Then Hans heard a sizzle overhead, like an expensive firework, and glimpsed a radiant orange dart speed toward the stage. And suddenly, amid a roar of sound that eclipsed the music, Dirk and his band were flung through the air and into the audience by chasing tongues of flame.
But it wasn’t a stage dive. Another sizzle broke the air. And another explosion, this time in the audience. Panic ensued, and the thousands lunged multidirectionally.
“What the hell . . . we’re under attack!” yelled Hans, seizing Kim by the wrist. Another rocket exploded nearby, and he dragged the girl to the ground with him. “Stay low . . . stay low, baby. Head for the woods then try to get back to the house!”
The two ran, ducking low through the gauntlet of flesh and screams. Hans saw fleeting glimpses of peculiar shapes amid the crowd—the glint of metal in sunshine. Kim screamed, and pointed at an echelon of flying soldiers overhead. They were enclosed in red plate armor, and sported back packs dispensing white flame. Each was low-flying, and the tip of a soldier’s boot touched the youth’s spiked hair. Simultaneously, he felt the exhaust from the backpack sear his back.
Growling an expletive, Hans seized the leg and was lifted off the ground. The soldiers were firing into the crowd with silver rifles emitting blinding, lavender projectiles, and Hans suddenly was looking up into a cold barrel. He seized the weapon with both hands, surrendering his grip on the soldier’s leg, and redirected the muzzle from his face. It kicked, the round missing his face by inches, and he wrenched the weapon from the soldier with a grunt. He landed on the backs of fleeing attendees, slid to the ground, then was on his feet again, icy breath billowing from his mouth in heavy pants. The weapon was in his hands.
“Kim!” he screamed, wheeling. The struggle with the soldier had only taken seconds, but he had been carried from where he had left her.
“I’m here! I’m here!” She had watched where the flying man had dragged him, and the two lovers collided in an embrace. But the crowd was surging by, and their reunion was brief.
“God damn that laser fire! Run, run with me!” he urged, as glowing rounds tore into the audience. The couple navigated through the chaos, and Hans’s grip on Kim’s wrist was adamantine this time. He refrained from firing his weapon at the flying men or the soldiers pushing through the crowd and killing as they went. There were far, far too many of them, and to stand his ground and open up would distinguish him from the crowd and put cross hairs on his chest. So they pushed forward, Hans shouldering ruthlessly through friends old and new. He’d come back to help them—once he got Kim to safety.
The crowd churned and lashed out in separate, desperate directions like minnows robbed of hardwiring. And in a surge of life, a mob diverted before the eyes of the couple to reveal a trio of soldiers, faces glowering behind visors. There was no time to run—just for instinct. Hans’s barrel glowed light purple milliseconds before theirs, and in a time frame the breadth of a razor one of the soldiers fell back, plasma gormandizing his armor and the flesh beneath. Two rounds discharged immediately afterward, and the youth dimly registered that they had missed before he pulled the trigger rapidly, and each squeeze yielded a screaming burst of plasma. The remaining soldiers were down, twitching feebly in death throes of organic and inorganic motion.
The war focus left him, and he suddenly was aware of the pressure exerting on his right hand. Looking down, he saw that he was still clutching Kim’s wrist. Her hand was limp, her arm straight, her body sprawled along the ground, her head flopped sideways and hair cascading over. Then he saw the smoking aperture in her stomach, and the rubicund stream bubbling from her open mouth.
“Kim! God—God—oh God!” He fell to his knees, the weapon rattling to the dirt by his side. He cradled her head against his chest, and her fingers dug into his t-shirt leaving red streaks upon the depicted swords and axes. Her eyes were wide and fulminating with the last sparks of life, and her mouth was open and she was trying to utter a word. But her lips were an inadequate dam for the blood that frothed up and over, and her nails dug deeper into his arms.
“Baby,” he sobbed over her face, “I have to get you out of here. I . . . I’m going to pick you up, okay?”
Her hand had seized one of his fingers, and in a chortle of blood she gasped a word.
“Live!” she commanded, and for a moment their eyes met. He saw the tears running from her eyes, down her face, and diluting the blood seeping from her mouth. His hands scooped beneath her back, and as he positioned himself to stand, he saw that her eyes were still fixed on where his face had been.
