by Carmen Kern
“You’ve done your homework.” Hades pulled his shirt down.
“I’ve read a few things.” Reshawna drank the dregs left in Arle’s mug, licking her lips after she finished the last drop. “You’re doing your job. I ain’t heard of you doing that kind of thing in the Overworld. And there lies the difference. Thanatos wants to be you—well, a twisted, manic version of you. He wants everyone in all worlds to suffer, just like he thinks he has.” She paused. “You gonna drink the rest of that?” She pointed to his mug.
“Go ahead,” Hades said. He let his gaze wander while she drank. The details of the nearby structures were harder to make out. Many of the workers had finished for the day, packing up and leaving for whatever they called home. “How do you know all of this? Are you privy to Thanatos’s thoughts?” Hades turned to regard the healer.
“I was created for a story line that didn’t resonate with the god’s readers. That should have been grounds for erasing, but fortunately for me, I had his knowledge of biology and anatomy. He poured some of himself into me, and that made me valuable. He kept me around for a time, to talk to, to work out some of his sticky plot points when it came to what a body could endure.”
“His confidant.”
Reshawna nodded, her red braid bobbing. “For a time, yes. I longed to be free of him but had nowhere to go. Until Arle found me. These people took me in, fed me, and kept me hidden. I patched them up when they needed medical attention.” She leaned back in her chair. “And now here we are, sitting with the god of the Underworld, who miraculously dropped from the sky to deliver us.”
Hades grinned fleetingly. “No one has ever called me savior. And for good reason.” He glimpsed Arle out of the corner of his eye. “I’m here for Thanatos. Not to be the poster boy for your cause, your mutiny. Just so we’re clear.”
Reshawna looked from Hades to Arle, her eyes oscillating between them.
Arle, loaded down with a heavier pack than he left with and two cloth bags in hand, took a seat across the table from Hades. By the look on his face, he’d heard the last bit of their conversation. “You have an agenda. So do we. If our causes align, why not collaborate?” He placed the cloth bags up on the table, his marble eyes watching Hades. “Is that agreeable?”
Hades thought for a moment. A collaboration with the gods was what got him into this pile of oxshit in the first place—stuck in a strange world, with even stranger characters, his body wounded, broken in places with no way to heal himself, his god powers siphoned away. Another collaboration wasn’t exactly on his to-do list. And yet, how could he find Thanatos without their help? They had weapons, medicine, and damn, did they have the good drugs, and they knew this world.
“Flames,” he said finally. “I’m in your debt. I don’t like owing anybody anything. So if we do this thing, if I bind Thanatos, then what? What’s your end game?”
Reshawna stood, collecting her kit. “We want to live here without any outside interference. Not from anyone, least of all the gods. We want our freedom.”
“Flames, Pers would be all over this,” Hades mumbled. “Okay,” he said to Arle and Reshawna, “we do this together. If…when I take Thanatos, we seal off this world. It’s yours to do with as you like.” Hades stood, wincing. “Just a word of warning, freedom comes with responsibility, mostly to others. Be ready for it.”
“Noted,” Arle said, brushing off the god’s warning. “It’s settled, then. And the others are waiting at the edge of camp.” He opened one of the bags on the table and pulled out a quilted jacket. He tossed it at Hades. “You’re going to need something heavier. It gets cold out there.” He shoved the other bag toward Hades. “These are yours too.”
The three of them geared up, taking what little they needed to put in their packs. Hades put the oversized jacket over his own and emptied the bag Arle had given him. Holding up two magazines of ammo in each hand, he looked at Arle, his brow arched.
Arle flipped over the crate he’d been sitting on, bent down, and came up with three rifles. He handed them out.
Hades carefully slipped the sling over his head and placed the ammo in the drop pouches Arle provided. Reshawna took her gun, cradling it in her hands, and led the way out of the eating area and into the quiet camp.
Only a few beings still worked or walked around, but Hades heard distant voices talking and laughing in another part of the camp.
