The modern deitys guide.., p.1
The Modern Deity's Guide to Surviving Humanity, page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Other Anthologies Edited by:
THE MODERN DEITY’S
The Weight of a Feather
Old Gods, New Tricks
Your Three O’Clock Is Here
Casey’s
The Teotl of Gaming
The House of Life
Fire Sale
Doc Saturday’s Midnight Medicine Show
Grandmother
Age Is Just a Number
The One About Gone to Flowers
Oak, Broom and Meadowsweet
Surviving Time
Till Death Do Us Part
Charon Taxi & Limo Corp.
About the Authors
About the Editors
Acknowledgments
THE MODERN DEITY’S
GUIDE TO
SURVIVING HUMANITY
Other Anthologies Edited by:
Patricia Bray & Joshua Palmatier
After Hours: Tales from the Ur-bar
The Modern Fae’s Guide to Surviving Humanity
Temporally Out of Order
Alien Artifacts
Were-
All Hail Our Robot Conquerors!
Second Round: A Return to the Ur-bar
The Modern Deity’s Guide to Surviving Humanity
S.C. Butler & Joshua Palmatier
Submerged
Guilds & Glaives
Apocalyptic
When Worlds Collide
Laura Anne Gilman & Kat Richardson
The Death of All Things
Troy Carrol Bucher & Joshua Palmatier
The Razor’s Edge
Patricia Bray & S.C. Butler
Portals
David B. Coe & Joshua Palmatier
Temporally Deactivated
Galactic Stew
Derelict
Steven H Silver & Joshua Palmatier
Alternate Peace
Crystal Sarakas & Joshua Palmatier
My Battery Is Low and It Is Getting Dark
THE MODERN DEITY’S
GUIDE TO
SURVIVING HUMANITY
Edited by
Patricia Bray
&
Joshua Palmatier
Zombies Need Brains LLC
www.zombiesneedbrains.com
Copyright © 2021 Patricia Bray, Joshua Palmatier, and
Zombies Need Brains LLC
All Rights Reserved
Interior Design (ebook): ZNB Design
Interior Design (print): ZNB Design
Cover Design by ZNB Design
Cover Art “The Modern Deity’s Guide to Surviving Humanity”
by Justin Adams of Varia Studios
ZNB Book Collectors #20
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions of this book, and do not participate or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted material.
Kickstarter Edition Printing, June 2021
First Printing, July 2021
Print ISBN-13: 978-1940709383
Ebook ISBN-13: 978-1940709390
Printed in the U.S.A.
COPYRIGHTS
“The Weight of a Feather” copyright © 2021 by Crystal Sarakas-Kocher
“Old Gods, New Tricks” copyright © 2021 by Juliet E. McKenna
“Your Three O’Clock Is Here” copyright © 2021 by Tanya Huff
“Casey’s” copyright © 2021 by Edward Willett
“The Teotl of Gaming” copyright © 2021 by Daniel DeVita
“The House of Life” copyright © 2021 by Jennifer Dunne
“Fire Sale” copyright © 2021 by Jean Marie Ward
“Doc Saturday’s Midnight Medicine Show” copyright © 2021 by Mike Marcus
“Grandmother” copyright © 2021 by Amanda Tompkins
“Age Is Just a Number” copyright © 2021 by Daryl Marcus
“The One About Gone to Flowers” copyright © 2021 by Alma
Alexander
“Oak, Broom and Meadowsweet” copyright © 2021 by K.L. Maund
“Surviving Time” copyright © 2021 by A.J. Cunder
“Till Death Do Us Part” copyright © 2021 by Phyllis Irene Radford
“Charon Taxi & Limo Corp.” copyright © 2021 by N.R. Lambert
The Weight of a Feather
Crystal Sarakas
It used to be that when I pulled a heart out of someone’s chest, there was a reverence to it, a ritual that honored both supplicant and god.
Today, it's just another stage show in that wannabe Vegas known as Branson.
I stood off to the side, in the shadows, while my assistants helped the old woman up on stage and into the ornate golden chair between two towering statues of jackal-headed men—arms crossed, each hand holding a flail. One assistant stayed with the old woman, kneeling next to her. The other faced the audience as she began to speak in a hushed voice that reached every part of the theater thanks to the sound system.
"What you will see now is not a trick of mirrors or glamour. The Great Lord Anubis, Lord of the Dead, Savior of Lost Souls, will pull our brave volunteer's heart out and lay it upon the Scales of Judgement." Darla was good. You could hear the capital letters as she recited her lines. "Please do not move or applaud. We don't want any distractions during this very dangerous moment."
I frowned at the lack of reaction from the crowd and watched as Heather, the other assistant, tried to pry the old woman's smartphone from her hands. "You can't record this," I heard her whisper, a smile plastered to her face. "But you can buy a DVD recording of tonight's performance at the gift shop after the show."
The music swelled to a crescendo of wailing, wordless vocals spiraling with the beat of a tabla. That was my cue.
