This revelation seemed to jolt the patients, who gradually began to emerge from the forest. There were tentative children, distrusting adults, and resigned elders. They warily studied Hans’s body art, eyes large, muscles taught to sustain a sprint back again to the forest.
“Get over it.” The youth sighed, looking down at his shoulder. “It’s a pagan symbol for Thor—hell, flip its direction and you’ve got one of the more prominent symbols in ancient Asia. Besides, I didn’t pick it. A friend of mine did it to me while I was wasted.”
This was little consolation to the patients. But they kept emerging from the wood, still clothed in their medical gowns, till all fifteen were accounted for. The youth folded his weaponless arms and stood, meditating. It was impossible to tell if his eyes were open or closed behind the eyewear, but his face was elevated toward the blue sky. Dirk folded a stick of gum into his mouth, while Ken and Billy looked around uneasily.
“Never again,” Hans suddenly thundered. “Never again! Isn’t that your mantra? Never again you’ll stand for persecution? Never again you’ll be targeted for genocide? Never again you’ll face extinction?” He directed his thick sunglasses toward the male patients. “Well, you know what? It hasn’t been that fucking long since 1945. I think you’ve failed miserably to uphold your mantra, because ‘never again’ has happened again. Not only has it happened in your own racial state, it’s happened here in America—the only consistently safe haven you’ve ever really had.”
Ginsburg’s eyes fell to the grass. “Sir, please don’t harm us. At least let the children and women go and . . .”
“Harm you?” The youth was amused. “What the hell kind of monster do you think I am?” As he turned, his silver necklaces caught the sun. He wore an Iron Cross high, and beneath it, a simple Thor’s hammer. “How about you promise not to harm me, huh? How about you promise not to harm my people?”
“What are you talking about?” a young man asked, nervously twisting the side of his patient’s gown.
“You know damn well what I’m talking about. Or maybe you don’t. If you don’t personally, then listen up, because most of the influential people in your society sure as hell do.” Hans removed his glasses and smoldered the rabbi in his gaze. “I don’t need to reiterate the hell your ancestors went through at the hands of Europeans in World War II. Well, naturally, after the war, your intellectuals began to theorize ways to prevent the same thing from happening again.”
“If you intend to blame the state of America on us you’re absolutely mistaken!” snapped the rabbi, suddenly indignant.
“We’re all to blame for what happened to America—white Gentiles most of all. But just listen up, and you can take or leave my advice when I’m done.”
Ginsburg viewed him cautiously.
“Like I was saying, after the war, your people possessed a distrust of non-Jewish whites. And honestly, I don’t blame you. Your intelligentsia pinpointed the hallmarks, the warning signs, that could spawn anti-Semitism. Racial homogeneity, rigid Christianity, patriarchy, and moral tradition are some of the warning signs you pinpointed. That’s why your people have leaned, and continue to lean, so damn far to the left politically.”
“You can’t stereotype us like this,” protested Ginsburg. “There are many conservative Jews.”
“Conservative on what?” blustered the youth. “The economy? Who gives a shit about that. What about immigration? What about demographics? What about interracial marriage? What about whites becoming a minority in America?”
The rabbi was silent.
“Your people, idiotically, were some of the biggest champions of the diversity movement before it spun out of control. You and your ‘critical theory’ right out of Columbia University—I know the story—I’ve read the books. And despite your hopes, your devotion to the diversity movement only backfired on you. You pushed diversity so hard to assure that anti-Semitism could never gain traction again in Europe or America. If a guy isn’t prejudiced against queers and non-whites, he sure as hell won’t dislike a Jew, isn’t that the way your reasoning went? If whites are a smaller and smaller minority, there’s no chance for a resurrected Nazi movement in Europe or America, right? So, yeah, push for open borders to drown the WASPS you always resented. Push for queer parades to fracture conservative mores. Push interracial dating and homosexuality in your movies and sitcoms. There, that’s your recipe to prevent another Holocaust. Congratulations—it worked beautifully.”
“You’re delusional, young man,” Ginsburg said.
