Valhalla Virus

by Nick Harrow

  “Fuck,” Gunnar said.

  Fighting his way through a hundred jötnar to reach their big boss was a losing proposition. There weren’t enough shells in his shotgun’s drums to kill them all, and it would only take one lucky shot from a monster to end his run. He surveyed the situation, looking for a way to reach his goal.

  There was one way to do this. The völva would definitely not go along with it, though, because it put Gunnar in a world of hurt if he screwed it up.

  “Okay,” he said. “It’s time to get some elevation.”

  Gunnar’s new plan wasn’t sane by any stretch of the imagination. Even in the best case, it was almost as risky as a headlong charge into the mob. But if it worked, he’d not only gain Gungnir but kill a bunch of jötnar. And, if he was honest with himself, that was reason enough to try it.

  Gunnar led the völva into the emergency stairwell to the right and began to climb.

  Dried blood stained the staircase, but the jötnar had left no bodies there. Gunnar was sure the missing corpses had ended up in the bellies of the beasts. It was one more crime he’d make them pay for. The Valknut throbbed in its socket at that thought. It was still changing him, strengthening him, preparing him for the battle that was to come. It ached for combat and the thrill of ripping the souls out of its enemies.

  “This is the season of the axe,” Gunnar whispered, unsure of where the words came from. “Yggdrasil’s roots must be watered with the blood of the impure, lest it rot away.”

  Bridget nodded, her eyes white as falling sleet. “The jarl speaks with Odin’s voice. It’s a good omen.”

  “Then let’s fuck some shit up,” Mimi said with a feral grin.

  Gunnar stopped at the twentieth floor and opened the exit door. He peered out into the hallway. When he saw no jötnar, the bodyguard gestured for the völva to follow him and hustled toward the echoing sound of the monster party below them.

  “Wait,” Bridget said, her voice pained. She stopped, leaned back against the wall, and pressed one hand to her forehead. “They’re doing something. A ritual. I can’t see its purpose. But there’s power down there, a lot of it. Nothing good can come of it.”

  Gunnar crouched down in front of the völva and looked up into her eyes. Tears ran down her cheeks. He cradled her face in his hands and asked, “How long before they finish?”

  Bridget shuddered as her eyes turned white. Her breath was a winter breeze against Gunnar’s face. “Not long,” she said, her voice coming from somewhere far away. “Minutes. Maybe even less. The Behemoth stirs.”

  Chapter 19

  HILDA WAS THROUGH FUCKING around with the jötnar cowards lurking at the edges of her territory. Those fools thought they were free to do as they wished in this new world. It was time they learned the truth.

  She and her war band had gathered around a small home east of the Strip’s north end. From the heady smell of marijuana oozing out of the place, it was a shitty grow lab or trim house. She’d sent a messenger to this place earlier in the day with a simple demand. Either the jötnar squatting here joined Hilda or their flesh would feed her war band. These idiots had made their choice when they tried to kill her messenger. Now, the war band would claim their due.

  “Get out here, you cowards,” she shouted. Her voice boomed through the night air, unnaturally loud. As its echoes faded away, the war chief sensed movement inside the house. A chill wind stirred blades of grass in the house’s vibrant green lawn. Starbursts of frost formed in the windows and spread icy tendrils across the glass. “You can’t hide from me. Make it easy on yourselves.”

  The war band, twenty jötnar armed with a collection of mismatched and homemade weapons, stomped their feet, eager to get on with the slaughter. A few of Hilda’s people still carried firearms. Most, though, wielded brutal machetes honed to a razor’s edge or spiked clubs made from baseball bats and thick nails. As the days of chaos had ticked past, the jötnar found themselves more comfortable with simpler implements of destruction.

  Hilda needed only the long retractable claws that extended from her fingertips. And, of course, the golden ring that encircled the middle finger of her left hand. Draupnir, the relic she’d claimed for Hyrrokkin’s glory, gave the jötunn strength she could never have imagined. It healed her wounds. And it showed her their true enemy.

