by DeWitt, Dan
Chapter 27: Prologue?
The young security officer handed the two new employees their access badges. "Welcome to Charon Biotics International."
The blonde woman reached forward and took her badge. Her shirtsleeve pulled back a little, giving the officer a glimpse of her scrollwork tattoo underneath.
He said, "That's cool. I've always wanted to get a tattoo, but I never really found one I liked enough."
She accepted the badge and winked. "Just let me know, sugar. I know a girl whose work you'll definitely like."
He smiled and blushed a little. He fumbled with the second badge. "Um, here you go, Mr. Driscoll."
The man took the badge and clipped it to his lapel. "Please," he said, thinking of a gift, a promise fulfilled, from a friend. "My friends call me Drummer."
Chapter 28: Afterword
If you held a gun to my head, I honestly couldn't tell you with certainty the first zombie movie I ever saw, but I'm pretty sure it was the original Night of the Living Dead. I remember that my mother had a Betamax tape (ask your parents) double feature of that and Reefer Madness.
High comedy. Pun intended.
I must have been around twelve years old, and it scared the crap out of me. Those shambling bastards were unnerving, for sure, but I didn't get nigh-obsessed with zombies until my mid-to-late twenties. If there's a zombie movie marathon running on SyFy, there's a good chance I'm planted in front of my TV. Zombie novels? I'm in. Same for video games. But now, when I see a zombie film or read a piece of fiction, I look at it with a more critical eye. I've learned a couple things that will come in handy during the inevitable zombocalypse: don't ever split up because you "think" an area's clear; cover your arms at all times; when barricading yourself inside a house, nail the boards on the outside of the door, because zombies generally don't know how to pull.
The most significant thing I learned rocked my understanding of the zombie genre. After I'd thought about it at length (I'm sure my work productivity dropped waaaay off during these times) I came to the realization that, with apologies to George Romero, the slow, shambling zombies couldn't possibly overrun the world. Or a state. Or a town. Or a moderately-sized health food store. It just ain't happening.
I initially fought the fast zombie (popularized by works like 28 Days Later and the Left 4 Dead games) on the grounds that they're not real damn zombies. They never died and came back; they were just pissed-off people.
Then I started writing Orpheus. I came to the conclusion that, not only were the fast zombies workable, but in the right situation were even more terrifying than the slow ones. Max Brooks made a great case for their existence in The Zombie Survival Guide. In it, Brooks said that the zombies would retain the physical capabilities that they had in life for a short time, but that their muscles would have no way of repairing themselves because, hey, they're dead. I liked it, and incorporated it.
The Jekylls? Simple. I couldn't think of anything more horrifying than being caught somewhere in between life and zombification. Being certain that it's impossible to come up with a truly original zombie archetype, I just tried to put my own spin on them, and the rest of the book fell into place. The scene where Tim first meets a Jekyll in the library (and the resulting harrowing escape) is one of my favorites. Put these three variants together (along with the mysterious simultaneous outbreaks on the island...were you wondering about that?) and I believe I have a somewhat plausible recipe for zombie domination.
The thing about the walking dead is that, in my opinion, they should never be the stars, but they're excellent in a supporting role (I'd originally joked about an actor here, but my wife made me take it out, dammit). A zillion other people have taken the "zombies as metaphor for out-of-control consumerism, etc." angle, and that's valid. What I'm more interested in, however, is what zombies bring out of the survivors. They reveal the truth in all of the characters they interact with. The ones who rise to the occasion and take charge have always been leaders, they just never had the right opportunity. The ones who enjoy killing zombies too much...almost as if they were merely waiting for an excuse to kill the people they see every day...they've always been sociopaths. And so on.
