Anatali: Ragnarok

by A. C. Edwards

  “I don’t hear nothing.” Calvin stood shoulder to shoulder with her as they passed floor thirty-eight. This one, for a change, was devoid of bodies and threats.

  Dillon pointed above. Red blood dripped from the landing. Ayla woofed.

  Nicky had perfected his method of ascent, now dragging himself up by the arms, his treads sparking over the metal. The bot stopped at the corner. “One Dvorak. Watch your step.”

  A sloppy crunch accented a gush of red from the landing, floor thirty-nine.

  Only a hundred and eighty to go.

  She scooped Ayla into her arms and split past Dillon and Christy. The blood under her feet was warm this time—she long-stepped over the smashed viscera and shattered bone, gaze forward. Catching up with Nicky, she said, “What was it?”

  “I already told you.”

  She spared a glance at Dillon, whose eyes were clamped shut, as were Christy’s. Both squeezed each other’s hands across the landing. They whispered, counting their steps.

  “But what was it?”

  “A child. I am unsure of the remains at the door. The mass suggests an adult.”

  “Did the kid have a head?” Jessica grimaced at the casualness.

  “No. Nor legs. You should stop now.”

  “Yeah.” She placed Ayla on the stairs as Nicky climbed ahead.

  From behind: “Dude, get off me!”

  “I hear it—I can still hear it.” Dillon clutched Christy’s hand, dragging her down towards the pool of gore, his other hand white-knuckled around Calvin’s arm. Though the boy pulled away, it didn’t come free. With wide, unfocused eyes, he again stared above. A peculiar grinding sound echoed to their ears. “Screams.”

  “En guard!” Nicky shouted, “Door forty is jammed. Incoming!”

  A pair of bodies tumbled down the steps. Nicky’s arms snapped—and missed—inches behind the corpses. Ayla stood in their path, yowling in fury. Jessica swung her plasma rifle behind her back—foom. The fucking safety was on! The fireball burst between the railings, colliding with a wall and onto the landing one floor down.

  She ignored Calvin’s curses while tackling Ayla to the wall, hoping the Dvoraks would fall past. They did, though one kneed her in the head, then clawed a long tear down her arm. Dazed, she fumbled for her wand, forgetting which pocket it was in. Clipper, no. Plasma Pistol, no. Ammo, ammo, battery—fuck!

  Her blurry eyes watched Calvin stunner-smack Dillon’s leg as the Dvoraks landed on them both. Trent jerked Christy backwards; they fell over Kahn into the mashed remains on floor thirty-nine. Showers of blue sparks rained over the confusion, sizzling into blood.

  She found her wand, releasing Ayla and the weapon in one motion. From beyond the upper corner, she heard a cacophony of rips and growls.

  “Push up!’ she yelled below before shouting above, “Nicky, let the forties though. We’re going in!”

  The whir of his treads slipping for traction accompanied black splatter across the corner. Neck-choked in a tentacle, a Dvorak whipped over the railing, striking the stairwell’s wall with a wet thud. Jessica ducked and climbed alongside Calvin, both trailing ribbons of blue. The others were steps behind, carrying Dillon.

  “Walls, walls!” Jessica sparked a corpse in its face before shoving it down. Ayla obeyed, though snapped at the body in passing. “Nicky, How many?”

  “Lots!”

  “Fuck me. Up, up!”

  The second wave still wasn’t upright, the Dvoraks a rolling mass of limbs and teeth. She was more worried about the others than herself, seeing Trent pin Dillon on a wall, Christy now lifting Ayla against her breast.

  She sparked everything that moved, as did Calvin, kicking and throwing the bodies away from their friends below. Inspired and clear-headed, Jessica torched one Dvorak over the rail, meeting its milky-white eyes. With space above and a lumbering pursuit beneath, the group turned the corner.

  Jessica again ducked an airborne body, thrown over Nicky’s head as he defended the steps. A mob reminiscent of Morgal Street threw themselves not at him, but around him. He was furniture to them, an obstacle—no matter how many were struck down, none hesitated. A knee-capped triplet was replaced by another vault. That one smacked the ceiling, landing on a waiting tentacle, flung back into the mass.