  Fucking Gunnar. He was far bigger than he had any right to be, and far meaner than any human she’d ever met. Draupnir had whispered to Hilda about how dangerous Odin’s pawn was. How careful she had to be to make sure the ring didn’t fall into his hands.

  And that was why the jötunn kept the ring hidden under a teensy version of her cloak of smoke and shadow. It drained her energy but only a little. More importantly, it kept Gunnar’s cursed völva from finding the ring before Hyrrokkin could use it to usher in the new golden age of jötnar.

  “I don’t think they’re coming out.” Hilda’s lieutenant, an ape-like bruiser with a row of short, jagged horns jutting from his thick brow, dragged her out of her memories and back to the present. “You want we should kill ’em?”

  Hilda nodded. That was the way of the jötnar. If you wanted to rule, there was no room for exceptions to your edicts. You gave people one chance to bend the knee, and if they refused, you broke their backs and displayed their bodies as a lesson to anyone else stupid enough to oppose you. The war band’s leader raised her hand overhead, the gold ring flashing on her finger. “Wipe them out!” she roared.

  The war band howled and charged the house. Those with firearms fired through the windows. The largest jötunn charged the front door, lowered his shoulder, and knocked it off its hinges. Half the war band flooded through the shattered barriers at the front of the house, whooping and hollering in the thrill of battle. The other half circled around to catch anyone fleeing through the back door.

  Hilda’s war band swept through the home like a whirlwind, so fiercely violent their blades and clubs splashed blood and viscera through the broken windows onto the crisp green blades of grass.

  Hilda stood alone, her eyes closed, reveling in the wanton destruction she’d unleashed on the rebels. It was glorious. Energy rushed out of the house as the assholes in there died. With every death dedicated to her name, the band’s leader grew stronger. A small portion of what she claimed went on to Hyrrokkin, increasing the goddess’s power and giving her the strength to defeat their enemies. It was a pyramid scheme built on blood and death, and Hilda loved that she was near its top.

  When her war band was strong enough, Hilda would lead them into battle against their true foe. They’d capture Odin’s pawn along with the bitches who served him.

  And she’d keep that big fucker chained in her quarters. She’d use him until her belly grew heavy with their children. The völva would serve the warriors in her band, and their hellish offspring would become the shock troops that would lead Hilda to dominion over her new territory.

  That thought brought a smile to her face. Her eyes were suddenly half lidded, heavy with dark desire. She could almost imagine the pawn’s cock inside her. Hilda couldn’t wait to milk every drop of seed from him.

  And then she’d tear his heart out and eat it raw.

  That dream wasn’t as farfetched as some of her allies thought. There was no one who could stand against Hilda.

  One of the war band jumped out of the house’s front window with a body in tow. He slung it onto the grass at Hilda’s feet. More of her warriors followed, leaving their grisly trophies for their queen’s inspection. Finally, Hilda’s lieutenant appeared in the doorway. He held a struggling jötunn by the back of the neck and steered it across the front lawn.

  “We weren’t doing anything,” the jötunn snarled. “Bogie already chased us out of Fremont. We were looking for a place to shack up until we could—”

  Hilda had heard that name too many times now. She backhanded the prisoner, a casual slap that split his lips and knocked two of his teeth out onto the grass. The thrill of violence sent a shiver down her spi
ne. She admired the blood that smeared across her golden ring. “Who is this Bogie, and where can I find him?”

  Hilda recognized a threat when she heard it. From the sound of it, this Bogie had a force to rival her war band. She could not allow defiance. She’d hunt him to his lair, then gut him. If he had any decent warriors in his band, she’d even let some of them join her.

  “I’m right here,” a gruff voice called from behind Hilda.

  She shoved the prisoner away and whirled to face this new threat.

  If the fucker in front of her was Bogie, he was certainly big enough to be a problem. The piece of shit stood ten feet tall, a pair of enormous horns curling from his forehead like a ram. He wore only a leather loincloth and a holster hung from a wide belt around his waist. That held a ludicrous golden pistol that looked more like something out of a cartoon than a weapon for the battlefield.