It didn’t take long to find the others. As the three of them approached, the ones waiting collected their gear and drew into a circle around them. Their faces, illuminated by the flashlights they carried, were grotesquely beautiful. A menagerie of circus freaks, beastly animals, horned or hooved, skullish and empty-eyed, mutilated and rotting, the light danced over their hideous faces. They smelled of purpose and old flesh. To Hades, it smelled a little like home.
Arle took the flashlight Kush handed him, lighting up a small map. “We make our way to the mall, pick up the rest of our people and the armored vehicles. All the weapons are ready to be loaded, so we should be able to move out quickly from there.” Arle turned in a slow circle, meeting everyone’s eyes. “Our people in the city are ready. If all goes well, we strike Thanatos’s tower at daybreak.” Arle had worked his way around the circle of beings to stop in front of Hades. “Any questions?”
“You say you want my help, even knowing my current…limitations.” Hades laid a hand on his wounded side. “What part do I play in all of this?”
“It’s a surprise,” Kush answered from behind Hades. “He’s going to love it, isn’t he?” There was a mumbling of agreement and nudging of elbows within the crowd.
“I hate surprises. Just ask my wife,” Hades retorted.
Arle grinned, his wooden lips stretching with the grain of his skin. “I think you’ll like this one.” The large man turned away and looked out into the dark. “Time to go. We have much to do before morning. Keep your eyes up—the fliers are out there. Be ready.”
The crowd dispersed, breaking off into twos and threes, following Arle with their flashlights bobbing up and down over cracked earth and smaller piles of scrap metals and broken appliances. The cabbage stink of rotten food was replaced with the tinge of burned circuitry and rusted metals.
“Fliers?” Hades asked Reshawna as they headed into the darkness.
“Winged bloodsuckers created by Thanatos to roam the Badlands and kill whatever they can. He called it population control. They’re like your vamps but better, or worse, depending on who you are. They eat their victims, every bit of them. Normally I’d say you don’t have anything to worry about, immortality and all that, but you’re not exactly running at full charge right now.” She leaned closer to Hades. “To be on the safe side, if you see them, run.”
“I’ve never run from anything,” Hades replied. His words lacked arrogance. In truth, he could never remember running in fear. He looked up into the skies created by the god of death and wondered if perhaps today would be the day when he did, and if his body, his godhood, would fail him. It never occurred to him before that it could be possible. He breathed in the cool air, and a sharp stabbing pain shot through his side, but only for a moment.
SEVENTEEN
One by one, they passed the final pile of garbage and slipped out of an opening in the fence. Once the last of them had cleared the borders of the dump, they turned off their flashlights.
The sky appeared similar to the Overworld’s at first glance. But as their eyes adjusted to the night, the stars shone brighter, making the constellations almost comical, with fully formed cartoon shapes outlined by auroras and stars that hung over them like party lights. It took only a minute for their eyes to adjust.
The group marched in silence. The night stretched out above them, expanding. Birds called out to each other in a strange song that sounded like women mourning their dead young. Critters hid in the scrub brush then scurried from one place to the next, rustling the dead plant life.
“I’d pretty much kill for
a smoke right now,” Hades mumbled, a dull ache growing in his left side.
Reshawna glanced at him but said nothing.
And on they walked, until, out of the silence, there was shouting, yelling of curses, and orders. “Fliers,” someone cried. In an instant, the group scattered, some dove to the ground while others fled into the darkness. Hades dropped to one knee and brought his rifle up, sweeping the sky with the barrel.
Somewhere ahead, short bursts of bullets arched through the sky toward strange organic shapes blocking out the stars. They spread out, flapping their wings, sweeping the air with powerful strokes that sounded like an army marching on hard ground. Thrum. Thrum. The air turned thick with creatures. They soared together in a diamond formation.
Guns blasted from all around Hades, but he waited for the winged beasts to come closer, to smell their bloodlust before he took his first shot.
