The Gods' Day to Die

by David Welch

  He pulled the vest on, then realized he still had only boxer shorts on. He left and returned in cargo pants and a belt, and began clipping on weapons. He strapped an ancient xiphos sword on one hip, a bowie knife on the other. Around them he clipped two holsters, each carrying nine-millimeter Berettas. From the center of his safe he withdrew an AA-12 shotgun, an automatic version he’d paid a Mexican smuggler to bring over the border. He loaded up three ten-round magazines, placing them in the thigh pockets of his cargo pants. Finally he found some more magazines for the Berettas and stuffed them in his front and back pockets.

  A crash resonated through the house as the front door gave way. They were in.

  And he was off. Hermes sprinted out into the hallway. It was an open hall, overlooking a vast atrium above the main entryway. A police-style handheld battering ram lay on the floor near the door. Three figures cautiously entered the house, dressed in civilian clothes but carrying submachine guns. One looked up and gave a shout.

  Hermes fired, a heavy slug flinging the man back toward the door. The fool gave another shout, this one in agony, as most of his guts vanished in a gout of hot metal.

  The others opened fire. Hermes sprinted for the staircase, where the atrium ended and a wall began. Ducking behind the corner, he heard the men calling to each other in Russian.

  “He’s upstairs!” one shouted.

  The Slavic tongue confirmed his suspicion. It was Lenka, his psychotic nephew. He’d found Hermes and come, ready to kill all who reminded him of his inescapable mortality. The man couldn’t live forever, and didn’t seem able to tolerate anyone who could.

  Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Hermes crouched low, swung around the corner, and fired point-blank at an approaching gunman. The man flew backward, tumbling down the stairs, most of his neck spattered on the gunman behind him. Another came close behind, peppering the corner with bullets.

  But Hermes was no fool. He’d built the house at great expense, using heavy materials, should just such an occasion arise. The small bullets of the submachine guns struck hard wood and stopped dead. Hermes smiled and swung his gun around the corner, keeping himself concealed.

  The man had reached the top step, and found himself facing a gun barrel. He moved to duck but the weapon roared, the force of the slug flinging him over the railing. He fell through the atrium, crashing to the hard tile floor of the entryway.

  Now many steps came, and many bullets. They pounded into the walls, again and again, shredding even the heavy wood of the corner. Hermes retreated back down the enclosed section of the upstairs hall, hiding in the doorway of his office. There he raised his gun and waited for his foe to reach the top of the stairs.

  They came in a great burst, four people running and firing furiously to try to avoid the inevitable counterfire. But, safe in the doorway, Hermes watched their fire spray around wildly, hitting nothing but wall and floor.

  He fired two quick shots and brought down two of his attackers. They crumpled to the ground, but their compatriots advanced, running for the doorway as their weapons flung hot lead his way. Hermes dropped back into his office, darting to a door that connected to the guest bedroom just down the hall.

  He ducked inside and paused to listen. One man was coming through the office, the other fiddling with the knob of the bedroom door. Hermes stepped up to the door, placed the shotgun dead center, and let loose.

  Two rounds splintered the wood and gutted the man behind it. Hermes spun, unlocked and opened the window, swung his legs over, and leapt for the ground. As he did, the door to his office gave way, a gunman charging in.

  It was only ten feet to the ground. He hit and rolled, then sprung up and ran behind a nearby knoll. Bullets struck the ground behind him, tearing up dirt and cactus. From behind the knoll he stood and emptied his remaining rounds into the bedroom window. The gunman in the window saw him and ducked back, avoiding the hail of shells.

  Hermes crouched and slapped in another magazine. People were streaming out of the house. He counted at least fifteen of them as he retreated from the place, darting past scrub and into the withered rows of dead fruit trees. Shouts followed him, people sprinting after him, guns blazing. Rounds chewed up the trees around him, cracking the dried wood.