  Bogie smiled at Hilda, a mouth full of sharp, white teeth framed by a pair of tusks that emerged from his lower jaw. “Like what you see?”

  “What are you doing in my territory?” she asked, her claws bursting from the tips of her fingers.

  Bogie spread his hands wide and showed Hilda his palms. “I came alone. Just wanted to give you a message.”

  The rest of the war band chuckled at that as they gathered around Hilda to confront this newcomer. As big as Bogie was, he was nowhere near the size of her lieutenant, and Hilda had four more warriors the same size or bigger under her control. If she couldn’t kill this arrogant prick by herself, her boys would pitch in to finish the job. But the war band’s leader was curious. She wanted to know what kind of jötunn Bogie was and whether he was a real threat to her. She raised one hand to quiet her crew, then nodded toward the intruder. “Let’s hear it.”

  “I’m recruiting for Arthur Drake,” Bogie said. “Join the team and I’ll make sure you keep your command. All we ask is for your support in our mission and to follow orders when necessary.”

  It was Hilda’s turn to laugh. She shook her head, the short horns that emerged from her temples slashing at the air. “You’ve got thirty seconds to get out of here. After that, we’ll pull you to pieces and roast your balls over our fire.”

  Bogie’s grin never faltered. He kept his hands raised to show he was no threat and backed away from Hilda. “Okay,” he said. “I’m going. Just remember that he gave you a chance.”

  HILDA LOUNGED ON TOP of the pile of fur coats that served as her throne and watched her band celebrate their victory. They’d butchered the rebellious jötnar at the house and now roasted the choicest cuts over a roaring fire at the heart of the Neon Boneyard. Hilda admired her war band’s exuberance and the changes that had taken place during their raid this afternoon. The signs that surrounded her had once been landmarks of the old world. Now, bones and timbers carved into sinuous shapes had taken the place of the ancient glass and metal. The runes hacked into their surfaces glowed with a rainbow of unnatural colors that rivaled the fire’s light. With every kill, her fortress became stronger, more a part of her.

  Hilda felt powerful here, unstoppable and invulnerable.

  But she couldn’t shake the strange feeling that Bogie had awakened inside her. She wasn’t afraid of him, but his confidence in the face of overwhelming force had shaken her. What did that motherfucker know that made him so smug?

  “Fuck it,” she snapped. What she wanted was to smoke a few bales of the weed her team had looted. Unfortunately, Hilda had learned that she could smoke as much as she wanted and never get more than the barest tingle of a buzz. The ring healed her too quickly for the smoke to get her high. To feel much of anything, Hilda had to push herself very, very hard.

  The claw on her right index finger slid free of its sheath, the ivory tip sparkling in the supernatural light that surrounded her throne. She pressed the point against the skin on the inside of her thigh, just above her knee. The pain was instant and exhilarating. She dragged her natural weapon up under her skirt of leather scraps, drew in a long, hissing breath as the pain of her wound warred against the pleasure of the ring’s healing magic. Agony and ecstasy pulled her body in two different directions before stitching it back together.

  A scream dragged Hilda’s attention away from her amusement. She recognized that voice as one of her warriors and stood up on her throne to peer out over the crowd. Her lieutenant leapt over the fire to stand by her side, a machete in each of his hands. More of Hilda’s warriors joined him, two armed with ugly assault rifles, two more with spiked bats. They formed a defensive perimeter in front of her, though Hilda didn’t need their protection. Anyone who tried to hurt her would find out she was immortal.

  And then they’d die.

  “What the fuck is going on?” she shouted.

  “We’ve got an intruder trying to push through the gate,” her lieutenant responded. “I sent Karl and Jack to check it out.”

  “A single intruder?” Hilda felt her claws slide from within her fingers and shouldered her way through the defensive cordon in front of her. This was perfect. She needed a fight. “I’ll take care of it.”

