The Barbarian Bard

Tales and Musings by Michael A. Espinoza

Archive for the tag “Ragnarok”


Whence come my roots, no man may know. Where reach my branches, know man may tell. But into all of the nine worlds do I reach, and over all do I spread my shade. At my feet there lies a feral beast, a roaring monstrosity who gnaws, endlessly at my living flesh. Far above, there sits a mighty eagle who sees all the worlds spread out before him.

Oh but I have seen lives come and go, whole nations rise by blood and then fall by flame, collapsing into history’s forgetful chronicle. I have seen mighty folk take up arms to fight and defend alike. I saw the brave warrior leap through the ring of fire to claim his Valkyrie bride. I have seen the shining God fall, slain by treachery, into the depths of Niflheim. And upon my branches has hung the One-Eyed God, the Allfather, the Lord of the Gallows, a sacrifice of himself unto himself. Pierced in the side by his own spear. I watched as silently he brooded, for nine days and nights alike, his body hanging still in the whispering air. Then, as revelation struck him, I watched him writhe in the sudden agony of realization and fall from my branches, renewed and gifted with unending knowledge of his sacred runes.

I have been called Yggdrasil, Irminsul, the World Tree. From my roots, nine rivers spring. From my branches, creatures feed. By my trunk, the Gods keep their counsel. And over Midgard, I watch in silence, and shall stand unyielding until fire scorches every leaf from my frame.


A Call Home

Disclaimer 1: I wrote this story several years ago as part of a challenge. The nature of the challenge, you ask? To see if I could coherently combine several things I loved into one story and have it make sense: zombie fiction, Norse lore, heavy metal, and walruses. Did it work? I don’t know, but I do think the result was pretty fun.

Disclaimer 2 (and mild spoiler warning): The Norse Ragnarök does not in fact specifically resemble a zombie apocalypse. There is some mention of the hordes of Niflheim returning to Midgard, and I just kind of ran with that for the purposes of this tale.

Ragnarök, the Fate of the Gods, the end of the world, and the birth of a new age, a second chance at building a world free of the corruption so prevalent in our time. In all my years as an Ásatrúar–a worshipper in the gods of Nordic lore–I never truly believed that Ragnarök would happen. If it did, I always thought it would happen while I was no longer alive. I never thought I’d hear the great wolf howl in the dead of night, never thought I’d see the terrible hordes of Niflheim writhing again in the streets. I always thought that it could never happen while I was alive. The gods would outlive me, there was no way such terror would befall the world while I was still mortal. Gods, how I wish I had been right.

The first day was terrifying, it was beyond anything I’d ever imagined in even my most morbid and fantastic of dreams. But I’ll come back to that, in good time. Before a story truly begins, a bit of back story needs to be set; a foundation for the architecture of the end times. We’ll start before the beginning, and end after the end, if I can manage. My girlfriend and I had just returned from a trip to Sea World, a big surprise she had planned for our anniversary, based almost solely around my long-standing adoration of walruses. It had been one of the most amazing vacations I’d ever taken, for two great reasons. Firstly because my girlfriend was there with me. Alice was an amazing girl, beautiful beyond compare, and perhaps the sweetest person I’d ever had the good fortune to encounter. We met at a concert a few years back and kept in touch, though we didn’t see each other in person again for a long while. That all changed when we resolved to attend the same university, having decided we were an “official” couple.

The first day we met in person again was astounding, even better than our first encounter, since we knew it was coming and were so exhilarated to be seeing each other on a more regular basis. I took one look at her–standing a few inches taller than myself, with beautiful blue eyes and hair that the aspiring writer in me might have described as “like flowing gold”–and I lost all my nerve. All that bravado I’d spoken with over the phone and through emails fell to pieces like a chandelier cut loose from a vaulted ceiling. Luckily for me, she was just as nervous and we spent that whole first week getting to know each other all over again. Perhaps one of the best weeks of my life. I’m not the kind of guy who gets sentimental at a moment’s notice, not the kind that gives his heart and soul to every pretty girl I meet, but by the Gods I just couldn’t help myself. We shared a love of everything, of the Ásatrú faith, of views on the people around us (most of which were very cynical views), and a passionate affection for the music of the Scorpions. I would often sing “No One Like You” to her over the phone, while struggling to play a halfway-passable iteration of it on my Les Paul. We liked to call it “our song,” largely because of are equally shared love of being cheesy beyond compare.

