by Taylor Kole
Karen had established her home-based accounting business a year prior. Around that time, she had remodeled a portion of the dining room for office use.
Being at work during the day, Josh assumed she used the area daily and her meticulous nature presented the identical look upon his return home each day.
A full cycle of observing her habits disclosed that the designer desk (a Swiss import), cabinet system, and the many amenities were nothing more than expensive decorations. She worked from their bed, watching soaps. And his moping around in the bed, trying to sleep away his reality, quickly escalated to a point of tension.
Along with part of the dining room, her business “required” the confiscation of their second bedroom for a zen-like retreat where, around the time he arrived home, she retired to “meditate” and “decompress” after the stress of number crunching. Having empirical data to draw from, he suspected she spent the time surfing social media and catching up on missed episodes of daytime television.
Curled on the mattress, facing the wall (for Karen needed the side nearest the window to combat depression), Josh had almost laughed at the shameful knowledge that the old him allowed these things and would have moved to the couch on her second or third complaint.
This time, Josh told her he planned to lay in bed all day and all night. His body might still resemble pizza dough, but his resistance felt like a victory.
With his actual depression, ignoring her and slipping in and out of naps came easily. Each sleep brought magnificent dreams of him swinging a blade as long a car with one hand, of love so vivid and painful that the dreams startled him awake.
Karen did all she could to get him out of bed. With both of them under the covers, she pushed farts from her diaphragm, often angled at him—or worse, she pressed her cheeks against him before release. When she got out of bed, she dropped things and apologized loudly. Every time work called, she shook him and asked if he wanted to take the call.
With the evening passing in a similar fashion, he looked forward to returning to work the next day and surviving in the real world.
Opening the main door on Michigan Avenue, Josh hurried to the stairwell, intending to make climbing to the seventh floor part of his daily routine. Unfortunately, his legs were made of cotton and molten ash coated his lungs, forcing him to exit on the fourth floor (after two sit-down breaks) and hitch a ride on the elevator.
On the upside, arriving ruddy faced and sweaty earned him many pitying looks—as if his determination to work with such obvious illness revealed the sadness of his existence. It also granted him a much needed distance.
Seated in an armless chair, staring at a triple-split screen showing him a ticker of the NYSE, a tech feed that displayed up-to-the-minute articles about the latest breakthroughs, and his current assignment—a Microsoft Word template for sending clients appreciation letters—Josh sighed.
His pressing duty involved pasting the template into emails, inserting a personal missive to make each client feel the letter had been crafted specifically for them—a stock they purchased, well-wishes for a spouse or child by name—and sending it to the appropriate broker.
Listening to the patter of keys and senseless prattle of coworkers in neighboring cubicles for the past hour, he remained idle; shocked this was his reality.
A steady hum dominated this world. His Brooks Brothers suit made him feel like a dressed dog, but not a lovable Cocker Spaniel dressed as a pirate on Halloween. He felt more like a Doberman wearing a hot pink tutu.
Every time he tried to bite the bullet and rejoin society by obeying work, home, and social norms, memories of Betaloome hijacked his brain.
He recalled his pledge while washing off the demonic death spray during his river swim: quitting his job and joining a gym that taught grappling, strikes, and submissions. It had seemed so simple at the time, but here now, it seemed ridiculous. Pre-train for months to have the physical means to begin training? Quit his job and do what? Earn less money, get hospitalized?
Karen loved their downtown condominium, but on paper, he owned it. Well, he split the equity 30/70 with the bank. Karen needed Josh for all of her future plans. If he quit, she would rage. He would beg forgiveness, grant some concession, and in the end, forfeit a little more authority in the shared decisions to allow things to return to normal.
Grabbing the mouse, he opened another window on his screen. The clients, along with their personalized paragraphs, were organized alphabetically. Make the changes, email them to agents to be printed, signed, and mailed. How dull.