“No, I’m not. You see, your people have a bad case of myopia. Disempower the white Gentiles in America and Europe, and what the hell do you think will happen? Other, stronger people will take their place—Muslims, Aztecs, and grays. Do you think Muslims, Aztecs, or grays care about your people? Do you think any of them gave a shit about Israel? You already know how the Muslims and grays felt about Zion. But I can also tell you that the Aztecs fucking hated your country, too. They’ve always sided with the Palestinians—President Guerrero told me personally when I was in Aztlan for a prizefight that he hoped they’d one day drive you guys into the sea and retake the Holy Land. He said the Palestinians suffered from the same imperialism and land snatching that the Hispanics did at the hands of Anglos. And hell, I guess they did.
“In the twenty-first century, the only people that gave a shit about you were basically the same people that tried to snuff you out in the 1940s and the middle ages—white Christians. You have to understand that yesterday’s enemy is today’s ally. And that’s why I’m telling you this—I want us to work together. Now, I’m not suggesting our people should intermarry or even hang out as buddies if they don’t want to. What I am suggesting is that we should acknowledge the practical benefit of an alliance and a mutual respect. When these wars are over, I hope you guys can lose the chip on your shoulder toward us. Stay wary, but instead of focusing exclusively on the past, I hope you can also factor and appreciate the present and future.”
“What, would you have us trust psychotic, blazing-eyed men with swastika tattoos? Never.” Ginsburg snickered and shook his bald head.
“No,” Hans retorted simply. “But that man there,” he pointed to Rick, “and the Greek who saved you are very trustworthy. Me? I’m just a lost soul—I’ve got nothing now.” The youth’s eyes were wet.
“But why try to woo us? We’re less than half a percent of the population and . . .”
“Don’t give me that bull shit,” the youth interjected, his voice strained with emotion. “Everyone knows you people rise to the top. Your average IQ is off the charts. Academic performance is prioritized in your culture. You always occupy positions of power—whether they be in universities, movie studios, publishing houses, doctors offices, court rooms—all of the above. So after the war, I want you to go spread the word to all your buddies. Our fates on this planet are intertwined. When white Gentiles lose power, your people lose power too. Take it or leave it. If you leave it, no one from our side is gonna persecute you anymore. But just get ready for the next Muslim-led pogrom.”
Out of the corner of his eye the youth saw a little girl with big, antiquated glasses. She was holding her upper forearm with one hand and was flashing him a serious, owlish look. There was a large, purple bruise that she was trying to obscure. He walked over to her, and at his approach both Rick and Ginsburg stepped forward protectively.
He wheeled on the two men, his scarred face lined and hideous, his eyes dethroned stars.
“I already told you . . . I’m not a monster!” he roared, and Rick and the rabbi stepped back.
Turning to the girl again, Hans fished in his pocket for a moment. He withdrew a wrapped candy bar.
“It probably won’t taste as good as a regular one.” He tried to smile, but the scarred portion of his face was immobile. “For a protein bar, though, it tastes pretty darn good.” He offered the food to the little girl.
Slowly, she let go of her bruised arm and accepted the wrapped chocolate
and whey. For several moments they stared at one another, as if some intangible transmission were passing between their eyes.
“This girl is gifted,” he said finally, turning to Ginsburg. “She’s an archetype—she’s going to lead your people someday.”
“What?” the old man asked.
But the titan was already walking away. Rick suddenly noticed that the two trucks had returned, and eleven FCP members, armed generously, were parked by the roadside. Dirk tipped his mace to Rick, and walked toward the vehicle, followed by Hans.
Before ascending the steps to the tank, Hans turned and pointed to Ginsburg.
“Take care of your people,” he ordered. “There aren’t many of you left. And take care of the girl—her future is special.”
“Anti-Semitic bastard,” the rabbi whispered as he nodded toward the youth and waved amicably.
As the tank pulled away, Ken eased back on his heel, and peered down a vista of bushes. “It’s safe now, George.”
Rick walked over and saw the Athenian crouched in the green, his pistol still drawn.
