McAllister was unresponsive, perhaps because Hommler’s soft voice could not overcome the decibels. Then, as the woman adjusted her position, Steve raised a longneck to his mouth and took a long guzzle.
“Doesn’t matter fucking anyway, dude.” He laughed drunkenly. “Cause football’s a dead fucking sport, know what I’m sayin’? The grays are ruinin’ everything and everything’s shot to hell.”
“Yes,” chuckled the genius, “those pesky grays. They’re everywhere these days.”
But McAllister was oblivious again, his tongue probing the interior of the woman’s mouth.
“Hey, tough-fuck, I’m talking to you!” The vampire’s gloved fingers sank into the man’s ample trapezius muscle, eliciting a yelp of pain. It was exhilarating being the bully rather than the bullied. Half the fun was using a bully’s parlance.
McAllister’s hands shot up to dislodge the fingers, but each mechanized digit, enclosed in leather, was unyielding.
“You used to do this to me, and all the other people you called freaks,” informed the vampire. “Remember? You’d come up behind me when I was walking down the hall. Granted, you couldn’t squeeze this hard.” Hommler applied more pressure until his thumb and middle finger touched in a pincer, the trapezius muscle now a torn boat’s sail.
Steve’s face wrenched, and he screamed sharply. The girl cried too, and began shaking the arm of the vampire.
“What, all that time in the gym and you can’t handle a pencil-neck like me?” mocked Hommler, and his fingers disengaged the bruised flesh and rent trapezius with a mechanical flutter. Fury getting the better of stupor, Steve lunged at Hommler but was restrained by two bodyguards. “No, we’ve been through that before my junior year, remember? Now you’re going to learn that, in new America, picking on the wrong person can lead to that person’s friends picking their teeth with your bones. Thanks, buds,” Hommler high-fived the free hand of a gray, “try not to give yourselves indigestion.” Then, in a surge of gray muscle, Steve was manhandled through the crowd, his head bobbing, hands reaching for the girl with whom he had been dancing just seconds ago.
The band played on, and Hommler clutched the girl’s right hand in his left, his right hand high on her back.
“Where are they taking him? Let go of me! Stop it!” she screamed, but her hand was viced in the leather glove.
“Don’t worry—ol’ Stevie is going to be just fine—why would I bear him any ill will? He only beat me up and humiliated me in high school,” assured Hommler glibly, his fangs reptilian. “And do stop struggling, because if you don’t, I’m going to crush your hand to pulp.” He eyed the glove, and the leather flexed tighter.
“Herbert, why are you doing this? What do you want from me now?” she begged.
“Why, I merely wish to dance with you, m’lady. So you recognize me despite my costume?”
“You wear the same thing every year—you’re always a vampire.” The girl struggled to free herself as Hommler attempted a formal dance step.
“And you are always a vampiress, that’s what keeps my interest stirred. And pardon my gender distinction, Ursula—I still separate witches from warlocks and vampires from vampiresses.” He eyed the cheap fangs protruding in her mouth.
“Tell me where they took Steve.”
“I’ll tell you in a moment. So how did you two reunite—did you break up his marriage with that little cheerleader chick? She was so tiny and low to the ground—I bet she got fat eventually.”
“It’s none of your business, you freak!” And she cried out as the glove constricted.
“Let me tell you, you traitorous bitch, what I find infinitely galling about you.” Hommler spat, globules of saliva impacting her face. “You’re one of us. You dressed like us. You listened to our music. You loathed the preppy school, the organized sports, the fake girls, and the smiley-faced Christian poison. Damn it, you were pagan.” Hommler’s voice cracked with emotion. “And when I found you, I thought I was the luckiest little freak-fuck on earth.” His tongue darted across canine ridges. “You weren’t like the other girls in our group—you weren’t fat—you weren’t butch—you were a glorious exemplar of our kind. But you go and lead me on like the turncoat slut that you are until homecoming when you ditch me for that punk-ass jock and laugh at me while I get my ass kicked.” The vampire pressed closer.
“I’ve already explained that.” Her eyes were wet and bloodshot. “Don’t you remember how much fucking ecstasy we had done that night? I didn’t know what I was doing. Please, let me go. Please.”
