He turned back to Fiya. Her face visibly tired and staring at the floor. “It’s ready for you, Graveslinger.”
A fleece blanket with a red-and-black-plaid pattern draped over Liama as she curled up on Rutger’s waterbed; the very same waterbed Fiya remembered from when she grew up. She had mocked him for still keeping it around, patching it up with duct tape and bike-tire patches over the years. Her jabs did nothing to faze his love for how comfortable it kept him while he slept.
Liama took a deep breath before comfortably zonking out for the night, and Rutger closed the bedroom door behind him as he left.
He returned to his den, where the fireplace still held a flaming dance-off in front of Fiya and Thomas. Fiya made herself comfortable near the fire, sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest. Thomas again commandeered the chair with the werebear skin. Rutger sank into the couch and stretched a leg across it. Thomas began to rest his eyes when Rutger interrupted him. “She’s taking everything well for a kid. Surprisingly chipper.”
Thomas sighed. “That’s what frightens me. She was scared until Fiya came along and saved us—not that I’m complaining about that—and now she thinks it’s like one big adventure. In the cell, she was in tears constantly, wanting to know when we were getting out, and now she’s the polar opposite. Ghouls, vampires, and friggin’ werewolves are now real to her, and she’s excited rather than scared. You two have really made her day. I just think her excitement can be dangerous.”
Fiya kept her eyes on the fire while Thomas vented.
“All things considered,” Rutger said, “you’re taking it pretty well, too.”
“Seriously?”
“Indeed. There are people in psychiatric hospitals because their brains just couldn’t comprehend the truth in front of them. Witnesses are rare, especially when vampires and werewolves are involved. Vampires, while all not are ruthless killers, there are some that don’t aim to kill … they just sort of ‘milk the cow’ if they can, but werewolves … they are mean, ruthless, murderous bastards. Even someone who didn’t have a mean-streak temperament that became cursed can become aggressive and dangerous. So, you two have joined an incredibly rare line of people in history who’ve survived a werewolf assault without becoming one yourselves, and you both aren’t succumbing to lunacy. Yes, you’re taking it well.”
“What about ghouls?”
“Also dangerous, though in small doses they’re easy to take care of. In crowds, then you gotta worry. Movies have gotten a surprisingly good number of things right with them, except the labeling. Ghouls were what that Romero guy was really talking about, but zombies just became the term for pop culture. I guess it’s like splitting hairs. Ghoul outbreaks have been easy to cover up because of how small they are. We tend to take care of the situation quick before it spreads too far. A lethal blow to the head was always a good way to take them out.” Rutger thought for a moment, glancing at the fireplace. “Fire does the job, too, takes care of most things, but it’s probably the worst way to handle it. The fire will take a while to do its damage, so ghouls could wander around, catching everything else on fire, until their brains boil over and burst. Or flare out.”
“Ghouls who talk is just weird,” Fiya said.
“Yes, that’s why I suspect that they’re piloted by demons. I suspect they can be taken out the same way, a lethal shot to the head, but the demon would just find another ghoul to jump into. It wouldn’t have to convince a soul to let it in; the walking corpses are empty vessels.”
“I wonder if you kill the source ─ the demon orchestrating it all ─ that they could all be purified too, assuming the demon’s taint runs through their veins.”
Rutger nodded. “It’s a fair thought. Vampires sometimes operate that way with their revenants.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking.” Fiya tightened the coziness of her knees against her chest.
The crackling of the fire filled the quiet void in the cabin. Listening to it brought comfort to Thomas for the first time in days, before his life got hijacked by literal hell. The ease suddenly helped jog his memory, and he said, “The ghouls mentioned a name: Violess.” He looked away from the fire and to Rutger. “Does that name mean anything to you?”
Rutger kept his gaze locked on Thomas and then slowly nodded. “I reckon it does. I’ll have to double-check notes in my library. Still, if I remember right, the name Violess belongs to a lower-tier demon. The bottom dwellers are so numerous; it is sometimes hard to remember all their names, but that stands out.” He thought for a moment, not wanting to get up from the couch to actually confirm anything. “Violess, the Keeper of Vermin, rings a bell.”