The dark fliers turned as one, diving and rolling in waves as they bore down on their prey. Those pierced with talons or fangs cried out, fighting with their bare fists when their guns failed them. Some of them were carried away, dangling beneath the flying demons like strange appendages until they dropped to the ground a kilometer away, into a pit the creatures had dug out the night before.
Another wave of fliers dipped down, this time coming closer and lower to the ground. So close Hades could see their forked tongues lolling from meaty lips, their huge teeth gnashing in anticipation. Some of them were painted with blood, but others had yet to kill.
The night both sped up and slowed. Bullet blasts lit up the sky like fireworks, snapping and zinging while the fliers seemed to hover above, frozen in midflight. One rolled back its ugly lips to let out a raw-throated scream of rage. Hades pulled his trigger. His bullets ripped through the top of the flier’s mouth, blowing away most of its head. It spun in a graceful circle and floated to the ground.
One after another, they came.
To his left, Hades spotted Reshawna running with her first-aid kit.
A man made from boulders burst out of the shrubs behind him, rolling, tangled up with a flier, wings and overdeveloped rock arms entwined around each other. Hades spun around, his rifle aimed at the pair. Fangs snapped around a stone wrist, clamping around the unyielding flesh. A cry of rage erupted from them both.
While they struggled, more fliers swooped down, some landing to take their prey on foot, others continuing to dive and pluck at the stragglers or the ones who’d run out of ammo. Hades picked off several more fliers. Between each shot, he brought his rifle around to the wrestling match only a few yards away, hoping for a clean shot.
There were longer bouts of silence between gunshots, filled by the distant whine of engines.
Suddenly, the ground shook. A tank shot over the edge of a nearby berm, followed by the clanking rumble of its tracks. Hades jerked back, his attention shifting between the machine and the nearby ground fight. At that moment, the rock man tore through the flier’s muscles and tendons, punching through its chest, breaking ribs and cartilage. The beast threw back its head in a vicious scream.
Hades took the shot, and the bullet nailed the flier between the eyes, dropping the beast. Its body slumped to the ground even as its wings gave one more flap. The rock man stood over the fallen creature, a heart in its stony grip. He tossed it into the shrubs.
A swarm of armored vehicles spread out across the tundra, guns flaring into the heavens, headlights bobbing over boulders and hidden ditches. The tank barreled ahead, shooting into the skies. Boom. Boom. The earth shook. An eerie yowl sounded across the land. Within seconds, the fliers retreated, splitting off in all directions, flying higher. A few more gun bursts rang out, finishing off the ones who were too injured to fly away.
Hades sunk to his knees; his side numb. His body sweating and weak. He lay on his back, looking out to the same stars that had looked so comical only an hour before. Now, they seemed to grin evilly at him. He thought of Persephone, of her sly smile and her silken black hair. “Why the hell didn’t I stay in the Underworld?” he groaned. “I know better.”
The tank rolled to a stop a few meters away. He rolled his head to the side and watched the hatch pop open. Four characters climbed out. They looked identical, all of them with cowboy hats and none of them over four feet high. Two of them ran over to Hades, their small legs pumping furiously. Large saucer eyes stared at him from under wide-brimmed hats.
“Is this a dream?” he asked them.
“Why is he asking us if he’s dreaming?” the one with the blue feather in his hat asked the other.
“Delirious. That’s what he is. He’s cut by one of those things.”
“No, he’s got not but a scratch that I can see.”
The one with a red feather in his hat leaned closer. “He got lucky. Maybe the fliers were full, didn’t want him.”
“He seems a little slow. They could’ve caught him easy.”
Hades watched the two of them, their childlike faces scrunched up with concern. “Is this a shtick?” he finally asked.
The one with the red feather in his hat said, “What’s a shtick?”
“I think he meant stick.” The other one air quoted the last word.
Hades pushed himself up onto his elbow, holding his side as he sat up. “No, I meant shtick. As in a skit, a comedy routine you’ve practiced and delivered on more than one occasion?” His body hurt all over, but his head felt clear.
