Ragnarok

By Dennis J. Barton

In a world where the old gods of all religions have returned to rule the earth, and North America is ruled by the ancient Norse pantheon, Lucky is the sheriff of Ragged Rock County, where all types of mythical monsters live apart from normal humans. Lucky was appointed to this position by his old college pal, the Norse god Thor. It's a dangerous life but a good one, keeping order among frost-giants, vampires, were-beasts and other frightful creatures, and Lucky does well for his wives and his children. But, in the course of his daily duties on Midgard, his official visits to Asgard, and a series of flashbacks to his college days with Thor, Lucky begins to suspect that all is not as it seems. When the sheriff's station is destroyed by a mysterious and powerful new monster, Lucky is drawn into a web of danger and intrigue and must seek the deeply-hidden truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462024780

Dennis J. Barton

Dennis J. Barton lives in the section of Midgard formerly known as Vermont, where he walks the thin line between order and chaos while standing guard against the assaults of frost giants, trolls and other monstrous beings. He holds an M.F.A. in creative writing from Goddard College and has been known to teach writing for the Community College of Vermont and other earthly institutions. His earlier works include Cola Wars, The Matchlock Mage, Plays That Aren't Boring, Fish House, Saints of Augustine, and the four-volume Red Star science fiction series. Dennis currently lives with his Valkyrie partner and his loyal wolf-hound in an ancient stronghold overlooking the Dog River. He has one son who also writes fiction and has an abiding love of mythology.

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Contents

Introduction

One: Blood and Official Business

School Daze, Part One

Two: Vals, Heimdall, Thunder God

School Daze, Part Two

School Daze, Part Three

Four: Domestic Bliss and a Migraine

Five: Another Day, Another Demon

School Daze, Part Five

Six: Visit from a Friend

School Daze, Part Six

Seven: Battle on the Home-Front

School Daze, Part Seven

Eight: Darkness, Dream, Awakening

Nine: Visiting an Old Friend

Ten: All-Father, Mistletoe, Dagger

Eleven: Ragnarok

Special thanks to my readers, Donar Odinson, Don D’Valentine, and Princess Jen of Riverton

Introduction

Thank you for opening my book. First and foremost: this is not a scholarly work. My goal in writing Ragnarok was not to seriously examine epic Norse poems nor to undertake a scholarly exploration of Norse myth. While I certainly drew upon popular Norse mythic tales, my motivation was neither to analyze nor build upon such works but to simply develop my own interpretations of my own favorite characters from Norse myth, namely Loki and Thor. As such, this work can be said to be based in Norse myth, but it is no more serious an interpretation of that mythos than are the Marvel Comics interpretations of the same. I developed this work because I thought it would be fun to do so, and it is my sincerest hope that you, dear reader, will enjoy this tale.

I encourage you to contact me at [e-mail] with your thoughts and feedback regarding this work. Hard copies of the work are also available.

Dennis J. Barton, M.F.A.

One: Blood and Official Business

No one knows who they are at first. They just show up, and no one knows who they are. They show up, and they live or die. They usually die and, just like everybody else, I’m here to play my part.

There’s a lot of blood. No surprise there. When I got the call, I knew there would be a lot of blood. It’s spattered all over the sides of the boxy white American-made rental-car parked alongside the village green. There’s a wide streak of chaotic red across the lawn. It leads from the rental car to the gazebo at the center of the green. This is the work of a young one. I can tell as much before I even get out of the squad-car. I’ve been at this business long enough to know. They always make a real damned mess, the young ones. It’s the excitement that drives them to it. I was young once, so I can understand, kind of. But I’ve never felt the kind of blood-lust some of the kids here do. When I was a kid, I made due with driving too fast, drinking beer and smoking weed. But things are different here in Ragged Rock County.

Trouble on the village green, Lucky, was what Madge, my never-sleeping dispatcher, had told me over the phone just before dawn. I gave each of my still-sleeping wives a kiss on the cheek and rolled out from beneath the covers to pull on my uniform. I raced into town, to the village green, just as the sun was rising. Now I see that the usual gaggle of rubber-neckers has convened on the scene.

I turn off the flashing blues and get out of the car. It’s turning into a bright morning, so I don’t bother to take an injection. The real hard cases don’t usually come out until dark.

A small crowd mills between the gazebo and the rental-car. This crowd is made up mostly of day-walkers, who, while they have their special needs like everybody else, understand that I’m here to protect them from harm. They greet me with the usual hellos and waves. Hal Barrowski stops gawking at the blood-streak on the grass and tries to chat me up. Sure is turning into a lovely spring, he says, his eyes glowing like radioactive egg-yolks in the shadow cast by his cowl.

