by R. E. Vance
“Like what? Making fun of Zeus’s beard?”
Medusa’s eyes widened. “Zeus would have struck you down, but no—he wouldn’t have ended the world over that. It would have to be something else, like desecrating holy ground, or—”
“Oh, come on … if it were that simple, the world would’ve ended a hundred times already.”
“True. But you have to distinguish between actually ending the world and only threatening to. Gods used to threaten that all the time, only to turn around and stop the calamity before it destroyed everything. Think about it … the Great Flood, Sodom and Gomorrah, the Black Death, the numerous famines that wiped out millions. All calamities that could’ve ended the world were it not for divine intervention. The way they saw it, a near-apocalypse once a century or so kept you mortals in line.”
“Except there hasn’t been one in like a thousand years.”
“Really?” Medusa eyed me as if questioning how intelligent I was. “What about the Great Plague? The Irish Potato Famine? The World Wars? Global warming?”
“Those aren’t apocalypses!”
“Plague, Pestilence, Famine, War … sounds like the four horsemen to me. But the reason why you see it differently is because human ingenuity got you out of it. No divine intervention needed to avert the end-of-the-world stuff when you had science to counteract the effects. I’m sure that’s part of the reason the gods left—they could no longer threaten humans with apocalypses—” Medusa started when razor-sharp talons appeared under the tablecloth’s hem. “Jean?” a voice said.
Miral.
“Under here,” I said.
Miral lifted the tablecloth and peered under, letting in a draft. Then, completely ignoring home fort protocol, she crouched down and got under the table. “Cozy,” Miral said.
“Medusa is scared that an apocalypse is about to happen,” I said way too defensively.
Medusa handed Miral a glass. “The wine is sour.”
The angel sucked in her breath. She took a sip. “This is bad … It tastes like Sodom,” she muttered under her breath.
“Guys,” I said. “It’s just wine.”
Miral ignored me and looked at Medusa. “Which pantheons have these signs?”
“Oh, it’s been a long time since I studied these … Judeo-Christian traditions, Nordic …” Medusa’s eyes widened as some realization dawned on her.
“Please don’t say it …” Miral said.
“Assyrian.”
“No,” Miral said, and crossed herself.
Another hand came down on the tablecloth and drew it back. This time it was Conner’s face that appeared. “Ahhh, Miral. Are you guys OK?”
“Just enjoying our fort,” I said.
“OK. Well, then. I understand that you guys have different approaches to parties … but I’m pretty sure we’re meant to dance.” He looked behind him. “At least I think that’s dancing.”
“Not now, John,” Miral said, pulling the tablecloth down.
“ ‘John’?” I asked. “Not ‘Officer Conner,’ or ‘Human John’—just plain ‘John,’ huh?”
“Oh, shush,” Miral admonished. “If you must know, I plan on using this human to better understand your culture.”
“So you’re using him?”
“Yes,” Miral said, without sarcasm or guile. “I doubt he minds.” And she was right. I couldn’t imagine a soul in this world or any other that would mind being used by Miral.
“You know, I can hear you,” John said.
“Hey, buddy,” I said with a devilish smile. “Come on in. I’ve officially invited you into our fort.”
“Jean, don’t—” Miral started, but it was too late. In a flash John crawled under.
“So what’s going on?” he asked, his blue-gray eyes catching the soft light underneath.
“The girls were just about to tell me how the world is going to end.”
“Not with a bang, but a whimper.” The Hollow Men—nice! I liked this guy.
Miral sighed. “Silly mortals. It will not end in a bang or a whimper. It will end in screams, as we are all devoured by the beast from beneath.”
“Oh?” I said. “Not a T.S. Eliot fan? Besides, last I heard, signs went out of fashion when the gods left.”
“Jean,” Medusa said. “Signs of the end of the world are universal. Earthquakes, plagues, meteor showers, volcanic eruptions, floods, locusts. Those are the overt ones. Then there are the more subtle ones—things like a man born with two different-colored eyes or the perfect Red Heifer. Signs, big or small, are just as deadly. And there are only seven signs to the end of the world. We’ve just had three.”
