by Taylor Kole
The igloo’s growl rose until it drowned out all other sounds. His blond arm hairs stood at attention. The light grew brighter. The outer hall whipped faster. Every strand on his head stood erect, tugging at the anchors that connected them. A suction-like force threatened to unclasp his hands. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw.
The deafening sound shook his innards. The illumination penetrated his eyelids. Then he lost consciousness.
II
Josh woke in the fetal position. He first thought of the Dewitt portfolio. They could benefit by investing in historical autographs, dial back on the precious metals. He rolled onto his back, stretched, and grew curious about the bright, warm room he inhabited. Shifting his weight sounded internal alarms. His entire body—from head to toe—felt inflated, as if a stick of dynamite had exploded inside his chest, blasting his skeleton outward. So much heat coursed through him he tried to remember if the transfer process involved zapping him with electricity.
Remaining supine afforded him a view of a blue sky spotted with clouds. Raising up to his elbows, he kept his eyes on the clouds. A light breeze passed over him, but the clouds were stationary. The sun also shone irregularly, more white than orange, and its intensity, although severe, allowed for a continued stare.
A deep exhale helped defend against innate worry over the unnatural signs. He pulled up his legs and wrapped his arms around his knees. The size of his arms and quads was much more disconcerting than a weird sky.
Gripping a steel bicep, he felt no give and thought back on his one or two brief spells of working out as an adult. A month or two where he would hit the gym or do a routine at home. After a few weeks he would notice his body growing dense. Lifting daily objects, such as a gallon of milk, grew noticeably easier, but those small improvements versus the time he spent to achieve them never tipped his opportunity cost.
The arm he held now resembled a cavemen club. His body was more chiseled than a painting’s epic depiction of a Spartan warrior.
He thudded a veiny first against his chest. It was like hitting an I-beam with a rubber mallet.
Intending to brush into the sand next to him, simply to examine his sense of touch, the innocent swipe with his hand scooped away inches. He wiped harder, faster, and scraped down two feet in a matter of seconds and found a smooth rubber lining. An understanding of his environment formed, yet he lacked the interest to pursue the evidence. He wanted to stay in the physical world, so he placed his hands on the ground. With minimal effort, he launched to his feet.
Energy comprised him. Raw power. Clenching his hands and flexing his forearms amplified the surging currents.
He was in the center of a dusty arena that appeared to have been abandoned decades ago. A chipped and faded mural of Mount Olympus, complete with each of the gods of antiquity, decorated the northern wall. Josh turned west and saw ascending rows of stone benches. The south wall clashed with the coliseum feel as it seemed to be made of clear acrylic, presenting a transparent face that towered into the sky. A tint colored its surface as if he stood on the viewing side of a two-way glass. With the bottom thirty feet of the acrylic wall mashed against dank soil, that wall made him feel like he was peering into an ant farm topped with lush greenery.
The movement made him aware of his nudity yet he felt no compulsion to cover himself. Anyone would marvel at the definition of his torso, the girth of his thighs, the breadth of his shoulders.
He personified perfection.
Josh always knew Kyle Skinner was a genius.
If the entire trip passed in this fashion—him standing in the buff, in an empty room, feeling like he did—it would be money well spent.
He stomped a foot and reveled as vibrations rippled outward.
Someone gasped behind him.
He spun so fast he feared dizziness, but instead was surged with endorphins.
Josh found a startled teenage boy twenty feet away. He held a bundle of clothes.
Josh studied him. With his head dropped, the boy’s loose blonde curls reached his wide shoulders. When he peeked at Josh, he revealed blue eyes and a defined jawline. He wore brown pants and a white top. A large buckle secured a belt around his narrow waist.
Josh covered the distance between them in a hop.
The earth quaked with his landing.
The boy’s chin touched his chest. He trembled, but to his credit, he held his ground.
“Who are you?” Josh asked. His voice boomed and was surprised by the power of his voice.
“Fa- Flavius, m’lord.”