“Sorry, Ursula. Your drug alibi can only go so far, because Monday after homecoming I saw you walking hand-in-hand with that fucker. Him, of all people! I used to accept that excuse of yours, but now I don’t have to. I’ve got so much power now that I don’t have to accept anything. It’s truly amazing what resentment and alienation can inspire an intelligent man to achieve.”
She looked down momentarily, her eyes studying the silver dragon pendant hanging from his neck. She ceased resisting his initiations to dance, and soon they were gliding across the floor.
“You’ve changed,” she said finally. “You’re different than how you used to be. You like, seem real now or something. I mean your vampirism.”
“I am,” he gloated, “I’ve altered my biology—I can now derive nutriment from human blood—enough where I only need to supplement my diet with minimal amounts of more traditional foods.”
Her eyes widened, and her black fingernails slid through his silver curls.
“I want that power,” she purred. “I want to be like you. I want to be with you.”
The vampire grinned richly.
“Well, admittedly, I’ve entertained that possibility. You and I living at my castle, dancing through midnight hours of blood and decadence. An army of servants to do our will, an Order of knights to slay our foes, and an extra large coffin to accommodate our cold, vampiric sex.” Hommler slapped her posterior, and her eyes were fiery.
“I want that.” She breathed hotly in his ear.
“Of course you do.” His right hand glided up her back and jerked her hair till her chin was pointed toward the ceiling. Tears rolled freely down her cheeks, and the voice in her throat was inarticulate but plaintive. “You want it,” he growled, “because you’re a scuttling, mercenary, whore arachnid. Don’t you know that I can never forgive your perfidy? Haven’t you heard the oath my knights take—‘loyalty is my honor.’ Loyalty, my lady Ursula, is what I value more than anything else. And, unfortunately, loyalty is something you can’t offer.”
He rolled back his head until his fangs flashed wickedly in strobe light. Looking on from the crowd, Swan winced and peeped between fingers. The downward plunge impacted Ursula’s throat so violently that her body went slack, and vampire and victim fell to the floor in a tangle of capes. She screamed as he drew back, and drove fangs again into the puncture wounds, expanding them, tearing flesh and jugular, his hands fondling her breasts, his legs firmly mounted astride her torso. The remaining three bodyguards formed a triangle around their master, arms folded, their shoes black islands in a creeping sea of blood.
Chapter 26
Max slowly climbed the steps of the wooden platform. Gazing out upon the thousands, he observed that many of the children were sleepy-eyed, their chins sinking heavily toward gold vests, white sheets, and elegant princess ruffles. Many of the younger children were already slung across their father’s shoulders, fingers raising and lowering in dream state, heavy cheeks relaxed, eyes shut.
“I’ll make this brief tonight, seeing that it’s already eleven and many of your kids are already zonked,” Stewart began with a grandfatherly smile, his gruff voice resonating across the green, fire-lit tracts. “I’ve pondered what to speak about tonight for a long time. My first instinct was to cover the ancient European roots of Halloween, or Samhain, to underscore the preciousness, and fragileness, of white culture. I suppose it would have made for an interesting historical and cultural exercis
e, but better suited, perhaps, to a website link or a seasonal brochure. So, instead, I want to explore something a little more non-traditional, but every bit as profound and important. I think you’ll find the subject apropos for the occasion.”
He cleared his throat, and Margaret appeared briefly to pass him a cup of cider.
“A long time ago, when I was a boy, I enjoyed the weeks leading up to Halloween because of all the scary movies that were shown on television. Now, I was never a fan of the ultra-gory kind of shows about real-life serial killers. What I really loved were the supernatural thrillers. Looking back on those supernatural horror movies as an adult, I think I’ve managed to distill a common theme among nearly all of them.”
Max adjusted his cowboy hat and rested his hand on his pistol hilt.
“That theme is: knowledge is life. I’m sure you’ve all heard the expression, ‘knowledge is power,’ which is a truism in itself. The power of knowledge is a fundament of supernatural horror movies, but we needn’t stop there. Let’s upgrade. Knowledge isn’t just power—knowledge is life. Let me explain.”