It is, I agree. Hal, I’d love to chat, but you know I have some official business to attend to.

I always feel badly about dodging Hal. He’s one of the nicest guys you’ll ever meet, but he’ll talk your ear off if you give him a chance, and it’s always the same old thing: always wheezing on about the way things used to be back in the Old Country. How he used to devour the minds of only the sweetest virgin milk-maids with such subtlety that they didn’t realize they were dead until they’d been five minutes in heaven, blah, blah, blah.

I honestly can’t imagine Hal Barrowski having the subtlety to walk quietly away after passing a fart. But a lot of the Old Country crowd are that way. The world has changed around them and they’ve simply failed to adapt. I sometimes wonder why they don’t just go back to Europe, but I guess things have changed there at least as much as they have here in the States. Guys like Hal are lucky to have found homes here in Ragged Rock County. I just wish they’d find something else to talk about. Their droning rants have gotten tiresome over the course of the last seven years.

I go to the gazebo first. That’s where the girl is, everyone tells me. She was probably twenty-five or twenty six. She was a good-looking girl, dark brown hair, full lips. Her head is connected to her neck by not much more than a flap of skin. Her body-cavity has been ripped open and it looks like there’s a little extra space in there.

Heart and liver, Tim Matthews tells me. He scratches his flat wet pig-nose and runs his black tongue over his jutting lower tusks. The good stuff, of course. Never mind all that perfectly fine meat just going to waste.

I know what Tim’s angle is. Orcs are always hungry for fresh meat. I shake my head at him. You know I can’t, I tell him.

I cross the lawn to the rental-car. I know it’s a rental-car, because of the little rental-car sticker near the back bumper. That, and they’re usually rental-cars; nobody comes up here unless they’re on a long let’s explore America vacation and have some time to waste. That, and who in their right mind actually buys a Ford Revision? It’s just one of those non-descript sedans that was fated to be a rental-car.

The boyfriend’s in the rental-car. He’s a little older, as the boyfriends usually are. Maybe twenty-eight or a well-preserved thirty-two. His right arm has been torn from its socket, strands of stretched muscle hanging. He lays in a pool of his own blood on the carpeted floor. Bled to death. That’ll happen when you lose an arm all the sudden. He probably tried to put up a fight. The boyfriends often do. I guess that’s the right thing for a boyfriend to do. All it does is get them killed, but they can’t have any idea what they’re dealing with.

I pull a pair of disposable rubber gloves from my belt-pouch and yank the fake skins onto each of my hands. Have to go through the mess to find some ID for both corpses, and I’m not taking any chances. The world’s gotten to be a much more dangerous place than it was when I grew up. Last thing I need is to catch Hepatitis or AIDS from all the loose blood. That shit can kill you dead and I’m not much for taking foolish risks.

The boyfriend’s wallet is nowhere to be found on his body, so I’m bending over into the car feeling around in the pool of gore when I hear a rapid flapping and a light thunk. I stand up and there’s Charlie LaFontaine perched on the roof of the rental, flexing his bone-and-leather wings and sneering down his gray beak of a nose at me. I don’t know if he’s actually sneering or if it’s just the way his nose makes him look; nobody seems to know much about harpies besides the fact that they, like most of our citizens, have a taste for human flesh. They’re not even supposed to exist in North America, but that didn’t stop Charlie and his flock from joining the community. I saw a purse over there, near the bushes, he tells me in that grating squeaky harpy voice of his.

One thing I can say for harpies is that they have damned good eyes. Most fliers do, bat-creatures excepted, of course. So I follow Charlie’s lead and he brings me, sure enough, to a little silk purse adorned with little silk flowers. The girl’s license is in there. She’s from Maryland. She’s an organ-donor.

I get back to the car to find a couple of the Buzz Brothers slurping up the pool of blood through their proboscises. They can’t really talk, but they swivel their multi-faceted shiny green eyes in my general direction and hum at me. One of them holds out a blood-soaked wallet in his hairy black pincer. Inside I find the boyfriend’s license. He’s from Delaware.

Tim Matthews comes huffing up behind me. "Hey, how come they get to eat and I don’t? What gives?"

I sigh. It’s different, Tim. You know there’s a difference between some loose blood and a rare rump-roast.

I bag up the licenses of the recently departed and call for everyone’s attention. Okay, okay folks. Do we have any idea who killed these people?

