Dead Men Dancing - A collection of short stories

God's Grave

"So.....which one are you?" 

A bleary pair of eyes stared at the woman through the darkness. Prisons weren't bright and cheery places to begin with, and this one was no exception. The only light in the tiny cell was from a dull ray of moonlight peeking through the barred window, looking like a scene right out of a noir film. 

The woman stood on the other side of the bars, leaning on a shovel. The being in the cell observed her with a half-hearted curiosity. She wasn't very remarkable, no. Her muscles were toned and glistening from sweat, and her grubby-looking hair was pulled into a tight bun. She wiped her face with the back of her gloved hand, only to smear grime on her cheek in the process. 

"Which one are you?" she asked again. "I heard that you are one of the ancient ones......the original crew. Although, you don't really look like one, to be honest." 

The being's mouth curled into a feral snarl. "Do I......" it started slowly, carefully spelling out the words as though it was speaking in a foreign tongue. The words, although belonging to the woman's native language, felt strange when spoken by the being.".....need to look like a God to be one?" 

The woman shrugged, a non-committal jerk of her shoulders that sent a little jolt of irritation up the being's body. She had this infuriating sense of calm about her that just made the fallen god want to rip through her like......what was the word? An explosion? That did not feel right. 

"Dunno. I've seen the pictures and stuff so I just thought you'd look more....." 

"Godly?" the being finished her sentence for her with a condescending toss of its head. The chains around its frail arms and legs clinked against each other. "Who do you think you are, to decide what a God should look like?" 

If it had its way, the being would have brought down an act of wrath upon this human. Albeit being just a minor god, at full power, it used to be strong enough to take down a small battalion of mortals without breaking a sweat. But now.... 

The god flinched as a loud wail pierced through the night. It's eyes travelled to the tiny barred window, afraid to know what the source of the sound was. The sound echoed against the walls of the prison like a terrible after-taste. The being broke into cold sweat.

The woman just stared at the god through the bars, her face as blank as a sheet of untouched paper. Why would she show any expressions? The humans had steadily lost their capability to feel emotions once they started hunting down the Gods. Biting the hand that fed them like the ungrateful mongrels that they were. 

Her dull, brown eyes that were quietly observing the being were the only discernible feature of her face visible in the musty, dark room. 

Is that going to be the last thing I see? 

The being shuddered at the thought. It seemed as though the scream did little to shake her. She just leaned on the dirt-caked shovel as though she was about to go digging for potatoes and stared blankly into space, as if in deep thought. The wails were suddenly smothered into low moans and whimpers, and then......nothing. The sound of shovels hitting soil had replaced the cries of the poor soul. Soul? Was that the right word? Gods didn't have souls. Souls were something mortals had. 

The being closed its eyes. Its nails scraped painfully against the damp ground, almost snapping off. The sound of digging seemed to be getting louder and louder. 

Thud. Thud. Thunk. 

"Offering a prayer for your fallen brother? Or sister? I don't know, do gods have gender?"