Ragnarok: The Fate of Gods (40 page)

             
Something hisses behind him.  He turns in time to see an arrow pierce the neck of his would-be assailant.  Its convulsing body drops into his arms.  He throws it aside as Muriel rushes up.  “Are you all right, father?” 

             
“Don’t go worrying about this old man.  Just take care of yourself.”  He smiles, but keeps a watchful eye.  “We’ll both make it through this safe, and then we’ll dance on their graves.” 

             
He raises his hammer and roars, rushing back into the melee.  Muriel pulls her arrow out of the draugr’s corpse.  A short distance away, an attack vehicle burst out of a wall of draugr, crushing them.  It skids to a stop by Muriel. 

             
“My gunner got hit.  Can I have your help?” asks the driver.

             
She looks for her father in the chaos.  “Fine.  But we’re going that way.” 

             
“Fine by me.  Plenty of these bastards everywhere.”

             
She climbs up to the mini-gun mounted on the frame.  The driver speeds off.  Muriel opens fire into the draugr.  The monsters fall as the vehicle passes. 

             
A monster roars loudly.  Instinctively she swivels the gun around, firing at the largest shape she sees.  She hears a bellow of pain as the shape falls, then a faint voice shouting over the din.  “God damn it!  Not another one!” 

             
She sees the pirate rush at nearby draugr, stabbing wildly. 

              Zeke walks through a starry void.  He holds his sword out in front of him, ready to attack.  His feet hit an unseen floor.  He steps.  He feels his position change.  He knows he’s moving.  But looking around, it seems as though he stays in one place.

             
“Creepy place,” he observes.  “There isn’t anything here.”  He remembers his last visit.  The dreams.  The images.  There is none of that now. 

             
He walks more.  His axis of orientation begins to shift.  He feels as though he’s walking up.  Or down.  One way or the other.  Straight ahead.  But the void always remains unchanged in the background, as if he is making no progress at all. 

             
“This is supposed to be the afterlife, right?  The world of dreams?  I should be able to at least dream up something.  Maybe a long-deceased soul.”

             
An apple tree materializes in the darkness. 

             
“That’s odd.”  He reaches up for an apple.  It falls gently into his hand.  He reaches up to bite into it.  The fruit vanishes and he sinks his teeth into his own hand.  He lets out a cry.  “Strange.  Maybe Jack was on to something.”

             
A voice starts laughing.  He looks up.  The tree is gone.  In its place stands Jae-Hoon.  “Hey Zeke!” he says cheerfully. 

             
He stares at the apparition.  “Jae-Hoon?” 

             
“Yep.  It’s me.” 

             
“But that means you’re . . .”

             
“I’m not dreaming, if that’s what you’re wondering.”  The Slayer seems strangely high-spirited, considering the fact that he’s dead.  Zeke feels his stomach knot.  “I cashed in a while ago.  Killed by your friend, Micah, actually.”  Anger flashes suddenly across his face.  “I can’t find Charlie or Emily.  Are they here?  They’re dead, right?  What did he do to them?” 

             
“You’re not Jae-Hoon.” 

             
The apparition glares back at him.  “Can you be so sure?” 

             
Silence.

             
“Why don’t you find out?  I know you’re hungry.  Have a bite.”  Jae-Hoon tosses him an apple.  He catches it.  The apparition laughs maliciously and fades into nothingness.  “Of course,” says his voice, “it wasn’t
really
an apple at all.” 

             
Zeke examines the fruit.

             
“Do not eat from the tree, for you will gain the knowledge of good and evil,” booms a deep, familiar voice. 

             
He drops the fruit.  It vanishes into the darkness.  “Sorry.  It’s been done.” 

             
“Yes, but the progenitors of man did not learn,” Metatron booms again.  His voice echoes off non-existent walls.

             
“Learn what?”  Zeke turns slowly, scanning the void for his enemy. 

             
“That there is no good or evil.” 

             
“Show yourself,” he shouts.  “Where are you?” 

             
The malak laughs again.  “In this plane of existence?  I am wherever you want to find me.”  The voice is distinct.  Not disembodied.  The malak is standing behind him.  He spins.  Metatron sits on a lavish throne, suspended in the darkness.

             
Zeke raises his sword.  It glows red. 

             
“So long it has been since first we met, and beyond your little display of phosphorescence, nothing has changed.  You still face me, ready to die.”  The angel sounds disappointed.

             
“Not this time,” he sneers.  “I can defeat you, and you know it.” 

             
Metatron lets out a single, high laugh.  “What?  Am I supposed to be frightened?  Good always triumphs over evil—isn’t that what you humans believe?  Sad to say, that is not true.  The universe is structured for power.  Not justice.  There is no right or wrong.  For a million years, humans have prayed to the higher powers you believed were your creators, seeking the meaning of your existence.  All the time blind to the knowledge that you were created just to be destroyed.  What does that make us?  The great power of good is merely a murderer.  But hasn’t the creator always been the standard for what is good?” 

             
The angel smiles maliciously. 

             
“Then it’s time for a change,” says Zeke. 

             
“I agree.”

             
Metatron raises a hand and draws a circle in the air.  An image appears in the darkness.  It shows a swarm of movement around a large, black sphere. 

