Hell's Son

Chapter 5

So the zombie uprising turned out to be a heck of a lot more annoying than expected. A lot of work, too.

Chris didn't manage a hot shower until the wee hours of the morning. It took that long for him to re-bury all the bodies - and no, he didn't give a s**t if he put the right parts back in the correct graves, he just wanted to be done - and fix the torn ground. Good thing he could blame a lot of the mud on the spring weather.

The rain shower that had lasted a few hours as he dug - and cursed - helped, too.

When a sweep of the cemetery after he was done showed he'd missed a few chunks - like the hand still trying to crawl away - he cheated a little bit and tossed those pieces into the huge pond located in the northeast corner. Something lived in its scummy, green depths. He couldn't have said what, but it did a good job of cleaning up messes and not leaving evidence behind.

As he'd worked, shirtless and with no one to admire him, Chris reflected on the hot chick that managed to fight off his incredible allure.

He couldn't understand it. Even women who liked women fell for him - after a few drinks. If he said, "drop your panties," they couldn't get them around their ankles quickly enough.

If he wanted a harem for an all-night orgy, a snap of his fingers - and a round of tequila, with a promise of something illegal to smoke - would bring them running. When it came to s*x, they didn't care about his job, or if he would call them the next day. They all wanted a spin on his mighty d**k.

Except for her. The duckie with no name - and a sword. How hot was it to see a chick wielding four feet of steel? It made a man wonder how well she would wield a certain proud staff.

I wonder if she'd use two hands on me. Thinking about her brought a groan and an erection.

But that erection soon shriveled as he recalled how she'd left him.

Alone.

To do his job.

The lazy part of him - that comprised probably around eighty-five percent - told him to leave the mess and go for a beer. However, a teeny-tiny bit of gray matter between his ears said he'd get in way too much trouble because hadn't the past proven that no one believed him?

He could just imagine it.

Cop- Why did you dig up all those bodies and chop them to pieces?

Chris- I didn't. They came to life and tried to kill me. (Not her, because like hell was he making her the hero of that story.)

Cop- The dead don't rise.

Chris- I swear, they did.

Clank. The sound of the door as they shut it, locking him in a padded room where heavy drugs would keep him seeing butterflies until budget cuts forced management to release him.

Not exactly the brightest prospect. Although, on second thought, he missed those drugs.

However, pleasant as that euphoria proved, he couldn't allow himself to be sequestered. Not now. Not when s**t was finally beginning to happen.

The dead had f*****g risen from their graves. Surely it meant something. But what?

Could their arrival be a sign that the end of the world had arrived, and he would take his place as supreme leader - just as his mother had said? Had he finally gone off the deep end and imagined it all?

Worse. Perhaps the dead rising meant nothing at all, and he was doomed to dig graves for the rest of his life.

Nah. He possessed way too much awesome for that. However, he could use some answers that Google couldn't provide. Because of his old cult connections, he knew just the person to ask.

After his nap. All that work tuckered out a man.

He woke just after noon to a bright sun determined to pierce his eyelids, so he gave it the finger.

Despite the messages on his phone telling him about the two funerals happening later that week, and sites that needed prepping, he took the afternoon off. Because he could. No one else wanted his job. Any bodies that needed burying - or, in the case of last night, reburying - could wait until he got back.

The events of the previous night stuck with Chris - and not in a gross body-part-won't-come-out-of-his-hair type of way. Fighting off the undead didn't bother him. He'd imagined it enough times. What he didn't expect was who they'd targeted.

Who was the girl, and why were the zombies so attracted to her? Does her brain smell better than mine? She probably got perfect SAT scores, and her high IQ smelled sweet. All of her looked and smelled sweet.

But he doubted he'd ever find out if that vee between her thighs tasted like honey, given the chances of her returning bordered on slim to none.

Struck out. Surely, that in and of itself was a sign of great portent. What were the seven signs of the apocalypse? The cult used to recite them during his youth, but years of drinking had left those memories hazy. If he had to guess, though, it went- zombies rising, a lack of p***y, running out of beer, and no rest for the wicked.

Wasn't there something about guys on horses, too?

Whatever.

Time to talk to someone who could maybe decipher what it all meant. Hands shoved into his jeans pockets, hoodie unzipped, he waited for the bus at a stop a quarter-mile from the cemetery.

Yeah, he knew how embarrassing it looked. The Antichrist forced to take public transit, but given he lacked a birth certificate and legal identification of any kind - because his mother insisted they live off-grid and foster care couldn't be bothered to help him - he didn't drive, didn't know how to actually, and resorted to the bus.

I can't wait until I rule the world. Surely, the job came with a chauffeur.

Disembarking over an hour later on the bad side of town - where he felt completely at home - he made his way to the tiny shop nestled between a pawnbroker and a massage parlor. The broker wouldn't do business with him anymore on account of them finding out he filched stuff from the dead. Apparently, that offended the religious shop owner, especially when Chris had inadvertently brought in the owner's mother's wedding ring after she died.

Oops.

As for the massage parlor, they also refused him service since he didn't tip. Apparently, claiming they'd get a spot in his court when he became King of Babylon wasn't good enough.

The dusty window of the oracle shop showed a sign flipped to Open. Then again, he'd never seen it closed. Which, in retrospect, went to show how good the fortuneteller could read the future. She always knew when to be available for business.

