Anatali: Ragnarok

by A. C. Edwards

"Oh, I won't. He's mine tonight." The butterflies in Jessica's stomach competed with the four pints she'd already downed.

  Summoned to the living room, the girls took the only available seat, the floor. Ivan pinball-walked the walls with a case of imported beer and played bartender. It was an even mix of guys and gals, twenties and thirties.

  "We should do something special in honor of our new guests." Tabby offered her armchair to Ivan and sat on his lap. Her skin was flawless, well-tanned by Nome's sun. The eighty-year-old didn't look a day over thirty. She flaunted her legs through a sideslip dress.

  "What'd you have in mind?" Ivan said in a throaty whisper. The tone was laughable, but the booze made the drama real enough for Jessica.

  "Blend it up, Mick," Tabby said to another underling. The brown-haired boy scampered downstairs.

  Jessica glanced to Dillon, relieved he wasn't looking back. Drinking and drugs were one thing, but blending was pretty hardcore, cutting nano-drugs with a special form of alcohol. She was already at her limit, but this was a rare opportunity.

  Mick returned with a low-tech pressure syringe and a half-gallon jug of gold liquid.

  "Hit me." Tabby posed her shoulder.

  Dose by dose, Mick filled and shot all who would have it, onto Jessica midway through. She looked first to Marci, who'd just got hers and was staring at the tall, athletic guy on the piano bench. Jessica raised a finger and looked to Dillon.

  "I dun normally go this far," she said.

  "I know. Trust me—"

  "But."

  "It's a smooth high," Dillon said. "I'll take care of you."

  Jessica melted at his words and the look in his eye. She nodded and offered her arm. Mick shrugged, shot a dose, and moved to the next partier.

  From drunken distortion to absolute heaven, her mind collapsed and revived in starbursts. She felt as if Earth's every mile was a cell on her body. Connected. Her dad, her shitty job, her need for affection, everything vanished—everything was clear. No past, no future, only now. Nothing mattered but her and what she wanted.

  "I think they're ready," Tabby said, glassy eyed but graceful in gesture and speech. "Shall we?"

  "Your choice." Tall athletic-guy helped Marci stand with Ivan one-step behind, hands on her hips. All three entered a ground-floor study.

  "Your choice," Dillon cupped Jessica's cheek in his palm. She knew what he meant, but it didn't matter. After all, this moment was hers.

  Her feet didn't move the way she wanted them to, but the blur between utopia and reality didn't allow for second-guessing.

  "Easy now." Tabby said, supporting her elbow. Dillon was at her other, guiding her upstairs. "You'll be patting your pussy for years over this."

  * * *

  A mouth on her breast, a head between her legs.

  What the fuck?

  Jessica came around in the midst of passion, confusion and fear. This wasn't her. This wasn't what she did. In a moment she realized who she was and who she was with—Dillon. Was this the price of his attention? Was this all she was to him?

  A mouth on hers. His legs between her own.

  No, no, no—

  "No!" Jessica screamed. She clamped, squirmed and kicked away. Her wrists were tied. The buckles bit into her skin. The pain made her fight harder.

  "Fucking shit!" Tabby rolled away, clutching her eye. "Calm down, bitch."

  She screamed again for Marci, for anyone. A hand covered her mouth, Dillon's. He stared into her eyes and whispered, "Relax, relax. It's just the blend. I'll let you go."

  "Fuck you, Dillon. Talk first. You want her to run to the cops?"

  "Since when have you cared about cops, Tabby?" He spoke softly, “Bumblebee,” the shackles popped open. "It ain't a big deal. Jessie's cool, she just had a bad blend."

  "Worked fine for me." Tabby didn't bother to cover herself.

  "Different strokes. Don't be a cunt."

  "Again, fuck you." She folded her arms over her tits, glancing at Dillon's nude torso. She turned a smirk.

  "Sorry, Jessie,” Dillon said, “I thought you were into it."

  Rape? She squeezed her thighs together. She was soaked in oil. An open bottle lay on the nightstand. They’d gone that far, but not further.