I swept across the stage, expecting at least a few gasps when the audience saw me in my true visage. My head was that of a jackal's, complete with sharply-pointed ears and even sharper teeth. Gold paint swirled around my eyes and down my neck to my still human torso. Half-jackal, half-man, and entirely bored with everything.
I stood in front of the old woman, just enough to the side so that the audience could see what I was doing. Darla paced gracefully across the stage, holding a large set of gold scales in her hands. I pointed at the altar table next to the golden chair. She sat the scales down, then knelt on the other side of the woman, just in case our volunteer decided to run for it or passed out.
The frantic drumbeat suddenly stopped. I plunged my hand into the woman's chest, my fingers gently closing around her beating heart.
"Oh oh!" she giggled. "That tickles!" Heather rolled her eyes at me.
I held the heart high overhead, making sure the audience got a good look at it. Then I knelt in one smooth motion, setting the heart on the left side of the scales. I pulled the feather from where it had been tucked into my belt and showed it to the audience before placing it on the other scale.
The scales teetered back and forth. I looked down at the old woman. Tears filled her eyes, but she was smiling broadly, one hand reaching out as if to touch someone. This would be a good balancing, I thought. I watched carefully, though, ready to grab the heart back the moment the scales found their balance but before the soul moved on to whatever came next. It wouldn’t be good publicity to have volunteers actually dropping dead on stage.
"Behold! The heart is as light as the feather!" Darla's voice was a triumphant shout. I plucked the heart from the scale and passed my hand over the old woman’s chest. All good, back in place. A soft but uplifting melody echoed through the room as we faced the audience, hands held high, anticipating the roar of applause.
The audience—all thirteen of them—gave a few perfunctory claps and then lurched to their feet, anxious to get out of the theater and on to the early-bird dinner. For them, that was the best part of the Dinner and a Show(!) savings package. Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green peas, sweet tea, and pecan pie. That was the main attraction here—not Anubis, Lord of the Dead, Savior of Lost Souls, He Who Wields the Scales of Judgment and Opens the Gate to the Darkness Beyond.
I'm just the opening act these days—and not even a good one.
"Oh, is it time for the dinner now?" the old woman asked Darla as she was escorted from the stage. Heather was already heading to the lobby, no doubt to try to direct at least a few people toward the gift shop before they departed for the all-important dinner.
I exited stage left, nodding to the bored stagehands who were waiting to reset the stage for the next show. They barely looked at me as I walked past, ducking so that my ears didn't scrape against the entry to the backstage hall.
When I got to my dressing room, I shifted. The black muzzle and sharp, pointed ears melted away, letting my human form take shape. I studied myself in the mirror, making sure that everything was as it should be. One time, I'd left the theater without checking and spent the walk home getting stopped over and over to take pictures with the tourists. It turned out that my ears were still jackal-shaped, and my teeth sharper than they should be. I’d been pretty annoyed that no one was scared—they were just looking for another freak-show photo op to post on their social media accounts.
I scrubbed the gold p aint off my face, the swirls and hieroglyphics that were just another kind of smoke and mirrors. They certainly had nothing to do with the ritual bullshit that Darla whispered to the audience as I assumed the mantle of the Dark Lord before their old and cataract-clouded eyes.
I'm so exhausted all the time.
I'd just buttoned up my shirt when there was a sharp rap at the door before it opened and a woman breezed in. She was a little shorter than my six-foot height, with pale skin dotted with freckles and long, black hair. Morgan—known to some as the Morrigan, goddess of death, a member of the council that ruled Branson and an all-around pain in my ass.
"Jack! How ya doing? Great show. Too bad about the audience, but hey, we've got at least a dozen tour buses scheduled for the weekend. Most of the other shows are already sold out. I'm sure you'll pick up some of the overflow crowd here.”
I rolled my eyes as my unwelcome guest landed with a thud on the leather couch. "Morgan. So not good to see you. Please leave."
Morgan rolled her eyes right back at me. “I can't imagine you got much off of that crowd. Most of them have been dead three days, at least." She laughed at her own joke as she leaned back on the couch, crossing her legs just enough to show off an ample amount of skin. "Seriously though, we've got to get you some better numbers or…" Morgan made a cutting motion across her throat. "You know what happens then."
"Morgan, my darling, you assume that I care." I rubbed a hand across my face. "Now, it's late, and I'm tired, and there's nothing I can do about any of this tonight. I'm sure it's going to be fine. Numbers will pick up in the summer. They always do. Are you here just to annoy me, or is there some other reason for you being here?"
Morgan's face grew still. “I was trying to be polite, but fine. I’ll be blunt. The Council isn't happy, Jack. You aren't pulling enough to sustain yourself, much less contribute to the tithe. And it's not just a slump. You're in a full-blown rut, and you need to figure out a way out of it before I come back and be a whole lot less friendly."