“Hans! Hans!” He heard someone cry from down what seemed an interminable corridor. “Come on, son, let’s go! Damn it, Margaret, get the hell out of here—get to the forest!”
The youth felt hands wrap around his neck, and he smelled his mother’s perfume.
“Honey. Look at me.”
He heard the voice from afar, and he continued to stare into the fixed gaze of his fiancé.
“Hans!” she said more firmly. “We have to leave here now!”
He looked up dumbly and saw his mother standing before him. The colorful flower illustrations on her sun dress seemed to be growing from the very real dirt and blood smeared across the cloth.
“God damn it, Margaret!” He heard his father scream. “Get to that fucking forest now!” Max had arrived, and grabbed the scruff of his son’s shirt.
“I’m not leaving my Hans!” She screamed, her shrill voice interrupted by another explosion. “He’s our last—I have no more to give!”
His father had grabbed the rifle and was firing vengefully at the enemy. Hans stood up, Kim’s body still in his hands.
“Okay, Mom, let’s go,” he said numbly, and started jogging with his mother for the forest.
Max brought up the rear. His index finger could no longer maintain the volume of fire he desired, and he couldn’t find an auto switch. So he used his middle finger, and for a time, it fluttered like a humming bird wing.
A rocket, fired from a tetrad studded launcher on a soldier’s shoulder, struck the ground in front of them and sent them all reeling.
The youth shot up, coughed, and slung Kim’s body over his shoulder. He then found Margaret, and helped her to her feet.
“Where’s Max?” she asked. “Oh, no, God no!” she wailed after turning around.
Two soldiers were standing over the patriarch of the FCP. Their rifles glowed, and dumped light into his body—round after round until the dirt kicked up in gory agitations.
“C’mon, Mom!” he yelled over the din, wrapping his free arm around her shoulder and coaxing her onward. A round blurred by the youth’s left cheek, and he winced as the flesh roiled and burned hot. He saw more bursts streak by them—overhead, to the side, and impacting by their feet. Out of the corner of his eye he recognized Rick Wilkerson, bound in chains, being shoved into a vehicle.
Suddenly, Margaret gasped and collapsed as a terrible light emerged from her chest.
“Go!” she croaked.
He was down by her side. “No, Mom. Fuck this—I’m gonna die in battle like the rest of us.”
And the pursuing soldiers were upon him.
Chapter 38
Today, there was a smile on his face. His eyes followed her slowly, like vessels navigating carefully through ice. At his side, Keedu proffered a goblet of crimson on a silver tray.
Marisela shambled before his throne, her left leg trailing stiffly. Lately, her tormentor had taken to thrashing her knee cap with a rod. Her gaze was impassive.
“To vengeance—sated!” The vampire lifted the glass then downed it with a slurp and a flicker of his tongue.
“What do you mean?” Her voice was a specter’s monotone.
“If someone tried to kill you, girl, and you lived, wouldn’t you relish the opportunity to destroy your attempted murderers and their fellows?”
“How I would love it.” There was life again in her voice, and her eyes smote the vampire with hate.
“Of course you would, my dear, of course you would.” He laughed, pondering the reveries behind her eyes. Surely, those dreams culminated in his slaying.
“Please tell me about the mansion—the one split in half and sinking in the lake.”
Hommler craned his head behind him and studied the framed canvass hanging above his throne.
“It’s the stricken house of Roderick Usher—painted by none other than President Swan.”
“Like Poe’s story?” she asked.
“Yes.” He rose, walked down to her, and ran his fingers through her brittle hair. “You see, Marisela, I’m infinitely fascinated by the link between dweller and dwelling. And no work of literature articulates that bond better than Poe’s short story.”
“Is that the one with the beating of the heart?”
“No, simpleton.” He chided. “Though I’m mindful of beating hearts in my castle as well.”
“Well, what’s it about? A man in a haunted house?”
“In a sense—it’s the personification of the house that I’m interested in—the ‘eye like’ windows—the organic nature of the place in general. And the eponymous title of the house—Usher—with that of its human owner. When Roderick dies, so, too, does his house. Usher is both the man and the house. That picture depicts its final destruction, through the eyes of the narrator, as it is rent in half by a fissure and sinks in a tarn.”
