Arthur Richard Hammond was dead. To be specific he was dead past-tense, as in formerly so. Now, not so much. He was at that moment walking along the promenade of Paradise, Nevada, more commonly known as Las Vegas, contemplating the aesthetic of those scantily clad men and women who so flocked the area. Perhaps he would be having one of them for dinner to-night; it was a special occasion after all.

        Arthur crossed the street to the lot of the Pax Imperium, his personal place of business. The casino was flashy, with broad white columns and opulent gold and purple ribbons in an effort to emulate the glory of Rome; Arthur had been assured by Creta that the theme was ‘in’.

        “It’s important to remember, Mister Hammond,” he had said as they watched the steel frame of the casino being raised to height, “that people like extravagance. What’s more extravagant than Ancient Rome itself?”

        Arthur had of course agreed with him, and now the new building had stolen a place of prominence amongst the adoring public- and a special place in whatever was left of Hammond’s heart. He would never admit as much to Creta of course, it would  give him too much satisfaction and Arthur liked to make sure his workers knew their place.

        His polished heels click clacked across the marble floor, then muted as he crossed the threshold onto the rich embroidered carpet of the casino proper. Bells dinged, machines beeped, and money spilled out like a raging river into the vast ocean that was his bank vault. Arthur beamed at the sight.

        “Hey Mister Hammond!” called a voice, “Ready for tonight?”

        “Are you?” Arthur replied, laughing as he did so. This was perhaps the hundredth time he had done so today, and he had yet to actually identify the voices that greeted him. The price of being famous, he thought wistfully.

        Entering his private elevator, Arthur rode the lift to the top of the casino where his office sat overlooking the city. Exiting, he nodded a greeting to his secretary Gloria. “Ready for your birthday tonight, Mr. Hammond?” she asked as he passed.

        He stopped in the doorway of his office, and turned about with a broad grin on his face. “Ecstatic, my dear,” he said, and closed the door.

        Safely alone, Arthur let out a sigh of relief. Taking out a bottle and glass from his private store, he mixed a drink then finished off the bottle, smacking his lips with pleasure. Yes, the after-life had hit its high point.

        Unfortunately for Arthur Hammond, that thought was more true than he could realize.

Some twenty miles North of the Pax Imperium was a hospital  in the actual city of Las Vegas, Nevada, which had that evening at approximately nine-thirty-two post-meridian Pacific Standard Time (For all of those keeping track of such things), seen the birth of an unremarkable baby girl. This is only half correct, as you will come to discover, for although the baby girl herself may appear unremarkable, I can assure of her great importance.

        Death, too, can assure you of this. He was, at that moment, standing over the baby girl with the cowl of his robe dropped low over his face. Perhaps Death was leering at her, but more likely that was simply the result of the fleshless skull.

        “My humblest apologies,” he said, and reached down to caress the sleeping infant’s face.

        “Have you done something?” said Timothy, and Death fell out of his vision back into reality.

        Timothy Baker was an average boy, of average skill and average appearance, and wholly average opinions. His parents were nothing extraordinary, his performance in academics and sport was passable, and he had a mildly amused but largely uninterested attitude about all that he surveyed.

        He was sitting on the stoop, that quiet Wednesday evening in late August, when Death spoke to him. Death was very stern, and was not particularly fond of unnecessary words, and his language floated on the wind like the crisp crunch of leaves on a warm autumn day.

        “The Earth is ending, Timothy,” Death said, in the most matter-of-fact way anyone can say that the end of the world has come.

        “Oh?” said Timothy, as if armageddon was the unremarkable film in cinemas that week.

        “It is the End,” said Death gravely, “and you must come with me.”

        Timothy looked reproachfully at Death, “Now see here, I am enjoying this lovely day outside, and I invited you here to enjoy it with me, so if you aren’t going to do that you may simply leave.”

        “This is not about you and I,” said Death, “this is about the World-”

        “Which you just insisted was coming to an end,” Timothy was growing annoyed, “so I don’t quite see the point in you drawing any of it out. If it is ending, let’s enjoy what we have left of it. Can you do that, Grimmothy?”

