Paradise Lost Boxed Set

by R. E. Vance

  Enkidu stirs, rubbing his eyes lazily. Seeing his enemy before him, he is immediately alert—a sleeping mongrel turned attack dog. Enkidu readies himself, but Gilgamesh raises a hand. “Wait,” he says. “Surely you would like a minute to wake up, before we start. Perhaps stretch, take a piss … Do whatever you need to be comfortable. After all, I don’t want the legend to tell that I unfairly attacked you.” The king’s voice is soft, caring and so full of concern that even Astarte wonders if Gilgamesh is sincere.

  The WildMan narrows his eyes in confusion. Angling his gaze does little to unravel the mystery before him. And so Enkidu does what he was made to do: he attacks. But he lacks the ferocity he once possessed, his fury dulled by Astarte’s embrace.

  Gilgamesh tilts his head, and the sun hits Enkidu’s eyes, blinding him just enough for the king to connect his fist with the WildMan’s nose. It splits open and blood pours out of it. A normal man would have fallen, the fight taken out of him as tears blurred his vision. But Enkidu returns Gilgamesh’s blow with his own, hitting the king on the collarbone with a crackling effect.

  The king screams, pivots to one side. Enkidu sees this as an attempt to retreat and takes a step forward—and he realizes that a metal spike has gone through his foot. Gilgamesh tricked him—he maneuvered him into one of his many traps.

  Enkidu steps off the spike and grapples with the king. Gilgamesh is strong. Enkidu is stronger. The two of them tumble on the earth and wrestle until Enkidu rolls onto a bed of glass—Gilgamesh’s second trap. The only problem is that the king rolls onto it too.

  Both warriors scream in pain as their skin is sliced, but Gilgamesh is a modern man who wears leather armor that protects him from most of the shards. Enkidu, on the other hand, is not. His naked body, although weathered by the elements and hardened by the sun, does not fare as well. The WildMan is hurt badly, his body a pincushion of blood.

  And still he fights.

  Staggering forward, he swings wildly at Gilgamesh, but his fists do not find their target. Drip by drip, the WildMan is losing blood. As though life is literally flowing out of him, he falls to one knee.

  Gilgamesh takes Enkidu by the hair, and the WildMan barely struggles. All that is left is for Gilgamesh to take his life.

  He does not draw his knife to slit Enkidu’s throat, nor does he bring his heel close to crush his skull. Instead, he gently puts the man on the grass and starts to dab his cuts with a salve he brought for his own wounds.

  Enkidu is confused. Is this a trick? Some act of final cruelty to lull him into a false sense of security, only to take his life? But Gilgamesh is not acting out of cruelty or malice, rather out of respect.

  “Come now,” the king says through bloodstained lips. “Any man who can make me bleed deserves my respect.”

  Astarte is awed and confused. “But he’s your assassin.”

  “Was,” Gilgamesh says. “No more.” Gilgamesh extends a hand.

  Enkidu hesitates before taking Gilgamesh’s hand—the WildMan of Chaos and the King of Reason standing, bloodied face to bloodied face.

  Astarte is amazed by the wisdom and the compassion of the man. She once led him astray—but he has found his way back to himself.

  And with that Astarte vows that she will never hurt him again. She will stand by his side and help him build a kingdom worthy of his legacy. She will not marry Poseidon. She will not ensure that her kin remain gods. What would be the point? Gilgamesh and his ways are inevitable—to fight what is coming would be akin to fighting the tide or the wind. If her kin want to hold on to their dying legacy, so be it. But they will have to do so without her.

  She is with Gilgamesh now. That is where she belongs. That is who she is.

  Jedi Are Not the Only 1980s Troupes

  The attack on the Being Human Salon reminded me of the Three Little Pigs and the Big Bad Wolf. Of course, we weren’t the three little piggies—they lived on the south side of Paradise Lot—and as for the mob outside, they weren’t the big bad wolf either. They weren’t even a wolf pack working together to hunt us down. They were far worse.

  Still, we did manage to run into the only brick house in Paradise Lot.