“I had Hans in my sights the whole time.” He gulped. “God, I didn’t want to have to kill him. But I would have if he had gone after any of the patients. He’s changed, guys. Did you see how crazy he looks?”
“Yeah.” Rick helped the Athenian to his feet. “Let’s get these people back to Covington’s.”
Chapter 44
Mictlan stared across the table at Hommler, then lifted his gaze toward the high walls while fingering the plug in his bottom lip. The priest found this room—this house—thoroughly vexing. On the far wall, lit by showcasing spotlights, was a thirty foot painting of Terry Swan. In the illustration, the president stood, arms akimbo, staring into the vastness of polychromatic space.
“Does your president bleed rainbow?” Mictlan asked, raising a hairless eyebrow.
“I’d half like to find out . . . where is he? He’s late to his own damned meeting.” Hommler stewed.
“From what you tell me he doesn’t have the stomach for war.”
“No . . . a substantial shortcoming for the commander in chief.” The vampire chuckled darkly.
“Well, while we are here, I would like to discuss Marisela’s sacrifice. For the ritual to be properly performed, I require five additional priests—two to restrain her feet, two to restrain her arms, one to restrain her neck.”
“And you—you’ll take her heart?”
“Yes.”
“Why can’t you and I just hold her down; she’s only an emaciated child.”
“Because,” Mictlan’s teeth were isosceles triangles, “the number six is consecrate to Huitzilopochtli. It is the manner in which the taking of the heart has always been performed.”
“Very well, you may call up five priests and I’ll grant them temporary quarters. But after the sacrifice I’ll board them no longer. Tell them to go marauding in one of the suburbs—seize some property—scalp some fools.” Hommler was scratching notes on a large digital battle map imposed on the glass table.
“I believe you are confusing indigenous peoples.” Mictlan frowned.
“I know I was, you wretch. I’m an expert on indigenous American religions and peoples.”
“Are you?” The priest knifed a smile. “Are you an expert, or a dilettante?”
“An expert—I probably know more than you do.”
“Yes, I am sure you do.” The Aztec patronized calmly. “For I am just a benighted savage.”
“A benighted savage with a damned fascinating taste for blood gods,” Hommler mumbled, circled two army groups, and dragged them to the coast of Maine.
“Who’s protecting Washington now?” asked Mictlan.
“Absolutely no one,” said the vampire. “We need them here to protect Castle Vayvels.”
“And what will your president say to that?”
“He’ll accept it—I’ll steamroll him like I always do.”
Suddenly, the burnished double doors pushed open. Smith entered first, leading Swan by the hand. The president’s suit was wrinkled, and his underlying dress shirt was coffee-stained. One of Smith’s arms was still mummified in a cast.
“We have to attend to these matters, Terry. Come on, now; let’s go in,” whispered the vice president. “I know it’s unpleasant, but it must be done.”
“But Scottie!” hissed Swan. “I told you—I loathe war mongering!”
“This isn’t mongering, this is self-defense. Now come and sit at the table.”
Charily, Swan stepped forward. His head was tilted back, purple lips writhing, eyes bloodshot and downturned toward the table. It was as if he approached his own open coffin.
Smith pulled out a chair with his free arm, and Swan sat down and crossed his legs. His face instantly retreated to the cave of his palm, and a whimper escaped his mouth. The palsy that afflicted his right hand made it difficult to shield his eyes for long.
“Terry, so good to see you. I was sorry to hear about the passing of Field Marshall Rummel. His counsel will be missed, especially today.”
“He . . . he died . . . he died . . . fighting the Aztec incursion to the west,” stammered the president, sweat oozing from his gray flesh, hands tangling and scrubbing as if under sink water.
“Kind of fortuitously, if you ask me.” Smith frowned. “We have reason to believe there was perfidy on his mind.”
Swan’s eyelids yanked vertically, and he pushed away from the table.
Hommler was firm. “Terry, you have to gather your strength and prosecute this war seriously. Look what you’ve done—you’ve plunged your country and your people into a two-front war. We’ve got tens of thousands of murderous Aztecs coming at us from the west, and the imminent landing of innumerable Muslims to the east. How do you plan to . . .”