I wanted to avoid putting the latter in the spotlight too much because, despite my occasional cynicism towards the human race, I want to believe that a true crisis brings out the best in us. And, frankly, nothing's less interesting to me than the guy who loves nothing more than gunning things down with no emotional conflicts to slow him. Bo-ring. If I'm bored writing it, you'll be bored reading it. An author can focus on believable human beings, or on larger-than-life unstoppable killing machines (which I also enjoy from time to time, by the way). Anyone who tries to do both ends up doing neither particularly well. I chose to focus upon real people in overwhelming circumstances, driven by our shared instincts: fear, love, survival, and, occasionally, revenge.
Orpheus is the result.
So, that's that. Thanks for coming this far.
I'd love to close this by referring to you, the reader, by some heartfelt sobriquet like Stephen King does with "Constant Reader." He earned that kind of loyalty a long time ago, and I'm not even close. But stick around, because I'm sure going to try.
Dan DeWitt
May2011
RAGNAROK
Preview
The horse dropped gently onto the earth in front of the modest hut, its hoofs making shallow hoof prints and barely a sound. Its wings, their rhythmic flapping not needed for the time being, folded in on themselves, making it easier for the rider to dismount. The rider’s movements were lithe and economical, befitting the role of both warrior and guide for others of that ilk.
Only the spear and shield slung over her shoulder disturbed the night silence, and even that was too slight for any dwellers to take notice. That was at once their disadvantage and good fortune, as they would most likely be dead before they would have cause to fear her, or even notice her presence.
She needed that child.
The world needed that child; she did not, could not, know when…but sometime. He was the key, the wildcard, the one who would tip the scales when the need arose.
She stole to the rear window. She needn’t have bothered. Whether it was due to muscles fatigued from a day’s work, sickness, or drink, this Midgard town was deeply asleep. More than they know, she thought bitterly. More than they could comprehend.
She placed a hand on the sill and leapt through the open window. Her landing was silent, feline. This room was empty, as she knew it would be. The child would be asleep in the adjoining room, kept company by two thieves, ransomers, and would-be murderers.
She counted eleven steps, and then plunged her spear through the heart of the one sitting in the chair, the one who was supposed to be on guard duty. As a warrior, one for whom honor and trustworthiness were more important to her than her own life, this dereliction of duty appalled her. Even among this element, his charge was to protect others, and he failed with no thought whatsoever of consequence. She knew his type, and they were legion.
The irony of her own betrayal, which she was in the process of committing, was not lost, but it was rationalized away for the time being: he was wrong to do what he did. All of his power could do nothing to change that.
The crib was next to the bed, in which the other kidnapper lay snoring. A glance told her that the child was fine, sleeping comfortably. She put her spear to the second man’s throat, but, despite herself, merely pricked his throat enough to wake him.
He made no words, nor did she. He looked around for his companion, saw what had become of him, and his eyes grew wide and terror. She thought that he would begin pleading at any moment.
“Taking this child was a mistake.”
Those were her only words as she snuffed him out. There will be no place for you among the fallen ones of honor, she thought, as she lifted the child into her arms. He stirred briefly, then settled onto her chest. Perhaps no longer for me, either.
* * *
She approached the great tree with caution. There were three women there, and they were pouring great bucketfuls of water from the well onto the thick branches and trunk. These women worked slowly, methodically, and in silence.
As one, they noticed her, and ceased their activity. They fixed a collective stare on the approaching figure.
“It is I.”
One of the woman spoke. “Yes, the one who would betray the All-Father. The one who will soon be in eternal torment as a result.”
“So sayeth the Sister of ‘Necessity’. Do not speak to me as if what I do is undertaken at the whim of a child. I know what price I will pay, and I embrace it. Do this for me, and then ask of me what you will.”
“As you wish. Give me the child,” said another sister, the second of the Norns. She took the baby into her hands, recited a few words and unceremoniously dropped the child into what was known as the Well of Fate. The Well began to shimmer, and Brynhilde felt the air around her grow chill. The child’s temporary caretaker shuddered at the splash. The child drifted down a few feet, fingers opening and closing as it grasped for (for her?), and disappeared, not to the bottom of the well, but to somewhere where he could not be found until he needed to be. His protector’s ornate shield followed.