  Sally’s reinforced salon was the brick house, and it withstood everything they threw at us. For the moment, at least, we were safe.

  The Others pounded and banged on the armor-plated walls of the salon. Bang!—a minotaur threw his weight against the wall.

  Boom!—a valkyrie dropped a dumpster on the roof from an unGoneGodly height.

  Buzz!—a dozen pixies, no bigger than hummingbirds, crammed into a crack in the wall, their wings whizzing.

  The combined noise was terrifying. For the most part, everyone managed to keep calm. Most of us had been in a situation like this before. I had spent years in the Army; Astarte had faced more assaults on her temples than most Others; and Penemue … well, he used to live in Hell. Literally. I was worried about EightBall, but he was monitoring the security cameras and constantly updating us as to what was going on outside. Even when it was obvious and unnecessary.

  BAM!—something big and strong thudded against the exterior of the salon, and EightBall looked up nervously.

  “Ahhh … A giant just punched the wall. A big one, too.”

  It was not necessary to know what was hitting us. And as for informing us that we’d been hit—the reverberations that shook the ground told us everything we needed to know. But at least the kid was doing something. And the one thing I learned when facing insurmountable odds was it was always good to be doing something, even if that something served no real purpose.

  Bang!

  “A white, hairy monster just threw a dumpster at us.”

  “Wendigo,” Penemue said.

  “What?” EightBall wore a confused expression.

  “The only white, hairy beast is a wendigo. They’re the only beasts strong enough to throw a dumpster.”

  “OK, fine. A wendigo just threw a dumpster at us.” The kid got back a bit of his defiance as he scowled at the angel. Then another explosion sounded from outside and his worried look repainted his face. “Will it hold?” he asked nervously.

  “It will hold,” I reassured him, looking at Sally for reassurance myself.

  Penemue walked over to EightBall. “It will hold,” he said. The twice-fallen angel Penemue was determined to keep the boy safe—he felt he owed him. “This does remind me of the assault on Heaven. Few know this, but the walls of the Great Hall were laced with steel. They were designed to withstand an assault of archangels. It stands to reason that these reinforced steel walls should do the same against the lesser creatures of ancient Greek, Mesopotamian and Sumerian cultures.”

  I narrowed my eyes at Penemue and mouthed, “Really?”

  The angel shrugged. Evidently, it was not beneath angels to tell little white lies to calm the nerves of terrified teenagers.

  Sally nodded. “The angel is right. It will hold.” She spoke in a calm, even tone, and unlike Penemue who had been trying to make EightBall feel better, Sally wasn’t. She fully believed that her walls would hold.

  Of all the people in this room, she was the one I couldn’t figure out. She was calmer than the rest of us. She was tough, sure, but I’ve seen plenty of tough and resolved people crumble under less than this. She was completely without fear, which means that either she had an unwavering faith in her security system—something only a fool would believe in without question—or she knew something I didn’t. That or she was batshit crazy. Never underestimate insanity—it can be quite useful in the right situations.

  Sally picked up her control panel and pushed a few buttons, which caused an air elemental who was trying to find a way in to yelp in pain. A few more pushes were followed by more cries.

  “Besides,” Penemue said, “they only want Astarte and Jean. You and I are relatively safe. We may get trampled in their attempt to capture them, but we’re not actually under any threat of being directly attacked.”

  I thought about what Pe
nemue said. Had this been a human mob, I might not have agreed with him. Humans tend to get carried away in the frenzy of the moment, ripping away at whatever and whoever is in their way.

  Others weren’t like that. I’d seen a squadron of hsigo flying monkeys carry out rescue missions without killing a single soldier in the raid. In my time in the Army, I’d faced Others whose orders were to attack human soldiers and only human soldiers. The result was a surgical strike with zero civilian casualties. Of course, I’d also been there when the objective was mayhem and carnage. A “kill ’em all” order issued by some demon commander or Fanatic or Other driven insane by the world it now lived in.

  Those were rare. But when they did happen, humans were sure to broadcast the carnage all over the news.