The second reason our vacation may easily have been one of the most memorable experiences of my life was the walruses. When I was much younger I had a stuffed walrus, a cuddly little plush recreation of the Arctic dweller that I kept close whenever no one judgmental was around. But of course I grew up, I got older, I matured… Now I had three of them. Knowing my strange, entirely silly affection for these creatures, my girlfriend orchestrated an elaborate surprise trip to Sea World, with particular emphasis on the new walrus exhibit, culminating in a chance for me to hold a baby walrus named Nereus, who had been rescued from a floe in the Bering Strait. For his part, Nereus responded to my presence by curling into a pudgy little ball and trying his best to roll around and be playful. My girlfriend took pictures, I smiled like an idiot, and the animal handler demanded his payment for our time spent in proximity to the walruses. In summation, it was the best day ever, and a well-spent anniversary.

That all fell apart when we returned to college. Alice was too tired to head back to her dorm. As rain started crashing outside the window, accented by intermittent bursts of thunder, we curled up under the blankets in my dorm room and began drifting off to sleep.

“Thor is driving his chariot hard tonight,” I said quietly after a particularly violent burst of thunder that caused Alice to squeak in alarm. “The Jötunns must be giving him some kind of trouble.”

“Should we ask the vaettir for protection?” she asked sleepily, barely even wakeful.

“No no,” I replied, patting her head, “you need to get some rest. Odin is watching over us, we’re as safe as always. Goodnight, Alice.”

“Good night, Erik,” she replied as her pretty eyes fluttered shut.

I stared out the window, holding Alice close as the rain put forth a respectable effort to ventilate the pane of glass. Lightning cracked the sky and for the shadow of a moment, my ears rang with a disquieting howl. It sounded like a train’s whistle from far away, like wind rushing over craggy faces of rock. But somehow it was more “animal,” more alive, and more malign than anything I’d ever even tried to imagine. I shivered, Alice shrank down under the blankets in which she was already thoroughly entangled for fear of thunderstorms. She let out a little yelp of fear and I did my best to comfort her, but I was never very good at making people feel better, particularly considering that I spent an overwhelming amount of time dedicated to making sarcastic comments.


“Yes,” I whispered.

“Will you keep me safe?”

“Of course,” I said with a bit of a smile creeping across my face, “nothing’s going to hurt you. I’m a viking warrior! I’ll kill anything that even looks at you the wrong way. Like that ticket taker at Sea World.”

“He didn’t mean anything by it,” she murmured into her pillow.

“And I won’t mean anything when I drive a sword through him,” I countered, and she giggled like she always did when I said something threatening.



“Did you like the vacation? And the walruses?”

“I loved every part of it,” I said, yawning slightly as exhaustion started to set in, “especially that little walrus.”

“What was his name again?” she wondered aloud.

“Nereus,” I replied, “and he was the cutest thing on Earth. Besides you.”

“Besides you.” she repeated. “Oh, and Erik?”

“Yes?” I said, really wishing she was a heavier sleeper.


“Goodnight, Alice.”

