The second RPG hit the forward section of the wreckage squarely through one of the cockpit windows and exploded inside. What was left of the front half of the plane shattered in a ball of flame and debris that rained down on the survivors, startling those still sleeping upright and awake. Mestoph returned with a three round burst from his .40 and saw a silhouette fall down in front of the headlights. Moments later, it silhouette stood back up and began to reload the launcher.
Mestoph took aim again, knowing he wouldn't get another shot before yet another RPG was spiraling its way directly at him. This time he took a moment to breath in, hold it, and then let it back out. He squeezed the trigger, getting off a single round.
The shooter fell backwards as the grenade launched, sending it upward in an almost imperceptible arc. It shot up like a flare, and everyone stared up at it, entranced. Then it ran out of propulsion, and since it hadn't hit anything to trigger detonation, it began to fall. The second half of its trajectory was shrouded by darkness, but it became apparent what had happened when the vehicle furthest from the wreck exploded.
The second explosion jerked everyone out of their trance, and people began screaming and running. Survivors were grabbing their axes and machetes or running for cover behind wreckage and lava mounds. It made for a disorganized front, but would also make them harder to pick off all at once. On the other side, the attackers were screaming, too. There wasn't enough light to tell if it was because they were dying or injured or just startled at having their own vehicle blown up. Mestoph thought he could hear the cursing of a dying demon, its guttural language ringing out above the others, but in the chaos he wasn’t sure.
Leviticus, Marcus, and Stephanie soon joined Mestoph behind the row of seats. It wasn’t much in the way of protective cover, but it kept them out of sight. Mestoph was filling them in on the scant details of the events so far when gunfire finally broke out. They ducked instinctively, but the guns weren’t aimed at them. Again Mestoph heard the sound of a demon, muffled and gravelly but distinct, maybe even sounding slightly wet and raspy, and then one of the vehicles backed up and sped off away from the crash, leaving four sets of headlights and one mangled wreck of a burning truck.
It became apparent that all the gunfire was coming from one half of the group and aimed exclusively at the other half. The scene that played out solely through the silhouettes and shadows created by the headlights. It looked like the group taking fire was armed with nothing but swords, axes, and war hammers. Not the makeshift type the survivors had, nor the weird fantasy weapons that geeks with too much money bought, but large, chunky, utilitarian looking accoutrements of war—albeit war in the Dark Ages.
The barbarians seemed to be winning. A few of the anachronistic assailants fell to gunfire, but sparks of ricocheting bullets leaped off what could only be armor as they charged forward, laying the gunners to waste. The skirmish only lasted a few minutes, and then the gunfire ceased completely. Not sure how to take this awkward turn of events, Mestoph and the others stayed hunched behind the seats with their weapons at the ready.
“Aim for the head,” said Mestoph.
“You mean, like zombies?” asked Sir Regi.
“Yes,” said Mestoph with all seriousness.
There was absolute silence for what felt like an eternity, and then there was a loud, deep “Halooo?” from the trucks.
“Is anyone out there?” asked a deep voice in Germanic-tinged English.
Everyone looked to Mestoph with questions in their eyes. He shrugged, making a bewildered face in response. He had no idea if this was a trap to lure them out or some sort of mob remorse. He didn’t have to think too long about it, though, because a hulking figure of a man emerged in front of the trucks waving what was most likely a white flag. In the dark the color was moot.
“I think they want to…what…parley?” said Sir Regi, making it as much a question as a statement. “Ask for terms,” said the dog.
“Name your terms,” shouted Mestoph. There was a brief moment of silence and then they heard some sort of discussion taking place in the distance. It was either too low to understand or they weren’t speaking English. Mestoph squinted and turned his ear, trying to make it out.
“It’s Icelandic or maybe Old Norse, I think,” said Sir Regi, his superior doggy hearing paying off. “Please God, don’t let them be Neo Vikings.”
It looked like everyone was about to ask what Neo Vikings were, but there was finally a response from the barbarians. “No terms. Unconditional surrender,” shouted the Nordic negotiator.
“Who’s surrendering? Us or you?” shouted Mestoph.
The barbarian looked as if he turned to those behind him and shrugged. “We surrender,” he shouted back.
“Why?” asked Mestoph. The others looked at him in surprise.
“Who cares!” said Stephanie.
“Well, mostly ’cause we’d rather not kill you. If that’s ok with you.”
“We accept!” shouted Stephanie, not willing to risk having Mestoph ruin everything with his inane questions. There was murmuring from the other survivors, some of whom had drawn near to where Mestoph and the others were taking cover.
The barbarian threw the flag down and walked toward the survivors with his hands up in the international “I come in peace” gesture. The light from various fires lit the barbarian’s features; what could only be described as a Neo Viking stood tall before them. The man stood just shy of seven feet with blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail with a leather thong and a long mustache and beard braided and capped with copper beads. The Viking was wearing tactical cargo pants and a skin-tight endurance shirt, but he had armor made of iron plates the size of playing cards draped on top of it.