  There was clacking against ground that sounded like someOther was trying to dig up the cement sidewalk in front of the salon. EightBall looked at the screen in horror, and this time he didn’t try to report what kind of Other was doing what. Instead, he gulped and asked, “So we are safe?” It was clear from the way he hit the word “we” he was referring to himself and Penemue, and not Astarte and I.

  Penemue peered outside through the metal slits in the shutters. “As long as we are not too close to those two,” he pointed at us, “we should be safe. Trouble is that I spotted a couple minotaurs and a centaur outside. They are inclined to trample. And as for that dragoon … it tends to wag its spike-riddled tail when mauling. So there’s that to worry about …”

  “Penemue,” I said.

  The angel groaned. “My apologizes. It is just that I am without my bottle, and the world is always so much bleaker without my bottle.”

  “Bleaker?” Astarte made the word sound as if it were an invitation rather than the unhappy word that it actually was. “Your world is bleaker? Mine is positively shattering and you complain that you do not have a bottle, while describing our evisceration?”

  “Indeed.” Penemue held up an imaginary bottle.

  “You would let us be eviscerated and do nothing to help?” Astarte pushed out her lips as she pouted. She took a stride toward the angel and ran a finger down his tweed vest before stopping at the bottom button, her finger swirling around the cross-indented brown fasten. EightBall gulped and adjusted his pants.

  I gulped and adjusted my pants.

  Sally gulped and adjusted her pants.

  But Penemue just looked down at the succubus with impassionate eyes and said, “Indeed.”

  Astarte’s lips tucked back in as a look of utter rage painted her expression. “What … the … hell … is … going … on!” She stamped her foot with each word. “My old Champion attacks me. An angel of dubious morals rejects me and the human who was supposed to be my date leaves me! I am Astarte. I am not to be treated in such a way.”

  “Hold on,” I said. “Guys … we don’t have time—”

  “You are but a succubus,” Penemue thundered. “My mistress is liquid and sweet and numbing.”

  “Guys,” I repeated.

  Astarte rolled her eyes, her tantrum building up momentum. “I am the great Succubus of Palmyra, the demigoddess of lust of Assyria. I am what desire yearns for … I am what passion burns with … I am the unquenchable thirst, the satiated hunger. I am lust! And I will not be denied … not by you or—”

  As Astarte’s outburst grew, I calmly walked over to Sally. “May I?” I pointed at the remote control.

  “Of course,” she said with a wicked smile. “By all means.” She flipped up the top and I pushed the red button. The siren shrieked, forcing all of us to cover our ears. Of course, the effect was worse on Penemue, but I needed everyone’s attention. And given all the grief that twice-fallen angel had given me over the years, I relished the minute’s bit of payback—even if it made my own ears ring in agony.

  The siren stopped and we all groaned. The world went silent—even the mob outside went quiet.

  I let the ringing in my ears settle before speaking in a calm and measured tone. “As much as we would like to indulge our little insecurities, we can’t. We do not have that luxury.” I waited to let the words sink in. “Now that we’re all done fighting, can we please return to the apocalypse at hand? What are we going to do about it?”

  “We are doing it now,” Penemue cut in. “We are doing the only thing we can. We are running.”

  Sally and I both shot Penemue a look.

  The angel held up his hands in a defensive gesture. “It is poor form to execute the messenger. Besides, I only speak the truth. Tiamat comes, and the only one who could stop her is guilty of raising her—”

  “Giving up is not an option,” I said.

  Astarte stepped forward. “I fear the angel may be right. Running is your best chance of survival. The fifth sign—the Blood Moon—will appear just before dawn.” She looked over at the clock. “We have less than six hours to stop the unstoppable. But running … You can gain a lot of ground in six hours.”

  “I’m not running,” I said.

  “I know,” Astarte sighed. “We’ve had this conversation before, when the Avatar of Gravity appeared. It seems that you’d rather die fighting for this slum than live a coward.”

  “If I remember correctly, the last time some Other tried to destroy Paradise Lot, you got in a car and drove off.”

  Astarte sighed. “Yes, I did. But this time is different. This is a family affair.” She fiddled with the pendant.