  “Hurry,” he said.

  Sure thing, but into what?

  Floor forty’s door was jammed on a toddler’s ribcage, the door jerked, the toddler flailed. Would it hold?

  “Water in three.” Calvin let loose a fiery wave into the dark hallway, revealing and igniting a dozen Dvoraks rushing the door. “No stunners!”

  “Water in five!” Jessica shouted, blindly adding her napalm to the firestorm. Another Dvorak climbed over Nicky, landing on its knees. Kahn bit into its shoulder, dragging it sideways.

  “Water now!” Trent dropped Dillon on his ass—he looked like dead weight. Christy pushed Ayla onto the landing and caught her boy’s legs, one under each arm.

  The FireBot retreated and snaked two arms through the doorway, unleashing a flood of foam and water. While the firestorm subsided, a quartet of corpses wriggled through the new cracks in the FireBot’s defense, teeth gnashing. Jessica released her stick from its makeshift butt-box harness and smashed one’s face. Calvin led the escape through the door, animals at his sides, his brother at the rear.

  “We’re good. Move!” She stumbled backwards, fending off a duet only to have one crushed under Nicky’s treads and the other tossed downstairs by a tentacle. Tactical disadvantage gone, he defended their retreat in top form. He blocked forty's doorway with pure mass and dagger-strikes.

  Deep breaths.

  “Reassess your position,” he said.

  Smelly?

  “Safe!” Calvin stood twenty feet up the hall, inspecting the charred bodies for movement.

  A blackened hand tore at her foot, shredding it open before she hammered the body to bits. Jessica fell to a knee, wondering why she didn’t keep a towel-sized bandage in-pocket. “Not safe!”

  “You ok?” Trent said.

  “Fucking fabulous.” Besides the pain, the smell sent her stomach in a roll: burnt hair, cooked flesh, all overlapped by discharged feces and the palpable scent of death itself. “How’s Dillon?”

  “Unconscious.”

  Fuck.

  “Nicky, how’s it look?”

  “This west stairwell is flooded,” he stated the obvious, accented by growls and splutters. But if he’d held off a mob before… “All doors above may be open. Given their alertness to this battle, I suggest a rapid retreat to a different path. Perhaps there we can ascend. I may be able to contain this situation, but forward progress would be dangerous, if not impossible.”

  “I can lock it.” Trent stumbled to her side, winded. His face was a mess of blood below his nose. “Let me do it.”

  Eyes wide, she pushed him back, half-steadying him. “N-No. Nicky has it—”

  “Goddamn it, Jessie, you’re not the only one fighting. Back the fuck off and let me do my thing!”

  She gripped his sleeve and walked him to the door panel, inches away from flailing tentacles and reaching claws. Beneath a polished-bronze plate, he plugged directly into the wall. His breathing evened out, his body became statuesque, leaning forehead to plaster. Nicky retracted his arms. The door slammed shut, splattering the survivors from a half dozen severed limbs.

  The pounding and moaning of fifty-plus corpses echoed through the door. Though harmless, the torched bodies in the hall rustled, bones and joints clicking in the absolute darkness. Trent leaned against her, his breath hot as his face turned side to side. Jessica heard soft panting and felt wet laps across her foot—glad you’re ok, girl.

  Then she heard Ayla’s bark far up the corridor.

  “Kahn, stop it.” She kicked, hiding her foot “Anyone got a goddamn light?”

  “I can see,” Nicky said. “Valkyrie, climb aboard. Vidar, I shall carry you. Hagalz should have no trouble in the dark.”

  A
n eyeless cat, of course not.

  His tick-tick motion accompanied muffled squirts and crunches below his treads. She felt lucky she couldn’t see the mess. When they caught up to Calvin tending Christy tending Dillon, the unconscious man was hoisted by Nicky opposite to Trent. The slow march seemed to last hours in the dark, especially at two crossroads and a dozen locked but ‘occupied’ rooms.

  “S-Shouldn’t we stop?” Christy said.

  “Not yet.” The glow of Calvin’s night-vision monitor only lit his rifle, but was more comforting than total blindness. “For tactics, health, and morale, we need ten more floors.”