  He headed west. It was only a mile to the mountains. Once there he’d have the advantage of the high ground, and plenty of rocky furrows to hide in. But halfway through the field he stopped, a cold dread gripping him. On a road a quarter-mile ahead, barely visible through the trees, he saw a black SUV. Its doors were open. Moments later he spotted four people running through the abandoned orchard, closing on him. Turning back, he saw fifteen more, closing quickly.

  So he charged on, more likely to kill four than fifteen. The shotgun barked in his hands as he ran, catching one as he moved to raise his submachine gun. The man went down, and Hermes leapt violently left, avoiding a hail of fire from the other three. He started west again, watching as the three men blocking him scrambled to impede his new path. He laid down a carpet of fire, his shells destroying branches and showering the enemy in wood scraps. The barrage forced them to hide behind the trees, buying him precious seconds. He wrenched himself left again. The sound of gunfire filled his ears. Every step he took sideways meant his followers were one step closer.

  The three men were up, and laying waste to the orchard, their weapons on full auto. Lead tore up the trees around him. A sharp pain struck his leg, and he went down, rolling on the ground. Then he quickly spun to a sitting position, blasting the rest of his magazine at the three men as they approached. The shells tore into the two lead men, sending gouts of blood spewing from gaping wounds. They fell dead as the last one ducked behind a tree.

  Hermes tried to get up, but his leg wouldn’t take the weight. Glancing down, he saw a small tear in his pants over his thigh, the fabric around it soaked with blood.

  He was down, and fifteen angry men approached, guns blazing. Seething, he slapped in his last magazine, taking aim. He carpeted the approaching men with shells. They dove to escape, but some weren’t so lucky. Three bodies jerked and fell to the dirt, bleeding profusely. Hammer blows struck Hermes’ chest. The Kevlar ate the bullets, but not the impact. He felt his ribs crack and bit back an agonized scream.

  He pulled one of his pistols, firing instinctively at the dozen remaining gunmen as they closed. They were twenty yards away, not an easy shot with a handgun for most. But he’d been using the damn things since they’d been invented. One gunman went down, a hole in his forehead. Hermes fired again, catching a second man in the neck. The thug pitched forward, choking on his own blood.

  Another hail of bullets struck the Kevlar. Two rounds caught his hand, knocking the gun out of it. The gunmen drew near, mere feet from him. The firing stopped as the mercenaries stalked closer, clearly intending to take him alive.

  So Lenka can have the pleasure!

  With blinding speed for a man so injured, he pulled his xiphos and stabbed. The nearest gunman was caught by surprise, and the blade sank deep into his gut. He screamed and grabbed at the blade, desperately trying to pull it out. Hermes laughed defiantly, twisting the blade. A figure ran up from his left. Hermes moved to pull the sword from the dying man, but pain shot from his broken ribs. He lost his grip, barely able to keep from passing out.

  He shouldn’t have bothered. The man on his left smashed the butt of his gun down on Hermes’ head, and everything went black.

  It was the pain he felt first. It pounded for a good minute before he was alert enough to detect light in his eyes. The world swirled for a bit, then slowly resolved.

  Then it went red, blood trickling in his eye. Hermes made no move to wipe it away; he couldn’t. Two men were holding his arms, forcing him to his knees. Iron grips pressed down on his shoulders. Pain radiated down through his shattered ribs. Even if he’d been strong enough to overpower these men, he doubted he could move his arms enough
to do it.

  “We got him, Mr. Sidorov,” said one of the men holding him.

  A sickly, thin figure emerged from the orchard, half obscured by windswept dust. As he drew close, Hermes saw the familiar gray eyes, a salt-and-pepper four-day beard, and thinning hair.

  “Lenka,” Hermes spat. “You had to kill the girl too?”

  “Loose ends, yes?” Lenka said. “That is what the Americans call it. I don’t like them.” His breathing was heavy and raspy, his voice a classic smoker’s voice.

  “All those bodies I left . . . seems like you got plenty of loose ends,” said Hermes.

  Lenka laughed, a phlegmy sound, and said, “The cops here bribe so easily . . . and so cheap. They’ll turn their heads for fifty thousand dollars.”

