his shoulders, having walked for several blocks to loosen his old muscles before he stopped in for a coffee.
He’d spent the night in the fenced border where the deadless wandered ceaselessly, day and night. In some ways, he felt a kinship to them. Always moving, shuffling, unable to think, forgetting who they were—he knew exactly how that felt. But for now, his body still worked, still moved him freely through the city.
And so he walked to his favorite coffee shop, where they served him whether he had the coins to pay or not. No one kicked him out or gave him a fear-filled or pitying glance. They looked him in the eyes and wished him good morning. And it was a damn fine way to start his day.
The cawing of seagulls interrupted his thoughts, their angry shrieks echoing in the dumpster beside him. He never did have a love for the winged scavengers. From his pack, he pulled out the five-dollar bill he managed to scrounge up yesterday. He turned to kick the dumpster. The birds screeched and scattered up and out of the metal box.
The large man cocked his head. Something wasn’t right. This side of the city was serviced by garbage trucks every Tuesday night. These dumpsters should be empty. He kicked the side again. Thung. There was something inside. “Hope it’s something good,” he mumbled. He checked the alley behind him. Empty. He set his pack on the ground and leaned over the top of the dumpster.
“That ain’t nothing good,” he whispered. Behind the human meat shell he wore, the giant’s cyclops eye burned, the image of the dead sea goddess etching itself into his cornea. Her god powers were gone. He should have seen the glow inside of her. “Flames.” He straightened his large body and stepped back, bumping into the pack on the ground. “Walk away. First rule of the street is walk away. They’s gonna blame you.” He rubbed his thick whiskered face, the rough hairs of his beard suddenly itchy. Stooping, he snatched up his pack and flung it over his shoulder, his tree-trunk legs lurching back the way he came. His one leg dragged more than usual, slowing him down until he eventually stopped. He hadn’t gotten far.
“Flames of Tartarus.” He looked up to the cold blue sky. “Why can’t you gods just let me be?” He turned around and walked back to the dumpster, checking on the goddess before making his way to the mouth of the alley and crossing the street.
There were only three customers inside the coffee shop, lined up in front of the cashier. It was the first time, the only time, Marlo shuffled past all of them to the head of the line. “I ain’t got a phone, but there’s someone dead in the dumpster across the way. Can you call 9-1-1?” The others stared at him.
“You sure they’re dead?”
“They can’t be.”
“Maybe you saw a rotter taking a nap.”
“I know dead. I’ve lived through a few wars.” Marlo looked at the people now crowded around him. “Please call. I’ll wait over there. The damn seagulls are picking.”
One of the patrons followed him across the street to see for himself. The man hung onto the side of the dumpster, shocked, frozen for a moment until he scrambled for his phone in his jacket pocket. He made the call.
It took longer than usual for the overtaxed RCMP to reach them, and by that time, a small crowd had gathered at the mouth of the alley, spilling out in either direction, blocking the entrances to the shops on either side.
Hera, goddess of marriage and queen of the gods, pushed her way through the loiterers. She held her oversized vegan handbag in front of her like a shield. “Excuse me,” she said more times than she was used to, until she could unlock the door to her boutique and duck inside. “Honestly, if it isn’t the rotters, it’s something else,” she said in her smoky voice, locking the door behind her.
She’d barely had time to hang her coat and bag and turn on all the lights before someone banged on her door. “I just had the window’s cleaned,” she shouted as she walked back down the center aisle of her shop. A shipment of vicuna wool from Peru had been delivered yesterday. She pushed the boxes to the side, making her way to the front door, her silk skirt frothing over her slim hips. Her dainty steps slowed. A man wearing an RCMP uniform banged his fist once again before he noticed her on the other side of the door.
“Flames, now what?” she mumbled and turned the lock. She pulled the door open. “What can I do for you, Officer?” She smiled at him, her lips coated in a lipstick called sexy bitch.
“Good morning, ma’am. Are you—”
“I’m Hera,” she said. She had always loathed the term ma’am. It made her feel older than her endless years.
“Um, yes, good morning, Hera. Are you the owner of this shop?”
“Yes, Officer.”
“I’m Officer Thomas. May I step inside?” He nodded his head in greeting, his eyes hard. “I have a few questions.”
He’s a sharp one, Hera thought. Watch it, girl.
“Please.” She held the door open wider. The crowd behind him watched the exchange.
“Thank you.” Officer Thomas stepped inside, his eyes scanning the shop. “What time did you come in this morning?” He turned to face Hera.
&n
bsp; She crossed her arms over her chest, her tight sweater filling out all the right places. “About seven minutes ago. I know this, because I was two minutes later than I usually am because of the crowds outside my shop.” She studied the officer. “Can you do something about that? I’ve got a private showing in about twenty minutes, and I’d like my clients to be able to find my front door.”
“Were you open yesterday?” The officer met her gaze.
Don’t act like you’ve seen women like me before, because you haven’t, Hera thought. She wet her lips and said, “I was open until seven thirty, waiting for this shipment to come in.” She pointed a long graceful finger at the double-stacked boxes to their left. “And then I locked up and went home.” She glanced outside her display window at the thickening crowd. “Can you tell me what this is all about? I’ve got work to do,” Hera said, fixating on a man at least three heads taller than anyone else in the crowd, talking to another officer at the edge of her front window.
“A man found a dead woman in the dumpster in the alley outside your side door.” Officer Thomas reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pad of paper and a pencil, his eyes never leaving Hera’s face.
“As in…dead?” Hera heard a buzzing in her ears. She felt faint for a moment, just long enough to show a crack in her perfectly coiffed armor.
Officer Thomas reached out a hand to steady her. “Are you all right?”
Hera shook her black mane. “I’m fine. It’s just…no one has been dead for months.”
“That’s what makes this case so peculiar,” he said. He dropped his hand and turned toward the window, looking down the line of people on the outside. “Did you notice anything strange in or around your shop last night before you left?”