“Vermin?” Fiya asked.
“Mmm, sounds right.”
“Like spiders, snakes, and rats?”
“I reckon.”
She nodded. “Then I’m willing to bet that’s how they got into our building: This Violess Trojan-horsed it with some vermin small enough, probably through a pipe or vent. Like a drone strike.”
“And, of course, it had to be Violess because it would have to be navigated. That’s smart, but the demon would have to have known where to go in the first place. It wouldn’t have the time to meander through the vents.”
“Traitor?”
“Maybe.”
Fiya’s thoughts went to Paul, the chicken-shit, but she didn’t say anything.
As the quiet crept back in, Rutger pondered on something else entirely and glanced toward the front window that faced a black tree against a deep velvet-blue night sky. A handful of stars managed to twinkle through some of the dissipating clouds. Then he finally asked, “Is your girl okay to stay alone by herself?”
Thomas nodded, slowly at first. “She’s seven, so I think so. Not normally I guess, but since we’re not in a normal situation, I’m okay with her staying here by herself.”
“Good. She seemed young, but I wanted to make sure you were okay with it.”
“She’s been through too much already,” Fiya said. “I’d hate for her to come along, back into the fire.”
“Me, too,” Thomas replied under his breath.
Rutger’s eyes brightened. “You should get to sleep there, good sir. The bed’s big enough for the both of you. Fiya said you were up all night, making bullets from scratch.”
Thomas’s eyes rested again, but he wasn’t quite asleep yet. Something else sat on his mind, and his tenacious curiosity pecked at it. He knew it wasn’t his business, yet he couldn’t get it out of his head. Then he asked, “How is it that you became her father?” He hated how it sounded out loud, but he couldn’t undo it. After a brief pause with no response, he cracked an eye open and looked at them. “I’m sorry, it’s none of my business.”
“No, it’s okay,” Rutger replied with his hand up. “It’s all legal, I officially took over as her foster parent after her parents and grandparents passed. She became my pupil.” He put his hand down and looked over at Fiya with mild admiration. “She was a good student, too. Listened, applied. A lot of anger to channel, and I helped her aim it.”
“Aim it?”
“Harness it, put it on a set path. I don’t think it’s good to bottle up anger. You wind up getting reckless and not thinking clearly. You blow up. So, you vent it, let it give you strength and determination against your foe, and Fiya’s become a very efficient killer with the undead.” He looked over at Fiya, who just stared into the fire. If she was listening, she didn’t show it.
Nodding and resting his eyes again, Thomas added, “Forgive me for intruding further, but how did your parents pass?”
Though he didn’t look right at her, Fiya tensed up, knowing the question was directed at her. Her eyes flickered toward Rutger, and he shrugged with an inconclusive look, letting her know it's up to her if she wanted to tell the story or not. Thomas’s eyes parted open again after noticing the silence and locked onto her.
She sucked in a breath. “The Ghoul Fever got them. Got my grandparents, my mama’s parents. My ma
ma caught it first, and it was just a chain reaction from there.” Her voice fell cold and monotonous as she spoke. “If Rutger hadn’t saved me that night, I’d have become a ghoul, too.”
Then Thomas asked rhetorically, “That shit really gets around, doesn’t it?” He let out a grunt as he got himself out of the chair. He looked over to Rutger and pointed down the hall. “End of the hall, door on the right?”
“Right.” Rutger noticed Thomas reaching out and using the wall for balance. “Careful with the panels on the left side of the wall; some are a little loose.”
“Sure thing. Thank you.”
Rutger and Fiya watched him shamble down the hallway and heard him enter Rutger’s bedroom. When the door latched shut, Rutger turned to Fiya and said, “They’ll be fine.”
Fiya got up and sat in the werebear fur chair, ready to doze off herself. “Yep.”
