Olympus Has Fallen

The gravel cuts into my ass with every yard they drag me, not metaphorically or poetically, but literally. Every inch of that road carves itself into me. Jagged gravel tears at my thighs while hard-packed stones hammer my tailbone with each violent jerk forward. Dust coats my teeth.

My overalls ride painfully against my abused crotch as my body bounces through the ruts cutting down the center of the dirt road. My arms burn from being stretched overhead. My shoulders grind like they are seconds away from ripping loose entirely.

Lizard and Mars each have one wrist locked in a fist the size of a catcher’s mitt. They drag me from the camper, up the road and through the junkyard, toward Mount Olympus like a pair of hunters hauling roadkill home for supper.

Lanterns flicker across warped wooden shacks built from scavenged sheet metal, old barn planks, and rusted highway signs. Clotheslines sag overhead and an old windmill creaks against the moonlit sky. The whole place smells like woodsmoke, diesel fuel, sweat, and something coppery underneath it all.

“Well now,” Mars says, grinning over his shoulder at me with broken yellow teeth, “Papa Jupiter gon’ be happy as hell tonight to get his a fresh breeder."

Lizard barks out a laugh. “Happy? Boy, you know he gon’ lose his damn mind. Been weeks since we brung him somethin’ this pretty.”

“Big Momma too,” Mars adds. “She gon’ wanna clean her up first. Make her sit at the supper table. Baby her.”

I jerk against their grip, “Go to hell.”

Mars looks genuinely offended. “Girl, this is ain't hell. Hell is down under the mountain with Hades.” A bottle shatters somewhere in the dark. Someone is banging rhythmically on a piece of hanging metal like a dinner bell.

Lizard leans down closer to me as they drag me onward. I can smell moonshine on his breath. “Papa Jupiter likes it when they fight,” he says conversationally. “Makes him meaner. Last girl tried bitin’ him.”

“What happened to her?” Mars asks.

Lizard shrugs. “He put a baby in her.” I spit dirt from my mouth and twist hard enough to nearly wrench free, but Mars only tightens his grip until pain shoots white-hot through my shoulder.

“Ain’t no use,” he says. “Road always ends at Mount Olympus." Ahead of us, the shantytown widens into a crude central square lit by torches jammed into oil drums. The biggest structure stands ominously at the far end like a rotting courthouse built by lunatics.

Rusted sheet metal patches the walls. Animal skulls hang from chains beneath the roofline. Smoke pours from crooked chimneys into the desert night. My stomach drops. Mars grins. “Told ya,” he said. “Papa Jupiter gon’ be real pleased. He gonna wallow out that pussy of yours real nice.” On a sign painted in dripping white letters I read:

MOUNT OLYMPUS