“Earthquake, sky falling, sour wine,” I confirmed.
“Good job.” Miral’s expression was completely devoid of sarcasm, which somehow made her compliment worse.
“So … what? We wait for the other signs?” Conner asked. He was either taking this way too seriously or trying to impress his date.
“There are two ways to avert an apocalypse,” Miral said. “Beg the gods for forgiveness or stop the other signs from happening.”
“I guess we should focus on the latter,” I said.
Miral rolled her eyes at me. “This is serious, Jean-Luc. First of all, we need to know what set this off … We must figure out which tradition has been offended, so that we can counter the—”
And as if in answer to Miral’s question, we heard a cry. “Get off me, you ungrateful whelps!”
We all popped out from under the table to see Atargatis being attacked by her seven children. Their faces were no longer human, their eyes widening as their jaws opened to reveal row after row of sharklike teeth.
“Oh, no,” Medusa said. “Another sign. Matricide.”
Chapter 2
Momma’s Gotta Die
Atargatis’ scream was somewhere between the utter terror of being eaten by monsters and the complete frustration with your child for just drawing all over your expensive ottoman. “Get off me, you ungrateful whelps,” she cried out again as she pried off the youngest girl and threw her across the room. The child hit the opposite wall with a thud, dropped to her knees and then stood up like she had just fallen off her tricycle. Turning to the other six, Atargatis yelled, “What are you doing? It is forbidden for us to fight one another.”
“Mater-what?” I asked Medusa.
“Matricide—children turning on their parents.”
“That’s a sign?”
Medusa and Miral nodded, and seeing the little girl attack her mom, I understood that we weren’t talking about teenagers acting out.
The girl—who looked like she was four—jumped onto a table, pointed at her mother and in a toddler’s tiny voice said, “But, Mommy, you ate our brother. That was naughty.” She wagged her finger and immediately the other six did the same. “Naughty,” she repeated.
“Naughty,” the children chanted through their shark teeth, “naughty, naughty, NAUGHTY!”
“But Maggie! I didn’t know,” Atargatis pleaded. “I was tricked. Mommy would never hurt one of her children. Mommy would never hurt one from the Pool of Urfa.”
I grabbed Medusa’s hand to get her attention. “Those kids—how tough are they?”
“They’re Tiamat spawn.”
I gestured in confusion.
“Tough. Very, very tough.”
There was a growl, and I turned to see Maggie skipping like a schoolgirl across the stage. “You’ve been very naughty, Mommy,” she taunted. “Our big sister is coming. She feels your betrayal. She’s going to eat us all.”
Medusa and Miral both sucked in hard at the mention of the big sister—whoever she was. I, on the other hand, had no idea who or what they were talking about. And I didn’t care. Whatever offense was occurred here, whatever Other drama was going on, we needed to discuss it. Like adults. Adults with serrated teeth and razor-sharp claws, but adults nonetheless.
Atargatis cried out, “It wasn’t me. It must have been Astarte. She’s the one who did t
his. She’s the one who killed your brother.” But little Maggie didn’t listen. Without a running start, she somersaulted three times—I swear she was showing off—before leaping into the air. She was going for a roundhouse kick, and by the air she got, she’d connect with Atargatis’ face.
Luckily for Atargatis, I’d figured the little girl was going to try something like that, so while they were having their little family tiff, I was busy chiseling one of those oversized, crystallized bubbles off the centerpiece. I took aim, but Medusa grabbed my arm.
“Don’t!” she said.
“I can’t just let that thing eat one of my guests,” I answered, and turned back to the stage. As soon as Maggie was off the ground, I lobbed the bowling-ball-sized bubble at her head. It struck true, knocking her to the ground, her body spasming twice before she passed out.
“Strike! Oh, yeah!” I cried out triumphantly. Medusa caught my eye and shook her head. “Sorry,” I said, and I leapt on the stage.
Again.