Despite my yearning to do so, I still could not force sleep into my mind. As Alice drifted off and I gazed out the window, another sound coursed through me, but much less chilling than the first. It was like a horn blowing, a war-horn enthusing its troops, a heartening call to arms, a song that felt like it was calling me home. It was so enthralling, so warming to my tired body that I felt at once energized and at peace. I didn’t even think back to my knowledge of the lore of my faith. The great howl of Fenrir the shackled wolf, the beckoning sound of Heimdall’s horn Gjallarhorn. Ragnarök…

* * *

Screaming woke me in the morning, shrill calls of terror from every direction. It was as if everything in the world was screaming all at once, like every wall and every window and every object in my room was acting as a transmitter for that awful sound, an amplifier for the horror going on outside. Leaping out of bed, I ran to the window and looked down to the streets one floor below us. There was a crowd amassed outside the dorm, it looked like a riot. But no riot was ever quite like this, no mass act of unrest so disturbing. Even as I watched in sickened silence, the rioters dragged a person out from the doorway of the building. I’d met that kid before, he and I had a music theory class together. He struggled in their hands but it wasn’t even a fight, he was weak and scrawny, pale and acne-scarred. They were frenzied and thirsty for blood. A female rioter fell upon him, and for a baffling moment it looked as though she was nuzzling his neck. Then she pulled away and her mouth was dripping with tattered red tissue. His neck was a hideous gaping maw where once a throat had been.

He screamed, or tried to do so. Blood bubbled out from beneath his torn and flapping neck flesh, but even his blood was not right. The ruby torrent fizzled on his skin, scorching his already mangled flesh and leaving hideous burning streaks on his face and on the ground around him. Then everything: the wounded boy, the blood, even the ground beneath him disappeared under the press of the horde. There must have been twenty of them. Blunt teeth ripped flesh from flailing limbs that thrashed in desperation and then lay still. Invigorated, the mob clawed and bit at anything they could reach, even one another, but they seemed to feel no pain, only a disturbing lust for violence.

It was only when I hit the floor of the room that I realized I’d passed out. My head was swimming, my body numb with shock. Shakily I stood and tried to get my bearings. Alice stood at the window, transfixed by the mob scene outside. I very gently tapped her shoulder and she nearly leapt through her skin.

“Erik,” her voice cracked, “what in Hel is going on out there?”

“Why would I know?” I groggy reply was unsatisfying even to me. “I just woke up a few minutes ago and saw them kill that kid. They just tore him apart.”

“Look.” Alice pointed down to the street.

I looked, and then my voice joined the screaming. The boy, who only moments before had been ripped to shreds, now rose alongside the rioters in their efforts, moving with the vigor of a man who had not just been torn asunder. Scraps of flesh cloaked him, hanging like misshapen rags on the exposed organs of what had once been an acquaintance of mine. As I watched him, his movements caused a loop of his intestines to fall like a discarded rope to the ground. They burned like napalm, leaving an impression like a skid on the pavement that was quickly covered as the rioters pushed forward into the building.

“They’re not alive,” I muttered, over and over again, a mantra that did not calm but incited a hand of ice to take hold within my chest. “He was dead, but he’s walking around. They’re not alive.”

“The legions of Niflheim,” Alice stammered, gripping the window ledge hard, “the guests in Hel’s hall. Ragnarök.”

As if in reply, the screaming died. Peering down I saw the horde migrating into the building, flooding in like insects swarming over a freshly found corpse. But they were corpses themselves, and we were the ones trapped like flies in a web. The body, the thing that had once been a human, that was ripped apart and then rose up again, now lay in the street, its legs having given out from the severity with which they had been gnawed down. As silence reigned over the now deserted street, his semi-empty eye sockets oozing with what had been left behind by those awful human scavengers, turned upward toward the window, seeming to stare directly at us. Slowly, his mouth opened, exposing the ragged, bloodied stump that had once been a tongue, and somehow that body without a throat let lose a moan that sounded like wind flying lonely through a frozen forest, like a thousand hearts weeping for a salvation that had failed to come.

“We have to go!” Alice said with startling sternness in her voice, jolting me out of my trance as that thing in the street continued its unearthly groaning.

“Go?” I repeated in astonishment. “Where would we go? Those people, those things are on the ground floor, where do we go.”

“The student parking garage is right next door,” Alice said, “we can take the fire-escape that links this building with the top floor of the garage and head down to the first floor. We parked my car there last night, remember?”