Closing the window, he remembered leaping twenty feet into the air and grabbing the rung to the ladder of ascension; he remembered dropping thirty feet down and booming onto the sand.
“Josh, my man. There you are.”
Without turning, Josh knew how Bruce Capers, his supervisor, would be posed: his blonde hair crested to the side like a breaking wave; his right arm gripping the top of the partition; his left holding work for Josh.
Bruce’s work for Josh.
“You feeling better?”
Swiveling, Josh frowned at his accuracy. This life carried frightening predictability. With minimal effort, he could have placed the baby blue button down shirt—one size smaller than necessary to highlight the swell of his lateral muscle under the outstretched arm.
Josh wanted to laugh at the absurdity of Bruce thinking he was strong. Instead, he swallowed a rising lump and faced a reality—his body was the joke.
“Josh, you look a bit pale, bud.”
It’s JoshRidley, asshole, he thought, but simply pursed his lips.
“You feeling up to speed, my man?”
Josh considered the many layers of the question.
“I hope so, because I have a real need for you. The Meisenheimers want me to update their portfolio. Basically assume the same risk and growth goals, but stick them in some sexier industries so they can have crap to talk about with the schmooze buddies.”
So basically, do my job. Josh exhaled. “They have me addressing these appreciation letters. That’ll take me into tomorrow’s lunch.”
Bruce leaned forward and inspected the screen. “Hell, Josh, I’ll text my niece, drop her a C-note, and she’ll have that knocked out before the day’s over.” He returned to the entryway and folded his arms, careful not to crease the manila folder in his off hand. “I’ll do that for you, you do this for me.”
Josh thought about standing in an immense cavern, smelling the scent of a hand-held torch, his sight limited to eight feet as the cracks and snaps of a rising demon queen jacked up his heartrate; and he repressed the irrational building urge to lunge and tackle Bruce.
“Josh.” Bruce snapped his fingers. “You down too much cough syrup this morning, did ya?”
Chugging gallons of codeine wouldn’t induce his level of lethargy.
“Let me know you’re okay, big dawg. These are some of the wealthiest people in the midwest. I need to know you’re up to it.”
Josh perked up as an idea formed. “I am feeling a bit under the weather, but if these clients are that special, give me your log-in and password so I can look over their entire portfolio, learn their investing personalities. I’ll lay out something nice, and you can take all the credit.” Josh extended his hand.
“Whoa, Kemosabe. Let’s slow down.” Bruce tilted his head, studying Josh. “I can’t share my log-in. That’s company credo numero uno.”
Dropping his arm, Josh swiveled back, giving his attention to the screen, letting Bruce think it over.
As their financial advisor, Bruce had access to the client’s accounts, allowing him to move money on their behalf. He clearly trusted Josh enough to outline his client’s investment future, but he wanted to execute the deal. Push the red button, so to speak.
After clearing his throat, and staring at Josh’s profile with a never-before-seen curiosity, Bruce said, “That will help you out?”
“It will help more than me, but yes.”
“And y
ou’ll be able to hook ‘em up solid?”
Josh swallowed, and nodded. There might be quite a lot he and the Meisenheimers account could hook up.
“I guess if that’s what it takes. I’ll jot ‘em down, and bring ‘em by. As long as you agree, it’s a use, destroy, and forget type of deal.”
“You have my word on that.”
“Hook ‘em up solid, but not too concrete. Toss an option or two in there that might shift in the upcoming year. Keep ‘em happy, but needing yours truly.”
Josh’s thoughts drifted to the people who needed him, and their happiness. They numbered in the tens of thousands, narrowing with Bristalius, Reysona, Flavius, and Junea, the beautiful woman carrying his child.
XVIII
“Twenty suns have set since JoshRidley departed,” Bellora said, her voice echoing off the chamber walls.
“Inhabiting the temple is forbidden. We keep it tidy and leave each night, nothing more.”