↔
Of course, knocking out one of them only meant that there were six more to deal with, and since I just took out their little demon sister it meant that some of their attention would be on me. Scratch that—a lot of their attention would be on me. Immediately Edgar and Lily attacked, Edgar lifting his leg unnaturally high and roundhouse kicking me in the face with far more force than a six-year-old should have. To make matters worse, Lily slid under me and knocked the backs of my knees. As a result, I folded in on myself and dropped.
“Oww!” I screamed out. I was fighting little ninjas. The thing was, I was pretty good in a fight. My training kicked in, and I grabbed Lily’s ankle and pulled, throwing her off stage. Because I had gracefully fallen on my stomach, I couldn’t use my legs against Edgar, but I had another weapon that was harder than the sole of my shoe—my head. I got up, connecting my forehead with Edgar’s chin. There was a deafening crunch, and the boy staggered back.
He looked at me with dead, hollow eyes and pulled out a loosened shark tooth. Tossing it to the ground, he lifted his arms in a fighting stance, and extended one hand out, palm up. With a gesture that would have given Bruce Lee chills, he beckoned me to attack.
I lifted up a finger. “One second.” I looked over at Atargatis, who was fending off a couple of her children, and I yelled, “I don’t suppose you can give your kids a time-out?”
Atargatis gave me an exasperated look as she peeled off Judy and kicked her in the stomach.
“I didn’t think so,” I said. “Fine, let’s do this.”
I’m fast. I mean, really fast. Back in my Army days, I’d dismantle and reassemble a rifle faster than you could say “Boo.” We’d play these games where I’d have to get a coin out of the CO’s hand, the nimble man who claimed to have trained in the Shaolin Temple in the Shaoshi Mountain region. I always got his coin. He never got mine. I’m not showing off here. I’m just saying—I’m fast.
Edgar was faster. The boy was a blur, and it took all of my concentration just to counter his attack. As hard as I tried I could not get a shot in, and after blocking kick after kick, punch after punch, I was getting tired. I felt like one of those old Street Fighter arcade games. Sure, you could just spend the game blocking, but every hit knocked off just that little bit of energy until—KAPOW—you were out. K.O.! Game Over! Insert Quarter to Try Again.
I needed to do something against Edgar—I needed leverage. In the hail of his kicks and punches, I looked around me trying to find something or someone to help me deal with Karate Kid here. That’s when I noticed that none of the Others in the audience moved. They just watched as Atargatis and I fought her maniac children, not one of them lifting a finger. OK, I get the average fairy or harpy: Don’t get involved, watch from a distance with a morbid curiosity, silently thanking the GoneGods that it’s not you. But Miral? She was the Captain of the Lord’s army, and one hell of a fighter. And Medusa guarded the Golden Fleece, so she had to be tough. She had a crush on me and, according to those magazines she read, modern chivalry was a two-way street. But she—like everyone else—didn’t move.
GoneGodDamn it! Fine.
And then there was The BisMark—wasn’t this ruining his party? He watched with that creepy, beautiful smile of his like someone surveying an orgy and deciding which group they were going to join. Stewart, for what it was worth, wore an unusual amount of concern on his face given that he was a statue.
Edgar’s attacks pushed me farther onto the stage until I was right next to that ridiculous statue of Poseidon. Once my back was against it, I put my hands down. Edgar must have thought that I was drained. It took him a second to wind up his next attack. He kicked high, and I ducked. His foot connected with the statue’s thigh and it teetered. I did a roundhouse kick of my own to wobble the statue on its feet, hoping that if I angled my blow just right it would fall over on Edgar.
That’s when Stewart reanimated, moving towards the statue to stabilize it. As soon as he got involved, Edgar launched at him. He jumped up and kicked Stewart’s face, but the gargoyle didn’t flinch—he just took his free hand, grabbed Edgar by the wrist and lifted him clean off the ground. The kid flailed about, like in one of those cartoons where the cat holds the mouse by the tail.
Two down, five to go.
That gave me an idea. I kicked the statue of Poseidon again. Stewart, who was busy holding Edgar, did his best to stabilize the statue, but without two hands, he couldn’t. He twitched, and one of his gargoyle minions came to life. It went to keep the statue steady, and once it entered the fray, the third eldest boy—Simon, I believe—attacked it. It reacted exactly as Stewart did, grabbing the kid and encasing him in a stone bear-hug.