Vague memories of parking the car late last night rushed back to my head, but it seemed a year had past between then and this morning, when all of Niflheim broke loose outside our dorm. But there was in fact a rickety metal bridge, a safety measure that linked a fire door here to the parking structure’s second floor. And just below that, on the ground level, was Alice’s vehicle, our only chance of getting out of here and to where I did not know.

“I’m not running through that dark garage without a weapon,” I commented, realizing just how foolish and fatal that could be.

“Yeah,” Alice admitted, looking somewhat worried by the matter herself, “if we run into one of them, we need to be able to,” she paused before finishing in a sheepish mutter, “kill it. What about one of your guitars?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“One of your guitars, the heavier electric ones. It won’t kill anything, but you can sure as Hel knock one of those bastards down.”

“We’re not using one of my guitars as a zombie killer!” I growled, edging between Alice and my two electric instruments.

The word “zombie” hung in the air like a thick cloud of rotting stench. It sounded too fake, too much like a B-movie to be real. Those things weren’t “zombies,” they couldn’t be. Yet they tore a boy apart with tooth and claw, and now he was lying in the streets, hungering for flesh, growling in a sick imitation of something living, as newly-acidic blood bubbled from his gaping wounds. Zombie was the only word that fit. As far as weapons went, there was no debating with Alice. She handed me a guitar from its stand in the corner– my favorite one–and took for herself a heavy flashlight from my desk drawer.

“Sure,” I muttered, gripping the gleaming black Les Paul by its neck, “you get the flashlight and I’ll just bash in skulls with a priceless axe, sounds good to me.”

“The price is getting out of here alive,” Alice countered, her mind strangely hardened by the situation. “is a guitar worth it?”

I was silent.

The sound of my dorm room door creaking open filled the empty hallway. Whether other people had fled earlier in the morning while we slumbered, or whether they were hiding and making no sound, remained a mystery, one we had no intention of unraveling. Alice and I, moving as quietly yet quickly as possible, darted into the hallway like furtive mice, ever watchful for the hungry jaws of a predator. But there was nothing on this floor, we could tell that for certain. But heavy footsteps, shuffling, and occasional shouts of fear echoed up through the stairwells from the first floor. Our time was at its limit. Knowing that, we both dashed toward the far end of the hall, where a fire door stood shut. There was no window in the door, it was a solid metal rectangle with a handle that needed only a firm push to open it.

“Waiting for a dead guy to come hold the door for you?” Alice asked with a bit of a laugh in her voice.

“Bad time for humor,” I replied before flinging the door wide.

Now one thing I’d forgotten about fire doors is that when you open them, it generally sets off a loud alarm… and sprinklers to quench the flames. But Alice and I ended up being the only things getting doused as high-pressure water jets coursed from the ceiling, soaking us through to the marrow and ruining my guitar strings almost instantly, not that I was thinking about the safety of a guitar when our lives were in danger. Such is the mind of a lifetime Metalhead, I suppose. But that same mind was quickly pulled away from thoughts on getting a new set of DR strings, when we stepped out onto the rattling metal fire-escape and found that we were not alone.

On the far side of the bridge stood what had once been a parking attendant. Still in his uniform, his stomach hanging open, exposing his internal organs like an open-faced sandwich. His right hand had been gnawed almost down to the bone, and one of his fingers was missing. He opened up his mouth, revealing bloody teeth; clearly he had claimed a victim already. Was the appetite of these former people so unsatiable that even now he was still mindlessly hunting? There was no time for reflections, not then and not for a long while. Alice screamed, holding her flashlight in a defensive posture. I hefted my guitar with a sad sigh. It was either it or us, I told myself. And in all seriousness I could never put an object above my girlfriend in any way, even one to which I’d grown so attached. Even thinking about wanting to protect my guitar made me feel like a dirt bag. Our world was falling apart, this wasn’t a time for music, it was a time for weapons.