“Her words ring true, my dear,” Cronin said from a chair beside the over sized mattress. “Gods always arrive and leave along the same timeline. We must rejoice at the deeds JoshRidley accomplished, and that he gifted Reysona with an heir.”
Junea rolled onto her back and flopped her arms on the stiff mattress. “I understand these words, but I feel his lineage growing in me. A bold and dense lifeforce. And I am most connected to his father while lying here. When sleeping, I dream we are together, and staying in the temple allows father and son to bond.”
“Yes dear, and perhaps when your child is born, he will spend his days hidden within these walls. But for now, we must devise a method of protecting you and seeing this child to term.”
“He wouldn’t have to hide,” Bellora said while crossing her arms. “If JoshRidley sired more than one heir, our sons could have banded together, fought off the golden guards with grace and finesse.”
“And done what against RobertJohnson, against the army of Atlantis?” Cronin asked
“JoshRidley was a stupid, selfish god.”
“Bellora,” Junea snapped. “I am sorry you ache, but JoshRidley granted us respite from the encroaching demons. He slayed a trapper that used Reysona as an animal pen. He cared for us.”
“Cared for you.”
“Another god will arrive within your lifetime. Your beauty will captivates.”
“What do you know? The blowing wind rewards Junea. Why, because you burst from this father instead of mine?” Bellora shook her head as she wiped a tear from her cheek. Softening her tone, she added, “Reysona will not host another god for a thousand years. I had a god before me and failed.” She dropped her head. “I am sorry, my lady. I should celebrate your favor. My regrets will pass. May I be excused?”
“Yes, drink a glass of vintage, and forget your troubles for a night.”
“Yes, m’lady.” She hurried off.
“Be where we can summon you,” Cronin shouted. When she exited the chamber, he addressed Junea. “I worry about that child.”
Sitting up, Junea stared at the set of wicker chairs beside the bed and remembered when Josh lifted her as if she were a pup and placed her on the bed beside him. Why couldn’t he be their god? Betaloome offered enough land for two rulers. RobertJohnson did nothing for the lower realms.
“She is a woman scorned,” Cronin continued. “I fear she holds you responsible for her pain. Do not let her in your plans. We have enough worry about the golden guard noticing your absence.”
Looking up, realizing her father’s words had barely registered, she shook her head. “Bellora has been with me since her sixth year. She values my happiness as much as her own.” Ignoring her father’s scowl, she continued, “If the golden guards noticed her, she means little else to them. My concern lay in who they will interrogate, and the severity of their questioning.”
A silence followed as each understood Cronin would be their first person of interest.
RobertJohnson accepted that gods would always arrive and never disputed their right to visit. With every citizen aware that becoming impregnated by a god meant death to the mother and all who concealed her, it rarely happened.
Women honored with completing duties before a god often lined themselves with gelled lambskin and drank barren ale during the god’s visit. On day one hundred, the bedmates came forward to show they carried no child. For those too scared, a few well-placed inquiries always identified them. If still flat of stomach, everyone survived, beyond sparse cruelties endemic to Gatacon and the golden guard.
Reysona presented unique challenges to Atlantean rule. They lay the farthest south from the pointus ascendus ramps. The town had been founded by a half-god who escaped the purge when the original seeding gods returned to Earth. Being founded on dissidence lent Reysonans a greater sense of rebellion.
The relationship Junea and their visiting god shared had stayed hidden from everyone except her father’s most loyal servants.
Even now, no one knew she lived here. Common townsfolk accepted the story of Cronin sending her away after noticing how cozy she and JoshRidley had gotten when she escorted him from the temple on the first raid.
“Do not fret over me,” her father said. “My plan to subvert inquisition is unfolding well.”
“Your plans often do.”
“RobertJohnson naming JoshRidley a gay ball player helped us. Using my men to act as his lovers has led us to tales accepted throughout Bristalius.”
“You should be ashamed,” Junea said.
“Would you rather a sword pierce your abdomen?”
