“Fuck.” The giant breathed a word that had become platitude from the corner of his mouth. “Marisela, get back in the room with your friends and lock the door. Now!”
He squeezed the trigger in tandem with the exclamation, and a bullet careened off the visor in an orange spark. The deafened Jaguar Knight fired a machine gun seized off the floor, while the Eagle Knight guarding the children rushed at the woman, guns flaming.
Marisela dashed with her friends into the room and slammed the door. Outside, the cacophony had resumed after intermission, this time with a new instrument.
As hails of bullets deflected from the metallic plate, or bruised her skin beneath the aramid fiber, the priestess leveled her weapon at the knights. Its muzzle glowed neon purple, then disgorged a shot of light that seared a hole through the deafened knight’s chest. The round passed out his back, and lodged in a wall, sizzling. He slumped, face-first, onto the wooden floor, the aramid fibers beneath his vest curling back like seared tentacles. In a second the other knight was down, his face vaporized by matter spawned from a sun god.
And then it was Eduardo rushing her, bending low to swipe a ripe grenade from a dead Mexican’s bountiful strap. The pin hit the floor as she dismembered him with plasma, and his mighty frame crashed into her body. A bronze hand smeared blood across her visor. He blinked once, twice—then was gone.
Marisela dropped to her knees as a terrible explosion sounded outside. Twitching nervously, she pulled the trigger of the gun still in her hands, and a round tore through floorboards. The other teenagers screamed and cried. Two boys and a girl were fumbling with a locked window—the others were balled in a corner. Standing alone in the room’s center, trembling, was Teo. Apparently, he had followed them in amid the chaos.
“Give me that gun, Marisela!” he demanded, face sallow, and held out his hand. “I was just trained in how to use it before we came here.”
“Back off, or I’ll kill you,” she said, withdrawing into the corner parallel with the door, gun leveled. “I can use it better than you can . . . it’s mine!”
Suddenly, two bursts of plasma tore through the door handle and lock. One of the teens lost a finger as the rounds burned the air like comets, and the door flung open before the boot of Ishtarotha. It banged against the wall and swung back again partially, covering Marisela, temporarily, from view.
Behind the priestess’s gore-smeared visor, the teens in the corner were an indistinguishable mass of tears and wringing hands. She took a step into the room, and her visor shot open. As the visor retracted into the helmet, blood scraped off it and collected along the top rim near her hairline. A droplet swelled, then separated itself from the rest of the red liquid. It hit the gnarled gray forehead and rolled down into her eye. She blinked mechanically, the silent muzzle of her weapon sweeping ominously across the massed teens. Then she saw Teo, his hands raised and quivering, his eyes wide and flitting between her and the corner of the room obscured by the half-open door.
Grinning, Ishtarotha pushed back the door, saw Marisela, then heard a bang. The bullet transfixed the hairy union of her eyebrows, and ricocheted around the nearly adamantine interior of the helmet, scrambling her brains. For several moments she stood erect, her face a cracked clay mask. The startlement never left her eyes. Dark blood oozed from the rupture, over the decorative metal breasts, down her thigh, and began to pool at her feet. The joints of the armor gave high, amplifying whines. And then she slumped over, her head bouncing once on the wooden floor.
Teo lunged for the body, rolled it over, then seized the plasma rifle. Brushing hair from his eyes, he leveled the gun at Marisela.
“Don’t follow me, or I’ll have to kill you,” he warned, then ran to the main room and out the smashed door.
“I should have been the one to grab that. I need to think sooner next time,” said Marisela.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” cried a boy excitedly. “Marisela, you saved us—you’re a hero!”
“Marisela saved us—she saved us—she saved us,” repeated Gabriela, checking the descent of tears from her eyes with pudgy wrists.
“Where’s the reinforcements?” Asked Alena. “They should have been here by now.”
“I don’t know. Let’s get the hell out of here, though. C’mon, we’re leaving.” Guerrero’s daughter commanded.
