by E. A. Copen
I stopped, hovering over the edge of the highway. “Er, the Superdome? Are you sure?”
He looked over his shoulder and gave three low “woofs,” one from each head, his way of saying “yes,” I supposed.
“You know that thing is just one giant lump of concrete-coated steel, right? Unless there’s a door open somewhere, you and I aren’t getting in, Spot.”
He didn’t answer me but just kept padding through the darkness.
Standing at the bottom of the Superdome looking up was a far more impressive view than standing above it on the highway and looking down. The brick walkway around the stadium had several small stages set up, all of which were empty. We walked by one that had some mysterious dark stains on it and I shivered, remembering the roving packs of violent infected. I hoped it wasn’t blood. At least there weren’t any bodies lying around.
The area in front of the Superdome was mostly just empty space with a brick walkway, some bronze statues, and unlit streetlights. A port-o-potty had been overturned at some point, long ago enough that the blue liquid had dried into a sticky paste. I was glad to be a spirit because I didn’t have to step in it to follow Spot.
Spot stopped suddenly and growled at the front of the Superdome, sticking his whole face forward towards it.
“Easy, boy,” I said, patting him as I walked by. “What’s the big deal?” As soon as I reached his front legs, I saw what he was growling at. One of the doors to the Superdome had been ripped off the hinges. It would be a tight fit, but I could easily slide inside. “Is that it? Is a part of my soul in there?”
He growled and offered a gruff, clipped bark in response.
“You stay out here, Spot. I’ll go in and check it out.”
He sat, but stayed on alert.
Carefully, I slipped through the open door and into a dark corridor. Without any lights on, I couldn’t see even a few inches in front of my face. The only way I could make any progress forward was to just keep moving and hope for the best.
I floated for what seemed like forever before I felt the resistance of another huge wall. Hope it’s not made of steel, I thought and pushed through.
The other side was just as dark, but it was a different sort of dark, a bigger dark. The further forward I went, the bigger the space seemed. Sour air filled the place, stinking of old feet, sweat, and general urban decay. Even stranger, a sound rose on the air, something subtle like wind inside an air duct or blood rushing through an artery. It was silent, but the noise of it seemed deafening.
A light suddenly snapped to life on the other side of the stadium, the full force of the beam focused directly on me. I lifted an arm to shield my eyes, but then another light came on and another…and another. Slowly, the whole stadium lit up, and the lights were so bright it hurt my eyes, even with them shielded.
I turned a full circle. This couldn’t be a coincidence. Someone else was here, messing with me, but who? Who could possibly know I was there?
I put my hands to my mouth. “Hello?”
“Hello again, Lazarus,” said a voice directly behind me.
I spun around.
He was tall and had shoulders wide enough to be a football player. For a minute, I thought I’d somehow run into someone from the team, or maybe an ex-football star who’d come into the stadium to get it running again. But then why would they know my name? I didn’t know the first thing about football, and I didn’t hang out with people who did.
It wasn’t until the guy crossed his arms over his massive chest that I recognized him. Holy crap! Was that Vesta’s old bodyguard?
“Fezzik?” I asked, squinting. “Is that you?”
“My name is Gaston, or it used to be. Now I’m just a lump of meat wasting away in a coma ward thanks to you.” He pounded his fist against his flat palm. “And now it’s time to repay that favor.”
“Easy, pal,” I said, backing up. “I don’t want a fight. I’m just here for the missing part of my soul. You see, my three-headed dog seems to think it’s in here somewhere, and well, he won’t leave until I check.”
“You mean this?” Gaston stopped, flicked his wrist, and produced a tiny glowing silver shard. He made sure I saw it before he crushed his fist around it and made it disappear again. “You want it back? You’ll have to pry it from my cold, undead hands.”
Chapter Seven
“Technically, you’re not undead,” I pointed out. “Just mostly dead.”
He gritted his teeth and took a powerful swing at my head.
I didn’t bother moving since I was a disembodied spirit. Pretty much everything just passed right through my spectral body, so I figured Gaston’s fist would too.
