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Author : Sandra M. Odell Narrator : Anson Mount Host : Setsu Uzume Audio Producer : Peter Behravesh Discuss on Forums Originally published at GigaNotoSaurus. This story also appears in Sandra’s collection Godfall and Other Stories. Content Warning: Gore, mild body horror. Rated R. Tully brought the skiff in from the south. The blue mountains of Maya’s feet rose against the sky, each toe adorned with a massive gold ring inlaid with cobras crowned with lotus blossoms. By the looks of the gold and white flags, the feet had already been claimed by the Vatican. It must have galled Pope Innocent XVI to accept the UN award for the feet of a Hindu god. The god’s legs rested to one side, knees slightly bent, thick thighs leading to the fleshy invitation of her belly. Tully couldn’t see the upper arms, but her lower right arm lay across her midriff, while the lower left arm lay flung to the side, a cosmic afterthought. Immense gold bracelets at the wrists framed the wealth of rings on both hands. Beyond her breasts would be the treasures of her shoulders and head. This looked to be a good haul. Plenty of gold and industrial grade diamonds in the rings; uranium and other heavy metals could be extracted from the bones. A rush of wind brought the mingled smells of iron, copper, patchouli, and a special scent that was distinctly . . . Maya. Tully couldn’t think of any other way to label it. The think-boy who figured out a way to bottle that scent would make millions. Marco nodded in the direction of the UN flyers patrolling the boundaries of the fall zone. “The dogs are out in force.” Tully allowed himself a moment to admire the view of the younger man against the fore rail. Dark skin, dark hair, nice ass. Too bad Marco had signed on as a helper. Tully made it a point to never mix business with pleasure. “They’re just doing their jobs,” he said. Marco looked up. “How long did you say we have?” Tully squinted at the flyers circling the distortion in the air high above Maya’s midriff. The tangle of colors, the improbable angles that echoed in his joints, made them want to bend in sympathetic symmetry. He returned his attention to the controls. Gates always made him a little queasy. “It’s still small yet. The UN says three days, maybe four.” He eased the skiff around Maya’s toes to the tops of her feet, dark with henna. Workers on the maze of scaffolding in the ankle creases watched them pass overhead. A message ping warned that the skiff had violated Canadian airspace and should depart immediately. With a slurp of coffee and an acknowledging ping, Tully turned the skiff over the ankles to Maya’s calves. The Canadians had ground-to-air missiles. Maya had settled into the ground five, maybe ten feet. In the muggy heat, it wouldn’t take long for the god’s skin to pale to a meaty gray, then she would start to swell. And stink. It would be bad. With any luck (and a returned call from Ali Bob), they’d be long gone by then. A mob maybe five hundred strong milled around the Red Cross tent city set well back from Maya’s outflung left hand. They screamed at the flyers, at Her Most Revered Corpse, at the scrapper teams plundering Maya’s remains, at the aid workers searching for survivors in the surrounding rubble of stone, steel, and shattered lives. Radio chatter claimed at least three million dead, possibly as high as five and a half million. Marco settled on the front deck. “You think the mummers are already here?” Tully took another sip of coffee. After the bumpy eighteen-hour nonstop to the sub-continent and the four-hour flight inland, the inside of his eyelids felt like 40-grit sandpaper. “I’ve never been to a fall where the mummers didn’t get there first.” Marco put his back to the railing, dada locks flapping around him. “I used to think about them all the time as a kid, you know? I still have every issue of the Mummers’ Parade.” Great, a fall fanatic. Tully hadn’t scoped that out when he took Marco on. It was going to be a long scrap. Dagda fell first, his ornate leather armor filled with the sun and his hair a gold tide in the Irish Sea. Millions dead, two-thirds of Dublin destroyed. Numb with grief and the scope of the devastation, the search for survivors continued until the sky split wide and the worms tumbled down for the feast. Massive, eyeless, segmented horrors, they swarmed over the body, tied themselves in knots to gouge out massive chunks of flesh and bone. They devoured every bit of skin or drop of blood, no matter where it fell — concrete, wood, stone, metal, or human flesh. Twelve hours later, the sated worms rose from the devastation and returned through the hole in the sky to the unknown, leaving a cold, sinking confusion in their wake. Tully set down at a clear point halfway between Maya’s ankles and the backs of her knees. Ten minutes later,...

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