             
“The gate?” he asks. 

             
“The battlefield.  This is where your friends are fighting.  So far, they have been doing quite well.  But they will die now.  I have a surprise.  I saved it just for now, so I could show you.” 

              “Sir,” calls a technician.  “I’m picking up a reading from behind the gate.” 

             
Dumah stares out at the chaotic battlefield.  He is uneasy about leaving his post.  “A reading?” he asks, unmoving. 

             
“Infrared sources,” the technician calls back.  “They’re multiplying.  On the other side of the mountains.” 

             
‘Multiplying’ is not a word he wants to hear right now.  “Let me see.”  He rushes closer and leers over the monitor.  Beyond the battlefield, the world is still cold.  The screen is mostly black.  But a small blob of red and yellow expands on the screen.  Next to it is a dark blue circle.  “Draugr?” 

             
“I’m not sure.  It could be anything that gives off heat.”

             
Dumah looks closely at the dark circle.  Then it hits him.  Another gate.  “That thing has a back door.  Can you expand the image?  Compare it to the battle?” 

             
The technician turns a dial.  The red and yellow blob grows smaller and a new blob appears nearby, on the battlefield.

             
The new blob—the current battlefield—is the same size.

             
“Damn.  If those things break through the mountains, we can’t hold them off.” 

             
A loud electrical crack resounds.  Nearby, the sonar operator yanks his headphones off in a hurry.  They fall to the ground, letting off a high-pitched ringing.  It’s loud enough that everyone hears it.

             
“What’s wrong?”  Dumah asks. 

             
His question was answered by his lieutenant at the window.  “Sir, something is coming out of the gate.”

              The gate thunders.  Once again it expands.  The fighters look up.  Even the draugr seem curious about the new event.  The air grows charged.  Lightning blasts. 

             
Malak jump out of the gate in droves.  Beautiful, powerful angels and twisted, monstrous demons rush out and start killing.  They avoid the dragons, but otherwise pick their victims indiscriminately.  They slay humans and draugr alike.

             
However, they have a clear predilection for humans. 

             
Most of the fighters retreat.  A few stay and fight.  They shoot at the ethereal entities.  The bullets pass through the monsters.  The soldiers keep firing, but creep backwards. 

             
Rifles click. 

             
The malak close in. 

             
The field grows loud with human screams.

              Metatron smiles proudly at the image. 

             
“You’re deranged,” Zeke says.  “You’re nothing but a murderer.” 

             
The malak turns to his nemesis.  “Were I human, you might speak the truth.  But I am a divine being.  Your holy texts are filled with bodies lying dead at the hands of gods, yet you worship them all the same.  I am above human sins.  This isn’t murder.  It’s a purge.” 

             
“Only if you succeed.”  Zeke raises his sword.  It glows. 

             
“Oh?’ Metatron says casually.  “Is it time?”

             
“Come purge me.” 

             
The angel suddenly springs forward, both swords drawn.  He closes quickly, but Zeke deflects both blades with a quick swing of his katana.  He kicks, and Metatron stumbles back. 

             
Zeke launches his own attack.  He swings furiously and advances quickly.  His enemy is forced to use both his swords to hold off the onslaught.  Had there been ground to lose in the ether, Metatron would have been pushed back. 

             
A sword swings down over Metatron’s head.  The malak raises one of his own to stop the attack.  He uses the other to retaliate.  He swings low.  As the massive blade passes beneath him, Zeke jumps.  Hitting the sword, he uses it as a springboard to somersault over the malak. 

             
Landing on his feet, he stabs.  Metatron turns quickly.  The attack misses his chest, but sinks deep into the angel’s shoulder.  He roars in pain and drops his sword. 

             
The demon raises the empty, injured arm. 

             
A blast of energy hits Zeke, knocking him back.  He falls. 

             
He springs to his feet quickly, but Metatron is already above him, bearing down.  The angel holds his remaining sword with both hands.  Zeke swings his sword up.  Metal clashes on metal. 

             
Each fighter pushes against the other.  The angel’s broadsword bears down.  It hovers only centimeters above Zeke’s face. 

              Gabriel pounds draugr endlessly.  His arm grows tired.  In the distance, malak continue to pour out of the gate. 

             
But that’s a long way from him. 

             
An attack vehicle drives up, bowling over a path of draugr.  “Lord Gabriel!”  shouts the driver as they skid to a halt. 

             
“Father!”  Muriel shouts from the top.  “Get on!  We have to retreat!” 

             
The king looks at her curiously.  She has never run from a fight in her life. 

             
“We can’t fight malak!” she urges. 

             
“Funny time for a change in character!” he bellows back.  Draugr close in.  He resumes swinging at them. 

             
“It’s
suicide
to stay!”

             
“It’s suicide to leave!  If we run now, they’ll hunt us down eventually.  I say we make our stand now!”  A draugr rushes him.  He knocks it upside the head with his hammer.  It flies a short distance into the air, then falls, joining the pile of bodies at his feet.

             
“My lord, I’m afraid she’s right,” agrees the driver.

             
Gabriel pounds madly.  He doesn’t look back.  “You go.  I’m an old man, and I choose to die fighting.”