Of course, right when I thought I’d gotten a handle on how ghostly physics worked, someone went and changed the rules.
Gaston’s fist slammed into my jaw and sent me flying back as a good twenty feet. It took me that long to figure out I’d keep flying unless I made an effort to stop myself. Once I’d righted myself, I shook my head and flexed my jaw. “Man, that’s so not fair. I can’t touch anything, but I can still feel pain? What gives?”
“Welcome to being trapped in limbo. The good news, it won’t last long for you.” Gaston cracked his knuckles and stomped toward me.
“Wait a minute!” I waved my arms protectively in front of me. I didn’t know if it’d do any good against jackhammer punches like his, but I had to do something to keep him from hitting me again. “What happened to you was a tragic accident. I never meant to put you in a never-ending coma. Don’t get me wrong, I probably would’ve kicked your ass—”
Gaston snorted. “Not likely.”
“Or I would’ve just ripped your soul out completely and let you die if I’d known I could do that, but I didn’t mean for this to happen. How’d you wind up like this? I left your soul in your body.”
He made another fist. “You did, but you severed whatever was holding it there. Once I figured out just being in my body wouldn’t get me to wake up again, I left and started learning everything I could about you. I knew one day I’d get my chance for vengeance, and when I saw the shards fall from the sky after what you did… It was my chance. So I found one, took it and brought it here. I knew you’d come looking for it eventually. I just didn’t expect you to be quite so dead yourself.”
“I’m not dead either,” I said, pressing my fingertips to my chest. “All I want is to get the pieces of my soul back together and put them in my body. Hey, why don’t I do the same for you? Why don’t you give me that soul shard? Once I’ve got all the pieces, I’ll come back, collect your soul, and put it in your body in the coma ward. What do you say?” I held out my hand.
Gaston stared at it, his upper lip twitching before he slapped my hand away. “I’ve been in a coma for over a year. Do you know what that does to the body? Even if I woke up, I’d have years of physical therapy ahead of me. I would never be able to work in security again. Day after day of being so weak I can’t even walk to the toilet? Endless medical debt? Bankruptcy? That’s what the future looks like for me if you do that. No, you ended my life the day you touched my soul, and you’re going to pay for it.” He took another step toward me.
I floated back a little more, holding my hands up. Come on, Laz, think of something or this guy is going to kick your ass into the next century. I wasn’t strong enough to take him, not by a longshot. I needed to even the odds somehow. How, though? I’d only been a disembodied spirit for a handful of hours. I needed more time to figure out how things worked, let alone how to beat this monster in a fight without relying on my Horseman powers.
Time! That’s it!
Gaston drew his fist back.
I squeezed my eyes closed and blurted out the next thought that came to mind. “How about a duel?” I waited for him to punch me anyway.
“A duel?”
I chanced opening an eye to see him pull his fist back. It’d been only inches from my face. “Yeah, you know. Like they did in the old days. You get a second, I g
et one, we pick weapons and a time. Then we take ten paces and have at it. As fair of a fair fight as you can get.”
His nostrils flared. “It wasn’t very fair when you reached into my chest and severed the connection holding my soul in place.”
“True, but look at it this way. Once you’ve dealt with me, what’ve you got to look forward to? Got any plans for the afterlife?”
He blinked as if he hadn’t even thought of that. “I suppose I’d just find the nearest Reaper and ask them to reap me,” he said, putting a finger to his chin.
“Yeah, but where is that Reaper gonna take you, pal? I don’t think you’re going upstairs.”
Gaston’s eyes widened.
I’d hit a nerve and decided to press it. I stood up straight. “That’s right. Take it from me that the underworld is a very real place. First place you go is to have your soul judged, and trust me when I say the guy they have in charge of that is a real hardass. You want to have as many good deeds in your pocket when you go as possible.”
“Why do I care if I’m going to Hell anyway?”