“Get the people out of the cages, away from there, then we'll work out what to do about the bastards digging on the mountain. It’ll be a long day tomorrow. You should rest, too. Did you eat?”
“Think you can handle it? You’ve been out of the loop for a little bit.”
He laughed. “Sure. It’ll be like riding a bike. Did you eat?”
“It’s a little more than just riding a bike.”
“Yep.” Rutger closed his eyes.
“How are we transporting the people?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like … that’s a lot of people. They’re not going to fit in my car. We can’t just walk out of there and into town. They’ll be all over us like lions picking off a herd.”
“I’ve got an idea. You’ll see, I think you’ll dig it.” Rutger stretched himself on the couch. Not long enough for his frame, his feet dangled off of the end. Then he asked, “Did you eat?”
She paused for a moment, glancing at the fire and remembering the burgers earlier that day and nothing else. Not even since she arrived at his cabin. In her defense, neither did Thomas. “Yes, of course, I ate.”
“Good.”
They slept soundly as the fire continued to crackle until it, too, settled for the night.
A small private plane landed at Flabob Airport in Jurupa Valley, California, the morning that Kael prepared his siege on Rutger’s cabin. Flabob was a small airport, fit for personal planes and vintage biplanes, and security was much easier to deal with than the larger commercial airports. There were only a few passengers: Violess with six of her closest goons. They exited the plane before the engines came to a stop.
She paused to look at the brown, polluted sky and sneered. If she didn’t have something important to pick up, she’d never voluntarily take the trip into the Inland Empire. What humans have done to the air quality disgusted her, and how it collected in the valleys made her think of an armpit. Her six goons took no notice and followed her to a black limo that waited for them.
The limo left the airport, passing through the poor town of Rubidoux, and headed east into Riverside. The limo garnered quite a few looks from the locals.
Violess dressed in matching black pants and a blazer, with an off -white cotton top underneath that had the top two buttons above her breasts undone. Her streak of hair was gelled and tied back into a tight bun.
Her goons had fresh faces without wounds or blemishes so they could blend better in public. They wore a mix of casual clothes: jeans, button-up shirts, polos, jerseys, and one even wore flip-flops. They looked like tourists.
Violess checked her phone and saw the time. “Take a lap or two,” she said out loud. The driver looked into the mirror and tipped his hat to her. She continued, “We don’t want to get there too early. The doors open to the public at 9.”
The driver, not quite as fresh as the others, nodded. Light crimson lines cracked his face and pale skin. His eyes also had an amber glow, similar to Violess. She loved keeping ghouls around, under her control, but sometimes they needed a demon to do the labor ghouls couldn’t. Her control could only go far, and ghouls were only capable of mundane tasks. Unfortunately for her, flying a plane and driving a car were not mundane, and she had to convince a few demons beneath her to take care of such tasks. They still weren’t cheap. He drove inconspicuously to not attract attention.
After cruising through downtown Riverside, the driver took a few more laps before parking in front of a small stone chapel where a minor crowd formed a line. They were several blocks away from the more popular Mission Inn Hotel, but they wanted the smaller historic landmark: the Santa Ruiz Church, where a small group of settlers held a last stand against the Mexican army in the mid-1800s. Similar situation as the Alamo in San Antonio, but far less famous. Together, with the Mission Inn and the Mt. Rubidoux towers, a triangle of catacombs formed underneath, which many locals claimed were hot spots for ghosts.
The Ruiz Chapel already had opened for tourists five minutes early, so Violess led the goons out of the limo. “We make this quick. Normally, I would instruct for a low profile, but that is no longer necessary. Once inside, do your thing. Another outbreak is ideal but not required.” Their blank stares told her nothing, but she knew they were listening; obedient ghouls they were.
Violess’s eyes were on the double doors in the center of four pillars that decorated the exterior. The center arch mirrored the arch of the door almost perfectly. For a moment, she wondered if tourists could look out the window above the doors. However, she didn’t remember seeing any stairs on the blueprints she studied ahead of time. The California state flag erected above the main arch danced in the breeze.