        Death grimaced at the use of his nick-name. “I cannot allow you to waste time, there is little now to be had. You must come with me,” and so saying, Death grabbed Timothy about the wrist, and the both of them were immediately found in the crying room of a hospital. “Behold,” said Death, “the Anti-Christ.”

        “Which one, exactly?” asked Timothy, “and I thought you told me that was all hogwash and nonsense anyway. Why have you so suddenly changed your mind?”

        “Events have shifted,” said Death simply. Timothy shrugged, and gestured again at the rows of infants. “She is there,” and Death pointed one long, skeletal finger towards a distant bed, where a beautiful raven-haired girl lay asleep.

        “That’s the Anti-Christ?” asked Timothy, a little bewildered.

        “Yes,” said Death.

        “Well it’s just that . . . I’m not sure exactly, I guess I always supposed him- or her I guess, to be a little more . . .” he struggled to find the right word, “demonic, I guess.”

        Death grew perhaps even more stern, if such a thing were possible, “The demons that you are familiar with in your mythology are but pale representations of what truly lies in wait.”

        “Bit ominous, don’t you think?” Timothy said, ever so timidly. Death took no notice, and entered the room, taking the young man along. Timothy approached the Anti-Christ cautiously, unsure exactly if it was really a sleeping baby or if the small fleshy thing would suddenly sprout wings and spit fire. “And what are we to do, exactly?”

        As if in response, Death reached down and plucked the baby from her crib. Not a cry was emitted, and the sleeping infant seemed even more at peace than before. “We take her where she cannot be found.”

        “And where would that be, exactly?”

        “Far away,” said Death. “Far, far away.”

Arthur, unaware of all the preceding business, was at that moment fast asleep in the big chair of his even bigger corner office. The lights of Paradise glittered far beneath him, out past the great panes of glass that walled the office, giving the impression he was floating in the stars. This couldn’t be farther from the truth.

        Two men stood in his office, one tall and lanky, the other short and stocky at the request of the former. He had seen a show on television with men shaped as they, and thought it would be funny if he and his companion emulated their shape. The shorter one quite disagreed, but it was better to go along with it than risk upsetting the other.

        “Arthur,” said the tall man, in an effort to wake him. When nothing happened, he repeated the call, “Arthur!” Still, the man remained asleep.

        “Like this,” said the shorter one, and he hauled Arthur out of his chair and onto the great ornate desk in the center of the office. The startled man thrashed and screamed for a moment, before realizing he was not in fact being kidnapped. Sitting up on the desk and rubbing his eyes, he was then able to focus on his visitors.

        “Oh,” he said, his mood plummeting like a stone, “you two.”

        “Such a warm welcome,” said the taller man dryly.

        “To be fair,” said the shorter one, “I did just throw him onto a desk.”

        Arthur looked reproachfully at the pair and slid off the aforementioned desk, knocking papers and other semi-important things to the ground. Straightening his tie, he said, “To what do I owe the pleasure, Diomedes and Acamas? Some news or simply a pleasure call?”

        “You have never been very pleasurable,” said Diomedes snidely, “you have an innate talent for being- what’s the word?”

        “A prick,” said Acamas, almost gleefully.

        “Thank you both for such kind words of endearment,” Arthur replied, then sat himself down in his chair again. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

        “All in good time,” Acamas seated himself gracefully on the desk, while the shorter Diomedes walked around to stand almost behind Arthur, placing one meaty hand on his chair. “You’ve done good work, Arthur Hammond, but unless you can give us a little more I think we may have to let you go.”

        Arthur blinked. “I’m sorry?”

        Diomedes leaned in, his hot breath stinking of fish and rotted meat, “You’re starting to slip, Artie. Daedalus is taking notice, and he isn’t overly pleased.”

        “We understand,” Acamas said sympathetically, “we get that there are certain pressures of life that require attention.”

        “But of course, old men like Daedalus have forgotten such things,” Diomedes cooed, and Arthur’s lip began to curl with annoyance.

        “What are you implying, exactly?”

        “Nothing untoward,” said Acamas, “simply that perhaps you may be neglecting your duties in favor of personal delights,” He gestured around him at the decorative office walls.

        “And what does that have to do with you?” Arthur’s fingers began to whiten as they gripped the arms of his chair.