  Was it a misunderstanding? It was a party. Drugs. She'd agreed at least in part, even if she couldn't remember what she agreed to after. The return of circulation to her fingers was painful. All she wanted was—

  "Let me get Marci," Jessica said. "We're going home."

  "Your friend's having a great time." Tabby sneered. "Don't ruin her night because you're going bitch-cakes."

  Though she was stripped bare, Jessica's hands were free. She clocked Tabby dead in the nose. Old lady’s head bounced off the headboard. She fell off the bed in a heap.

  "Aw fuck," Dillon said.

  "You're next." Jessica looked for her clothes.

  "Jessie, it wasn't like that—you're so fucking shy, I thought this would open you up." Dillon stopped her at the door, his hand on her arm. "I thought you were down, like Marci."

  Her friend certainly wasn't suffering. Her moans and screams drifted through the floor and vents.

  "This is how you open me up? Get me trashed and take me upstairs? I'm not Marci. It's easy to get a girl to say yes when she doesn't know the question."

  "Blends don't work like that. You knew…you said yes."

  "I wanted you, not this," Jessica said, tears welling in her eyes. "Let me go and this stays in the room. Just let me go."

  ~ 25 ~

  Coffee – Two-twenty-three

  November 31, 4124 — 6:14 AM

  Jessica yawned and scratched a foot against her calf, searching the room for her clothes. Pants, bra, shirt, panties—a scavenger hunt in the dark. The single father’s shoes were again an ill fit. She took her time, stretching sore muscles and itching scabs off her arm and foot. Nanos be damned, she healed pretty well on her own.

  The windows revealed dawn and a misty cityscape below, all quiet on the northern front. No more fires. No motion on the streets. The bay looked glass-sheet calm. No need to worry. Another day in paradise.

  Ayla leapt off the bed and circled the door. She’d have to piddle where she pleased, though the princess whined in protest.

  Plasma pistol and clipper found home in her pockets. She breathed deep and opened the door. Hopefully, this wouldn’t be as uncomfortable as she feared.

  “Morning boys,” she said, raspy, in search of coffee. It smelled divine.

  Calvin and Trent looked up from the laptop, conversation over. Neither smiled.

  Fan-fucking-tastic.

  Dillon and Christy sat shoulder-to-shoulder, backs turned, devouring a ham and egg breakfast. Neither paused.

  Has she committed the apocalypse faux pas of the century? Not a one had room to judge. Especially the lovers. Especially the brothers.

  “Nicky, status?” Jessica’s back was now against the Winslows, pouring herself a mug.

  “All clear. Not a peep. I moved Hagalz’s meal to the front closet.”

  “Good thinking.” At least he seemed in normal spirit. “How’s your head, Trent?”

  “Head’s fine.” After a long pause, he continued. “We’re clear on the lifts and the northwest stairs are still under lockdown. We have our pick.”

  “Can the lifts hold Nicky?”

  “They support four tons, so as long as we fit, yeah.”

  “Then let’s get this over with.”

  “Let’s,” Calvin said.

  Halfway finished, Jessica slammed the mug on the counter, severing handle from cup. Without another word, she grabbed her jacket, rifle, and stomped to the door, her brain still a haze of dreams and fire.

  * * *

  After her second cigarette of the morning, the brothers and lovers joined her, Nicky and the animals. The crew was off to a great start. The hard part better be over.

  Ayla relieved herself on the doorstep and took the lead, ten strides ahead of the FireBot, n
ose tipped in a tail-swishing prance. Jessica knew then, as she had before, it wasn’t her friends she had issues with, it was people. Those people trailed in a slump, boring holes in the back of her head.

  I get it already. Fuck off.

  “Vali, how do you feel?”

  Jessica snapped, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “His body. His mind.” Nicky clicked to a stop. Ayla sniffed the doorways ahead.

  “I feel fine.” Calvin bit the words.

  Jessica’s face felt hot. She didn’t know if she wanted to call everyone out on their bullshit or simply scream. She settled on, as always, trying to decode Nicky’s meaning. “Why—”

  “What do you see?” Trent said.

  “Remember when I said you’ve all been exposed to a lethal dose of dark energy radiation?”

  “Sort of made an impact.” She pursed her lips. “What about it?”