Marisela led her thirteen friends out to the room of carnage. It had already acquired a nauseating stench, and they hurried through, then out the door. The night was cold, and beyond the massive lights of the lodge, lit only by the moon. But the tracts of forest looked inviting. The teens wanted to run and run and run into sylvan oblivion, till no one could find them—ever.
“Let’s go hide in the forest there. At least till morning,” suggested a boy.
“How do we know where Teo went, though? We don’t want to go the way he did and for him to think we’re following him and then blow us away or something!” Alana said. “Hey, my phone’s not working!” She probed in her ear with her finger and withdrew a tiny flesh-colored device. “I don’t understand—it’s charged and working fine.”
“One of their men must have jammed it somehow, because mine doesn’t work either. Too bad, because at least we could call for help and know where to run.” Marisela lamented.
“Well, screw your phones—my finger’s blown off!” cried another boy. “Why aren’t I bleeding?”
“Because the plasma cauterized it. Just like in some sci-fi movie.” Marisela pointed to footprints in the snow leading to the right along the side of the lodge. Numerous footsteps indicated men arriving from that direction. “That’s where the Mexicans walked in from. They probably have a chopper or something over there on a hill. And that’s where Teo went, too. Well, we know which way not to go, now. Let’s head to the left, hit the street, then walk to the nearest lodge up the hill.”
The teens set off in their chosen direction, many trudging bare-footed through the snow. In the far distance, they could see the street.
“Maybe we should have grabbed keys from the house,” said a girl. “Taken a car or something.”
“No,” said Guerrero’s daughter resolutely. “Who knows if there’re any other Mexicans left in there. It’s better we’re out in the open where we at least can see what’s around us. And we’ve got the forest right there to run and hide in if need be.”
“Marisela!” A voice cried from afar behind them. “We’re here now. We’ve come to help you.”
Turning, the teens saw a score of tall figures in the distance. They walked from where Teo’s footsteps had led, and were moving at a brisk clip.
“Gabriela! Anita! Pablo! Come back, we’re here now.” The voice called from the party, distorted slightly upon the wind. Attempts to discern the individuals more closely were impossible in the darkness, and many of the teens began to run toward them.
“Stop! Wait a second!” Marisela screamed. “Wait till we get to the road so we can see better—they could be more Mexicans.” But before she could redirect her instinct she was jogging for the party too, crying, the desire to impart her tale to authority figures almost unquenchable. “They could be Mexicans. They could be Mexicans,” she repeated as she followed forlornly, the last in line.
Marisela saw the first of the teens to reach the group absorb within it, and she stopped. Then a cry of horror, muffled by a hand. And another. She turned, slipped, and redirected her sprint for the road again.
“Marisela,” she heard a familiar voice call, “If you don’t come back, they’re going to kill all your friends!” It was Teo.
She halted, and listened to the cries of her companions reaching her on an ice wind. Her legs were long and strong—her cardio was good. She could reach the road and keep going, or dive into the forest and outdistance them all. Not much time to think.
“Their blood will be on your hands, girl!” another voice threatened. That voice stood apart from any she had heard before in her life. Her mind categorized it as high evil. It was an
involuntary labeling, too quick to be subjective.
Those of her friends who had proceeded more cautiously had been tackled to the ground and yanked into the dark mass of stalkers—only she remained. She sprinted for the road.
“Marisela! Help me!” The shrill, desperate voice of Alana cut the night air and conjured images of unimaginable torture. “Stop! Ahhhh! Please!”
The runner’s legs began to slow. Not from exhaustion, but from a mirror-bright ax blade of guilt. Tears sloshed at her eye lids then spilled over. Trembling, she cocked the pistol in her right hand, stopped, and turned around.
“That’s it, girl, don’t bear the responsibility of young bodies cold and bloody in the snow.” That nefarious voice again. It came from a silver-haired man robed in black, taking eager strides through the whiteness. The rest of the party followed behind, carrying the teens under massive arms or prodding them along with rifle butts. Teo was among them, his fingers interlaced atop his black mane.
