by Amy Cross
“You're so beautiful,” he continues, reaching an arthritic hand out toward me from his upturned chair. “Clay, you were always so special to me. The only reason I ever touched you was -”
“Shut up,” I say firmly.
“I've never stopped thinking about you. I love you!”
“Shut up,” I say again, trying to hold back from hurting him. “I swear to God, if you utter another word...”
“My special little angel,” he continues. “The girl Clay, marked out as special from the moment she was born. Won't you help an old man achieve some form of transcendence? Even if you don't believe it, I believe it and it'll make me happy, so please...” He holds the locket out to me with his trembling hands. “Please, Clay. We both want the same thing. We both want me to die.”
I want to turn away. I should turn away. Instead, I stare at the locket for a moment before stepping forward and kneeling next to his wheelchair, before finally I take the capsule in my hands. After twisting the cap off, I look down at the dark liquid inside.
“And kiss me,” Jacob says finally. “One more time, Clay. Let me feel your lips.”
“Drink your poison, old man,” I reply, pressing the locket into his hands.
“I will ascend, won't I?” he asks. “There is something on the other side... Promise me, Clay. Promise me there's something, not just darkness and emptiness. I'm...” He pauses for a moment. “I'm scared of dying.”
“Good.”
“Promise me there's nothing to be scared of.”
I shake my head.
He tilts the locket so he can see inside, but he seems to be hesitating.
“Drink it,” I continue. “If it's what you really want, drink the damn stuff. You wanted me to open it, didn't you?”
“I did,” he replies, “but...” He pauses, before his old eyes stare straight at me. “Maybe... Maybe someone else should drink it instead. As punishment. After all, you let me down ten years ago, Clay. If it hadn't been for your foolishness, we'd have been able to spread Attaroth's word ourselves.”
“I can't believe you actually -”
Suddenly he lunges at me, toppling out of his wheelchair and throwing all his weight against me. I fall back and he lands on my chest, and before I can react he presses the locket against my lips and tries to pour its contents into my mouth. Some of the liquid slips onto my tongue, but I quickly spit it out onto his face and throw him to one side. Grabbing the locket, I rip it from his neck and throw it away.
“Sorry,” I mutter, “I don't have time to die right now.”
Feeling a sharp pain in my belly, I look down and see blood starting to pour out. There's something sharp in Jacob's hand, maybe a shard of glass or a piece of metal; whatever it is, I reach down and grab it, cutting my hand as I try to wrestle the object away from him. He tries to kick me, but I roll around and then put my manacled hands around his head, before twisted them around so that the chain between my wrists is wrapped around his neck. He flails at me with the sharp object, trying to slash my face, but I pull the chains tighter and tighter until he starts gasping for air, and I swear his eyes are starting to bulge out of their sockets. I know I should stop but, filled with anger and hatred, I pull even tighter, ignoring his increasingly frantic attempts to push me away until, finally, he lets out one final jerk and then falls limp. I keep the pressure on his neck for a moment longer. I have to make sure, I can't let this monster take another breath...
Finally I let go.
His dead body slumps down.
“Oh God,” I whisper, shocked as I realize that I actually killed a man. “No, I...”
Sitting back, I try to catch my breath, before looking over at the dead bodies and trying to spot Attaroth. Panicking, I get to my feet and look around, but there's no sign of him at all. He's disappeared into the darkness surrounding the ruined compound, which means he could be anywhere by now.
“Hey!” I shout. “Get back here!”
The only sound I hear is a wild wind that has begun to whip across the plain from the fields in the distance. Attaroth is nowhere to be seen.
Ten years ago
“They're like ants,” he says, as we stand at the very edge of the roof, looking down at the people hundreds of meters below. “There are certain patterns to human behavior, Clay, that can only be observed from up high.”
“Why are they like ants?” I ask, watching as people mill about. They all look so ordinary, but each and every one of them has a life and probably a family. I don't get why Attaroth thinks they don't matter.
“They're completely interchangeable,” he continues. “There are almost seven billion people on this planet right now. How many of them do you think are really important? Important enough to merit my attention, I mean.”
“Lots of them?” I reply.
“None,” he says with a smile. “You, maybe, by virtue of your remarkable resilience to death, but the rest of them... They could be so much greater, but humanity has fallen deep into the pocket of its own misery. You're all still clinging to this rock, desperately trying to preserve your bodies as if your souls can't exist any other way.” He turns to me. “Someone should teach them. Someone should spread my word. After all, the word of Attaroth is the only thing that can save them. I, Clay, and the only god who offers true redemption.”
“Mr. Kenseth tried to spread your word,” I tell him.
“And he failed miserably,” he replies. “Jacob Kenseth was a mistake, but Clay... As I look out across the vast expanse of humanity, I see no-one else who might deliver my message. If I cannot find a worthy messenger, how am I ever to be recognized again? For all their faults, the Hosserians at least knew how to pick the right god when they worshiped me five thousand years ago.” He pauses for a moment. “You're an option, you know.”
“Me?”