She stood and smiled. "Frankly, I don't want to have to do all the work to find another act. You know how boring the little gods are, all scattered in their hovels, barely eking out an existence. We've got a good thing here." She stepped close enough to rub her hand over my chest. “Maybe you can spice things up a bit. That old heart-and-feather routine is getting a bit stale, don't you think? Ever consider getting something a little more…sacrificial going onstage? Maybe something with hypnosis? You know, cloud their minds so they're not sure what they actually saw. I bet that would bring them in like crazy! People love that mentalist shit."
I said nothing. Just waited.
"Fine." She flipped her long black hair over her shoulder. "Just think about what I said. I mean it—if you don't get a little more nectar flowing up the hill, then I'll be paying you a totally different kind of visit. One involving a lot of running on your part." She cocked her head as she looked at me. "Then again, it's been a really long time since I've gone on a hunt.” She shrugged. “Either way works for me." She patted my cheek and left.
I sank down on the couch, my knees suddenly a little wobbly. For all my bravado, it was never a good thing when the Morrigan came calling. I could pack up, leave town, and hope the Council didn't send the hunt after me, but where would I go? I sighed. And leaving wasn't even that easy, not when we were all bound one way or the other to the tithe.
That's how we survived. A century ago, many of the old gods were starving. A few of the bigger-name gods—the ones who still had enough believers scattered around the world to give them that edge of power over the rest—got together and picked a spot in America to build a…well, not exactly a home. More like a mutually-beneficial co-op.
The earliest settlers had opened up a few of the nearby limestone caves, carved out steps, put in a few handrails, and called it a marvel of the world, charging a nickel to come take a look. We set up shop in the valley, and the tourists came to us for a bite, or even to see a stage show full of juggling and sleight-of-hand. The energy that poured out of the humans was our salvation. Wonder, awe, laughter, joy—it fed us, kept us going. After a few years of everyone doing well for themselves, and as more and more gods—big and little—flocked to the region, the founders created the Council, made up a few rules and began to govern. Rule number one: the tithe.
You contributed a bit of energy from your own reserves to the tithe, which, in turn, was shared equally—everyone getting enough to keep going. No one would ever starve and fade away again. You did your part to bring tourists into Branson and, in return, you had a place of safety, a home, and a regular source of the energy that kept us all going. Occasionally, if a human was annoying enough or someone that wouldn’t be missed, there might even be a little blood and bone to go with the energy we pulled.
There’s a catch, of course. Once you checked in, you can’t check out. Being a part of Branson is a forever kind of deal—unless the Council decided otherwise.
I’d been offered a place on the Council back then, but I’d never wanted to rule anyone. Sometimes, like tonight, I regretted that a little. Especially when it would have meant that I’d be the one telling Morgan what to do, instead of being blamed for ever-declining audience numbers.
That's what pissed off the old ones more than anything. Not the dwindling money or the bad reviews or even the fact that they couldn't snack on the humans as much as they did in the olden days. It was all about the vibe, the chi, the energy that flowed along the streets of Branson like a fine wine. When the flow was high, then everything sparkled. The lights were brighter, the glitz and glamour louder. Those days seemed to be gone, though. Branson was a pale echo of its past glory, and so were we.
* * *
A few weeks went by and the numbers in Branson weren't getting any better. Even the big acts were starting to hurt. The little gods were hiding, mostly because rumors flew that the Council was actively looking for someone to blame. Or eat.
Tonight's show had been a disaster. The volunteer actually fell asleep in the middle of the rite and Darla tripped and accidentally knocked into the scales, sending the heart sliding across the stage. Not that anyone in the audience noticed. Most were either looking at their phones or whispering to each other. I'd shoved the heart back into the old man's chest and stomped off stage, leaving Darla and Heather to wrap things up.
I didn't linger after the show—just changed clothes, locked up, and headed out through the lobby. I waved to Charlie, the night guard who kept watch over the theater.
"Good show, Mr. Anubis?" Charlie was a stickler for manners and never referred to me with my modern name.
"Not our best, Charlie. But I'm sure tomorrow will be better."
"It surely will, Mr. Anubis. Have a good night now."
There wasn't much for Charlie to do most of the time, but he had permission to eat anyone trying to break in, so he considered it a fair exchange. Most of the time, he just read from the stack of books he kept behind the gift shop counter.
I walked out past the two towering jackals that flanked the entrance. The gold gilding around their necks and eyes was flaking again, another sign that things were getting worse.
"I know who you are."
A woman stood a few feet away, hidden in the shadows of the jackals.
I shook my head and kept walking. "I don't think so."
"I didn't at first," she called out. "Not until I saw your show a few times. Then it all clicked. That whole heart-and-feather thing is real, isn't it? Not just some show."
I sighed. I did not need this kind of trouble right now. Rule number two in Branson—no one gets to know what really goes on under all the lights. I turned back toward her. "I don't think you heard me," I said, my voice a low growl. "You don't know anything. Now I suggest you enjoy the rest of your stay. Catch the Titanic show or go see the Roundup. And don't repeat what you just said. Ever.”