The poorly constructed metal bridge trembled and clanged under the wait of the zombie as it staggered forward, hands outstretched. The skin on the palm of its fat left hand hung down, torn open by what I could only assume were the teeth of his attackers. A feral noise erupted from the depths of his body, something beyond even an animal’s capacity to generate. This sick roar echoed around us, seeming to reverberate within our bodies like an icy wind. The bridge clanged more and more, creaking under his weight as he stumbled forward, heedless of the fact that this precarious path had no railings or any detectable safety feature for that matter, excluding its actual existence. I could smell the waves of rot, the fresh hot stench of blood and exposed inner meat, the noxious odor of viscous secretions that had been voided by the corpse after death, possibly even before, when it was still something human. It was too close, its hands clawed the air, its teeth clacked together like a vice, slicing off a chunk of its own tongue, which slapped against the bridge and fell through the flimsy metal slats, down to the street below, wriggling like a dying fish the whole while. Gripping the guitar with knuckles now bone white, I swung its elegant, gleaming black body through the crisp morning air. The blow was devastating.

The upside to the situation was that I was no longer burdened by selfish, musical instrument preservation thoughts. The reason for that was much less than wonderful. A crunch like someone grinding a whole bag of chips beneath their heel resonated for an instant, less than a second, but it would stay in my mind until the day I died. The zombie’s head caved in on its left side, bone shattering and brain matter oozing down the side of its decimated face, which now vaguely resembled a water mellon that had been crushed to pulp by a hammer. My grip waned on the hilt of my weapon and the zombie clutched at it with his final burst of strength as he teetered on the edge of the bridge, before plunging toward the street. The impact was minor, but the psychological repercussions nearly knocked me off my feet. As he fell, holding my guitar in his arms, fleeting images of Eddie, the Iron Maiden zombie, soared through my head. But the impact removed all thoughts of singing “Children of the Damned” from my mind. Bones stuck out beneath dead flesh, the remaining half of his skull liquified in a putrid explosion as it struck pavement. He lay still, my guitar shattered in his lifeless arms.

“I’m sorry Erik,” Alice said, knowing that I had treated that instrument as if it were my own offspring. “I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I responded, tearing my eyes away from the street one floor below, “it was my guitar or us, I do have some priorities you know.”

“I know you do, sweetheart,” Alice replied. “You’re my tough viking man, after all.”

“Thanks,” I said, a hint of a blush creeping over my face, “I love you.”

“I love you, too. Now lets get moving, I’m guessing that guy wasn’t the only attendant on duty.”

“Probably not.”

We ran. As fast as our feet could carry us, we ran. I had nothing in my hands now to slow me down, nothing dear to me except the Mjölnir pendant around my neck and the girl running next to me, the girl holding a flashlight like a nightstick, the girl who only a short time before had paid an untold sum so I could cuddle a baby walrus. And so our progress went quickly through the dark, echoing hall that was the student parking complex. A few times we stopped to catch our breath, but not once did we see another zombie up close. On the first floor, we could see them across the street, milling about and pressing against windows and doors like children gazing longingly at the delicious treats just beyond their reach. Fortunately, Alice’s car was much closer to us than the shambling abominations. There it sat, our vessel of salvation, parked next to the bank of elevators that led to the second floor and the maintenance level below. Alice fished in her pocket for the keys, sliding the correct one into the lock. As if on B-Movie cue, a figure stumbled around from behind the elevator terminal.

This one had been feeding. Blood seeped from between its cracked lips. Its cheeks bulged with something chewy, something that it kept constantly grinding beneath its molars. Even as it gulped down a tremendous mouthful of Gods know what, it looked at us with glassy eyes, and a hungry growl. Alice wrenched the door open, yelling for me to get in the car. Fumbling with the handle, I yanked open the door, diving in clumsily as the corpse’s hands locked around the grill of the vehicle. Alice shut her door and started the engine, which roared to life as she began to back out of the parking space. The zombie didn’t let go, not as she pulled out of the parking spot, not when she turned toward the exit. Only when Alice floored the gas pedal and ran down the bloody-mouthed fiend, did it at last loosen its grip as it was pulled underneath the tires like a hapless swimmer catching an unexpected current. Two sharp thumps, that was the last I heard of the zombie.