  “Under temperature and life-signature radiology, you all appear quite alive, but compared to the Dvoraks, including Hagalz, the men are in equal saturation—the same color. I felt it important to share this observation.”

  “So what’s that mean? Our brothers Winslow and Dillon are dead?”

  “Though you have survived, it means their biology has changed as they’ve absorbed the same level of radiation as the mobile-deceased. Do not be stubborn. Monitor yourselves and disclose any changes to each other.”

  “Why bother,” she said. “There ain’t no stretchers to carry them off the field.”

  “To protect yourselves.” Nicky whirred into motion down the corridor.

  “You got a lot of nerve, robot.” Jessica rushed to his side, hissing, “I don’t know if you understand what happened last night—”

  “I do.”

  “Then what value does paranoia have? A team is trust. It’s already weird enough.”

  “A team is health. This isn’t about you. Vidar and Master Dillon are showing advanced signs of radiation poisoning. While Vali seems to be feeding on the energy, they are becoming crippled on one hand, deranged on the other.”

  “How’s that fit into your fucking story?”

  “It would take more words than you have patience. Have faith, but make haste. It is important for the weakened to acknowledge their disabilities, lest they endanger others or needlessly sacrifice themselves out of pride.”

  Again, as always, it was more than she could take. Jessica waved the group onward, done with the night and the morning.

  * * *

  The hyper-lift. Two bronze door framed in mahogany, framed by a wall of crème-de-plaster. A simple panel stated it’s current floor: two-twenty-three, as Trent lifted its maintenance panel, underneath it glowed red on black.

  “Just press the goddamn button,” Jessica said.

  “A hundred and seventy floors is worth a glance.” Trent plugged in, closing his eyes.

  Among all the weapons she possessed: plasma rifle-and-pistol, clipper, and wand, she chose the stick for this adventure. It wasn’t loyalty to her high-school-field-hockey-death-dealer so much as its close range efficiency. Most of their tech were crowd-pleasers designed to obliterate rooms. Brutal melee still held a place and their wands still seemed too sketchy to embrace. Between Nicky and the ever-heavy-firearmed Calvin, they had balance.

  “Too quiet,” Trent said, eyes still shut. “It’s a trap.”

  “What kind of trap?”

  “For whoever goes up,” Calvin finally met her gaze. “Could be stun-gas, could be military. We don’t have a chance.”

  “Whoever’s behind the cover-up is protecting it.” Trent unplugged, massaging the bridge of his nose. “If it were hardcore they would’ve fried my brain, but they let me see—feels like they’re inviting us. There are hints…”

  “A trap,” she repeated.

  “Yup.”

  “But are they expecting us, personally, or some random doofus from floor one-ten?”

  “Can’t say.” Trent slumped against the back wall, motioning Nicky for a drink. “All I know is we have a clear ride to the top if we want it.”

  “Cal?” Jessica stared, ignoring her memories. All she’d seen from him this morning was disdain.

  The whole bit sounded like a shitty deal—capture or death, though this is what they’d came there for. They could disable the Umbrella, get the word out, get rescued, blah, blah, fucking blah.

  “We should retreat.”

  Huh?

  “We’re already on floor fifty-one,” she said.

  “You heard me.” Calvin pointed back down the corridor. “We get down. You on Nicky’s box. Me and Trent with Ayla and Kahn. Holly’s codes get us south. Firepower and speed gets us to city limits. We’d be out of Nome by sunset, drinking chardonnay at the estate in a week, rescued or not.”

  “What about us?” Dillon said.

  “We’ll give you a gun. Save yourselves.”

  The fact he included Ayla and her on the scenario—did that mean a future, together? But even then, with the lovers at the lifts, the fifty survivors at the warehouse, and the hundreds in the firehouses, could they abandon all Nome had left for an off-the-hip fantasy? The fact she was looking for rescue, even now, meant many others were doing the same with worse odds.

  Half a breath.

  “Do what you want. I’m going up with my wolves and Einherjar.” The lift door whooshed open, empty, scentless. Ayla, Khan, and Nicky filled the majority. Jessica paused in the breech, bell ringing. “Think what you want, but my family, my city, are my heart. I don’t care if they’re dead, or if I already am. We’ve come this far. I’ll see it through.”

