Lost Gods

  “Calvary Hill must be that way,” Ana said, pointing up the main avenue.

  Chet nodded. He could just make out the misty outline of a hill in the distance.

  “What’s there?” Johnny asked.

  “Supposed to be someone that can help you find family,” Chet said. “They’re called bloodseekers.”

  “Bloodseekers,” Johnny repeated, then said it again as though liking the sound of the word. “Y’know, that could be interesting.” He cut his eyes to Ana. “Could be like a quest.” He laughed. “Quest for the bloodseekers of Styga. Sounds like a grand adventure. Count me in.”

  “Quest?” Ana said. “What’s it going to take for you to understand that this isn’t some adventure from one of your storybooks?”

  “Know what?” He gave her a wicked grin. “Peter Pan once said, ‘Death is a mighty big adventure.’ I’m going with that.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Larry Wagner, better known to many around Jasper, Alabama, as simply “Coach,” trudged up the main thoroughfare of Styga in the direction of Calvary Hill. He didn’t know where he was heading, didn’t care. He was just following the other aimless souls, following the broad ruts running along the flagstone and wondering just how many millions of feet it had taken over how many eons to carve such profound grooves into the hard stone.

  The avenue narrowed, pressing the drifting crowd together, making the going slow. There were more stalls along this way and soon calls from shopkeepers began to break the monotonous sound of shuffling feet.

  He caught the rumble of far-off thunder and a flake drifted past, another, then many. It’s snowing, Coach thought, looking upward. The fog had lifted a degree, revealing dense, dark clouds overhead. He caught a flake, saw that it wasn’t snow, but ash. The falling ash increased as he walked, swirling down the avenue and pooling along gutters and walls.

  Coach looked at his hands, at the pale grayish flesh. I’m dead . . . fucking dead. He shook his head, still trying to understand how one minute he was heading out for a nice day of fishing, the next looking down at his own cracked skull. And that piece of trash, Chet, that little fuckup, just driving away. What Coach wanted, wanted more than anything at this moment, was to get his cold, dead hands on Chet. He clenched them into fists as the events played and replayed themselves in his mind, the way his old high school football days often did—the day the Bear himself showed up scouting players, and that pass, him in the all clear, the ball hitting him right on the numbers and bouncing away, just bouncing away along with any shot at college ball. How many times had he replayed that in his mind, a thousand? More like a hundred thousand. If only he’d caught that ball. Now it was the kid, Chet. If only I’d moved a little faster, timed it a little better. I’d’ve gotten that fucker. Would’ve put that tire jack right through the driver’s window. Then it’d be that boy with his head cracked open, that boy walking around this hell. Not me. Not me!

  An arm slipped around his, startling him.

  “Don’t be afraid,” came a breathless voice. “I am here to help you.”

  A woman, smelling of incense and draped in gypsy scarves, walked beside him. She gave him an alluring look. “I am Madeline, queen of the bloodseekers. Let me help you find what you need.” She tugged him, trying to steer him toward a small checkered tent bearing the mark of an eye with a red teardrop. A beefy man in a green jacket stood beside the tent, watching them intently. Coach didn’t like the woman’s overdone makeup, the ridiculous-looking eye painted upon her forehead, but more than that, he wanted nothing more to do with these green jacket men, not after his ordeal back at the landing. He pulled away.

  “Just a pence,” she called after him, a note of desperation in her voice. “That’s all and I can bring you home to your loved ones.”

  Coach didn’t look back, just kept shuffling along. He heard music drifting down the avenue and came upon a man playing a fiddle—a somber, mesmerizing tune. Coach closed his eyes, trying to float away with the song, trying for one moment to forget he was dead. Someone touched his arm and he opened his eyes to find a small wisp of a woman, with a streak of red paint smeared down the middle of her face, staring up at him. She wore a tattered gray cloak, her large dark eyes shadowed beneath the hood. “Your mother is waiting for you.”