  From where they’d just come from, ten floors may have well been a thousand. Low morale seemed the least of their worries.

  ~ 23 ~

  Bon appetite – Apocalypse chastity

  November 31, 4124 — 12:28 AM

  “Lay off,” Dillon said. “I’m fine.”

  “Sure, until you go all Dvorak Whisperer again.” Their tactics hadn’t changed on the northwest stairwell; they all followed Nicky with Jessica and Calvin guarding the rear. Trent walked on his own, if wobbly on the inclines.

  “Jessie, I don’t know what that means. I can’t remember shit.”

  “Lucky for you, we’ll live to tell you about it—just keep it together, ok? If you hear voices, don’t listen.”

  “Shhh.” Calvin raised a fist, peering over the railing. They were going for quick and quiet this time, and it had served them well up eight of the ten remaining floors without power. “Almost there, so shut up.”

  She swallowed her snarky comeback.

  “Forty-nine, clear,” Nicky said in his version of hushed—still a bit loud.

  Jessica wondered whether The Spire’s power-loss ended at fifty, or fifty-one. The difference of twenty feet was massive under these circumstances. Maybe ‘the first fifty floors’ was an estimation; maybe they could’ve been safe on forty-five, or maybe they wouldn’t be secure until fifty-five. The southwest stairwell’s doors were all shut tight, revealing no hints as to the status beyond. She didn’t want to destroy Trent's mind by reaffirming their goals.

  “Fifty, clear.”

  One more, just to be sure.

  “Traffic.” Calvin pointed his gun over the rail as he stepped past forty-nine.

  “We’re good!” Jessica whispered. “Nicky, rush the landing. Make some room.”

  “…Proximity secured but access denied. Vidar?”

  “This stairwell’s still under lock-down. Get my back.”

  Snarls and thumps echoed from below. She didn’t question anyone’s courage as they crowded Trent’s back, though she shoved off two feet of space. He plugged in. The door opened. She braced her stick against Dillon and Christy until he finished, waiting for Calvin.

  Jessica dipped into the fully-lit corridor, calling for Ayla and Nicky.

  * * *

  Bon appetite.

  Kahn chomped on a hulking man’s thigh in the front hall. While her human companions, including the brothers, seemed horrified, she would allow the tiger that much. With Dvorak biology being a mystery, she assumed he needed to eat in order to sustain his own uncanny mimicry of life. Depending on one’s movie mythology, it made sense, though his want of water was the real wonder. She still wasn’t sure whether or not he was Ayla's puppet. If her dog wasn’t there, he would surely be another monster, but how much of a monster was that? Was any Dvorak?

  Dillon's breakdown added that much doubt. Did they cry? Did they scream?

  A body lost, driven beyond death to attack. That was obvious. Dvoraks were an enemy as much as the bots, as much as the black-eyed survivors. But should she humanize them, the way she was enraged by the undead-rape-doll in the pawnshop? While that example was an easy yes, she figured the question of morality all came down to how they were treated after revival.

  They were dead. Nothing could change that.

  But everything done to them afterwards was a commentary on humans dealing with aggressive threats, or in some cases, the undeniably vulnerable. The thought of putting tortured souls to rest, if they felt anything, was encouragement beyond pity. Yet, even when burned to ash, she wondered if they ever really passed on.

  With all her physical injuries—slashed knuckles, concussion, scorched arm, burnt leg, obliterated hand, shredded foot—she felt lucky she hadn’t met the same ends. Between the fire and all the boys, she’d spent most of her luck on keeping her hair and pants on. Her end-of-the-world chastity was intact, however long that would last. Fucking boys. She didn't even know what she wanted.

  Speaking of which, Dillon and Christy not only walked together, ate together, and showered together; they now retreated to a kid’s bedroom in the apartment without so much as a ‘goodnight.’

  “Don’t listen to it,” Trent said from the couch, his eyes focused out a window.

  The soft moans and thumps curled her lip. In the past two days she’d heard it enough from the corpses. This was a step up in disturbing. She considered storming their room, but stopped short. Was she jealous for Dillon, or was it the simple absurdity of their romance? She could cock-block, but to what end? To claim him? She felt disgusted by the sight of him.

