The penultimate part of my short story series which started as an exercise in writers block. A father and daughter meet to discuss her progress in stopping the end of the world. For the beginning, take a look at A Conversation in a Cafe.

“Death returns, and humanity thrives. You have done well.”

I snort into my Diet Coke. Done well. I’m not sure whether he’s being sincere or not; I kind of hope not. The undying plague is over. Death has returned. People have returned too, leaving their houses and their hiding and finding some semblance of normality in this crazy descent into the end times. The cafe around us has a quiet, pleasant buzz. The music is louder than any conversation, giving the semblance of privacy. Death has returned; life goes on.

I ache.

“Daughter?”

I jolt out of my thoughts. I’d been staring into my Diet Coke, clasping it so tight my knuckles are white. My father’s voice is gentle. He is giving me that smile, the one that suggests I am a child who needs rest.

He’s not wrong.

“Not well enough,” I say. “The world’s still ending.”

“But you have given people hope. Sometimes, hope is enough.”

I hold his gaze. Stare deep into those bloody golden eyes. “That’s crap. Hope isn’t enough, not when you’re fighting the end of the world.”

“Perhaps.” He takes a sip of his tea. “The underworld has hurt you.”

”A couple of scratches and bruises. Turns out Death really doesn’t like being disturbed.”

”I did not mean physically.”

I shrug his concern away. “I’m fine.”

I’m not fine.

The underworld was a writhing darkness, a hell-scape twisted horrifically into the form of a tower block. Every level brought new demons and new nightmares. Every step was torturous. And Death, Death was at the very bottom, waiting for me with a smile on her lips. His lips. I’m still not entirely sure what gender it was, only that it was, and it was surprisingly seductive.

It would have been so easy to close my eyes, and let it take me.

The music in the cafe is bouncy and happy. A couple and their kids are chatting away at the next table. It’s as if the plague of undying never happened, the blood red rain is a distant memory. But then, they don’t know what’s coming.

“The beast,” I say. “What can you tell me about it?”

”The beast is a fairytale,” my father says dismissively. “He will ride in on a wave of bones – it is a myth to express what humanity cannot understand.”

”So how will it happen?” He stares at me. I hold his stare. I’m not going to be intimidated by those golden eyes; I’ve stared down far worse these last few months. “I’ve fought the portends of the end of the world. That means the end must be coming, right? So how do I stop it?”

He reaches his hand across the table and, predictably, breaks off the corner of my cookie. I sigh. He takes his time, enjoying the bite, taking a sip of his tea. He’s stalling. I can’t believe it. This mythical, all-knowing being is stalling.

“Father.”

He sighs. Puts his tea down. “The end will come in a flash of light and burning rain,” he says softly. “There will be screaming, and endless torment. The underworld will break into the overworld; the heavens will fall and collide with the earth. The gods will leave. We have that luxury. But the people will die.”

My heart sinks. “So there’s no beast? Nothing for me to fight?” He says nothing. I feel sick. “You said that I could be the great warrior who rises to fight the beast. If there’s no beast, how on earth am I meant to fight it?”

The couple and their kids are leaving. One of the children shoots us a curious glance. Maybe I’m talking too loudly. I don’t care. If they aren’t aware what’s going on in the world, it’s time they were educated. The news is full of blood red rain and floods and undying and religious leaders warning people to make their amends and scientific leaders explaining theories that I don’t understand.

They’re all wrong. There are no amends; there is no science. There are only unknowable gods, who do not care, and never have.

There are tears in my eyes. I go to wipe them away; my father stops me and hands me a napkin.

“I care,” he says softly.

I glare at him. “You’re in my mind. Don’t do that.”

”I can’t do it very often these days,” he says, drawing back as I dab at my eyes. “You have grown strong, daughter.”

”Because you told me I had to. Now you tell me it was all for nothing.”

”I never said that.”

A young man and woman have started arguing at the next table. Their hushed, strained tones are a background to my father’s serious, unblinking expression. 

“There is a beast, of sorts. And the beast is known.”

I frown. “What the hell does that mean?”

“I am the beast.”

I can’t be dealing with this right now. “Drop the cryptic crap, please. I’m tired and I’m -”

“I’m not being cryptic. I am the beast. My brothers and sisters are the beast. Without us, there is no end. There is only the earth, ungoverned and free.”

Ungoverned and free.

I shake my head. “You’re saying I have to fight the gods?”

”You have fought one before. And won. That is how I know you are ready.”

I laugh. “I slapped a bit of sense into Death. I got it to do its duty. That’s hardly winning, that’s just being persistent.”

“And that is why I know you are going to win.” He smiles at me. “Because you are persistent. You are determined. You will never not try.” The smile grows a tad wistful. “You are your mother’s daughter.”

This is insane. “I can’t fight the gods,” I say hopelessly. “There are too many, and even if I managed to – if I found them all in time, if I managed to get close enough – I’d die first. Because I can die.”

”So can we. If you use the right blade.” He reaches for another bit of my cookie but then, to my surprise, pushes it into my hands. “Eat, daughter. You’re going to need your strength.”

I sigh. “Any chance I can take a break, and someone else can take over?”

“Do you know of any other demi gods?”

“No. Do you?”

”Yes. But they are all dead, powerless or moronic.” He closes my hand over the piece of cookie. “Gather your strength. The journey to the blade is not an easy one.”

I can’t help another sigh at that. “Of course not.”

I take a bite of the cookie. It’s good. Too good. Too much chocolate for anyone’s good. The cafe has a pleasant atmosphere today. People seem happy. There’s the argument at the table next to us and a crying child is being reprimanded in the corner, but the happiness is like a shroud. The world is getting better, as far as they know. Things are improving. If only. 

But maybe I can help.

Maybe, just maybe, I can do this.