“It is done.”
She felt an odd sense of loss for the child who had been in her care for no longer than it had taken to ride here. For a fleeting moment she had tasted motherhood. “And my end of the bargain?”
“Nothing,” the cackling one said. “Retribution will be great, and we fear the echoes of your screams will not fade for a great while. We see no need to punish you further for your stupid, but brave, gambit.”
She stiffened, warrior once more. “I will not scream.”
She pulled her spear from her back, raised it above her head, and drove it all the way into the ground, in defiance of the All-Father. “I am Brynhilde. I am Valkyrie!”
* * *
The trickster Loki snuck down the stone corridor. It was all he could do to keep himself from cackling. In his hand he grasped a hard-won treasure.
It was the golden hair of his insufferable half-brother’s wife. This had been a fine trick indeed. The spell that he had cast to keep her senseless as he shaved her head, his own guile, and the end result had combined into a work of art. It seemed he impressed himself more and more. He only wished he could see the look on Thor’s face. He imagined the skin would be red with rage, as red as his unruly mane of hair and beard. Yes, that would be priceless, but he supposed he would settle for-
“LOKI!” The voice of the Thunder God sounded to Loki as if it came to him riding on a lightning bolt. “I’ll kill you for this!”
And now the real fun begins, Loki thought. Loki knew better than to attempt to engage Thor physically, but bending Thor’s weak mind with his wit and craft always amused Loki. He would feign innocence when he was eventually caught, but for now he would enjoy the game of cat and mouse.
The enchanted hammer bursting through a wall in Loki’s path ended the game sooner than he would have liked. It took a wide turn in the chamber ahead of him, knocking over several chairs, and returned to its master’s hand with a loud smacking sound. Thor, enraged as he was, showed no sign of pain, if he even felt anything at all, which Loki thought he had never seen. Then a powerful hand closed about his throat.
“B-brother, how good to see you!”
“I should rend you limb from limb,” Thor growled. “You dare touch my wife?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking ab-“, Loki offered, before the hand squeezed tighter and lifted him off of the ground, his feet dangling inches above the floor.
“You would be wise to be silent now, shapeshifter.” Thor’s eyes held Loki’s in a grip at least as strong as the one around his neck. “Very wise.”
Loki nodded assent.
He looked at the golden hair still grasped in his half-brother’s hand. “You will replace it, Loki.”
“But I’ve done nothing!” Odd, Loki thought, he’s right and he knows it, for once. Maybe I overstepped my bounds by a bit.
Thor brought his hammer, Mjolnir, to Loki’s cheek. “You will replace it, or you yourself will be replaced. Is that entirely understood?”
“Aye.”
Thor suddenly released his grip and Loki crashed to the floor. He took his time getting up, then theatrically dusted himself off from his shoulders to his leggings. Regardless of circumstance, he was always a showman.
“I suppose I could do you a favor and replace the lovely Sif’s hair. In fact, I think I may know how to make it even more beautiful than it was, and we both know that is saying a great deal, eh, brother?” Loki made an effort to sound as fraternal as possible, even going as far as winking. He saw a shadow appear behind Thor.
“Husband?” Thor whirled around at the sound of the voice. It was Sif, as bald on her head as she was on the soles of her feet. “Husband, come to bed. Leave Loki to his chore.” She sounded…bored.
Loki was stunned. “You’re not angry with me?”
“You are merely being who you are, and that is a little boy in a grown man’s body. Now fix it before Thor decides to introduce you to the heavy end of Mjolnir.”
Loki bowed, half-sincerely. “As you wish.” He walked into the chamber, convinced that his own wiles had won again. He couldn’t resist one last jest. “Dear brother, will your pretty be needing anything else? A new brush, perhaps?”