  “Then talk to me, so I ain’t got to hear it.” She strutted into his line of sight, hair wet, sports bra and flower-print panties. Her burns had faded to pink splotches and her foot had already scabbed over. Calvin had taken his turn in the shower and Nicky guarded the door. She laid hands on either side of his knees and stared into his eyes. “What’s on your mind?”

  Something. Give me something.

  “You don’t want to talk.”

  “You got that right.” Jessica offered her neck and pushed her shoulders together, squeezing her chest. “So how about it?”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “It wouldn’t be me.” He closed his eyes. Cheeks flushed, his hands balled into fists.

  “Me neither, but who could blame us?” A whisper. She licked, then kissed his earlobe; her tongue and breath lingered. “Live a little.”

  “I-I—”

  “Trent, your turn.” Calvin said from the main hall, towel over his bare shoulders and fireplace poker tucked under an arm. Jessica’s head snapped away as she stretched her back, a bit flushed herself. The boy’s chest and torso were lean and toned. Scars dotted his stomach; since modern medicine left no marks, they had to be from untreated wounds—discreet encounters. He scowled. “I’d make it a cold one.”

  Trent blinked away glazed eyes and avoided hers. He stood, adjusted his pants, and bolted to an awkward escape.

  She glared at the younger brother. “I told you, it’s none of your business.”

  “And I told you not to fuck with him.” He held her gaze evenly before turning his back. “Pick on someone your own size.”

  “Like you?” Jessica rocked her hips. “You’re way too interested. What are you, jealous?”

  “I’m not interested in your type,” he said over a shoulder.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? You think I’m a slut?”

  “If the boot fits.” He turned on a heel, thumbing back to Dillon’s room “You’ll take anyone, even that douchebag. It’s written all over your face. Sleep it off with your dog.”

  “Well excuse me for wanting some fucking comfort! I’ve been through hell enough to deserve that much.”

  “That doesn’t make it right to confuse Trent’s reason for living.” Calvin’s advance stopped within a foot. The air between them burned as much as it chilled. He was probably right, but that didn’t mean he could butt in wherever he pleased.

  “What makes his girl so special? You in love with her too? She must be a goddamn goddess.”

  “No, more like a stray cat.” He smirked. “He found Sacha one day and brought her home. Trent saved her from something bad, gave her something better.”

  “I can relate.”

  “Then respect it.” Calvin looked to the window, his expression a mirror image o
f his brother’s five minutes before, like he could see hundreds of miles away.

  “What about yours?”

  “Pharis is stubborn as hell. Never takes no for an answer. She’s a lot like you.”

  “So, I am your type.” Jessica grinned, turning his head with a caress down his abs.

  “I don’t have a type. I wouldn’t even be with her if she hadn’t stalked me.”

  She leaned in. “So, you bend to pressure.”

  His skin felt hot, feverish. Soap and musk filled her nose, an intoxicating bouquet; something other than death. This is what she’d wanted, and perhaps it didn’t matter which Winslow she shared it with. A step away from hell. An expression of life. Time stuttered to a halt as she breathed in, breathed out. His heart pounded against her cheek

  “I meant it when I said no.”

  “I’m sure you did…but what about now? If you hadn’t noticed, this could be your last night alive.”

  “The hard part’s over.” Calvin’s hand trembled, tickling the small of her back before pressing her close.

  She massaged him through his pants. “I’d say it’s just begun.”

  He opened his mouth. Jessica silenced him with her own. The poker clattered to the floor.

  ~ 24 ~

  The after party

  August 6, 4124 — 3:22 AM

  A crew of ten piled through the front door, laughing, stumbling; one boy half-carried.

  Jessica felt ecstatic.

  Tabby's after-parties were exclusive, exciting and quite possibly the coolest place in Nome to end your night. By some grace of God, she'd not only managed to share a booth with Dillon at the Breakers Bar, but he'd also invited her and Marci back to Tabby's to continue the conversation.

  She clung to her best friend's sleeve in the atrium.

  "Jessie, this is your shot," Marci whispered, detaching herself. "I'm going after the muscles. Don't fuck this up."