Her hand instinctively covered her belly. Shaking off the fear, she winced at the flash of JoshRidley joining with a grunting male. Male coupling seemed absurd to her, a deviancy spread through the wicked exposure of one previously infected.
Recalling JoshRidly’s reaction to her adding a male servant brought a smile to her face. He was no gay ball player.
“You haven’t been witness to a god’s departure,” Cronin said. “When handled properly, it is a smooth event, as the last four have been. When I was a child, the golden guard, headed by a young Gatacon, arrived in Sabine and killed a dozen maidens in fashions I won’t describe. There are stories of them purging every woman of age in a Carmanthian village before my time. JoshRidley admired and supported our white lie. I suspect our worst fate will be Gatacon wanting a taste of the male takers Josh feigned to lay with. Though troublesome, they are prepared for that.”
Junea tilted her head and swallowed. These men were doing these brave things for her, in a way. “The thought of being the cause of their danger troubles me.”
“Everyone who knows of the life in you understands the importance of her birth.”
“Him, father.”
“Him, her. It matters not, but a half-god can keep Reysona safe. She will be the first to bless our village, and that only happens if you come to term.” Leaning back, he reached beside him and said, “I have a surprise for you.”
Moving to the edge of the bed, she watched her father lift a tablet from the floor and lay it across his lap.
“This reveals the location of a floating mattress hidden two days’ journey from here.”
Junea’s heartrate spiked as she thought of a properly-constructed floating mattress for her pregnancy. Hiking two days beyond the wall, spending a night in its domain, tempered that thrill.
“This hidden stronghold is capable of housing dozens of aides in comfort, and has all you need to give birth and recover in safety.”
Junea moved both of her hands to her belly. She would need at least two aides. One to help with the birth and the other to gather food and bring water. With the dangers beyond the wall, each spare man increased their odds of success.
“Surviving the trek will be the greatest obstacle. That is why your team will be small, and nimble. Flavius is learning the trail as we speak.”
Junea snatched at a particular section of the blanket, brought it to her nose, and breathed deeply. The overpowering odor of JoshRidley’s
salty manhood, turning sour over time, brought tremendous comfort. She would bring his child into the world.
“You must be ready to leave by week’s end. In another month, the weight in your belly will hamper movement and force you to rest much of the day.”
Junea traced her hand along the cloth covering her firm stomach. She had never left the village, had never considered venturing beyond the safety of the gates, but that was before a special life grew inside of her.
Meeting her father’s eyes, she said, “Tell me what to do and I will be ready.”
XIX
‘Off to Apotheosis,’ a single message was written on the postcard, inked in cursive, signed with an elaborate S for Skinner.
From his dining room table, Josh stared at the postcard in stunned disbelief.
“What does it mean?” Karen said from behind her laptop.
It meant Josh had seen the last of his wily pal, Kyle Skinner. Unless he returned to LLI and entered Apotheosis himself, which was not going to happen. Even Skinner’s silver tongue couldn’t convince him to choose the mega world over the one personal to him.
The jungles of Betaloome held dominion over his thoughts to the point where he couldn’t help but check the time every two hours and conclude more than a full day had passed in Betaloome. With all the danger his loved ones faced, each day brought fair odds of someone dying. Truth added an urgency to his formulating plans.
Bruce’s login and password strummed his mind.
“Where is Apotheosis,” Karen asked, “in the Caribbean or something? Is your friend going to some resort? Is that why there are half-naked men on the front?”
Turning the card over, he examined the lone bodybuilder on the postcard. Josh understood why she would be curious about one out-of-shape man sending another a postcard with a cryptic message and a photo of a bulky, tanned, and oiled up guy posed on a stage, wearing a Speedo.
Her eyes darted toward him every few seconds. He knew she suspected him of something nefarious the past weekend, but he also knew sharing the truth would bring gales of laughter, and possibly a call to a mental health professional.