They were careful not to cross the grass courtyard, sticking to the rock-tiled walkway, passing two plaques in the grass which she didn’t bother to read. They brushed past an employee who demanded an entrance fee. One of the ghouls pushed him aside, fighting the temptation to chew at his face, and they entered the chapel, immediately feeling the cool air conditioning.
There were several tourists; nearly all ignored their presence. Employees, listening to their earpieces, watched with great caution Violess and her entourage. Violess instructed her ghouls while keeping her eyes on the employees, “Secure the doors.” One of the ghouls closed and locked the double doors while others went to the door in the rear that tourists often used as the exit.
A security guard, with a neatly trimmed beard, apprehensively approached Violess. “Excuse me, miss, you can’t do that with the doors. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you and your friends to leave.” He had a thin nose and a very round, tan face.
Violess gave the security guard a pouting, condescending look and said, “Poor baby.” She placed her fingertips on his face and, as easily as waving her hand, twisted his head with a loud crukk, snapping his neck. As the guard hit the floor, the tourists now took notice of the trouble that walked into the Ruiz Chapel. Many screamed as they saw the guard on the floor. The ghouls took her cue and ravaged the tourists.
A man cried out with a voice of thin glass, “OH MY GOD!” The ghoul in shorts and flip-flops lunged and pried its fingers into his eye sockets and mouth, ripping through his skin like a wet paper towel.
Violess pursed her lips and murmured, “no…my God.”
Another visitor nearby cried out, “Daniel!” as they witnessed the ghastly attack before being tackled by the ghoul in the jersey. His head smacked against the stone wall, leaving a spray of blood the chapel hadn’t seen in 150 years or more.
A woman in a khaki pantsuit tried to negotiate, “What is it you wa-hghjlurk!” A ghoul had grabbed her by the throat before she could finish, tugging on her esophagus.
Another man’s Adam’s apple popped out like a giant zit as a ghoul hungrily mauled him.
Blood splattered across the Heroes of the Ruiz Chapel plaques. A ghoul mangled another tourist trying to be a hero and threw his body on top of a glass case, damaging a preserved registration book of the settlers who died. Employees tried to radio for help but were tackled and devoured. Outside help struggled to get in. One of the ghouls grabbed a fla
gstaff and impaled an employee at the visitors’ desk. A child’s face ground into the wall. The cries and moans echoed through the old church’s tall arching halls.
Through the uproar the ghouls caused, Violess strolled forward, her eyes scanning the rocks of all different shapes and sizes that titled the floor. “Come on, come on,” she muttered to herself, ignoring a geyser of blood that squirted inches away from her face. Her blazer caught some of the splash.
She stopped about twelve feet from the rear shrine and crouched. Bronze statues of the captains that held off the Mexicans for a week before dying looked on as she inspected the floor beneath them.
Pounding at the rear door almost broke her concentration, and she knew she was running out of time.
She crawled on the rock tiles, knocking on a few before moving on, and then she stopped at one that had a vague shape of a bat. The limo driver walked up to her. “Found it?” he asked.
Violess wrinkled her eyebrows and squished her lips together in deep, unsatisfied thought as she knocked on the batwing-shaped tile. Its boom rang hollow, and she smiled. She reached up and wiggled her fingers, expecting something to be handed to her. “I’m not sure,” she said, primarily to herself, “but there’s only one way to find out.”
The limo driver handed her a crowbar, slathered in goopy red, and she proceeded to desecrate the historical landmark’s floor, wailing on the rocky tile. Chips flew at first, some even sliced her skin as they hit her. Some pelleted nearby glass cases. She hit harder and harder until it cracked all the way through. She took one more hard whack until one chunk of the tile dislodged and fell into a cavity under the floor. She pulled out the loose piece of tile and then pulled on the rest still in place. When she couldn’t break those loose, she returned to striking the floor with the crowbar until the rest came apart. “I can smell it,” she said as she tossed aside the broken tile, not caring where it landed. A dark, dusty hole gaped below her.
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