  Hermes didn’t respond, just coughed painfully. Lenka pulled a pistol from a holster on his waist and stalked forward, in front of Hermes. He crouched down and looked Hermes in the eyes.

  “Besides, do you think some soft, donut-eating American policemen would bring me down? You know people like me do not die at the hands of some fat man in a police car,” Lenka said. “If even the gods cannot kill me . . .”

  “Dammit, Lenka, you’re such a fucking ham,” Hermes snapped. “Do you think anybody’s fucking watching this? Do you think your damn hired guns care about your glorifying yourself? Just fucking get on with it!”

  Lenka frowned.

  “Uncle,” Lenka said, shaking his head sadly, “I have only a limited time on this Earth. So I must enjoy every moment. And I do enjoy American movies. They make the business of blood seem so . . . exciting. Important. Much more fun than the reality of crouching in this dusty, hot hellhole. So I will make this reality what I wish, including your last moments.”

  “Make reality what you wish,” Hermes said, laughing. “Imagine all you want, Lenka. It won’t change a damn thing. Look at you. What’s eating you inside? Cancer? Eh? You won’t reach sixty-five. You’ll be dead, and we’ll still be here. All because you never fucking learned to put down the cigarettes.”

  Lenka didn’t get angry. He simply frowned again.

  “Now who is playing to a camera that does not exist?” he asked.

  “As you said,” Hermes said with a bloody half smile, “I have only a limited time on this Earth, and I have to enjoy every moment.”

  “Hmmm,” Lenka said. He got to his feet and put the pistol to Hermes’ forehead. But he held it lackadaisically, as if he weren’t serious.

  “Bring her here,” he said to one of the gunmen behind him. “I want her to see.”

  Hermes cocked his head quizzically, watching a trio of men disappear. Moments later they reappeared, muscling a struggling young woman between them. She was naked, her petite body bruised and bleeding from a dozen cuts. Her light brown hair was caked with blood and dirt. Her face was puffy from beatings, her gray eyes mere slits among the swelling. But she was still familiar enough to make out, and that recognition made Hermes’ heart go cold. In front of him was his half sister, Athena.

  “Mother,” Lenka said, placing his fingers under her chin and lifting the swollen slits of her eyes to face Hermes. “Have you anything to say?”

  Recognition also flared in Athena’s eyes. She moved to speak, but a gunman slammed the butt of his rifle into her stomach, doubling her over.

  “I didn’t think so,” Lenka said, then turned back to Hermes. “Well, uncle. You may be right. My time here is short. But I assure you, I shall live long enough to see all of your family where you now are: kneeling before me, broken and moments from death. And when they are no more, my mother will join them. Say good-bye to this world. You have overstayed your welcome.”

  Hermes spit on the man. Lenka sighed, raised his gun, and fired.

  3

  Grand Lake, Colorado

  Desmond stared out the towering windows of Artemis’ “cabin.” He estimated that the house was just shy of four thousand square feet. It sat on five acres of land, perched on a slope fifty feet above and a hundred feet back from the lakeside. The grassy slope to the shore had been cleared of trees and pitched quickly to the water. A wooden staircase had been built into the hill, working its way to a large dock.

  It was a millionaire’s “cabin.”

  “So, Desmond,” Artemis said, walking up beside him and handing him a glass of wine. “You haven’t said a word since you entered my house. What is it you’re thinking right now?”

  “I’m thinking that if this goes somewhere, you’ll be asking for a prenup,” he said, sipping the wine.

  She laughed. “Yes, I suppose it’s a big place. But I like my space. Had to decide if I wanted more land and more solitude, or less land and a lake view.”

  “This much land, right outside Rocky Mountain National Park . . .”

  “You want to just cut to the point and ask me how much I’m worth?” she said. “Or should we beat around the bush a little more?”

  “I’m not actually that interested in a precise figure,” he said. “The size of this place tells me enough.”

  She cocked her head quizzically.

  “Besides,” he continued, “you’re not the only one with a fat wallet. How else do you think I can afford to be bushwhacking through the wilderness on a Wednesday?”