“Alice,” I stammered in horror, “you just killed him.”

“And you knocked one off a two story bridge,” she replied. “We’re even.”

* * *

The first few days consisted largely of running, technically driving, but running on a cosmic scale. We stopped to fill up the gas tank when we could, but that was largely it. This wasn’t like a movie, no quarantine zones, no military road blocks, no safety. This was Ragnarök, pure and simple. We switched spots in the car repeatedly, each of us taking a shift driving while the other tried to rest, and failed miserably to do so. It was impossible to sleep when one looked out the window and saw a city bustling with activity: dead people walking to their next meal, buildings freshly remodeled with barricades meant to keep out survivors and zombies alike, and the living corpses going about their work, squatting over fallen humans and burying their hands and faces in the carnage. Luckily, from within the car, we couldn’t hear the snuffling, snarling sounds of their grotesque and frenzied feeding. But we could still see them, launching their heads forward like snakes, then rearing back, their mouths streaming with dripping red gobbets of meat, a prize they greedily savored before lunging back in for more. They never stopped eating, and we didn’t stop driving until the space between gas stations became far too much to cover.

The car trundled to a shaky stop on a deserted street. The nearest building was a speck on the horizon and the sun shone down, much too brightly since we’d turned off the air conditioner in an effort to conserve power. Alice swore, punching the steering wheel, eliciting one final honk from the horn of the car, a pathetic and dying sound. It too had died, our vessel, our hope for escape, it had died right around us, just like everything else seemed to be.

“Great,” Alice hissed bitterly, “this is just Gods damned great! Stuck in scenic nowhere just in time for Armageddon.”


“Erik come on, does it matter? We’re going to die out here.”

“Alice,” I said in a blatantly feigned soothing tone, a tone we both knew was just as much for my benefit as for hers, “don’t say that. Look, up the road there. I bet you that building is a hotel. We can take shelter there for the evening, at least until we have some idea of what exactly we’re going to do now.”

“You know,” Alice said bitterly, “you picked a bad time to become an optimist.”

But for all her anger at the situation, she didn’t protest as we left the shelter of the vehicle and set off toward the building. After a good long walk in the mid-day sun, the sand crunching beneath our feet and the wind pushing constantly back as if warning us away from some lurking horror, we arrived at the building. We were somewhat relieved to find that I was right, it was in fact a hotel. A one story building with a single car in the parking lot, the kind of hotel with thin walls and air thick with leftover cigarette smoke. Not exactly a five star establishment, but it beat sleeping in the car in what seemed to be the spot most devoid of life in a dead world.

Whoever had been there last never had a chance to lock the main door, so there was no need for a violent entrance. All the same, I shouted loudly as my boot smashed against the door, causing it to bounce off the far wall and rattle in its frame. Alice looked at me in an expression that clearly asked why I’d burst into the hotel like a SWAT trooper.

“Two good reasons,” I said in answer to her silent question. “First, if anything is in the building, it will come to us now before we stumble upon it later, in the dark. Second, I’ve always really wanted to do that.”

“Can’t argue with that logic,” she said with a grin, trying to make the best of the worst circumstances. “So what’s the course of action now, Captain?”

“Well,” I pondered aloud, “how about you grab a room key for us while I make sure we don’t have any guests that might come knocking later tonight.”

“Ah,” she chuckled, “don’t want to be interrupted?”

“Or eaten.”

Alice laughed. By the Gods, I loved that sound. Her laughter made this whole ordeal seem like a weekend road trip, like everything would be better on Monday when school started again. But our road trip was over, it had been to Sea World, and it had happened roughly an eternity ago. No cute, walrus-related surprises here, just silence and a palpable sense of impending death, waiting with open fangs for us to make one wrong move. Whether it was I who made the wrong move by encouraging us to split up, or Alice who made the wrong move by stepping behind the reception desk is a moot point. The only matter worth noting is that what happened did in fact happen.