Although the barbarian had dropped his battle axe, he still had various weapons from various eras strapped to him. Tucked into sheathes at both hips were two large Celtic sgian-dubh, angled so they could easily be cross-drawn. Clipped to the many pockets of his cargo pants were medium-sized tactical folding knives and a multi-tool. He even had a small push-dagger, shaped like a bear claw, hanging from a chain around his neck.
“I am unarmed,” he said, gesturing toward the empty leather sheath on his back that should have held his battle axe. Mestoph raised an eyebrow, but he signaled for everyone to lower their weapons. Leviticus swung the ice axe so that it stuck into one of the cushioned arms of the row of seats in front of him. The barbarian grinned, which made Mestoph feel like they had fallen for some trick, but the hand that he held out toward Mestoph was empty and open.
“Komdu sæll,” said the large man, still grinning enormously.
Mestoph reluctantly grasped the man’s hand. The barbarian clasped it eagerly and then pulled him in for an uncomfortable bear hug, patting him roughly on his back.
“We were afraid you were all dead,” said the large man, seemingly on the verge of tears. “They never said anything about survivors. Please...please, forgive us.” He finally released Mestoph and yelled something in Icelandic to the rest of the group, to which they shouted enthusiastically in response.
The Neo Vikings rushed toward them. Many of the survivors shouted in excitement, and equally as many shouted in fear because they thought they were being attacked. Luckily the other Neo Vikings had been sensible enough to put their weapons away before charging headlong toward skittish survivors. In the midst of the celebration, there was a high-pitched scream in the darkness. Coming swiftly into the light was a short African rebel whom Mestoph recognized as the leader of one of the guerilla groups he had dealt with in his failed coup in Kenya. The rebel was running full tilt toward him with a grenade raised in one of his hands. The screaming rebel and the look of surprised confusion on Mestoph’s face got the attention of the enormous Viking leader, and he sprang into action.
Without pausing, he grabbed Leviticus’ ice axe from the arm of the seat, turned, and threw it with the speed and force of a Major League pitcher. The axe spun toward the rebel and stuck with a resounding thud into his forehead, causing him to do a back flip onto the ground. The grenade flew upward into the air, and everyone’s mouth dropped open as they watched it rise. At the peak of its ascent it exploded in a flowering of flame and a concussion that knocked several people to the ground.
And then there was nothing but silence; the war was now officially over. After the panic subsided, the survivors universally greeted the barbarians with hugs and tears. The leader of the group introduced himself as Magnus Magnuson. He was not only their leader, but the frontman of a Neo Viking death metal band known as Odin’s Taint. They were a rather motley crew of behemoths chiseled of ice and stone, none under six feet tall, who lived as modern Vikings by day and melted faces off by night with dark, insidious metal of the most ferocious variety.
Magnus explained they had been approached about a job by a distant acquaintance of their drummer, who called himself Fenrir, after they had played at a dive bar in Reykjavik the night before. Being that Odin's Taint wasn't exactly playing in sold out stadiums they could really use the money and signed up. Fenrir's acquaintance said there was an unmanned stealth drone belonging to the U.S. government that had crashed, and they were offering top pay to scavenge what they could from the wreckage: specifically hard drives, cameras, and any serial numbers, badges, or insignias that could point to the U.S.
They were told that it would be unguarded; they were just there for the literal heavy lifting. The Americans didn't want the Icelandic government to know they were flying drones over their country, and since the crash had apparently gone unnoticed, it should be safe to go in under cover of darkness, grab what they needed, and be out by dawn. When they arrived at the prearranged meeting place and met their contact and his boss, whom Magnus described in detail and was undeniably St. Peter, it seemed they had enlisted a few others to help with the job. The employer revealed that he had learned that it wasn't a simple, small unmanned drone after all but an experimental intelligence plane.
The Vikings still thought everything was going well until they arrived at the scene and it became immediately obvious that things didn't quite jibe with what they had been told. One rocket propelled grenade and twenty-three screaming survivors later, Odin's Taint realized they had been lied to, and being the Neo Vikings they were, they had no qualms fighting those who would try to take advantage of them—and who would, in all likelihood, have tried to kill them too when the job was through.
Their story told, there was immense relief on everyone's faces, Vikings and survivors alike, but there was an ever growing unease that Mestoph and the others were trying very hard to keep to themselves. Between the attack in Truth or Consequences, the plane being shot down, and now the story Magnus the Neo Viking had told them, it was undeniable that St. Peter would go to any extreme necessary. This was clearly not the last time they would come to heads with him, and it probably wasn't the last time it would involve excessive force.