I laughed nervously. “Hell? If you’re lucky. There’s a whole bunch of different underworlds. I should know. I’ve gotten the grand tour already. Some of them aren’t so bad, but others…” I shook my head. “You do not want to be judged harshly, my man. A duel is the perfect answer. You get to fight me and probably kick my scrawny ass, and you get to prove you’re a good and honorable guy. Maybe they’ll overlook that whole service to a mad murdering goddess thing.”
“But if I let you go, you might not come back.” He crossed his arms.
“Of course, I’ll be back. You’ve got a part of my soul, and I’m stupid enough to believe I have a chance of winning.”
“And who gets to decide the winner? We’d need a referee to keep things fair.” He shook his head and flexed his fists. “This is getting too complicated. How about I just kick your ass and get it over with right now?”
“I have a referee!” I shouted, moving back a few more paces.
Gaston frowned. “Oh, really? Who is it then?”
Think, Lazarus! Think! Who would this jerk think is an impartial judge? Someone who can also see him and me? And don’t just say the first name that pops into your head either. “Baron Samedi.”
Dammit, of course, I’d say the first name that came to mind. Why did I do that? Better just roll with it.
I cleared my throat. “So what do you say? Same place, same time, two nights from now? That gives us time to get everything ready.” And me to check in with Remy and the others.
He considered it for a long moment, looking me up and down slowly. “I guess if I want to punch you and you don’t come back, I can always hunt you down. I do have part of your soul.” Gaston unfurled his fist and showed me the sparkling shard once more as if I’d forgotten what it looked like.
“I’ll be back,” I promised and turned to speed out of the Superdome.
“You’d better be,” Gaston called after me.
Spot was still waiting outside. As soon as I floated through the door, he came up to sniff me.
I pushed his heads away. “No, I didn’t get it. Not yet, anyway. We’ve got to come back in two nights. If I somehow manage to beat him in a duel, I can have it. That’s about as likely as the sun coming up in the west.”
With a harrumph, I parked my spectral body on top of an overturned trash can and looked at the sky. It was still dark, which meant we still had time to track down the other missing parts, but I had other things to think about too. Where I was going to spend the daytime hours was a good start, since I hadn’t found my Spark yet. Once I got that back, I’d be able to move around in the sun again, but until then, I had to limit my investigation to the nighttime hours.
Spot came to sit beside me, all three heads panting as they looked out over the city.
“We need to find Remy too,” I said, petting him.
“Ruff.”
“And the other missing pieces of my soul.”
“Ruff.”
“I suppose the positive spin here is that there are only two more missing pieces, you know. I know where my shadow is, where I am, and now where one of the pieces is. I just need to find the Spark and the last part. Think we can do all that and find Remy before dawn?”
“Ruff! Ruff!” Spot stood and shook his fur. He pulled his doggie tongues in and sniffed the air in three directions before turning right. With his ears perked and tail wagging, he turned down Poydras Avenue, moving at full speed.
Poydras Avenue was a divided street four lanes wide on each side, with the lane closest to the sidewalk almost always littered with parked cars. In the middle, tired-looking palm trees drooped in the hot, humid air. Even in the shadows cast by the skyscrapers and another parking garage on the right side of the street, it must’ve been warm. The humidity made everything hang limply and wave in the slightest breeze. Even the streetlights looked like they were drooping, but that was impossible since they were attached to metal poles reaching across the street. I waited for him to turn off the street, but he just kept ongoing.
After at least a mile, Spot stopped in front of some pillars holding up a sign that read: Piazza d’Italia. The Piazza was one of those gems gone wrong dotted all around New Orleans. Constructed in the seventies as a sort of monument to the Italian-Americans who helped make New Orleans into the city it became, the plaza eventually fell into disrepair. They’d done restorations a few times, including a full-scale restoration just a couple years ago, but it never seemed to stick. Like a lot of places, the repairs and restorations always got pushed back for when the city had more money. Problem was, New Orleans got battered with disaster after disaster, and that money never seemed to surface. With the way the pillars were situated, it was too narrow for him to proceed, but Spot clearly pointed toward the plaza.