        “Well of course we can’t have Daedalus finding out that you are slacking in your duties,” began Acamas.

        “But we also cannot break our oaths of loyalty by lying to him,” continued Diomedes.

        “Unless of course we were properly . . . compensated,” completed Acamas, and Arthur suddenly understood.

        “Right,” he said, and in a flash he sprung, catching Diomedes about the neck and slamming his head into the solid armrest of his chair. In the same moment he stood, drawing his concealed pistol and firing twice into the surprised Acamas, who fell backward onto the desk. Grasping downwards to yank Diomedes up  by the ear, he slammed him down next to his prone comrade, who was groaning with the shell impact.

        “You fucker,” spat Diomedes between bloodied lips.

        “Bite me,” said Arthur, and pressed the barrel of his weapon into Acamas’ temple. “Now what was that again about compensation?”

        “You’ll hang for this,” growled Diomedes, and in reply Arthur screwed the muzzle further into Acamas’ head.

        “Don’t provoke him dammit!” cried Acamas, “I’ve already been shot twice today I don’t need a third go.”

        “Quit crying you idiot,” said Diomedes, “you’re not gonna die.”

        “Sure but it hurts like a bitch,” the other said, all semblance of articulation gone.

        “Are you two going to keep arguing or shall I just skip to the part where I blow your heads off for trying to scam me?” his nails digging further into Diomedes’ skull, he continued, “I’m starting to genuinely doubt that Daedalus sent you, so you should probably explain now or I might have to tell him that you two morons are trying to cheat his agents.”

        Diomedes paled, “No no, he really did send us.”

        “Then enlighten me,” Hammond grinned wide down at Diomedes.

        “It’s the Anti-Christ,” said Acamas between gasps, “the Soulless Child was born a couple hours ago. He wants you to kill it.”

        Arthur stepped back, releasing Diomedes who sat up and rubbed his forehead. Acamas continued to moan pitifully, so Arthur shot him anyway. “Fucks sake!” screamed Diomedes, but Arthur wasn’t listening.

        “Clean him up and get out, I still have half a mind to call Daedalus.” Diomedes gave Arthur a withering look, then scooped up the large form of Acamas with some difficulty and stumbled out of the office with him, cursing all the way. Hammond dropped into his chair, looking out across Paradise with the air of one who has just learned their dog died.

        Turning his back to the window, Arthur pulled his chair back to the now-bloodsoaked desk, reaching for the phone at his right. “Yes Mr. Hammond?” came the voice from the other end.

        “Gloria I need a janitor up here, and cancel the party tonight.”

        There was an audible gasp on the other end, then, “But Mr. Hammond, the decorations and the catering, we’ve been planning this for months sir-”

        “Cancel it,” Arthur said sharply. There was a long pause.

        “What reason should I give, sir?”

        Arthur thought for a moment, then said, “Something urgent has come up.”

Timothy looked reproachfully at the small cabin Death had brought them to, crossing his arms in that dissatisfied way only children can. “Is this it?” he asked reproachfully. Death said nothing, instead drawing the cowl of his robe back and, baby cradled safely in his arms, walked into the cabin.

        It was dark under the timber eaves, though the cabin was dry and nicely furnished. Death entered the darkness and found the light, illuminating the space. There was a crib against one wall, a bed, table and chairs against the other, and a cooking fire in the center.

        “Have we stepped into the Middle Ages?” said Timothy, with more sarcasm than a boy of his years should have been able to muster.

        “This place will hide her until such a time as it is safe,” Death placed the baby in her new crib, and in a rare gesture of tenderness, produced a small white bear and placed it next to her. One small hand instinctively snaked out and grasped the bear’s hand; Timothy could swear it reached out to her as well.

        “Who exactly are we hiding her from?”  Timothy walked over to look down at the tiny infant. “She doesn’t look like she could hurt a fly.”

        Instead of replying, Death reached to the hood of his robe and pulled it back over his face, heading around to the door. “There are things I must attend to.”

        “Where are you going?” asked Timothy nervously, “you aren’t leaving me here with her are you?”

        “I will return soon, but I must make preparations for my absence.”

        Timothy blanched. “Your . . . what?”