  She was halfway across the encampment, her face striped with neon purple and pink lines from the glowing bones, when a series of loud cracks erupted from the gate. That horrible sound was followed a moment later by a wet, gurgling scream. A body crashed into the center of the encampment, its head twisted around, both arms shattered, its legs bent into unnatural positions. That was Karl, and he was very, very dead.

  Hilda tried to wrap her head around the violence required to do that to a jötunn. Her soldier had been one of the strongest creatures she’d ever known. Just the day before he’d torn the door off a pickup and used it to smash the brains out of a half-dozen other jötnar to prove his worth to Hilda.

  What the fuck had done this?

  Despite the growing ball of unease in her belly, Hilda picked up her pace. She was Hyrrokkin’s chosen ring bearer. Whoever had come knocking on her door was about to discover what a terrible mistake he’d made.

  Another scream tore through the air, and another body hit the ground in front of Hilda. She didn’t recognize this one, though it bore her brand on the back of its left hand. The jötunn’s face had been so mutilated it was impossible to tell whether it had been a man or woman before disaster had befallen it. Its body was compressed and twisted, spine bulging from a wound between its shoulder blades.

  The sight of her warriors, broken and bleeding. drove Hilda over the edge. She stormed toward the gate, howling with berserk fury. She shredded her clothes, stripping the leather from her body and casting it aside. “Get away from the gate,” she raged. “This one’s mine.”

  But there were no warriors remaining at the gate. A slim figure, tall for a human but short for a jötunn, stood in the shadowed opening between the Neon Boneyard and the outside world. Blood dripped from his hands and splashed under the toes of his expensive shoes. His dark pinstripe suit was sticky with crimson stains and darker fluids. He smiled at Hilda, then raked his filthy fingers through his expertly coiffed hair. He was tall, but other than the deep blue tint to his skin and the short horns that jutted from the top of his head, could have passed for human. “I’ve killed five of your men,” he said. “Do you want to be number six?”

  Hilda exploded into motion, her muscles fueled by the rage she felt at this asshole’s smug smile. Her claws flashed, eight blades so sharp the air screamed as it passed over them. She didn’t know who this jötunn was or where his power came from. It didn’t matter to her. She had Draupnir and Hyrrokkin’s guidance. This fucker was as good as dead.

  Except he wasn’t.

  The intruder caught her right wrist in an iron-hard grip. He pivoted on his back foot, dragging Hilda off-balance and twisting her arm behind her. He pulled his chin back to let her left hand pass by his face, then drove a savage knee into her chest.

  The blow knocked the wind from Hilda’s lungs. Its impact jarred something loose inside her, and she coughed blood onto the ground
. But the ring healed the damage as quickly as it came. The jötunn laughed and twisted, heedless of the bones in her arm that snapped, ignoring the pain in her shoulder as she ripped it out of socket to attack her opponent. Her move caught the asshole by surprise, and her spinning backhand hammered across his jaw.

  The man’s head snapped hard to the side in a spray of blood and spittle. His eyes fluttered for a moment, rolling back into their sockets as his brain rattled around inside his skull. For that one moment, Hilda thought she’d won.

  And then the man turned back to her, his hand still locked around her mutilated wrist, eyes glowing with an infernal rage. “I gave you a chance,” he croaked. “You should’ve taken it.”

  His fist slammed into Hilda’s nose. His elbow crashed into the side of her neck and drove her to her knees. The pointed toe of his designer shoe crumpled her trachea with a sound like a fistful of bubblewrap. He twisted her arm harder, forcing shards of broken bone through her skin. The beating went on for what felt like ages, Hilda’s body so battered, her brain so rattled, she couldn’t make sense of what was happening.

  But even as the beating went on and on, Hilda knew she wasn’t defeated. The ring would never let her die. When the man turned his attention to a different part of her body, whatever abuse he delivered healed in the blink of an eye. He could make Hilda suffer, but he couldn’t kill her. Not as long as she wore the goddess’s ring.

  “Is that all you got?” she croaked when he took a moment to catch his breath. “The goddess won’t let you kill me. Give up, now, and I’ll show you mercy.”