  She turned her back, letting the door shut behind her. It did—but stopped at Calvin’s rifle, barrel pointed down. When the door reopened, he, his brother, and the lovers squeezed for space around Nicky’s belly. No one said a word.

  * * *

  Ding.

  When the lift doors slid open, three rifles and six tentacles pointed outwards. In one breath, all humans exhaled.

  Quiet as blind mice, they spilled into floor two-twenty-three’s south corridor, clanks, yaps, and grinds abound. Jessica figured they used most of their karma in the lobby, but felt lucky a stray shot hadn’t incinerated the group. In a drastic curve, the hall bent towards the east and west stairwells, the final ascent to two-twenty-four’s top-floor observatory.

  Holographic signs at the control room’s doors suggested everything from radioactivity to military security. The most ominous sign was the massive bloodstain at the doorstep: a dried, smelly pool of black. The hyper-lift doors shut behind them. Jessica shrugged to her comrades and whispered, “Want to try a pincer from north and south?”

  “Too hard to regroup if we get in trouble.” Calvin steadied his rifle. “Let’s repeat the lift: nine barrels.”

  “I disagree with both,” Nicky said. “We assume the control room is defended, yet Ehwaz detects no Dvoraks. This suggests living or automated guardians. Either pose a tactical problem as both will be set for defense, likely a wide stun attack or full-out lethal assault. While I can absorb electrical and conventional attacks, needlers and railguns can permanently disable me.”

  “So we all hide and make a firestorm?” Jessica went gunslinger, gripping both pistols.

  Trent stepped up. “No. If we nuke the room, we won’t disable the Umbrella, we’ll destroy the controls needed to shut it down. We have to take the room, not fireball it.”

  “Sounds like a shootout,” she said. “Lighten your loads and take the corners. Hopefully the foam gets it done.”

  “Depends on the angle.” Nicky rolled to the side, tentacles blind around the doorway.

  “A shotgun would sure come in handy now,” Calvin dropped his plasma rifle on the bot’s box, snapping out a wand in both hands.

  “Shut up and fight. Ready?”

  In unison, “Ready.”

  ~ 26 ~

  It all ends

  November 31, 4124 — 7:22 AM

  Swish—the control ro
om opened.

  Around a corner, Jessica held her breath, waiting for the first barrage.

  Silence.

  An eight-inch metallic globe floated through the entrance at head-level. A repetitive tick-tick-tock accompanied its journey. A sentry? The enemies’ eyes? It paused and began to vibrate.

  Point-blank, she aimed her clipper and squeezed. The round ricocheted to the wall, sending the globe into a spin. The vibration became audible—and painful. She braced herself, feeling unsteady, then nauseous. At her side, Ayla whined and sneezed.

  A storm of needles burst from the control room and flattened against the lift doors, ending as silver coins on the floor. Dillon, Christy, and Trent hobbled backwards, clutching their ears. Calvin roared, smacking the globe with a wand. A starburst of white sparks rained over them, the ball glowing florescent red as it shot back into the room.

  The crippling nausea subsided as another silver stream passed Calvin’s arm, missing only by his recoil. His wand sputtered before reigniting in blue.

  Enough.

  “Enough fucking around!” she shouted. “Open up!”

  Trent swiveled his railgun. Eyes closed, he fired. In a clamor of clinks and pops, a steaming figure sprinted from the control room, flailing a curved sword. A curved what?

  Calvin sidestepped and sparked its arm, then its chest. It dropped to the ground. Again taking cover, the fairy prince readied his wands in wrist-spins and rotating X’s. Jessica gawked at the prone figure: a headless, too-slender-to-be-human frame with matte-black skin. Its mitten-like hand still gripped its weapon.

  “Ninja robots? Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Samurai sword, actually,” Calvin said.

  “Classically, the finest melee weapon ever created.” Nicky gave the bot an obligatory squirt about the shoulders, gluing it to the floor. “These are from The Mission. We might reconsider—the risk is great.”

  Floating stun-balls and SamuBots. If not for her headache and the ‘risk,’ she’d roll with laughter. “Foam the floor. Fire! Fire!”