Josh surveyed the arena and inquired, “Are we alone?”
“Yes, sire. No one is allowed to enter the Hall of the Gods, save his chosen servant.” His eyes crept up to meet Josh’s then darted back down. The young man then bowed and extended the bundle of clothing.
“Are those mine?”
“Yes, mighty one. The tunic was crafted with the finest cloth in all of Bristalius.”
With some assistance (even though Josh was as limber as a contortionist), he donned the clothes: a leather and cloth undergarment more comfortable and supportive than his usual boxer briefs; a tunic that hung to his knees, fastened with a maroon rope; and a pair of leather sandals that criss-crossed up his calves.
“You look splendid, m’lord,” Flavius said. “The people will ask how to address you.”
“My name is Josh Ridley.”
“JoshRidley.” Flavius pronounced it as one word. “A most fitting name for a god.”
When someone called you a god, they were joking, being an ass, an ultra-polite lover, or exposing insanity. An hour ago Josh would have laughed and answered accordingly. Since times had changed, he said, “It’s two words: Josh Ridley.”
The boy went to one knee, crossed his arm over his chest, and touched his fist to the opposite shoulder. “I, Flavius Kristian, son of Ursus, descendant of the god AlbertGoulooze, pledge my life to you. Command me, great JoshRidley.” One word.
No one had ever considered Josh arrogant, at least not accurately. One could make a solid case he was a docile, meek man. The power surging through him churned like lava. It permeated his body and sharpened his mind. It made a young man pledging him fealty seem natural.
Though he harbored no ill will or wicked thoughts, he knew all too well what would happen if he bashed a fist on one of Flavius’ shoulders. The thought frightened Josh. It humbled and sobered him. If his new attributes could be used effectively to help, perhaps Josh could duel with a demon.
“Please, rise.”
The lad stood with renewed confidence. He even smirked after snatching brief eye contact.
“Have you met other gods?”
“No, your eminence.”
“Call me Josh.”
“As you wish, JoshRidley. You are the fourth god to appear since my birth. JustineHilton blessed Bristalius during that time. MarioRodriguez was rumored to have survived the hordes of madmen in Eludius, Betaloome’s deepest nation, at the seventh of my years. During my eleventh, MohammedFordeen lost an arm attempting to usurp RobertJohnson for Carmanthis, our third nation. And now, there is you. The gods are good to have deemed me your worthy servant.”
“A visiting god had his arm cut off?” Josh said as he squeezed the dense one attached to his shoulder, trying to imagine a force great enough to sever it.
“Gods arrive from different realms of heaven. You visit, do as you please, then either return to your Earth or ascend to Apotheosis. Betaloome has but one permanent god, RobertJohnson. His hall is in Atlantis and he has ruled for near two centuries. Atlantis is our top and most beautiful nation. They live safe and free of demons. They perform shows, have song halls and dances, and the coliseum.” He said this with a higher tone of voice as if transfixed by the notions. More seriously, he said, “RobertJohnson is a fair god. He has but two laws. The first, no bottom dwellers may enter Atlantis.”
Didn’t sound fair to Josh.
“Law two states that gods may enter Atlantis only
to challenge his rule in the coliseum. Also that gods shall not return to Betaloome for a second time. Both laws carry the penalty of death.”
The thought that someone would dare tell the new Josh what he could and couldn’t do conjured a scowl and offended his very essence.
“RobertJohnson slayed TimothySmith over a century past and has taken limbs from two other gods. They claim he dips them in gold and hangs them in his Hall of Distress—a pit of hell in the center of paradise.”
So, he’s not only an arrogant control freak, thought Josh, he’s sadistic and a psychopath.
“This should not concern you, JoshRidley. I am a son of Bristalius and I would be remiss not to report we have prayed to the heavens to send us a god. The eviscerator numbers continue to swell. They storm our villages and mutilate, feast, or steal away with everyone not within the temple. We hear of flying spears in the south. Trappers surround our every exit.” He puffed out his chest. “There is great hope that you will be our savior.”