Thor bellowed and flung Mjolnir directly at the mischief-maker. Loki panicked and ducked, the hammer whistling over his head, the breeze rustling his coarse hair. Behind it was an enchanted mirror, which sometimes allowed the gods to spy on the rest of the Nine Worlds. Mjolnir hit the mirror, but, instead of shattering it, passed into the mirror and vanished to someplace beyond.
Utter silence fell on the hall.
The three of them stood and walked towards the mirror, the events of the past few minutes temporarily forgotten. Thor was the first to speak. “Where is Mjolnir?” He sounded like a god and a child at the same time.
“Perhaps the tool’s magic interfered with the mirror’s.”
“But where is Mjolnir?!?”
Such a simpleton, Loki thought.
It was then that faithful Mjolnir returned to its owner, as it would always do. No obstacle, not even magic, it seemed, could prevent that. Though Thor was surprised by the reappearance, his right hand was not, and caught it as smoothly as ever. He looked the hammer over, and noticed something on the head. He touched his finger to it. “Is this…blood?”
* * *
Oliver Dinson found himself facing the business ends of two long, ugly, battle-hardened blades. The two men in armor advanced, brandishing their weapons in a casual manner, toying with him. He was not unarmed, but his own sword was brand-new and he had yet to get truly used to it. Each individual sword, regardless of how similar they may look, always felt different in his hands. Normally, he developed almost a supernatural understanding of the intricacies any sword he wielded after only a few hours of practice. However, that was under optimal, pressure-free conditions, and this was anything but.
He decided not to wait. He lunged forward, parried one sword, ducked another, and squeezed between the two surprised men. They spun and began to swing wildly at him. He may have been outnumbered, but that had both advantages and drawbacks. They may have two swords, but they also had to be careful not to hit each other. Ollie could strike anywhere with confidence.
The shorter man moved at him, a muffled battle cry coming from behind his visor. He came at Ollie with a clumsy overhand strike. Ollie blocked his swing and struck the attacker’s wrist with his own forearm, knocking the sword to the ground. Ollie jabbed with his own steel and the man was out of the fight.
Ollie turned his attention to the taller man, who seemed amazed that his companion had been defeated so quickly. He let out his own scream, and their swords met with a loud clang, again, again. Ollie was the ph
ysically stronger of the two, and gradually pushed the man lower and lower with powerful blows, until he was on one knee. He hammered away, preparing for his killing blow.
His sword snapped in two, the bulk of it flying over the downed man’s shoulder. Ollie looked stupidly at his blade, and grimaced as the man who only a few seconds ago was at his mercy stabbed him in the chest. The crowd at the Valhalla Fair went from cheers to stunned silence, then cheered politely for the victor.
Ollie threw off his helmet. “Oh, you gotta be kidding me! How many blades can one guy break in a week?” He tossed his useless sword aside and offered a hand to his adversary.
The downed man accepted it, and rose to his feet. “That sucks, Ollie. You had me beat.” He pulled his own helmet off. “Really beat.”
“Maybe. Anyway, let’s get cleaned up and grab some dinner. I’ve had a nasty itch for an hour.” They raised their hands to acknowledge the crowd and walked off to the tent.
* * *
Ollie lifted his glass to his friend. “To Jay, first-place winner and beloved mentor, who also conveniently neglected to pass on how to not break a sword at the worst possible moment!” A laugh went up from the table, and glasses clinked all around.
“Hey, that’s the only way I can beat you now, kid! One day, long after I retire, I’ll make sure to give you a sturdier blade. Maybe.” Another laugh, and more clinking. “Seriously, though, fellas…this will never get old for me. When I started this festival about-“
Someone yelled out, “Two hundred years ago!”
“Haha, very funny! Anyway, if there are no more interruptions…” He took a sip of his draft beer. “Here’s to a great season, even though, just like all the others, it ended too quickly for me. When I started this, I thought I’d have a couple months of fun, and then fall flat on my face. I never dreamed that it could be such a success, or that…”