“The only thing we practice is our writing and math,” the one with the blue feather said.
“And shooting things.” The other one shrugged.
“Ya, and shooting. We like big guns.”
“I see that. Where does a guy get a tank around here?” Hades knelt on one leg, taking his time getting up.
The one with the blue feather in his hat put his hands on his hips. “He thinks a guy can just get one of these?”
“He doesn’t know nothing.”
“No, he doesn’t.” He pointed at Hades. “Well, mister, a guy makes one. He reads books, looks at pictures, and collects the appropriate parts for, oh…about two and a half years.”
“Almost three,” the other interrupted.
“Almost three years, and then about three months after that to put it all together.”
“And some spit and duct tape.”
“Lots of duct tape.”
Hades scrambled to his feet, slightly dizzy from the conversation. “I need a drink.”
“Hades!” Reshawna scrambled over a pile of boulders, her face red from running. “You made it? Did your stitches hold?” She waved at the others. “Hey Ron…Don. You guys all right?”
Ron hit Don on the arm. “That’s Hades. She called him Hades.” He talked slowly, savoring the god’s name.
“We finally meet the god of the Underworld, and you just kept going on and on.” Don smacked his brother on his arm.
“We didn’t even introduce—”
“That’s because you were yappin’—”
“Guys!” Reshawna hung her head. “Can you go check on Arle? He needs some help moving some of the injured into your vehicles.”
The two small men stared at Hades, their eyes wider, bluer than they were before.
There was a surge. An acid-burning fire scorched up Hades’s legs, through his groin, and up to his stomach and his chest and out his arms, a power soaring through his veins, exploding out his eyes, his mouth, his fingertips, filling his lungs, shifting in and out the pure power that only comes from true worship. It hit him fast, like that first hit. Like combustion. He reeled in relief, in damn relief that he could still feel such ecstasy. He threw back his head and howled wildly like a beast.
Reshawna rested her hand on his back and whispered, “Are you dying or going crazy?”
Hades grinned. A laugh rolled from his mouth, a sound so foreign it sounded like someone else altogether. He looked down at her, his eyes blazing. “Ah, that’s some good stuff right there,” he gr
owled.
She stepped back. “What’re you talking about?”
“The god of the Underworld,” Ron and Don said in unison.
Hades unzipped his outer jacket, ignoring the talon slice through the sleeve and the cut on his arm. He pulled up his T-shirt. A warm golden light lit his skin from within, shining brighter around his wound. It pulsed with every beat of his heart.
Reshawna drew closer, reaching out her hand to touch his skin. It was cool to her touch. The fever around the wound was gone. “Is it healed?” she whispered.
“Not completely. But enough. Our friends here gave me some good ol’ fashioned adoration.”
“So you can call on your powers now?”
Ron and Don knelt on the hard ground, oblivious to the dead shrubs under their knobby knees. They gazed up at Hades, hanging on his every word.
Hades felt the hum of their belief. “When I’m fully charged, I can. But I ain’t fully charged.” He pulled down his shirt, buttoning and zipping both jackets against the cold. “God power seeks out any weakness in our bodies first, to heal or strengthen as needed. If there’s anything left over, we can wield it however we want—within reason.”
“What reason?” Reshawna asked.
“We all have our…talents. Those things we have power over. Like all things that dwell in the Underworld—rocks, minerals, metals, or darkness, or the dead, in my case. Most of us are limited to the powers we were born into, but there are a few who learn other skills.”
“Like you?”
“Like my wife, Persephone.”
A loud cry erupted from behind the tank. “Reshawna!” cried the wooden voice of Arle.
Within the troubled silence, Reshawna took off running toward Arle. Hades followed, slower than the healer, but with a strong stride and sure feet.
The two small men brought up the rear, following as fast as their short legs would go.
“Here,” Arle called out.
Reshawna rounded the front of the tank to find Kush with his face down near the bottom of a ditch, his legs and body strewn in pieces up the bank.