Some murmuring: whispers and grunts and groans and growls. Then silence. But everybody’s looking at young Sean Grant, who’s standing there gangly and pimple-faced between his parents. It’s weird, looking at little Sean, who’s now taller than I am by a good six inches. He’s damned near seven feet tall, and when he fills out, he’s going to be a bear of a man like his dad, but it’s tough not to see him as the eight-year-old he was when the community was first established. He used to be the shortest, shyest kid in his junior high class, but genetics are doing their thing and he’s turning into a real monster.

I look at Sean. He looks at the ground and fiddles with the hem of his Gwar t-shirt. Old turn-of-the-century metal, Gwar. Leave it to the youth to dig up and worship the most obscure and off-beat bands. Sean’s dad, Phil, puts his big hand on his son’s shoulder and gives a squeeze. It’s okay, son, he whispers.

Sean rolls his eyes, jams his hands deep into the pockets of his army-surplus winter-camo cargo-pants.

His mother, Maggie, swats him across the back of the head. You tell him right now, mister! We’ve raised you better than that! You tell him right now! she hisses.

Sean sighs. Mom! he hisses back. Not cool, Mom!

Anyone have any idea? I ask again. Anyone at all? How about you, Sean? Know anything?

He yanks his hands from his pockets and waves them around by his sides. I don’t know! I just felt all different when I saw her! He rolls his head on his neck, looking everywhere but at me. I don’t know, it’s like it just happened! Shit, I don’t know!

His mother swats him across the back of the head again. Language! Mister, I will wash your mouth out with soap!

Maggie, says Phil.

"Don’t you Maggie me, you lazy excuse for a father! You heard the filth that just came out of his mouth! Somebody has to discipline your son!"

Our son, says Phil.

Sean turns on them. God, will you two just cut it out!

More mixed murmuring from the crowd. This will be the talk of the town for a week, at least.

Folks, please! I raise my voice. Mister and Missus Grant, may I speak with your son alone?

They nod their assent and I step up to grab Sean by the front of his shirt. He comes along with me, over to the far side of the bloody rental-car where the Buzz Brothers are still at work. Relax, I tell the kid.

He jams his hands back in his pockets and leans against the car.

You’ve been raised better than this, Sean. Your parents are good people, and they’ve raised you better, I tell him, using my best stern voice. I’m not a very stern person, really, but sometimes it’s necessary to come off that way.

I know, he sighs.

Of course you do, I tell him, hooking my thumbs into the front of my gun-belt. Now tell me what you did wrong here.

He shrugs.

Let’s try that again. What did you do wrong here?

I don’t know, he growls. Why don’t you get off my case, asshole? He leans forward as if to walk away.

I step in and slam his back to the car. His eyes widen. All the young ones, all of them, they see a normal human like me and they figure I’m no threat. I sometimes think I’ve had to give every resident under the age of twenty at least one good solid shove to show them otherwise. They never expect it, never see it coming, and it always works. You want to say that again? I ask him.

Leave me alone, I didn’t do anything!

Sean tries to regain his balance but I slam him against the car again.

Tell me what you did wrong, Sean, or I swear to every divinity that ever was I’ll slap you silly right here! I’m not going to punch you, I’m going to slap you, and you’ll cry like a little girl! How’s that going to affect your social standing, Sean? You want that?! I’m all fierce on the outside, but smiling in my belly. He’s a good kid, and I’m not about to slap him, but there’s no greater threat to wield against a fifteen-year old than that of public humiliation.

The kid makes a sour face and stomps his foot, but then relaxes against the car. I don’t know, he mumbles.

I’m not your enemy here, Sean. Just tell me what you did wrong. I need to hear it from you. I need to know that you understand. I step back and fold my arms across my chest.

Didn’t tell you, he mumbles.

Louder, I tell him. So I can hear it.

I didn’t tell you, he says, finally looking me in the eye.

I stare him down until he looks at the ground again. "You know you have to tell me. You have to let me know so I can do my job, Sean. You understand that?"

Yes… .

Alright. Look, I know it’s a drag, but you, your family, every citizen of this place, we’ve all got it pretty good here. You know what they’d try to do to you in the outside world, so follow the rules, okay?

Okay. Can I go now?

Sure. But next time you do something like this, I nod at the car full of blood. What’re going to do, right after?

Tell you, he says as he walks back to his parents. His mother starts giving him holy hell before he gets within ten feet. Poor kid. They should be celebrating the fact that their son isn’t in jail, but people like Maggie have to make things miserable for everyone. Nothing’s ever good enough. I’d feel sorry for Phil, but he decided to marry her and that’s his problem. They could always divorce, but I guess that wouldn’t do Sean any good either. The longer I work this job, the more I realize what a complex and confusing world we live in. Nothing is ever as simple and straightforward as it may first appear to be.