“Oh. Why do you care?” She gnawed her lip, and eyed a bowl of red grapes looking tantalizing by the throne.
“Those aren’t for you, scum. A pity Mictlan wants your blood so soon—I would have enjoyed attempting to awaken some atavistic impulse for cannibalism within you—the kind that enslaved your glorious ancestors. I would have thrown you Thyestean banquets night after night. You’d abstain, of course, until you became so ravenous you couldn’t help yourself. How I would have loved watching you gnaw the triceps from an arm bone!” He laughed perversely. Keedu refilled his goblet, and the vampire took a sip then splashed it in her face. She wiped her eyes hurriedly, and spit repeatedly upon the flagstones. He had already begun to speak again, a fervor sweeping over him.
“Of all the methodologies employed in literary criticisms—in world views—in life, mine is the most accurate—a sanguine weltanschauung. So the fools in academia can expatiate into the void of hell about economic, Marxist, and feminist methodologies. They know nothing about truth—about blood! When a man dies, and his dwelling follows him to the grave—that’s when you know that man was great! When the call of his spilled blood elicits architectural collapse—when his existence or nonexistence alters the countryside—that’s power, my girl! That’s when you know the man was more god than human.”
“So why don’t you call this place Castle Hommler? The design—the décor—it’s very you.” She flicked red droplets onto his robe with a swipe of her hand.
“Isn’t it?” He raised his arms piously and revolved on his feet. “The minerals, the stone, the silver, the gold, the art—it’s all an extension of my very being. When I die, you better believe it will follow me to my grave. And I almost did name it Hommler, to explicitly honor the bond.” He strode to the bowl of grapes, picked it up, then presented it to Marisela. “But I was too fond of the idea of paying off an intellectual debt I believe I owe to predecessors of mine.”
“What debt—what predecessors?” She tore into the juicy spheres hurriedly, lest he observe the pleasure the food was bringing her, and withdraw them. He loved to retract the plates he offered her, before she was full, when she only had managed a few bites. If she kept him lecturing and diverted, she’d have a better chance to finish the serving.
“A debt in the abstract—in that I owe many of my ideas to those who came before me. You see, they delineated a blood religion of their own. At first blush, most deem them antipodal to the regime we’ve imposed here in the United States. Probe deeper, however, and you’ll discover they were just a different tentacle from the same, writhing monstrosity.”
“So how are you paying the debt?” She had nearly finished half the bowl, and barely heard his responses. The desire to finish the grapes was all consuming. But this was dangerous territory—any indication that she wasn’t engrossed in his lecture and she would be punished.
“I honor my twentieth century precursors nominally—and I mean that literally. To do more would be to blur the distinctive and unique lines of my own blood faith.”
“How does ‘Vayvels’ honor anyone?” she asked, mouth full. “Who was Vayvels?”
“Wewelsburg was the castle of a great man. It was destroyed during the Muslim conquest of Germany years ago. This place here,” he looked around smugly, “is its progeny. It’s hardly an exact replica—but there’s enough architectural inspiration to warrant the name.”
“Which great man? And who are these precursors you’re referring to?” A quarter were left, and her stomach had already begun to churn from the influx of calories.
“Come now, my girl.” His grin was raw evil. “Tell me you don’t detect similitude between the names of some those who wield power in this country and an infamous political movement of the early twentieth century.”
“Terry Swan?” She smirked. “I can’t think of any famous names that sound like his. Who’s he supposed to be like?”
“Well, I suppose he has some commonalities with a famous and despised Austrian orator and painter. I rechristened most of the president’s staff with new names once they became Americans. But I left the president’s and vice president’s names untouched for two reasons. First, Swan is a perfect name for that balletic fool. Second, I wouldn’t want to give the dullwitted Aliens in this country more evidence with which to connect the dots, so to speak. And do you know what else? I even renamed myself.”
“To Hommler?” She chewed the final grapes rapidly, and looked up.
He nodded, never dropping his grin.
“Well, isn’t it about time you went to your cell? Mictlan has a beating scheduled for you at five.”