Josh searched the young man’s eyes and experienced a sense of affinity for him. He’d never had so much faith placed in him. Josh stepped away to gather his thoughts.
He stood in an entire world housed inside one of those massive terrariums. A world besieged by vicious predators. Clenching his pectoral muscles reassured his nerves, but butterflies still fluttered.
The place where he stood might have been a coliseum at one time or an area where citizens gathered and held town hall meetings. Josh wondered what had transpired to cause such neglect of this area. Dust littered the concrete benches, the air tasted stale and dry. As he surveyed the entire room he noticed a building jutted from the decorated wall, camouflaged by the overlapping mural on its side. It was long and narrow, like a carwash.
Assuming he was in the northernmost side of the terrarium, he turned and searched the southern wall, but located no visible entrances to the main chamber. A clear ledge hung thirty feet off the sandy ground, running flush with the top of the soil on the other side of the terrarium. He saw no way to the top. A ladder hung from its edge, but it only had one rung twenty feet off the ground.
Shaking the concern from his mind, he returned his attention to his young page. “Is there a common routine for when a god arrives?”
“They are met by an acolyte whose duty is to help in the selection of weapons and humbly assist in its usage.”
A weapon? Josh’s interest spiked. “Swords and shields and such?”
“Not mere swords. These are blades forged for the gods. Unwieldable by mere mortals.”
Josh secretly hoped Flavius knew someone who needed wood chopped, a task he was ready to tackle. With his newfound strength he could hold an axe in each hand, have men establish a circular perimeter around him with a dozen base logs, assign a man to stack at each one, and he would swing away as he rotated. A two for one: help with the heating and cooking while improving his hand-eye coordination.
“Show me these weapons.”
Flavius tucked errant blonde hairs behind his ear. “The armory of the gods.” He pointed to the building with the mural. “If it pleases you, retrieve multiple weapons. We shall practice each to discover what suits you.”
A set of stone doors protected the contents. Rings of rusted steel served as handles. He wrapped a meaty hand around each and pulled. The doors were solid stone, a foot thick, yet they slid open as if made of particle board. Only the indentations in the dirt and the shock in Flavius’ eyes betrayed their true weight.
A single red bulb illuminated once the door opened halfway. The interior went deeper than he anticipated and smelled dry, like an ancient crypt sealed for centuries. Medieval weapons of exaggerated proportions lined each side. On the floor to his right sat a spiked iron ball whose sharp tips came flush with his waist. The links that connected it to the handle were as long as his upper arm. He lifted the handle off the floor. The six links made it so when his arm was fully extended the ball dangled inches off the ground, but the massive iron object felt as light as a kitten’s toy.
It might be too technical a choice for him, but he dragged it outside anyhow.
He strolled past a five-foot katana and an enormous battle axe that matched his height and breadth. He pulled out a two-handed long sword twelve feet long, thirty inches wide, with an edge made for shaving. A chest apparatus lay behind the behemoth. An obvious device for transporting the oversized weapon across his back.
He passed a pair of clawed hands that would make a kodiak turn tail; various blades on sticks; axes of numerous designs; dual swords; a metal bo staff; short swords; and near the end, he spotted a blade whose shape and color reminded him of a crescent moon. It was a Persian shamshir—more commonly known as a scimitar.
Even with the arc it stood as tall as him. Two feet off the hilt a small iron handle had been welded to the rear of its blade. Two rows of Arabic symbols were etched on the blade’s base. Spotting the ivory hilt solidified his choice of weapon.
Josh splayed his fingers as he gripped the handle.
The blade felt like an extension of himself. He gave the rank air a small chop before grabbing the shoulder device designed to hold the sword across his back and heading back into the arena.
“This one!” He said while holding it at arm’s length, looking majestic, feeling remarkable.