Pulling on the tarnished brass handle, he opened the door and stepped inside the shadowy space.

A voice, raspy with age and too many cigarettes, spoke. "If it isn't the The Lawless One, The Son of Perdition, the lost Prince of Darkness."

"You forgot all hail the Antichrist, the Destroyer of Nations, the King of Fierce Countenance." An expression he'd practiced countless times in front of the mirror graced his face. The bells on the door jangled as it shut behind Chris.

"Not a destroyer or king yet." Piercing blue eyes regarded him from a face so wrinkled it would put a raisin to shame. "You'd have to actually do something other than drink and sleep to fulfill your destiny."

"That seems kind of harsh," he replied as he slung himself into the chair in front of her table.

For those wondering, the fortuneteller's shop looked exactly as one would expect. Dark walls bedazzled with gleaming tinfoil stars. No light overhead. A table draped in a dark blue cloth adorned with more glitter, and the centerpiece, a milky-white, glowing glass ball, which tingled if you placed your hand on it. An electrical short that never failed to wow the mere mortals who used Madame Sauvage's services.

"You're lazy," Madame announced as she leaned back in her chair. The bangles on her arm, dozens of them in various shades of metal, jangled as she lifted a cigarette to her lips and lit it.

Some said smoking would kill you. In Madame's case, she'd smoked so long that stopping would probably kill her instantly. A hazy cloud filled the room. Laws might say no smoking allowed, but Madame didn't care. She claimed to have cursed those who tried to fine her.

To Chris, the shop smelled familiar. Like home. At least home before the cops raided with their warrants.

"I'm lazy? I'll have you know I had to stave off an attack last night by the undead minions of the Underworld, looking to destroy the rightful inheritor of Earth." He'd had the whole bus ride to come up with that eloquent claim.

Madame snorted. "Moron. They weren't after you, and you had help. From a girl," she stated, blowing circles of smoke from thin lips caked in red lipstick.

He'd long since stopped questioning how she knew things. He leaned forward. "You saw her." And by see, he didn't mean with her eyes. Madame, for all her contrived trappings, could discern things mortals couldn't. Peek into other dimensions. . . or so she claimed.

"I had a dream. I dreamt a slip of a girl saved your ass."

The claim rankled. "First off, she didn't save me. She saved herself." Which, spoken out loud, sounded worse. As the man present at the fight, shouldn't he be the one with the claim to heroism? "Second, she didn't have to save me since they were after her." Not him. The nerve of the undead. It still pissed him off.

"Doesn't matter."

"What doesn't matter?"

"The undead rising, the girl. Any of it. It means nothing."

"Are you sure about that? Because I was kind of hoping it was a sign."

"No sign. I've told you before, if you wish to find your destiny, then you must actively seek it."

What happened to getting answers? Clear ones. "Seek what? You know, all my life, you and the others have told me I have a destiny, but none of you seem to know when it will happen. Or how. For once, couldn't you give me some actual direction?"

"In my dreams, there are many paths. It is up to you, lost prince, to find your way."

"Would it kill you to give me a map?"

Madame instead gave him a shake of her head.

He couldn't help a long-suffering sigh.

She still didn't take pity on him.

He leaned forward. "Speaking of dreams and finding stuff, you saw the girl. I don't suppose you also saw her name and address."

At that, the blue eyes narrowed. "What do I look like, a phone book?"

"You must know something. You are supposed to be all-seeing. How about telling me if I'll run into her again?" Maybe get a second chance at getting her naked.

"No."

"Are you sure? I mean, shouldn't you close your eyes or something? Pretend to try?"

At this, her lips pursed. "No."

"Oh." Yes, he was disappointed. Despite their brief encounter, and her rejection of Chris, he'd felt a connection between them. "Are you sure I won't run into her again?"

"You are not to see her again. She isn't for the likes of you."

Hold on a second. "Are you forbidding me?" Wrong thing to do. He had this thing about obeying. Yeah, it never worked out.

Madame ground her cigarette out in an ashtray already overflowing. "You have a destiny to fulfill, if you ever get off your lazy ass. That future doesn't involve chasing a girl who is meant for another."

And the temptation went to stratospheric heights. Now he had to have her, but he wouldn't admit that out loud because then he'd have to listen to a lecture and pretend to agree. Why waste both their time?

"About this whole getting off my butt thing. Mind giving me a hint about what I should do?" After the zombie fight the night before, he'd kind of felt energized, as in maybe he wouldn't go home and sit on the couch drinking beer until he passed out. "Where do I have to go to jumpstart my destiny?"

As if this were the trigger she'd waited for, Madame's head tilted, her eyes rolled back until only the whites showed, and her mouth opened wide. "The age of man is coming to an end. So shall those hidden rise and rule the world as its masters. Darkness will battle the light. The false pretenders shall amass armies and tread into battle against the one true prince. What is lost must be found. The time for truth is here."

Snap. Madame's chin hit her chest, and she remained head bowed for a moment as he mulled over her words. When she stirred, being a smartass, and an ass in general, he couldn't help but say, "So, if I get rid of the pretenders, will I get the girl?"

But she had a better comeback. "What makes you think you're not one of the false leaders?"

Damn. Way to deflate his ego.

He didn't leave a tip.