“This is your doing!” Swan’s head snapped up, teeth bared. “You and your needling of the Aztecs! You and your obsession with disgusting blood gods. You and your blasphemous disregard for Divine Color!”
Hommler pounded the table, and his eyes were Antarctic. “Divine Color? There is no Divine Color, you fool! There are only blood and gore and destruction in this universe! Do you understand that? There is no rainbowed messiah flying to earth. I’m sick of your credulous ranting and moralizing.”
“If Divine Color bypasses our planet on Its celestial voyage it will be because of you!” accused the president with a trembling finger. “But what can I expect from you other than incompetence and morbidity—you’re just a worthless white man. I think it’s time we strap you down and make you one of us!” Swan rose from his chair, chest heaving, and stared at the pistol leveled at his face.
“Try at your peril,” Hommler warned. “A squeeze of this trigger and the old god Helios will touch your brain with his fire. Go back to your bunker, and steep yourself in guilt for murdering Rummel. That’s right, you’re a cold-blooded murderer, Terry. I wonder how many others you’ve killed? Tell me, how do you live with that kind of strain on your conscience?”
“I’ve killed no others! And . . . and I only did away with Rummel because he was going to kill me! He was going to kill me, don’t you understand? He was going to kill me—he was going to kill me!” The president collapsed into his chair, palms suctioning his eyes.
“It’s all right, Terry. Shhhh . . . it’s all right,” Scott soothed, breathing into the president’s ear. “Let’s go back down to the bunker and relax for a while. It will all be all right—I know it will.”
“Yes . . . yes . . . I will wait for Divine Color there,” Swan mumbled, suddenly lightheaded and faltering. “You . . . you and I . . . not Herbert . . . we’ll wait for It there . . . It will come to us there.”
As Swan stared at the ceiling, mumbling, Smith led him out by the hand. There was silence.
“What a productive war room session.” The priest laughed.
“Yes,” Hommler said coldly as if from far off. “You know, I’d love to nuke our enemies. If we were to do so, though, I’m afr
aid they’d shower us with their own.”
“Not the Aztecs—Swan’s predecessor removed California’s nuclear arsenal before Swan assumed power. He must have foresaw our rising.”
“Yes, but the Muslims are a different story. If we anger the Sultan with unconventional force, he might just pockmark the whole East Coast—or the whole nation. We have a missile defense system activated, but I don’t care to test its efficiency.”
“This Sultan is a great leader, from what I hear.” The priest tilted back a glass of water taken earlier from a servant’s tray.
“That he is,” Hommler confirmed as he dragged two more divisions from the western front and placed them as a buffer between his castle and the coast. “He rode the crest of Turkey’s Islamic revolution, executed the secular president, and somehow managed to bootstrap a pan-Islamic alliance that has yet to see any real fracture.”
“You must fear the Muslims far more than you do the Aztecs,” said Mictlan, noting the imbalance of divisions between the eastern and western fronts.
“Not particularly. I don’t intend for these divisions guarding my castle to really engage the Muslims in more than a skirmish. Perhaps they can hold them off long enough for the Aztecs to arrive. Guerrero will be grieved and furious when he discovers Marisela’s heartless corpse, and the tiny state of Maine will become a powder keg. Two charismatic leaders. Two armies laying claim to a continent. Bullets are bound to fly.”
“And what will happen to us?” Mictlan rubbed his chin.
“We’ll be hiding in the catacombs beneath Castle Vayvels, my friend. Once the Aztecs and Muslims exhaust and bloody each other, and one army emerges victorious, I have a plan.”
“Which is?”
“It’s beautiful, Mictlan—the intersection of science and military tactics. I believe it was Napoleon who first pioneered the mobilization of an entire nation as a means to a military end. I will execute this theory on a brilliant level. With the input of a code I can transmit signals to every one of the millions of gray Americans roaming the nation—I can order them to kill those who don’t look as they do. They’ll attack with fang and claw—unremittingly, inexorably.”
The Gods of Color Page 47