“You will slay a thousand demon lords with such a weapon.” Flavius had donned a belt and short sword spotted with rust and nicks. For the next hour Josh shadowed its movements as he learned the basics of thrust, slice, parry, and how not to over swing and gouge himself. The most impactful lesson applied to the attached grip on the sword’s blunt side. Its ingenious design allowed the long weapon to be wielded using both hands, adding force when going down or speed when reversing direction.
Attaching the harness required cutting slits in the toga’s back. Wearing the sword presented another opportunity for the odd grip. With the scabbard resting across his back, the white hilt lay out of reach above his head. To release the scimitar, he used the welded handle to yank it over his left shoulder, which placed the smooth ivory swiftly and directly into his right hand.
On Flavius’ urging, he practiced unclasping and replacing the blade until he felt comfortable with the procedure.
The extended activity rivaled anything Josh had done since childhood, but his new body screamed to stay in motion and apparently never tired. He had declined water when his young steward offered and felt no compulsion to eat when told of a celebration feast in his honor.
He wanted to attack targets. Not demonic ones that could strike back, but he would have a field day with a gang of straw men or foot-round trees.
He also longed for Karen to see him. They attempted to vary their intimacy, particularly from his end, because she was quite set in her ways as far as what pleased her. Yet, even following her constant directions, their love making never dripped with passion. He imagined this diamond-hard body would make her tremble and him perform like a stallion. Picturing her unrestrained longing as she rushed to strip off her clothes and bend to his will stirred desire in his loins. Josh cowboy-walked a few steps to relieve the buildup.
“Cry pardon, JoshRidley,” Flavius said as he added a mismatched pair of gauntlets to his own forearms. “My village, Reysona, is the nearest to us. Still, it lies three shadow bars from here.”
Logically Josh knew if this young man was willing to leave these confines he should have no fear, but it surfaced nonetheless. Gathering his courage, he nodded. “Okay, but how do we get out?”
Flavius pointed to the ledge along the acrylic wall. “Four men and Reysona’s best rope lowered me in. The only way up is the ladder of ascension.”
Josh trudged to its base. A wide rung hung a touch higher than twenty feet off the ground.
“Only you can decide if I will travel with you, by taking me,” the boy said, while keeping his focus on the overhead platform. The deepening of his voice and crumpling of his brow revealed his concerns for being deemed unwo
rthy and left behind.
Josh would take him wherever he went, but he focused on the single rung above them. He moved to the rung’s center. The scimitar towered over his back, but for all its mass and gyrations it might as well have been a feather.
Professional basketball players boasted thirty-five-inch vertical jumps. This would be at least six times that. Even with legs that resembled cordage jumps that high seemed improbable.
Squatting, he honed in on the overhead bar. In one fluid motion, he thrust upward using all his might. The power exerted at his launch stretched time and allowed him to experience each hundredth of a second. A dipping rollercoaster didn’t impart as much G-force on its initial drop.
He felt like a rocket leaving its pad. The floor slipped away. Wind and gravity matted his hair and pulled on his face. The rung drew steadily closer. His hands clamped around it.
He shouted in celebration.
A downward glance showed Flavius pumping his fist in triumph. Josh sought the next grip point. Using only brute arm strength, he yanked upward.
He dangled from the ledge a moment taking in the world below, knowing he had just done the impossible. After a smile, he released to the previous rung then dropped again, thudding next to Flavius.
Josh saw relief in the boy and understood by jumping without him Flavius had feared abandonment.
In hindsight, Josh should have made his intention to investigate his capabilities clear.
“Are you ready?”
Flavius straightened his back and hardened his gaze, “Yes, mighty one.”
Josh carried them to the upper level. He understood that the incandescent green, alien-looking jungle before him had to be populated by familiar vegetation, but who had ever stood twenty feet beneath a canopy of clovers or a hundred feet below a dandelion? A narrow path of dark soil divided the ecosystems. The swaying tops indicated some type of external ventilation. The bulb that shone down artificial sunlight added a warmth that accentuated the humidity. From the light’s position along its track, he inferred the time at a little past noon.