The crowd shifted quizzically. Rick leaned his musket against the ground and drew Cathy near. She removed his minute man’s hat and rubbed her hand through his hair playfully. Blake rubbed his eyes then leaned on his plastic knight’s sword.
“Supernatural horror movies, quite simply, boil down to a race. In opening scenes, the supernatural entity is vaguely identified. It targets its prey, usually the protagonist and the protagonist’s friends, and attempts to eliminate them. The movie’s beginning is the discharge of a starting gun—both the entity and the protagonist have races to run. The entity must embark on a literal race, oftentimes a foot race, through houses, fields, caverns—its claws at the protagonist’s back. The protagonist, too, by necessity, must engage in a literal race to avoid the entity. But due to human limitations, the protagonist cannot outdistance the entity in a foot race for very long. For the protagonist to survive, he or she must also embark on, and win, a race for knowledge.”
The audience’s look was collective puzzlement, and Max laughed.
“Give me a chance to explain myself.” He took off his hat and exhaled into the mike, then drank more of his cider. “What kind of knowledge am I talking about? Well, specifically, the protagonist must find out everything he or she can about the entity’s origins and reason for existence so its weaknesses can be discovered. This knowledge is usually imparted through moldering newspapers from the county library, family photo albums, gnarled elders, and the like. Occasionally, in an ironic inversion of teacher and student, children are the conveyors of this entity-slaying knowledge.
“Most often, this knowledge is lodged deeply in the past, and must be extracted through research. Once the entity is studied, fleshed out, denominated—then mankind can begin to arm itself against it. So, let’s explore the protagonist that kills, rather than is killed by, the entity, and see what we, as a heavily persecuted minority, can extract from the protagonist’s survival.
“First and foremost, the survivor in supernatural horror movies is physically resilient. He or she is physically fit enough to run a long distance, preferably without falling,” the cowboy laughed into the mike, “and to have a sufficient grasp of combat to repel the physical attacks of the entity. As I mentioned, however, you can’t whoop the entity with brute strength, so resiliency is primarily for evasive purposes.
“Hopefully, the protagonist’s physical resiliency will buy him or her enough time to research and pinpoint the entity’s weaknesses. A survivor will ask, ‘Just what the hell is after me?’ ‘Why?’ ‘When was the entity created?’ ‘By whom?’ ‘For what purpose?’ And, most importantly, ‘How do I stop it?’
“By now most of you are apprehending the similarities between the protagonist in a supernatural horror flick and a white man or woman living in gray America. Unfortunately for us, however, we have several ‘entities’ trying to kill us off. We’ve got the grays, who, thank God, have so far proven inefficient in some ways in their pursuit. Then we’ve got the Muslims, who are far more deadly than the grays. For the moment, at least, the Muslims are an impending threat—a scimitar of Damocles hanging over our heads. And, to the west, we have a nation of nationalist, warrior-minded indigenous peoples who wish to reclaim a continent they perceive as their own. And, in some respects, we have ourselves to overcome as well,” warned Stewart. “I’m referring, of course, to our selfishness, greed, apathy toward life, and, most importantly, our reluctance to bear children.
“But, returning again to supernatural horror movies—when the protagonist begins to unearth this arcane knowledge about the entity, he’s met with skepticism by the public. They scoff at the idea of a supernatural explanation for things, they ridicule the notion of an otherworldly creature’s responsibility for the murders or disruptions in society. Of course, for the survivor-protagonist, this knowledge is the chalice of life. It liberates him from ignorance, it arms him with the means to survive—without it, he’s just another victim of the demon, werewolf, or vampire. At some juncture in the movie, the verity of this knowledge hits the skeptics with the force of an epiphany. For many of the skeptics, it’s too late for them when they finally learn the truth.”
Father Andrade nodded heartily, and eyed his evangelical companion. The priest unfolded an FCP pamphlet tucked away in his pocket, and scanned it with interest.