But they don’t pay me to philosophize. They pay me to be Sheriff, and the Sheriff has plenty to do today. Got to keep an eye on all my people. But first I have to get Sean’s mess cleaned up.

And that means going to Asgard. Again. And that means riding out to the Lemon Square to see the Vals. Time to wrap things up at the village green: I order everyone away from the bodies, giving my standard Show’s over folks, time to get on with your daily business, spiel. Only the Buzz Brothers linger, staring at me and making the click-click-click sound that means they’d rather stay and suck up more blood.

C’mon, guys, it’s over. You’ve had more than enough already, I tell them, after which they unfold their wings and buzz off.

I cordon off the gazebo and the bloody rental-car with mystic yellow plastic POLICE tape, then mumble "N’tash r’tarn incarnum, activating the tape, which emits a barely-audible chiming sound. The tape begins to glow with soft purple light, and voila, the crime-scene" is secure from all but the most insistent and powerful of meddlers. Anyone trying to cross those lines will be gently pushed back. Anyone trying to cross those lines a second time will be violently hurled back. Anyone trying to cross those lines a third time will be violently hurled back with some pretty bad burns (or frostbite, should the wannabe line-crosser be some type of fire elemental).

I get back in the squad-car and drive to the station to touch base with Madge. She’s there in her place, seated behind the front desk and dispatch-station. The radio and telephone are both silent, and Madge sits there with all six of her eyes closed, her lacy wings folded neatly behind her. Her iridescent skin slowly pulses with a soft green glow at her bulging temples: she is busy doing her job, using her inherent psychic talents to monitor the entire county for disturbances. Madge is an Oracular Ocular Adept Demon. She’s not only a psychic; she’s also an empath. When she closes her eyes, she can see and hear and feel everyone in the entire county. Without Madge, I couldn’t do my job. May the gods forbid anything happen to her; she couldn’t be replaced.

Good morning, Madge, I say, walking around to her side of the desk. Just the one killing. Pretty quiet night, huh?

She opens her topmost pair of eyes and runs a hand through her hair. Very quiet. Strangely so, wouldn’t you agree?

I’ve been trying not to overthink it, I tell her. There’s nothing wrong with a quiet night once in a while. Anything going on this morning?

Madge pauses, pursing her lips. I’ve been working with her for years now, and I’ve never seen her purse her lips, not like that anyway.

What’s up? I ask her. Something wrong?

You know there are things I can tell you and things I can’t tell you, she says.

C’mon, Madge, you work me, and if there’s something going on in this county, you should tell me. We’re tight like that, right? What’s going on?

She blinks her middle set of eyes, closes the topmost pair. I report to you, but I work for Thor, she says.

Technicality. He put you here to help me do my job, right?

Madge sighs. That’s true. And you know I like you Lucky. I really do.

So out with it. What’s up?

She sighs, then tells me, There’s a storm coming,

I look out the front window. Nothing but clear blue sky above. Are you talking about the weather, or are you relying on a cryptic cliché? I ask her.

It’s nothing. She turns her head away. But then she closes her eyes and pauses. Wait, here’s something, she says. Trouble on the north side. Frost giant attacking a lair of vampires. No, wait. Not just any frost giant. It’s Thyrm himself. He’s tearing apart the lair of the Bradbury Coven.

How bad is it? I ask.

Pretty bad, Madge tells me. Thyrm’s taking that vamp-lair apart stone by stone in broad daylight. He opens it up, the sunlight will fry them.

Alright, I tell her. I’m on my way. ETA is about twenty-five minutes.

Roger that, Lucky. Watch yourself out there.

Watch myself out there. I’d rather watch myself going in the opposite direction. The north side is home to some of the worst of the worst. The Drow who called in the initial complaint, for example, are a race of dark elves. And by dark I mean not only the blue-black of their skin, but the blackness of their very hearts; historically, they fed on human children who happened to wander into their forests. And I’m not talking kill the kid, skin the kid, eat the kid. I’m talking eat parts of the kid while the kid’s still alive. Bad bunch, the Drow. The Bradbury Coven, whose roof was ventilated by a randomly-thrown rock, are vampires that practice techno-witchcraft. Back in the old days, they specialized in the types of curses that sucked the life-force from mortals while those same curses caused the flesh of those mortals to bubble and boil. Back then, they were called The Sisters Three, and the tools of their wicked trade were live chickens, human babies, bat-wings, eye of newt, that kind of thing, all cooked up in a big black cauldron. Nowadays, the cauldron has been replaced by a series of motherboards to which the ingredients, even human babies, when they can find