The Lost Gods (29 page)

Epilogue

Look On My Works, Ye Mighty, And Despair

Jesse stood exhausted and covered in his own blood amid a sea of desert earth. Giant severed limbs and heads were strewn about him like a toddler's discarded toys. He had given the judges a quick and dirty disse
ction with his bronze axe. He did not know the rules with judges as he did with reanimates, so he made sure they could never rise again. After he finished the butcher's work, he walked to the gate to the underworld clutching his ribs. In the skirmish, Jesse had taken dozens of hard shots and he bore the results of each powerful blow. His left eye was swollen shut, his armor was destroyed, and he was riddled with cuts and bruises.

He picked up all of Inanna's discarded items. He wrapped the sword and her breastplate in her dress and carried it over his shoulder. He headed back the way they all had come. Far ahead of him, he could see the shifting shapes of the reanimates. They were no longer in that long line. They had broken up into huddled masses: into feeding groups. He knew his companions were dead. He did not want to see them in that state. Jesse preferred to remember them as they were.

He went north, keeping the battlefield to his left. As he walked, the sun sank further and further. It hung just above the horizon. A deafening scream exploded out from the direction of the gate. Jesse's knees locked and he fell over. Ahead of him, the thousands of reanimates collapsed in a dramatic shockwave. They lay unmoving on the desert floor for a brief moment. A strong gust of wind blew past and the creatures dissolved into a huge gray cloud. The cloud dispersed in the wind and left only a gathering of shiny objects and hard memories.

Jesse's stood
and dusted himself off. He picked up his axe and Inanna's effects. His throat was dry and he was exhausted to a degree he did not think possible. The fight he had known was over. Inanna had finished off Ereshkigal and put an end to the walking abominations. The closest he had ever felt to that sensation was his final wrestling match. That was the end of an era, and the victory was made hollow by a feeling of immense loss. He felt the same emotions coursing through him, but they were amplified a hundred fold. He was completely alone and yet his future was open.

He fell back onto his ass, and sat for a long while. The sun disappeared and the moon bathed the desert in its soft light. Jesse rose and continued the long walk to the river. The sound of the current filled his ears, and he welcomed the distraction from his thoughts. He did not feel like a hero. He felt like he had taken a losing football team all the way to the Super Bowl only to quit and walk off the field. He stood up and hiked along the river for hours, seeing only open land.

When he arrived at the river, he tossed Inanna's gear into the shallow waters. His bronze axe hit the water and generated a large splash. He gripped the necklace. Half of him wanted to throw it into the river and the other half wanted to wear it until he died — never taking it off. He slid the necklace back under his torn, bloodied shirt.

As the moon fell to the horizon and his ankles ached from the long walk, he saw small buildings in the di
stance. He quickened his pace. Jesse stayed beside the river as he entered the town. The Euphrates River bisected the modest town. It was filled with brown buildings, heavily dusted, and worn down by sand and wind. Abandoned cars, bicycles, and junk filled the streets. Bullet holes riddled the exteriors of the Soviet-style structures. This town was the epicenter of the final plague of humanity and it looked the part. There was not a single sign of life. He made his way into the downtown area on the north side of the river.

Jesse came across a pile of clothes: a riot-cop uniform. It was caught in the wheel well of a two-door sedan. Je
sse knelt down and checked the tool belt. There was a walkie-talkie, a pistol, an asp, handcuffs, and a can of mace. He grabbed the walkie-talkie, the pistol, and the asp from the belt. He cocked the pistol, pointed the barrel at the sky, and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked and nothing happened. He slid the magazine out. It was full, but the weather had rendered the ammo useless. He opened the battery compartment on the transceiver, and sand fell out. No batteries. Jesse stood up and put the walkie-talkie into his pocket. He tossed the pistol onto the street. The clattering of metal on concrete echoed through the empty block.

He continued through the town, but his hope was drying up fast. The wind had cleared the street of all the lighter debris, and piles of junk were piled up against the buildings on one side of the street. An advertisement for soda hung off the roof of a small brown building. It looked like a mini-mart. Jesse took out his flashlight. He had not used it in months. He shut his good eye and gave a silent prayer before pushing the power button. Jesse opened his eye. A beam of halogen light emitted from the bulb. He pointed the light at the storefront. The windows were busted and the door was off its hin
ges. He crept through the opening, still stuck in his survivalist paradigm. Next to the cash register were melted candy bars, packs of gum, and dozens of packs of batteries. He popped the cardboard backing off the pack and slid four of the AA batteries into the walkie-talkie. Jesse turned the dial at the top of the transceiver to ON, and a pale red light emanated from the display.