“As my messenger. As a prophet, as the first proper disciple of Attaroth for thousands of years. I've been thinking that perhaps you would serve that purpose well, although my mind isn't quite made up yet. You're a loose end, Clay, but there must be some reason to have you around. Would you like to be my first disciple in the modern age?”
I shake my head.
“Good,” he replies. “Humility is very important in a disciple. I'm starting to think you've got a great deal of potential after all.”
Staring at him for a moment, I feel a crippling sense of fear starting to rise through my gut, clawing at my insides as if it's threatening to overtake me entirely. Finally, just as Attaroth opens his mouth to say something else, I realize I can't wait a moment later:
I turn and run.
Today
After walking for two hours, I finally reach the edge of town. Making my way past the diner, I stop at the shopping square and look around at the darkness. The whole place is deathly quiet, since everyone who lived here is now out at the old compound, dead on the grass. Wind whistles in the void, and for a moment I feel as if all hope is gone. He could be anywhere.
And then I hear it.
Someone coughs in the distance.
I wait a moment longer, and finally I realize that there's a sound coming from back toward the main road, as if someone is walking through the dirt.
Hurrying around the side of the pharmacy, I run through the gloom. The first rays of dawn are starting to peek over the horizon, but it's still difficult to see anything. Stopping when I get back around to the diner, I look both ways, desperately hoping that I might spot him. Just when I'm about to give up, however, I hear a banging sound over by the parking lot.
Metal on metal.
It's him.
“Attaroth!” I shout, running to the edge of the lot. Spotting a long shadow moving on the far side, I make my way past several old cars until I see the door of a truck being swung open, allowing a hunched figure to climb inside. Making my way over, I can already hear him bumping about in there. God knows what he's doing, but when I open the passenger-side door I find him rifling through the glove compartment. He still h
as Nathaniel Kenseth's body, but when he turns to look at me I can tell that it's Attaroth's smiling soul in there.
“Just in time,” he says, with tension in his voice, as if he's in pain. “Get in. I need your help.”
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Get in.”
“Tell me what you're doing.”
“Keys,” he mutters, reaching down into the foot-well and then under the seat. “I need to get this thing started and I can't seem to make electricity flow from my fingers. I guess that's another human shortcoming.”
“Yeah,” I reply, “about that... You're not going anywhere.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean look at you. Something's wrong.”
He turns to me, and in that moment I realize that his new body seems to be rejecting his soul. He's sweaty and pasty, and there are already dark shadows under his eyes. I guess you can't just pour a god's mind into a man's body and expect everything to work out.
“Clay,” he says after a moment, with deliberate calmness, as if he's trying to hide his discomfort, “I don't mean to nag, but I really could use some assistance here. How exactly does one go about starting one of these machines if one doesn't possess the correct key?”
“One doesn't.”
“That's not helpful! What kind of disciple are you?”
“Where are you planning to go?” I ask. “There's nothing out there, nothing for you.”
“There's a whole world. Seven billion people. I have to spread the word.”
Sighing, I realize that he's truly lost his mind.
“Most gods rely on disciples,” he continues, wincing as the pain hits him a little harder. “They siphon their words down to the surface of this miserable planet and wait for little men to champion the cause. It's a haphazard business, as I learned to my cost with the Kenseth idiots. No, I'm doing things differently. I'm not letting humans do the job, I'm going to do it myself. Now I've got a human body, I can -”
He gasps and doubles over for a moment, as if the pain is too much.
“I can spread my own word,” he winces finally, taking a series of deep, pained breaths. “I don't know why I didn't think of this sooner. I can rule the world.”
“Why does a god want to rule the world?” I ask. “Are you really that egotistical?”
“They worshiped me once,” he continues with a faint smile. “Five thousand years ago, in a city in old Mesopotamia, now part of Iraq, thousands of people worshiped the great god Attaroth. It was a glorious time, Clay. They offered sacrifices and gifts, none of which I needed but still, the gesture was appreciated and I rewarded them with rains and good crops. And then something terrible happened. The Hosserian city was overrun, they were slaughtered by their neighbors, their whole culture was scrubbed into the dust and forgotten. Other gods were more successful, they spread their followers about more, but I never gained another foothold.” He sits back for a moment, clutching his chest, waiting for the agony to subside. “Have you heard of the Hosserians, Clay? Do you know of their great city and their love of Attaroth?”
“Can't say that I do.”
“No-one does,” he spits back at me. “Human history books are the most unreliable in all of creation. There are so many civilizations that have been lost, their ruins never found, and the Hosserians are in that category. They worshiped me, and because of an accidental defeat in battle they were completely forgotten. Apart from a few meager little groups in the medieval period, I was never worshiped again, not the way I deserved.”
“So that's what this is about?” I ask. “You're pissed because your followers didn't make it?”
“I'm putting things right,” he replies. “They were good people, they could have been as great as the Ancient Egyptians, the Romans... They could have been one of humanity's great empires, but instead they were wiped out and forgotten. I have to avenge that tragedy.”