“Tell me about something else . . . please. If he hits my knee anymore I don’t think I’ll be able to walk.”
The vampire doubled over with laughter, and Keedu mimicked him hideously.
“The sacrificial victim is going to have her heart torn out . . . but she’s concerned for her pretty little knee cap.” Hommler slapped the acolyte on the back, and they were guffawing demons.
“Just . . . tell me about something,” she squeaked, her eyes pooling tears. “Please . . . please.”
Hommler paused from his laughter to spear a finger toward the doors.
“Go!” he thundered.
“Vampires . . . teach me about vampires. I don’t know much about them. Please, I’ve always wanted to know more.”
“Of course you do.” He spat. “Because you’d prefer hearing me lecture on any subject to enduring the blows of a psychotic Aztec high priest.”
“No, no . . . I really . . . I really want to learn about them.”
Hommler fixed the girl in his gaze. Her face was bruised and swollen, her shoulders looked askew as if they had been misaligned by wrenching hands, and her left knee was a raised cauldron of black and purple. But his eyes were pitiless.
“I remember what you told me—vampires are humans,” she cried. “And I want to know more.” Her bottom jaw was trembling.
“Very well.” He finally acquiesced. Perhaps he saw some truth to her claim in her eyes—or maybe he felt like playing the professor. “Let me tell you their history.”
The girl sat down on a cold flagstone, and tried to craft a look of deep enthrallment.
Hommler retired to his throne, sat, and stared down at her.
“There are four categories of vampires—the first three are literary, the final is actual. I devised the categories myself, and I’ve shared them with no one. So count yourself lucky to receive this knowledge—in fact, remember it when you pass into the afterlife to share with your Aztec deities.”
Her eyes fell, but
Hommler paid her no heed.
“In the ancient world—Mesopotamia, Egypt, Greece, Rome—vampires were perceived as monstrous and bestial. They were thoroughly nonhuman. Clawing, biting, rending—devouring the blood of hapless victims. This, my dear, is what I call the ancient vampire, and is category one. The ancient vampire endured in a chrysalis for millennia, nurtured and sculpted by centuries of pagan, and later, Christian folklore.” Keedu filled his master’s goblet, and the vampire sipped it genteelly.
“But everything changed in the early 1800s, when John Polidori, the personal doctor of the famed poet, Lord Byron, authored a tale called The Vampyre. In it, Polidori overhauled the vampire with anthropomorphic intent. Suddenly, the ravenous monster was tempered by human emotion. He walked in a human body, yet retained some of his earlier powers—inhuman strength, transmogrification, and immortality.” Hommler made a fist and shook it in the air. “So, too, endured his weaknesses—crosses, holy water, a stake through the heart, and silver. Interestingly, his socio-economic status grew, and most often he appeared as a decadent aristocrat. Moreover, he commonly was handsome and possessed a sparkling intellect—a true lady killer. This, Marisela, was the classic, or category two, vampire.”
“Is Dracula a classic vampire?” She eyed the gorgeous stained glass lining the west wall of the room. Light had nearly departed from its panes—her beating time was at hand.
“Yes.” He trailed the final letter sibilantly. “The fictional Dracula, that is.” He qualified. “Who Stoker loosely based on the historical, Wallachian tyrant.”
“I thought that’s where he might fit in . . . level two,” she said, and shrugged her narrow shoulders. She was reaching for something witty, something substantive, but was too weak to seize on anything.
He smiled at her wryly, and shook his head.
“Anyway, the reign of the classic vampire endured, essentially inviolate, until the 1970s. That’s when Ms. Rice dressed him in pink lace like a Gaiety Gray doll.” He laughed, and unswallowed blood spurted from his mouth and onto his robes. “Her stories didn’t penetrate into the collective imagination of the West until the 1990s. She ruthlessly homosexualized the poor vampire—ripped millennia of myth asunder, and reformed him according to her own aesthetic. Homosexuality was not unknown to classical vampires, but it usually manifested in Sapphic implications—take Coleridge’s ‘Christabel’ for instance, or the brides of Dracula. Generally, the classical male vampire was virile and strong—a literal anti-hero—an inverted super man. Well, she changed all that—and she threw in some pederasty as well.
The Gods of Color Page 40