“Still works,” Jesse said. He pressed down on the send button and said, “Hello. Hello. Can anyone hear me?”

He thought for a moment, and continued, “Hello.
A-salam
. I think that's how it goes.
A-salam a-lay-come
. Hello.”

Jesse let go of the send button and waited. Nothing came through. He let out a disappointed breath and put the walkie-talkie into his pocket. He searched through the store to find something edible. All he found was a bag of chips. He wiped off his hands as best he could and popped open the bag. The chips smelled like new, and Jesse scoffed, “The miracle of preservatives.”

He dumped the chips into his mouth and made sure not to lick his dirty fingers. The last thing he wanted was to survive the apocalypse only to die of food poisoning. On his way out of the mini-mart, he spotted a can of tuna and bottle of water, next to a plastic bag full of wet mold, in the backroom of the store. He assumed it belonged to whoever was on shift when it all began. He drank the water, and put the can of tuna into his pocket.

The morning light was coming: the bluish hue tur
ning to orange. He walked into the middle of the street. There was a mosque a few blocks to the north, its four minarets poking up above all the short buildings.

The door to the mosque was bashed in, and the i
nside was trashed. The prayer mats were stained and torn and strewn about the floor. A thick, dark coat of what was once blood and bile covered the tiles. The mosque did not smell like death any longer, and for that Jesse was thankful. He could tell that hundreds had come seeking shelter from the amount of blood on the ground and walls. They had perished in the house of the only god they knew. Jesse found it cruel that the god responsible was not the one they were calling out to, but one, long forgotten, just a few miles down the river. He wanted to run outside and leave the town behind, but he needed to press onward — for her. He climbed up into one of the minarets. The sun had banished the moonlight and replaced it with early morning haze by the time he reached the top.

Jesse circled around the balcony and observed the town. He could see the river and all the little brown buildings. Off in the distance the desert sat, a constant reminder that death was waiting. What he could not see were signs of life. What he could not see were signs of the future that Inanna told him of. What he could not see was a purpose to his being on Earth anymore. Ne
vertheless, Jesse called out. He yelled as hard as he could.

He made as much noise as possible.

…

He stopped, and he listened for a while.

…

He heard nothing, so he yelled again.

…

He stopped, and he listened again.

This continued until the sun had risen to its zenith. He yelled again, but this time his hope had run out. He was just doing it because he did not know what else to do. His voice was hoarse, and he felt the lowest since Adam had died. At least when Adam died, he knew where he was going. Inanna had left him nothing more than a simple set of instructions: instructions that pushed him toward this dead end. He slumped down, defeated. He closed his eyes, and he felt the warm tears of failure well up behind his eyelids. He felt lost. He was lost, and he was alone.

In his head, Jesse replayed the fall of man. He saw thousands running for their lives, unprotected by their gadgets, from an ancient evil. Exhausted and terrified they snaked through the monolithic skyscrapers, the pinnacles of human achievement, in hopes of salvation. Satellites that had been sent into space, laser-guided bombs, and nanotechnology did not save them from a goddess they had forgotten long ago. People had sectioned themselves off with arbitrary borders and worked against each other when cooperation was their only chance at victory. All that was left of these great modern empires was decaying evidence of their hubris; scattered around the globe were architectural and mechanical love letters they had written to themselves.

Jesse set the walkie-talkie in front of him. He stared at its tiny red light. He was not sure whether to hope for salvation or to pray for a comet to collide with the earth and blot him and all the others out of existence.

A sound came from the tiny speaker of the walkie-talkie. Jesse bolted upright.

“Hello,” said a voice with a thick accent.

And Jesse was not alone anymore.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Horace Brickley is a writer (fiction, science fiction, horror, and mythology), musician, MMA enthusiast, and a fan of most things creative. He was born in Vallejo, California, raised in Western Washington, and spent a few years in Taiwan as an English teacher. Two of his short stories were published at The Squawk Back. His next book, coming in late 2014, is a collection of short stories. Thanks for reading. Keep updated at

http://horacebrickley.com.