“You're not trying to avenge any tragedy,” I reply. “You're just trying to get famous.”
“I was a benevolent god to those people. I can be again. I can provide the light that has been so sorely missing from humanity. I can be the best god your species has ever known!”
“You've got a pretty big ego, huh?” I tell him. “I mean, even for a god, you've got a high opinion of yourself.”
“It amuses me,” he replies, “that you even dare to cross me. You might be my new disciple, Clay, but that doesn't mean you can speak to me this way. You should be on your knees, begging for my insight.”
“So why wait five thousand years?” I ask. “Why didn't you try to pull your little stunt sooner?”
“Five thousand years is nothing to someone like me,” he replies, with a hint of darkness in his voice. “Five thousand years is the blink of an eye, even if it feels like longer to all the ants down on this dust-ball. No offense intended, obviously.”
“None taken.” I stare at him for a moment, and for the first time I actually feel sorry for him as he continues his search for the key. “So why don't you just start the damn thing?” I ask. “You're a god, after all.”
“Not in this body, I'm not,” he mutters, before angrily slamming his fists against the dashboard. “Where is the fucking key?” he shouts. “Where is it? I will not be denied like this! I demand the piece of metal that will start this thing!”
“Welcome to being human,” I reply, unable to stifle a faint smile.
“Get me the key,” he says, turning to me. “I order you to do this for me, Clay!”
I shake my head.
“Get me the key,” he continues, “or...”
I wait for him to finish.
“Or what?” I ask. “You're just a mortal man while you're in that body, so what exactly are you going to do? Wring my neck? Good luck with that, we both know what happens when I die. You wanted to experience mortality, you wanted to walk the planet as a man, well now you're doing it. You're not going to give up at the first hiccup, are you?”
“Clay,” he replies darkly, “sometimes you are supremely irritating...”
“You killed them,” I reply, trying to contain my anger. “You killed all those people!”
“They were merely sheep.”
“You killed my mother.”
“Jacob Kenseth killed your mother.”
“In your name.”
“A god cannot be held responsible for -” Before he can finish, he breaks down into a coughing fit. Reaching out for the door, he manages to push it open and tumble out of the truck, landing with a grunt on the tarmac.
“Great,” I mutter, making my way around the vehicle until I find him struggling to get up. “Look at you,” I continue, “you're in no fit state to go anywhere or do anything. Your plan isn't working, the body's rejecting you.”
Ignoring me, he stumbles over to another truck and pulls the door open before stopping as he stares inside.
“What's it like being weak?” I ask. “You wanted to know what it's like to have a human body. Well, sometimes it's like this. You can barely walk, you can barely even breathe. Trust me, I've been there and felt like that, but you just have to push on through it and find some strength from somewhere within.”
“I can't push through this,” he mutters.
“Yeah, you can.”
He shakes his head.
“You can,” I say firmly. “Maybe you won't, but you definitely can. I guess being a god hasn't exactly trained you to deal with pain, has it?”
I wait for a reply, but he seems barely able to stay upright.
“You can't do it, can you?” I continue. “You're not used to struggling. Everything's always easy for a god. Nathaniel Kenseth didn't exactly look like a strong guy to begin with, so I guess you picked a body that already had a few flaws.”
“You're right,” he whispers.
“I...” Pausing, I can't help but feel a little surprised by his response. “I am?”
“There's one thing you don't know, however.”
“And what
's that?”
“This truck.”
“What about it?”
He takes a couple of deep breaths, before turning to me with a smile. “Someone left the keys on the seat.”
Stepping closer, I look inside and see that he's right: a set of keys has been left on the driver's seat. “Well,” I say after a moment, “sure, that's -”
And that's when he slams my head into the door, hard enough to knock me out cold.
Ten years ago
“Hey, little girl! Stop! Hey, hold up!”
Stopping by the trashcan, I turn and see that a man is waving at me. I spin around, looking for any sign of Attaroth, but since I left the building a few minutes ago he seems to have stopped following me. It's almost as if I've managed to slip away, but this all feels far too easy.
“Are you lost?” the man asks as he reaches me. “Are your parents around?”
“Can you see me?” I ask.
“Can I see you?” He smiles. “Yes, child, I can see you. Now what about your parents? Is someone supposed to be looking after you? You seem a little young to be out here on your own.”
“I...” Pausing, I realize that if I don't accept the man's offer of help, I have nowhere else to go. “I don't know,” I say finally. “I'm lost.”
“Come on,” he replies, reaching down and taking my hand. “Let's get you something to eat and drink, and then we can see about calling someone to help you.”
As he leads me along the street, I realize that he's taking me toward a church. I hesitate as soon as we get to the steps, and he turns to me with a look of concern.
“Are you scared?” he asks.
Spotting a white tag on his neck, I realize that he must be a priest.
“It's very wise of you to be wary of strangers,” he continues with a smile, “but I just want to help you. Come inside for a moment and we'll sort everything out, okay?” He pauses for a moment, waiting for me to answer. “Okay? You're in no danger, child. I just want to help you get home.”