  “Leave me alone,” he said and tried to pull away. Her grip tightened and then . . . he saw her, his mother, just a glimpse.

  “Your mother is waiting for you,” she repeated.

  “What do you know about my mom?” he asked, shaken.

  She nodded toward a stall covered in gray tarps. “Sit with me and I will tell you all I can.”

  He hesitated.

  “I am not with the Green Coats. Pay me what you can.” She seemed sincere.

  Larry had lost the few coins he’d crossed over with to the Green Coats at the dock; all he had left was his brass whistle. He pulled it out of his pocket.

  She looked at it, smiled. “It will be enough.” She turned, headed into the stall.

  Coach sucked in a chest full of air and followed.

  CHAPTER 15

  Chet, Ana, and Johnny headed up Styga’s main thoroughfare. As they made their way along the avenue, Chet noticed that the shops here offered shoes and clothes, as along the river road, but of better condition and quality. Weapons as well, not only clubs, but steel swords and knives, even chain mail. There were also stalls offering potions, crosses, and totems, signs and banners touting bloodseekers, readings, cobblers, offerings of work for coin, or guided passage. There were many more of which he couldn’t readily discern the meaning, such as “Bone Spice” with a picture of a cigarette, “Moore Mine—Five fleshies for forty turns of Eye,” and the more ominous ones he could understand only too well, like “Coin for Flesh.” He also noted the occasional Green Coat standing about here and there, eyeing everyone who passed.

  “There’s no eating places,” Johnny said.

  “How can you be hungry?” Ana asked.

  “That’s just it. I’m not. Are you?”

  Chet and Ana shook their heads.

  “That’s my point. Do we need to eat? Or drink? I’m not thirsty either, but that sure looks like a saloon over there.” He pointed to a sign above a green door reading “Drown Your Sorrows.” Had a picture of a bottle with the word “Lethe” written on it. Another just across the street also had a bottle with the word “Lethe.” It was simply called “Forget.” A man who looked half out of his mind stumbled out with a bottle in his hand. He leaned against the wall and slid down onto his rump next to a few other souls with similarly muddled expressions.

  “They’re drunk,” Ana said.

  “Or high,” Johnny said, nodding to a group of souls standing in front of a stall inhaling smoke from long, curved pipes.

  Chet noticed plenty of the shopkeepers smoking as well, mostly from long reeds or hand-rolled cigarettes. The smoke didn’t smell like tobacco; it had a sour bite that stung his nose.

  Something bumped into Chet’s leg.

  “Watch it, jackass,” came a sharp voice. It was a kid, no more than six years old. There was a gang of them, maybe a dozen altogether, none looking older than ten years of age, several with cigarettes hanging out of their mouths. They all glared at Chet.

  “Hey . . . sorry,” Chet said.

  “Sorry yourself, cocksucker,” the kid shot back.

  “Well, don’t you have a nasty little mouth,” Ana said.

  The kid gave her the bird, a look on his face daring Ana to do something. That’s when Chet noticed every one of them was carrying a knife or sharpened stick.

  “C’mon,” Chet said. “Let’s go.” They left the kids and their glares behind, continuing up the avenue.

  A woman, smelling of incense and draped in gypsy scarves, fell in step with Ana. She gave Ana what Chet guessed was supposed to be an alluring look, one of mystical prowess, but the overdone makeup and large eye painted upon her forehead created a more comical effect. “I am Madeline, queen of the bloodsee
kers.” She placed a hand upon Ana’s arm, trying to steer her toward a checkered tent. “Allow me to reunite you with your loved ones.”

  “My loved ones don’t want a damn thing to do with me,” Ana said bitterly, her eyes daring the woman to say more.

  The woman backed off, searching the crowd for more amiable prey.

  The shop next to the checkered tent had a small selection of weapons on display. It occurred to Chet that the three of them might stand a better chance if they were armed, that at the very least it might make them less of a target. He weighed the pouch, wondering what, if anything, the pennies could buy. He stepped up to the counter; the shopkeeper was haggling with a woman over a pair of boots. A girl in her teens—she might’ve been the shopkeeper’s daughter, judging by their similar sharp noses—walked over to him.