        Death reached the door, opened it, and stopped. “Someone must raise the child,” he said, then walked outside.

        Timothy shook his head, then went and sat on the bed. He looked to the far end of the room, where the Anti-Christ slept soundly. He stared at the crib for a long moment, then stood back up and crept cautiously towards the sleeping devil. When Timothy reached the sleeping baby, he just stood there, looking down at what he had been told could end the world.

        “I don’t believe,” he stated to her. The Anti-Christ moved in her sleep, and Timothy went back to the bed to lay down.

Arthur sat on the roof of the Pax Imperium, swirling around his long-expired drink. A frown coloured his face, and he was contemplating throwing himself off the roof. There had always been something satisfying about the crunching of bones which he knew would not be broken for long.

        Inhaling sharply, he downed the drink and then stood up. “So the Anti-Christ lives,” he said to no one in particular.

        “For now,” said a voice behind him. Arthur’s shoulders sagged, and he turned around to the sight of a man in a black dust jacket, white polo and slacks.

        “Daedalus,” Arthur said, “next time don’t send your goon squad, you could have just asked me.”

        “At the time I thought they would spare me the trip,” Daedalus walked to where Arthur stood, and stared down at the street below. “Quite a drop,” He looked back at Arthur, a yellow twinge in his otherwise chocolate eyes. “You weren’t planning on trying to kill yourself again were you?”

        “If I wanted to do that, I’d vacation somewhere tropical.” Daedalus laughed, and a smirk crossed Arthur’s face. The older man sat down on the ledge, legs dangling over the side. A moment later, he was joined by Arthur.

        “You know they’ll burn me for this,” said Daedalus. “It was our job to handle the Anti-Child before it ever arrived.”

        “Don’t sell yourself so quickly,” Arthur consoled, but Daedalus waved him off.

        “No point in giving an old man false hope, Arthur. If we couldn’t find it before we won’t find it now, I mean hell we’re still calling them an ‘it’,” Daedalus drummed his fingers on the stonework of the ledge. “We almost had it, too. Just a few millenia too early.”

        “Easy mistake,” Arthur joked, “a hundred and a thousand years? Close enough.” Daedalus didn’t laugh. “Come on, if you knew it was hopeless then why did you send tweelde-dee and tweelde-dum to accost me?”

        “Because at the time I thought we still had things under control,” Daedalus stood up. “Matters have changed since then.”

        Arthur stood too, “In a few hours?”

        “More like minutes,” Daedalus sighed, clasping his hands behind his back and staring out across Paradise. “I’m old, Arthur. Too old to be chasing after Fate.” He turned to Arthur, “The Anti-Child was stolen not long after birth. Our scout was later found dead, perhaps only minutes after they reported the existence of the child.”

        Arthur was incredulous, “After sundown? How?”

        Daedalus arched an eyebrow, “Can you not guess?” A pained look crossed the younger man’s face as he considered the possibilities. “We’ll not find it, now, if others are involved.”

        “Then what do we do?”

        “Survive,” replied Daedalus crisply. “At least, you will. I doubt I’ll be allowed to see tomorrow.” Arthur reached out his hand, grasping the older man’s forearm.

        “See you in Hell, old friend.”

        “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that just yet,” said Daedalus. They embraced, and parted for the last time. Arthur returned to sitting on the ledge, looking out across Paradise. It was now nearly five in the morning, and he knew soon the light would begin to spread across the horizon.

        Arthur would never have thought that he would miss the sun, living as he had in eighteenth century dreary England. Outside had always been boring and daylight only meant work. Now he longed for the first tinges of purple that signified the rising sun. He decided to see how long he could last.

        An hour or so later, Hammond had had enough. The sky had turned a vibrant crimson, and he knew any minute the actual orb of death itself would emerge over the distant hills. He thought for just a moment that perhaps he would stay, then thought better of it as he skin began to prickle. Retreating inside as the first light of the day rose across the landscape, Arthur Hammond escaped into sleep as Timothy Baker woke to the scarlet dawn. His sleepy eyes blinked away the tiredness as the sky lightened, the reds bleeding away like blood from a wound. As night turned into day, and the world rolled over from sleep, the little baby on the far end of the room began to cry.