As I was rounding a corner, looking for signs of movement, a piercing scream ripped the silence to shreds. I flew back to the lobby faster than I’d ever run in my life. Alice was backing away from the reception desk. The remains of a desk clerk had its one good hand wrapped firmly around her right ankle. The body of the clerk had been so badly mangled that there was hardly any way at all to identify what it had looked like during life. Most of its flesh had been flayed away, revealing bones that were dripping with an unearthly, greasy substance that both stained and burnt through the carpeted floor. Could that possibly be blood? I gave it no more thought, there was no time for thinking just then, only time for swift, primal action.

Alice jerked her ankle free just as I brought my boot down on the clerk’s head. The bones felt like sponges under my heavy shoe, the brain squirmed underfoot like a gigantic grape as I reduced it to a slowly spreading puddle of muck that lay thick in the carpet. Panting and letting out little growls of savage rage I looked over at Alice. Her ankle was soaked in blood.

“Alice.” I didn’t have any other words.

“Erik,” she assured me, “it was just a scratch, not a bite, I’m fine, just a little scratch. And look,” she held up a thin plastic card, “I got us the bridal suite.”

“But what if it’s infected?” My voice rose in pitch.

“The bridal suite?”

“Alice, be serious! I mean the scratch!”

“I’ve had shaving cuts worse than this,” she assured me, “now lets hit the room. I need to lay down, and you can find me some bandages.”

I nodded, hoping for all I was worth that a scratch wouldn’t be the end of everything I had left. Letting Alice lean against me for the support she insisted was unnecessary, I guided us both to the bridal suite, sliding the card in the door and ushering my wounded girlfriend across the threshold. I have no memory of the room at all. There was a bed, and a desk with a first-aid kit in it, and a cheap lamp or two, that much I recall. But the walls could have been painted with rainbows and mating unicorns for all I cared of such trivialities.

Alice lay on the bed, and I practically emptied a whole bottle of peroxide onto her ankle. She screwed up her eyes tight, gritting her teeth and hissing profanities that would have made any old-time sailor feel uncomfortable. I kept trying to avert my attention from the wound, telling myself peroxide always produced a steaming reaction on contact. There was nothing wrong, nothing. Alice let out a contented sigh and drifted off to sleep after a short while, the pain appeared to have faded, at least for the time being. And I took that opportunity to leave the room for a moment, returning to the lobby for something important, something I knew would be there.

I cursed that desk clerk, kicking and in the process fragmenting his ribs as I tore open a drawer in the desk. There it was, just like I expected in a rundown hotel like this. Gleaming with a pure, radiant light, was a nine millimeter handgun. I released the magazine, revealing six rounds. Plenty. Slamming the magazine back in place, I slid the desk clerk’s would-be security measure into my pocket, covering its grip with my long shirt. Then, with the haste of someone wading through a stream of modeling glue, I walked toward our room, only picking up the pace when I heard music faintly through the wall. The lyrics were familiar.

“Girl, it’s been a long time since we’ve been apart, much too long for a man who needs love.”

I opened the door and stepped inside, bolting the door behind me. Alice sat on the edge of the bed, holding her iPod, which was plugged into a radio on the bedside table. I’d apparently overlooked that amenity on our arrival, but Alice had found and made good use of its audio input cable. She bobbed her head to the tune of the music and smiled at me. Her eyes looked hazy, like she was looking at me from behind a wall of translucent blue film.

“Listen Erik,” she called eagerly, “it’s our song.”

“There’s no one like you,” sang the radio, “I can’t wait for the nights with you.”

“It is our song,” I replied, sitting on the bed next to her, “but you need rest Alice, you don’t need to be headbanging to the Scorpions.”

“Rest,” she giggled, “if we rest now, we’ll be late for the walrus exhibit.”