  “Could it be because your father left you eighty-three million dollars and half ownership of Taylor-Sinclair Aerospace?” Artemis asked, then took a sip.

  “You web-searched me?”

  “Can’t be too careful these days,” she said. “Plus, you did kinda look familiar.”

  “Yes . . . I’m practically a clone of my father,” he replied. “And all those media pricks plastering me on the news when Dad died didn’t help.”

  “Well, I assure you: I am not famous, and there’s no media snapping pictures here,” she said. “Only tourists on the lake ogling the expensive houses.”

  Desmond nodded, and sipped the wine.

  “Madeira?” he said.

  “No other,” she said. “Developed a taste for the stuff years ago.”

  “Isn’t this usually drunk after dinner?”

  “Rules are for wine snobs,” she said. “But I’m impressed you know that.”

  “Before my parents died, they bought stock in about a dozen vineyards,” Desmond said. “Always getting the best in. Pretty sure Dad would’ve left engineering for viticulture, except the man couldn’t even grow dandelions.”

  “That bad?” Artemis asked.

  Desmond smiled warmly, then said, “This is a man who once selected a fine piece of our backyard to put in a garden. Unfortunately, it had an old, half-dead maple tree on it. He decided he was going to use black powder to take it down, ’cause he saw it done once and knew it would break up the roots, which a chain saw wouldn’t. And he was an engineer with a doctorate, so he knew what he was doing! Unfortunately, his calculations as to how much powder he’d need were somewhat . . . excessive. He poured it in a hollow in the bottom of the tree, blocked it off, and blew the thing to pieces. Flaming bits of maple tree went everywhere. Half of the tree smashed into the porch, breaking the gas grill and the propane tank connected to the gas grill. And of course one of the smoldering pieces hit the spilled propane, so everything went up flames. The lawn, the trees, the back porch . . . my mother’s hammock . . . Luckily the fire department showed up in time to save the house. And of course the explosion did nothing to break up the roots. So just imagine walking through the Hamptons, past mansion after mansion of coiffed, manicured landscaping, then coming upon our place . . .”

  “And they let this man design planes?” Artemis said, chuckling.

  “Well, he was good at that. And as far as I know, there has never been a black powder-fueled airplane, so . . .” said Desmond.

  Artemis finished her wine, putting the glass down on a nearby coffee table.

  “Come on,” sh
e said,” I’ll give you the grand tour.”

  She led him through the house. Most of it was what you would expect in a home. He’d always wondered why exactly people gave tours of their homes to visitors. Sure, it helped if you needed to find the bathroom, but what exactly where they expecting you to see? That you had a bedroom and a fancy living room and a kitchen like everyone else? Or was it just a way of showing off? He could accept that explanation. A person could take pride in what they’d accomplished, and accomplishments usually led to monetary gain, which led to stuff. He’d always liked stuff. Having gone through a Buddhist phase in high school, he had discovered that not having desire, or the stuff that came of it, really wasn’t all that great. If that was the price of absolute peace, then he’d rather have a little conflict going on.

  The tour took an interesting turn when they made their way to the basement. It had been finished, transformed into a showcase.

  And in it were wonders.

  “My god . . .” he whispered, stepping off the stairs.

  “Like it?” she asked, grinning.

  He was speechless. Surrounding him was a museum, every corner covered with artifacts, weapons, and a thousand other objects that curators over the world would kill for. One wall was covered in weapons, hundreds of them. Swords spanning the epochs of history hung from the wall, everything from Renaissance fencing sabers to medieval blades, from a curving romphaia to an ancient-looking Greek xiphos. Above them were bows, dozens of bows.

  The next wall was covered in tapestries from a dozen cultures, made with a dozen methods. He could pick out one with Greek designs, others with Japanese screen-style paintings, and a third no doubt made by some tribe in the Southwest.

  The other walls were adorned in masks, religious objects, and clothing from various cultures and time periods. Desmond spun slowly, taking it in.

  “I see you don’t sit on your money,” he finally said. “This is magnificent.”

  “Got an attic full of stuff too,” Artemis said, smiling. “Something of a collector.”