  “OK. So we stay and fight. But what are we going to do? I don’t even understand what we’re up against. Back at the gala, just before the kids tried to kill their mommy, one of them referred to Tiamat as her sister. When she said it, I thought of it more as a ‘Monsters Unite’ expression of solidarity. But she was being literal, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes,” Astarte said. “Tiamat is my niece.”

  “Your sister birthed that thing?” I thought about the size of a monster that was capable of destroying a city, not to mention the world. “But she must be”—I spread my arms—“ginormous.”

  “She didn’t come out that size. She grew.”

  “And the carp?”

  “Also my sister’s children.” Astarte rolled her eyes. “You mortals think so organically. Remember, back when the world was young we had access to unlimited wells of time. And my sister was the goddess of fertility and agriculture. She birthed most of what you humans eat to survive.”

  “Did she really?” I asked.

  Astarte shrugged. “That’s what you humans once believed. Isn’t that enough?”

  I looked over at Penemue, who nodded in agreement. “She’s telling the truth.”

  It was my turn to shrug. “Fine … Let’s gloss over the fact that everything I’ve ever eaten is your sister’s great-great-great-grandchild. The carp. Let me get this straight … When Atargatis ate the carp, she was actually eating her child?”

  “Not exactly. She ate the symbol of her child. One of the Holy Carp of Urfa.”

  “Overkill, don’t you think?”

  “We were a young pantheon of gods … We wanted to secure our power and did so by having grand gestures for little offenses.”

  “I see.” Really, I didn’t. “And you didn’t think to mention any of this earlier?”

  “I didn’t think it was relevant.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “My sister has so many children; you can’t keep track of them all. I mean, do you know what it’s like to be an aunt to thousands of birds, animals and fish, not to mention some of the other, stranger creatures my sister bore? And I’m the slut … bah …” Astarte waved her hand dismissively. “Besides, she was tricked. She would’ve never willingly eaten one of her offspring.”

  “But Tiamat knows and is coming to spank its mommy?” Sally asked.

  “Yes. Tiamat is wrath. It’s the old way of settling anger and punishing mortals for their digressions. A long, long time ago, we placed a protection over the first generation of Atargatis’ children. Should any be hurt, Tiamat would enact re
venge. She comes because she senses such a transgression has taken place. Tiamat comes because her family has been wronged, but I doubt she knows—or cares—who hurt it. She simply does what her nature dictates. Tiamat comes to punish.”

  “And why can’t you stop it?” Sally asked.

  “Because,” Astarte said with a heavy sigh, “a long, long time ago, I defied Atargatis and she stripped me of my powers.”

  “And others in your pantheon?”

  “Gone or dead. My sister and I are the last of the Assyrian pantheon.”

  A silence filled the room as we all mulled over Astarte’s words. There was something wrong here. Atargatis’ reaction was too over the top given what had happened. Sure, she didn’t expect to eat one of her sacred carp and summon Tiamat, but she also acted like she couldn’t summon Tiamat. Her reaction was the difference between accidentally hitting someone while driving a car versus being responsible for hitting them with a car while being in the backseat. The former was a bad mistake, but the latter wasn’t possible. “OK, but why was Atargatis surprised?”

  “Because she was tricked.”

  I shook my head. “She was surprised by Tiamat coming in the first place. She even said … ‘This shouldn’t happen. Not anymore.’ Why would she say that?”

  “Because we aren’t gods, and only gods can summon Tiamat.”

  “But you could summon her too … once-upon-a-time.”

  “Yes, but it’s been a long time since we had that power.”

  “For thousands of years … you used to have power. What happened?”

  “Let’s just say that a long, long time ago we picked the wrong side and lost.”

  What she said was perfectly clear in its simplicity—they were once in power, and then they weren’t. “When did you lose?” I asked.

  “Why does it matter?”

  “It does. Please. When did you cease being gods?”

  “We never really were gods. Just powerful, well-worshipped Others up for …” She searched for the word. “Promotion. But to answer your question, we lost our chance four thousand years—”