“Indeed,” continued Max, “throughout history, how many times have revelations of knowledge been met with incredulity and mockery? Socrates, Copernicus—history is crammed with men and women censured for their discoveries and genius. So, what can the modern day Caucasian nationalist glean from this precedent? Well, for one, we must be adaptive. Technology is progressing at an exponential rate, allowing for the creation of things people would have laughed at a century ago. With this in mind, let us not be credulous, or incredulous, of new, potential knowledge. Let us apply a standard of reason, rationality, and sanity, and let us utilize the new knowledge that teems around us to assure our preservation and to defeat those that seek to end us. Let us devote ourselves to its discovery because, if supernatural horror is a legitimate paradigm, the acquisition of knowledge is the acquisition of life. Let us research and understand our enemies as thoroughly as the survivor of a horror flick researches the paranormal monster hell-bent on his dismemberment.”
Max donned his hat again and tipped it low, obscuring most of his face, as the crowd’s applause thundered through the chilly night.
“Okay, I put this back on so you won’t see me blush in a few seconds,” he teased, and the crowd laughed.
“Like I said, I’m going to make this quick tonight. And, if you’re not in the mood, you can too. So, for all of you out there who have the means to do so—I mean the manhood, the femininity, the minimum financial stability, and most importantly, the love—please try to conceive a patriot tonight. And a happy—productive—Halloween to you all.”
Hans and Kim held each other close and giggled as the youth’s father left the stage amid applause. In the distance, the Rebels fired a cannon then flung their worn hats toward the moon and watched them descend in revolutions.
After the festivities, Father Andrade sat between twin towers of ancient books at his desk. Klaus shouldered open the apartment door, each arm cradling a stack of battered hardbacks. Some bore iron clasps—those that were not unlocked the giant tore off with disregard to the damage dealt to the binding. After several trips in and out of the apartment by Klaus, the priest was ringed in tomes. They made a semicircle on his desk, but continued onto the floor, around his chair, then back to his desk again. Klaus laughed at his voluminous prison, grabbed a beer, then collapsed on the sofa. There were several more books left in the storage unit on the topic Andrade had requested. He’d get them tomorrow.
Looking up from yellowed pages, the priest was suddenly aware of the prank. He hurled one of the books at the dozing bodyguard, the pages splaying open randomly. Klaus took a
swig then looked at the book. On one of the open pages was an illustration, lifted, by its look, from a woodcutting. It depicted a forest of victims impaled on stakes, the limitations of the medium nearly satirizing their anguished faces.
He read the caption beneath in Germanic block print, and as he bent his head, a graying mane of hair fell around his shoulders.
“Türken?” was his amused inquiry, holding up the book for Andrade to see.
“Uhm . . . yes,” the priest replied, squinting.
“Too bad,” Klaus struggled in English, “that nosferatu are not now as they were then. We could have used them in Europa.”
Chapter 27
Twelve-hundred kilometers above the earth, five missiles arced through sub orbit. For years they had been confined to silos or drawn amid pomp on trucks through streets. Here, finally, was their first and last flight. Their thick waists flourished with Farsi script, their snouts terminated in innocuous domes. But within each cigar-shaped missile lurked a dozen reentry vehicles embedded with warheads—conical, gladiate, annihilating. In minutes, three of the carriers were apprehended by counter-missiles. The remaining two carriers dismembered not due to interception, but amid a purposeful storm of aluminized balloons and chaff. More counter-missiles streaked by, deceived, hounding scrap. The rate of descent quickened to eight kilometers a second, and the twenty-four reentry vehicles fanned out according to on-the-fly Iranian directives. While counter-missiles continued to impact the remnants of the carriers and aluminum like sharks hammering a cage abandoned by divers, the reentry vehicles kicked toward their treasures below in bursts of propulsion.
As they neared the bustling cities, swathes of red light beamed skyward from platforms like spotlights. The armor plating along the reentry vehicles began to erode in the crimson bath of light—first by particles—then by bolted plates. And in seconds the sky fulminated in megatons of light, flame, and sound, radiation in the snap of a finger circumambient. It was night, but the flames lit the sky like day. The laser gunners cheered—both nukes headed for their city had been detonated sufficiently high in the atmosphere to minimize damage. But there was still chaos on their radios—surely other cities had not been so lucky. Moments later, their targeting monitors slew what was left of their revelry. Two or three dozen new blips, innumerable to panicked men, crowded the screens. For the first time in millennia, earth glimmered back at the stars.
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