fiction by Jason Edwards
The alarm goes off and she says no, goddamnit no, and eight minutes later it goes off again. She doesn’t remember hitting snooze, but she hits it again and eight seconds later the alarm goes off one more time. No goddamnit no, but she’s got her armor and helmet on and is standing next to her bed, groping for her sword. There it is. She’s girded and standing in front of the refrigerator, first light of the day. Yogurt.
In the garage and on her horse, pats him on his haunches as if he needs calming, as if he hasn’t done this before. Rode into battle, mud and blood, sword and rain, lightning striking as many as axe and club, the dead piled up and the crows perched on top looking for eyeballs. This horse, an old hand at battle.
She gets in, cranks the radio, CD player, something someone burned for her once, she doesn’t hear the words, doesn’t hear the melody, only hears the drum, the cadence, the call to war, go to war, fight, fight, kill and if you do not kill maim and if you do not maim rape, rape them all, rip them to pieces and make them curse their mothers. Or something. Fucking Tuesdays.
Takes back roads because the horse doesn’t like dealing with streetlights. Passes castles and huts, shacks and palaces. What’s inside them. Knights and soldiers and damsels, oh my. All of them dreaming of some other places, green fields and blue skies and flowers and rabbits and happy shit. Happiness. It’s shit. She blinks at the horizon, dreading the dawn. Maybe she need some caffeine.
Arrives at the dungeon, parks the horse, bag of oats, can’t take you in there, old man, the walls are too narrow and it would do murder to the carpets. Gargoyle at the front desk stirs, stone skin crackling around a murderous smile. Good morning, it says, you’re going to die in there, they’ll feast on your insides, your soul will be ripped into little pieces. Do you want a towel? Have a great workout!
Puts eldritch runes in her ears, the ancient gearworks of dwarves, music pours in, drowns out the thump thump thump of treadmills, the swish of ellipticals, the cling tang of maces, mornings starts, shields crashing, pates smitten and leg bones breaking. Finds a treadmill of her own. Does a few stretches first. Her armor’s tight on her legs, tight on her chest, already chafing, hungry for sweat, eager for tears. Tears.
On the treadmill, draws her sword, runs into battle. Up the hill and over! The mass of orcs and goblins laying waste to the King’s army, wades into it, sword singing, swinging, chops off a head, sends it flying over the gym floor, spinning in the air and spraying black ichor over fat men in sweat suits and skinny bitches in juicy couture. An ogre strikes at her with his club the size of a tree, she glances the blow with her shield, tucks, rolls, jumps up and skewers him, breaking her sword off at the hilt, steps up his falling body and leaps, snags a flying spear from the air, twirls at she comes down on the neck of a dragon and impales him, nailing it to the ground.
Punches a few more tenths of a mile per hour, sets the incline one percent higher, spins around a sword thrust, blocks a cut with her leather bracers, grabs the brigands head and breaks his neck, uses his body as a shield, a cloud of arrows raining down. Throws the body to the side, leaps, knocks a dark knight from his horse and takes the steed for her own, running through the melee, trampling kobolds and dark elves. The guy on the treadmill next to her says something.
What?
Going long today?
Maybe. But you’re not, wizard. Pulls her dagger from her belt, a flick of her wrist and blood courses down his chest, electricity and oily smoke pouring from his robes as he vibrates into death. Plucks his wizard hat from his head, throws it into the mud, steps on it and flies up from the explosion, above the battle field, grabs a flying Valkyrie, wrestles her in the sky until the both plummet back down. She rips the wings from her back, tosses them aside, and steps forward into the fray.
The rain is coming down harder now, the battle is unrelenting, her cell phones rattles. It’s Carla. Can I get a ride into work today? Doug needs the car. Goddamnit. Checks her watch. 30 minutes. She was hoping for 45. Ah well. It’s just a fucking Tuesday.
Hits the button for stop, hops off the treadmill and walks over to the paper towel dispenser, grabs a few sheets. Wipes off the blood and gore, the mud, bits and pieces of her enemies, green and blue, broken dragon scales and the leathery hides of trolls. Walks to the exit, heartbeat calming, smiles at the gargoyle, finds her steed and drives back home.
Divests herself of her armor, gets into the shower, the steam and the sharp smell of lilac shampoo. Now she’s drowsy again. In danger of falling asleep right there. So luxurious. Manages to get out, towel off, get dressed.
Back in her car, switches from the CD player to the radio. It’s only two miles to Carla’s house, and then 25 minutes on the highway to work. She sits in her car for a few seconds, getting herself ready. They’ve discovered a new system of planets in an otherwise unexplored corner of the galaxy. Time to get out there and see what the universe has in store for her today.