“Is the next piece in there?” I asked, patting his shoulder.
His response was a muffled woof.
“Let’s hope it’s just sitting there undisturbed then and not in the hands of someone who wants to murder me.” I passed between the columns and under the arch. Ahead, a grove of perfectly spaced, skinny tree trunks stood, green leaves rustling in the breeze. The plaza was beyond that, on the other side of a gate.
The architecture wasn’t what I’d describe as classical or Italian. It was more modern than that, but something about it definitely called up images from all the movies about Italy I’d ever seen. It was more Italian-flavored. Keystone arches and accented square spaces stood in a connected semi-circle. Clay carvings of faces had been mounted on one of the arches. If the fountains had been on, the faces would’ve looked like they were spitting water into the murky pool. Patterned bricks of different sizes formed the rest of the plaza floor, all of it surrounded by more squat trees. Carved in Latin on the largest arch, the dedication read: The Fountain of Saint Joseph: The citizens of New Orleans have given this fountain to all people as a gift.
I hoped to find the plaza completely deserted, but I wasn’t so lucky. Someone was waiting for me there too.
He sat in a wheelchair facing the water, a blanket over his lap. He was thin, with bronzed skin and a patch of hair on his chin.
I didn’t recognize him, not even when I walked up to stand beside him. “Can I assume you’re who I’m looking for?”
“You don’t know me, do you?”
I fought to suppress a shiver. I might not have recognized his body, but I knew that voice. Xipetotec, the Aztec god of the dead and Namer of Pestilence. Not only had I helped Haru chop off his feet, but I’d killed his Horseman. To say he had every reason to hate me was the understatement of the century.
Before I could answer, he shifted his wheelchair so that he faced me and ripped the blanket off his lap, revealing bandaged wrapped stubs that ended where his ankles should’ve begun. “Maybe you don’t remember me, Horseman, but you’ll remember what you did to me. You and that other one.” He grinned. One gold tooth gleamed in the moonlight. “An
d tonight, you’re going to pay for it.”
I sighed and gestured to the god. “No offense, but I’m not going to fight a guy in a wheelchair.”
He ground his teeth and used his arms to lift his body several inches from the chair. “Do you think you’re so tough? I can beat you like this, Horseman. Look at you! You’re barely even a wisp! You’re not whole, either.”
“I don’t care if you think you can beat me. I’m not fighting you. It’s just not right.”
He sat back in the chair. “Well then, perhaps you’d be more willing to fight my champion.” Xipetotec snapped his fingers.
Somewhere nearby, a drum banged. A huge wolf form rose behind the arches. Fenrir, the Titan. He stepped over the arches, blazing blue eyes locked on me.
I swallowed and took a step back. “Heya, Fenrir. Long time, no see.”
DO NOT ATTEMPT TO BE FRIENDLY, HORSEMAN. YOU MURDERED MY FATHER.
“Okay, first off, Loki had it coming. He wanted to destroy the world, and he’d fucked up my life pretty bad. Killing him was the only way that could’ve ended without kicking off Ragnarok. Second, you kinda helped me do it. You don’t get to go all Inigo Montoya after you helped me do him in.”
Fenrir shrugged. Until that moment, I didn’t know wolves could shrug, especially Titan-sized wolves. I’M NOT SURE WHAT THAT MEANS.
“Third,” I said, holding up three fingers, “we had a deal. You’re not allowed to kill any humans.”
He grinned at me. YOU ARE A DISEMBODIED SOUL. THAT MEANS TECHNICALLY, YOU’RE NOT HUMAN AT THE MOMENT.
I gulped. He had me on a technicality. Well, I’d killed more Titans than anybody, so at least I stood a chance. Every Titan I’d ever fought, I’d beaten because I found a way to cut them off from the source of their power. I didn’t know the source of Fenrir’s power, though, and I couldn’t shut it down from where I was.
I turned to Xipetotec. “If you get to name a champion, then so do I.”