Odin's Taint was more than just a metal band. It was a commune of about twenty-five Neo Vikings that lived the life of a modern barbarian. While they did have many modern conveniences like internet, geothermal heating, electricity, and motor vehicles, they also tried to live off the land as much as possible. They were hunters, gatherers, farmers, traders, grifters, and of course rockers. The band itself had four members: lead singer and guitar Magnus, bass player Fenrir, rhythm guitarist Skjorn, and drummer Johnny Machine Gun.
Although Magnus Magnuson was likely the large singer’s real name, Mestoph had serious doubts about the authenticity of the others. Fenrir was a ferocious wolf beast that would eventually eat Odin, at least according to Norse mythology. Mestoph did make note of a chain around Fenrir's neck with a small sword pendant hanging from it. He wondered if it was supposed to represent the magical chain that bound the mythological Fenrir until the day of Ragnarok. The man did have rusty, fox red hair that was more a shaggy mane than flowing locks, a sharp, predatory nose, and an aggressive grin, so the name at least fit.
Skjorn was the tallest of all the members of the group, towering easily above seven feet. He had long, straight black hair that hung loosely half way down his back. What little skin wasn't etched in deep grooves of woad-inked tattoos was pasty white, almost sickly. He was lean but muscular, with hard cords of muscle running the length of his unnaturally long arms.
Johnny Machine Gun was the odd man out. He was of average height and lanky, with a gaunt face and jittery demeanor like he lived off of cocaine and fast food. He looked like a Chihuahua crossed with a rat, which as far as Sir Regi was concerned was the same thing. His uncomfortably tight black jeans and tattered black denim jacket covered in strategic rips, safety pins, and Misfits, Black Flag, and Sex Pistols patches sealed the deal that he was the black lamb of this barbaric herd. He hardly looked like he could hold, let alone swing the large battle hammer he was reluctantly dragging behind him.
Skjorn, on the other hand, blithely tossed it over his shoulders, smiling down at Johnny as he did. Johnny gave a mousy and sarcastic “aren't you fucking special” grin in return. Johnny Machine Gun briefly flashed open his denim jacket to reveal a vest-like harness that held a dozen throwing knives, which were coated matte black with only the finely sharpened edges glinting in the light of the campfire. It was then that Mestoph also noticed leather bracers on his forearms, mostly hidden by the jacket, which he was fairly certain held daggers as well.
Dawn was only a few hours away, so no one even pretended to try to get back to sleep. Most of the barbarians from Odin's Taint spent the time preparing the funeral pyres for their four brothers who had died in combat. In rummaging for something to prime the fires, as most of the timber was too green to burn very well by itself, Skjorn uncovered the plane’s drink cart, which was packed full of mini-bottles of Icelandic vodka and Kentucky whiskey. The whiskey they set aside for the fires, but the vodka they passed around and saluted their comrades with a hearty “Skol!”
Magnus sat down with Mestoph and Leviticus, having marked them as the leaders of the survivors. He looked at Marcus and Stephanie, ignoring Sir Regi completely, and only seemed at ease when Leviticus gave nod that meant they were in the inner circle as well.
“Is there any reason you can think of why someone would send a hit squad to take you out?” asked Magnus.
Mestoph and Leviticus kept steady poker faces, but both Stephanie and Marcus glanced briefly at them. Magnus did not fail to notice this and smiled. It was a mirthless smile. It was an understanding of secrets.
“They were after you,” he said quietly, not making it a question.
Mestoph looked to Leviticus, who in turn reluctantly nodded at Magnus. Their little quest for some R&R had killed approximately a hundred passengers and four Neo Vikings, and who knew what else it had cost. If Mestoph and Leviticus had possessed a better understanding of the value of a human life—and if they weren't justifying it all by placing the blame squarely on St. Peter—they would have backed out of the plan long ago. But if they had a real understanding of what it meant to be human, which neither of them had ever been, they might not have set out in the first place.
“Why?” asked Magnus.
There wasn't an answer they could give him that didn't betray far too much. Yet only something approaching the truth, or at least revealing their true nature, would really satisfy. Marcus was about to open his mouth and explain how they were witnesses to a heinous act by the head of a ruthless crime syndicate, which probably wouldn't have worked, when Sir Regi stole his thunder.
“They were protecting me,” said the Scottie as he hopped up on Magnus' leg.
“Odin's beard!” shouted Magnus as he jumped up, sending Sir Regi scrabbling for traction. Sir Regi sat back on his hind legs in a very formal pose and shouted in an unusually deep and commanding voice, a voice Stephanie recognized from her dream, “Sit down human! I am an emissary of the Vanir and you will do as I command.”
Magnus stood there, mouth completely agape, obediently sat. Sir Regi, now looking regal and dignified, waited for everyone to compose themselves. “I have been here in Midgard, your human world, as a spy for the Vanir, and I have a message of the utmost importance for Odin. The filthy monotheists, whom you ignorantly served in an attempt to wipe us out, will stop at nothing to ensure that message is never delivered.”
“That changes everything,” said Magnus, awed.
“No shit,” said Mestoph, annoyed.