“Stop it right there!” said Marisela, her sidearm leveled at the tall man’s face. “Let my friends go!”
Hommler’s blue eyes shimmered in moonbeam, and studied the soft bronze skin along her neck. He was now within a few feet of her, glaring down. She felt a revulsion undulate across her light brown skin, like a snake on a dune.
“I’ve come to take you to my castle,” he spoke delicately, careful not to expose his fangs, and offered his gloved hand. “If you comply, your friends will be free to go. And you will reside at my castle, as my guest, until your father and I come to a mutually beneficial agreement. Then you’ll be free to return to your Aztlan.”
“I can kill you. I can kill you just like I did the woman you sent to get me! Now let my friends go.” Her jaw trembled, and tears started anew down her face. She blinked repeatedly, lest the tears distort her aim.
He raised an eyebrow.
“No small feat to kill Ishtarotha. I’ll miss her.” In one fleet move, he seized the pistol barrel in his glove. “I don’t fear death, my girl, I walk with it.”
He squeezed, and Marisela could see the agony of the rifled tube as it narrowed to the width of attenuated tinfoil.
She gasped, and staggered back. He threw the useless weapon at her feet.
“You’re like your father.” He spat, suddenly heedless of the naked daggers in his mouth. “You’re powerless yet you make threats. A pity your threats have no teeth.”
He could feel his heart race, and his eyes pulled to her throat as if compelled by magnetism. Growling, he snatched her wrist in his vice-grip, and pulled her to the group. From there, the party backtracked to the lodge and its bright lights.
Marisela counted nineteen armored soldiers like the one she had dispatched—ten males and nine females. They restrained her friends, and glared at her hatefully as she neared.
“All right, it’s time we get back to our copter. They’ll be sending a second contingent after losing communication with the first one,” Hommler said.
“My lord, what do we do with the captives?” a soldier asked.
There was silence. Slowly, the vampire turned to the teens, and smiled.
“My dears, Castle Vayvels is not a daycare for Aztec brats. Therefore, if you wish to live, you had best run for the forest. Yes, the forest. The storied haunt of society’s pariahs—of Indians, of witches, of the Devil himself. I believe I first discovered its role as a sanctuary for the damned in high school after reading The Scarlet Letter. Since then, forests have held a sentimental value for me. So go, run! Make it to the trees and you’re safe.”
Every teen but Marisela was shoved into the snow. They stood up, collected themselves, and shivered. Several looked at the trees, then back at the shouldered rifles.
“I said run, damn it!” The vampire fumed, and ripped a pistol from his cloak. He pointed the weapon, and the barrel frothed a luminous lavender. It kicked, and Pablo dropped in the snow. His face was gone.
Hommler’s lips parted—their exodus was beautiful. Like discharged butterflies beating zig-zag for the sun. He watched the clumsy weavings practiced by the boys, heads looking over shoulders for the nip of plasma. The girls’ flight was more linear. Their chorus of screams was melodious.
“Now,” coaxed Hommler, when the fastest teen had nearly reached the forest.
The soldiers took aim and unleashed a fusillade of plasma. The searing discharge of rounds vied with Marisela’s cries as her friends clutched and dropped.
“An Aztec Malmedy.” The vampire laughed. “Priest,” he addressed Teo, “if you wish to live you will educate me on your faith as practiced in Aztlan. And girl,” he caressed Marisela’s cheek, “I eagerly await your addition to my dwelling. Your presence can only enhance its Gothicism. A young girl penned in a dark fortress? Hell, it’s the Castle of Otranto all over again!” The vampire ripped aside her pink turtleneck and shoved her into the arms of an armored woman.
“Film this with your targeting cam,” he commanded a soldier, who stepped up and focused on the trio from a side angle. Behind his visor, an array of colors lit. Then, a flashlight beamed from his shoulder to provide additional light for the film.
Marisela breathed in deep gulps, and her eyes batted at regular intervals. Her right cheekbone was wedged against her right shoulder by the woman, exposing her neck.