  “How much for the club?”

  The girl picked it up. “Well, this is a really good one. See, no rust on the spikes. It’s four fleshies.”

  “Fleshies?”

  “You’re still wet, aren’t you. Fleshies . . . ka coins. See?” She pulled a brown leathery coin from her pocket, held it up. “You got any of these?”

  Chet shook his head and she instantly lost interest, looking beyond him for the next customer.

  Chet pulled out a handful of pennies. “Can I pay with these?”

  The girl’s eyes grew wide. “Why . . . why, you could buy all the weapons on this street with those.” The shopkeeper suddenly appeared, pushing the girl aside. “Sir, you don’t want this old club.” He reached under the counter, brought out four steel swords. “Take your pick. Why I’ll even throw in a helmet. A shirt of mail perhaps?”

  Chet caught sight of a Green Coat moving rapidly toward them, a spiked club in his hand.

  “Sir.” It was the shopkeeper talking to Chet. “Here, how about two swords then. Two—”

  The Green Coat stepped up behind them, blocking them in. He leveled the club at Chet and Ana. “You two. Stay right where you’re at.” He peered down the avenue, pursed his lips, and whistled loud and sharp.

  Chet caught sight of a man—the one in the wide-brim hat from the docks, scanning the crowd far down the avenue. The Green Coat whistled again; this time the man saw them. Chet realized there were at least a dozen Green Coats with the man, all carrying weapons, all looking at him.

  Ana saw them too, and made to slip past the Green Coat guarding them. He cut her off, jabbing the club into her stomach, knocking her down.

  Johnny came out of nowhere and hit the guard, catching him completely by surprise. He smashed a fist right into his neck, followed by two more driving punches to the side of his head, then a knee into the man’s abdomen. The guard doubled over.

  The armed men were shouting and shoving their way toward them through the throng of souls.

  Chet grabbed Ana, pulling her to her feet, helping her away. Johnny snatched the club away from the fallen guard, giving him a solid kick to the stomach before following Chet into the crowd.

  Chet hooked a right at the first intersection, a left up an alley, followed by one quick turn after another, sprinting down the winding streets and lanes. The streets branched off, spiderwebbing in all directions, and Chet quickly lost any sense of where the main avenue might lie. The three of them came out into a small square and stopped.

  “Smell that?” Ana asked.

  A thick haze filled the square; the air was dense, sticky, a smell akin to burning tires. Chet saw no other new souls here, only a handful of gray, weathered men in rags, pushing carts or carrying bundles. He glanced back the way they’d come, heard no sign of the Green Coats.

  Souls began to notice them, giving them grim, ominous looks.

  “We should keep moving,” Ana said.

  “That way seems to lead uphill,” Johnny put in.

  They crossed the square, making their way along a narrow street lined with workshops and warehouses, doing their best to avoid the potholes, refuse, and the oily, mucky water snaking its way along the gutter. Smoke and steam drifted from grates and pipes jutting from the walls and roofs, staining the shop fronts black with soot and grease.

  “Y’know,” Johnny said, “that was the first real fight I’ve ever been in. Felt good to be able to do something about an asshole like that. You have to take a lot of shit when you’re stuck in a wheelchair. People staring, saying whatever asinine thing they want to you.” He slapped the club into his palm. “Felt good.”

  A blast of hot air blew from an open door. Chet saw men, their skin burnt and blackened, hammering ore in front of a furnace, several others pumping a huge bellows, sending heat and sparks rolling across the cobblestones. In another shop they saw bones of all sizes and shapes, some massive, like elephant or dinosaur bones, stacked in heaps. Souls cranked gears and belts, spinning a tall saw blade, while others pushed the large bones through the blade, cutting them into planks, stacking them like lumber.