I kicked Poseidon three more times, and one by one the gargoyles held the attackers down while protecting the statue. They were all down except for … I felt the rush of wind as Lily came up behind me, fist raised in the air. Just as she was about to punch my face, a whirl of white cloth came down as Conner wrapped her up in a tablecloth and held her tight.
“Thanks,” I said. “But I had it under control.”
“Sure you did,” Conner said, straining to hold her.
↔
Six of the seven kids were accounted for—only Bob was missing. I scanned the room but couldn’t find him. Either he saw what happened to his siblings and cut his losses, or he was hiding, waiting for the right moment to strike. Given how the other six behaved, I was pretty sure it was the latter.
But worrying about Bob would have to wait.
I scanned the crowd of Others. They were staring up at the stage, their faces shocked or surprised or wearing the type of casual, devilish grin you get when you see someone accidentally get groined with a baseball. That look that said, “Funny” and “Glad it wasn’t me.” Some show of unity, if you ask me. Not that I could read their faces—after all, what does morbid curiosity look like on a banshee’s face?
“What the hell is wrong with all of you?” I screamed at the crowd of Others. I helped Atargatis to her feet. “Did you enjoy the show?” I know I shouldn’t be yelling at them—especially with the cameras rolling—but I couldn’t help it. Doing nothing is always worse than doing the wrong thing, and their apathy boiled my blood. “She could’ve been killed.” I glared at them. Given the force behind my words, I expected that at least a few of them would have been ashamed. Downcast eyes, shaking heads. Some sign that my words were reaching them.
What I did not expect was the open look of shock everyone gave me. And by everyone, I mean everyone. Every single Other looked at me like I had just strangled a puppy. Even Miral and Medusa stared at me in abject horror.
“What?” I asked, but my question was only met with eerie, uncomfortable silence. The only noise in the room was the crinkling of Atargatis’ dress as she stood, and the occasional protest from one of her children who were still being firmly held by Stewart and his gargoyles.
Atargatis wiped away a tear and straightened her dress. Somewhat composed, she turned to the a
udience and in a solemn, sorrowful voice said, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t know. Please believe me. I didn’t know.” As the words left her lips, she got down on her knees and prostrated herself before them. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” Her words were muffled between her sobs.
The audience didn’t move. Not a single Other showed any sign of forgiveness or compassion to the former goddess of fertility.
“What am I missing here?” I asked, reaching down to her side.
Her eyes widened as if she were recalling something temporarily displaced, an ancient memory or some long-forgotten fact. Whatever it was, it terrified her. “I didn’t mean to offend her. I didn’t.” She grabbed my wrist. “You have to believe me, I didn’t mean to.”
I took her hand in mine and did my best to reassure her. I had no idea what she was talking about, but whoever she didn’t mean to offend clearly scared the hell out of her. “Who?” I asked. “Who are you talking about?”
“I have summoned Tiamat.”
With the last word, the entire audience gasped. Well, they did whatever qualified as a gasp. Dwarves stomped a foot, fairies released little puffs of glitter, valkyries made a noise similar to that of a crow’s craw. Miral, the Angel of Light and the former Captain in the Lord’s army, prayed. And Medusa sucked in a deep breath while Marty hissed, glaring up at me with a serpentine expression that said, “You’re screwed now.”
Chapter 3
Coming Straight from the Underground
The BisMark walked over to us with his usual princely demeanor. He approached Stewart and ran his hand along the gargoyle’s diamond chest. Then he put his hand on the leg of Poseidon’s statue and in a forlorn tone said, “So many sacrifices. So many hurt.” He shook his head as if chasing away a depressing thought and turned to the audience. “This isn’t the first time this has happened. We have sent Tiamat back to the depths before. And I promise you this … We will do so again.”
“Sent what back to where?” I asked. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but if someone doesn’t start talking soon, I’m going to release my own Tiamat.”