I stared at her, speechless. My breath came up short. Walrus exhibit? She was flashing back, she was already delusional, already gone. I reached out and hugged her, holding her tight against my chest despite her half-hearted protests of how we would be late, how I had a surprise waiting for me at the water park. I just squeezed her against my chest, cradling her like a baby and gazing down into her now-glassy eyes. Hadn’t I just seen her looking at me with her normal blue eyes? Hadn’t I just heard her laughing?

“Erik,” she whined, “come on, we’ll be late for the walrus exhibit. Don’t you want to see the little baby one?”

“I uh… I do,” I replied. “But you’re hurt,” I paused, swallowing around a lump in my throat, “your ankle is too scratched up for you to walk on.”

“Oh don’t act like my mom,” she scoffed, “I’m not missing this exhibit because of a shaving cut! Come on Erik, I know you love walruses, don’t ruin the fun.”

She tugged at my shirt frantically, like an excited little child. I always thought it was so cute when she did that. Now, I grimaced as my shirt moved slightly, revealing the handgun. Alice’s eyes snapped right back into focus, locking in on the rugged grip of the weapon I’d hidden from her. She looked first at the gun, then up at me, then back to the gun.

“Erik,” she whispered quietly, now staring straight at me with more intense focus than I’d ever seen in her eyes, “it’s bad isn’t it?”

“Your ankle?”


“Yeah. I can’t say for sure, but I think it is getting pretty bad.”

“I can’t remember,” she mumbled, “where are we?”

“A hotel, sweetheart,” I replied.


“Yes, Alice.”

“We’re not at Sea World, are we?”

“No, we’re not, honey.”

“I didn’t think so,” she stuttered, her eyes going glassy again. “But we’ll get there soon, right?”

“Yeah baby,” I said, running my fingers through her hair, “we’ll be there before you know it.”

She stayed silent for a few minutes. I stared down at her in dismay. Ásatrú didn’t really have codified sins; what was good in one instance was not so good in another. But was shooting your girlfriend ever the right thing to do? In this moment, I couldn’t convince myself that it wasn’t. I reached for the gun, ready to do what I had to do, and then Alice spoke again, knocking me from the fragile platform of my resolve.

“Erik look,” she chirped, pointing off at nothing, “look at the little walrus! What’s his name?”

“Uh…” I didn’t know how to reply. “Uh… The card says his name is uh… Nereus. They rescued him from the Bering Strait, where he was abandoned, and he likes to cuddle with his trainer.”

“He’s so cute,” she marveled, gazing with wrapped fixation at the plaster wall, “look how he curls up in a little ball like that! It’s so adorable.”

“It is honey,” I half-whispered, “it is so cute, just like you.”

“Are you saying I’m a walrus?”

“No no,” I said, repeating our exact conversation from that day. “I’m just saying that you’re cute.”

“Erik?” Alice asked once more.

“Yes baby, we can go meet Nereus, just like you planned,” I said, hoping to at least put her at ease in her hallucinations.

“No.” Her words came clearer, more direct. “I have a question for you.”

“What is it, sweetheart?”

She looked at me, her eyes were as beautiful as they always had been. “Will you keep me safe?”

“Always.” The word tasted like a lie.

“Goodbye, Nereus,” she called out, her voice wavering again, her hand waving farewell to that same empty expanse of wall. “Erik’s taking me home now, but we’ll come back next year.”

“Yes we will,” I assured her, “I promise we will.”

The gun felt hotter than a burning brand against my palm. The trigger was heavy, heavier than my guitar, heavier than that door I’d kicked down, heavier than Alice, who lay in my arms, giggling at a joke I’d made many days ago. The barrel shone in the dim light coming through the window. Alice wasn’t even looking, which was all for the better. I smelled the sweet scent of her flowing hair, I stared at her beautiful face for just a moment before the bullet would take it all away. I tasted the cold metal of the barrel as my tongue brushed against it. As I squeezed the trigger with all my strength, I heard the songs of valkyries, calling me home…

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