  Ana stopped, pointed, but didn’t need to. Chet saw them right away: severed heads, dozens of them, hanging along the side of the building ahead. As they approached, Chet noticed a sign hanging beneath them reading THIEVES. He peered through the bars lining the narrow windows where he could see workers unloading cords of wood from a wagon, only he realized it wasn’t wood but arms and legs, even a few torsos, but mostly baskets of hands, like he’d seen down on the landing. Farther in, among the smoke, workers chopped them into chunks, dumping them into huge steaming kettles. Chet caught sight of three armed men in green jackets standing inside, watching over the workers.

  “Shouldn’t be down here,” a voice came from above. Chet looked up at the severed heads. Most of them appeared dried up, mummified, but several were watching them.

  “You lost?” one of them said, the one with long stringy hair and a thin mustache.

  “Looking for Calvary Hill,” Johnny replied, and Chet wished he hadn’t. Didn’t think it was a good idea to tell anyone where they were going.

  “Tell you what,” the head said, lowering his voice. “You cut me down off here and I’ll take you right there. Take you wherever you want. What d’you say?”

  “You touch him and your head will end up right next to him,” the next head over said, a woman with black curly hair. “You don’t want to be messing in Green Coat business.”

  “Why don’t you keep your nose out of this,” the man retorted.

  “Just keep heading the way you’re going,” the woman continued. “To Mirror Square. You’ll know it when you come to it. Take the first alley on the left, the widest one. Follow that. It’ll weave all over the damn place, but eventually it comes out just below Calvary. Won’t take long to start seeing all them fools and their crosses.”

  “You listen to her and you’ll end up getting cut up and eaten. I’m telling you, you need a guide. You need—”

  “Hey,” a stern voice called. “What do you want?”

  Chet turned to see a man in a green jacket, holding a spiked club, standing in the doorway.

  “You got business here?”

  Chet shook his head. “No. No business.”

  The guard eyed them suspiciously. “Then you best be off. Hadn’t you?”

  They moved on, heading quickly up the street. Chet glanced back when they were about a block away. The guard still stood there, watching them.

  CHAPTER 16

  Ana fought an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia as the alley continued to narrow, as the rickety buildings loomed over them, leaning inward as though they might topple at any moment, as the fog grew denser. They skirted heaps of gray bricks and bones of structures that had long since fallen beneath the weight of time. The sky darkened as the ash continued to drift downward, adding to the sense of being slowly buried. She wondered where the ash was coming from. Was it volcanic? Or something worse? She recalled the black sign with the red letters spelling HELL.

  A few souls huddled together in a shadowy alley. Ana was unsure if they were men or women, as they weren’t much more than rags and
bones—their withered flesh crumbling like old tree stumps, hard to distinguish from the rubble as the ash piled up upon them. Most stared at the wall, or nothing at all, but a few followed her with their eyes. Hungry eyes, she thought.

  She glanced back the way they’d come. It had been a long time since they’d seen a shop or anyone other than these withering souls.

  “Fuck,” Chet said, and Ana followed his eyes to a few souls hunched over some rags; they appeared to be eating them. Ana was trying to convince herself the rags weren’t what she knew they must be, when Johnny stepped closer and the souls glanced up. She then clearly saw that it was a man, his head, torso, and one remaining arm riddled with gaping bite marks. She was prepared for that, or at least she thought she was until the man, the thing they were eating, looked at her with miserable pleading eyes, his mouth opening and closing silently.

  “Oh, God,” she gasped.

  Johnny slapped his club against the ground. “Get away from him!” he yelled and the souls slid back, snarling like dogs, dragging what was left of the man into the alley with them. Johnny took a step after them and Ana grabbed his arm. “No.”

  Dozens of faces stared back at them from the gloom, then more and more. She saw heaps of souls tangled together. There came a rustling as slowly, the souls began to stir, writhing like maggots in rotting flesh as they pulled themselves from beneath the moldering rags, bones, and clumps of human hair.