“Help me! Help me! Please, don’t kill me. Don’t!” she screamed, and her breathing became uncontrolled.
Hommler smiled into a tiny lens imbedded above the soldier’s visor.
“Hello, ‘President’ Guerrero.” The vampire snarled. “It’s me—the man you bullied in your office. Well, as you’ll soon discover, your swarthy southern neighbors just botched an attempt to kidnap Marisela. Evidently, their mission was executed with typical Mexican competence and professionalism.” He tried to laugh but found himself looking again and again at the tender bronze throat. His speech had become wooden and guttural. His breath was heavy. His lips were curled back. “My soldiers and I succeeded where they failed. So, if you want her, come and get her!” he said, then lunged for her throat.
At the last instant he diverted his fangs from her carotid and into the muscle of her trapezius, near her shoulder. She screamed once, then fainted. Hommler sucked and lapped for a moment, then dragged the sharp tip of his tongue along the puncture wounds like a poniard.
“It always comes back to the blood, doesn’t it, Mr. Guerrero?” He licked his fingers slowly. “Sacrilege . . . desecration . . . torment. They all await her in my castle. So come hither with your army, before I fuck up her mind so badly that she actually begins to enjoy her stay.”
Chapter 32
George stared at the computer screen projecting midway into his living room. It was a blank white screen, and levitated rigidly. A flashing I-beam waited for him to input text. He eyed the keyboard imposed on the glass of his coffee table. Brushing crumbs aside that had landslided from a nearby hunk of baklava, he fired a few keystrokes, then centered his text. “For Aleksandra” now appeared on the screen. The Athenian revolved his feet around and sprawled out on the sofa.
“I need a special simile,” he mused. “Something to really catch her eye. A metaphor or a simile to power the first stanza and just . . . really impress her.” He folded his arms over his chest and flexed his forearms by raising his wrists.
When no ideas were forthcoming, he snatched a road map from a corner of the coffee table. Slowly, he traced his finger along the most direct route to New York City. He had been planning their trip for weeks now, as soon as he had heard word that Theophilus, the Archbishop of Athens, had finally fled Greece and was coming to the U.S. George wondered if the Archbishop would be as naïve as he himself had been, years ago, when he had stepped off the plane at JFK International.
George planned to attend an Orthodox conference presided over by Theophilus, show off Aleksandra to his friends living in the area, hit some good restaurants, and perhaps catch an underground hockey game or two. Of course, he also intended to show his
girlfriend the theater and museums. Max paid him well for his full time work with the FCP, but by and large the Athenian led a Spartan existence. Though not evident by his modest apartment, George had amassed substantial savings.
He daydreamed of lying with Alexandra in the posh hotel he had booked, her soft skin nearly as fair as the sheets. How could he dwell on such things when Muslim hordes were clamoring for his blood? When it seemed the world was ready to end? He laughed. Because he was a virile man in his prime who didn’t give a fuck, and sex with a beautiful woman was a spot of heaven in a world that increasingly resembled hell. That’s why.
But that was just show; he did care. He cared for his friends, his organization, his country—most of all he cared for Aleksandra. Why is it human instinct, he wondered, to feign uninterest in something that’s of utmost concern? It’s got to be a self defense mechanism to assuage anxiety, he reasoned. Well, he’d raise it like a shield whenever he needed it. So the Muslims want to invade America and rape and kill? So the President of the United States is a diversity-monger psychopath hell-bent on eradicating the nation’s European-Americans? So nukes are arching the sky and annihilating populations and ecosystems? Bring it on. Bring it all on—so long as he had the strength to go down swinging—he didn’t care. He didn’t care. The hell if he didn’t.
George snickered bitterly, and the phone rang.
“Yeah.”
“George, man, get your ass to the house, pronto.” It was Rick.
“I’m on my way. But why?” He sat up sharply and snatched his car keys.
“Some mighty strange white folk just pulled into town and came to visit—Max’s in with them now and told me to call you.”
“Where are they from? Which state?”
“Georgia and New York to begin with. Your favorite country to end with.”
“What?”
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