The Gods of Color

by Gunnar Sinclaire

  “Why not mobilize them now?” asked the priest. “Why not send them all against Guerrero and his men, eliminate them, then direct them toward the Muslims?”

  “Because, Mictlan, the conscripts have their limitations. They will be too animalistic to bear arms, so ranged combat is out of the question. Granted, their melee skills will be unmatched, but you have to come within feet of someone to rip their throat out. Frankly, I don’t think they will be powerful enough to defeat two full-strength armies. I’d rather pit them against one army that is already battered and depleted. Besides, their state of animalism will make it difficult to direct them efficiently. Once I unleash them, I fear they will become intractable. That’s why, prior to activating the code, I want them condensed around the main threats. I don’t want them wasting their time with U.S. Alien wretches—I want them to engage the Muslims and Aztecs.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “Highly. And if the Sultan, or his heir back in Turkey, wishes to nuke us afterward, let him try. If our missile defense system fails, so be it—you and I will be safe underground. Then, I’ll launch our entire nuclear arsenal—more than a century in the making—at the home countries of those scum. With the Muslims vanquished, I can again refocus on domestic issues. Hopefully, by then, I’ll have perfected gaseous transmission of Teratol-7. In a year I can turn the whole country gray.”

  Mictlan paused, a contemplative finger sawing along his teeth.

  “But if you Americanize people with gas, they will not have computer chips. How will you control them?”

  “Does nothing elude your hawk-eye, priest? I will control them via our blood god religion. I envision charnel-black cult centers across this country—from sea to crimson sea. Looming monoliths sacred to Tiamat. Eldritch tombs to honor the Seven. Obelisks to hail Set. And flat-topped pyramids atop which to spill blood libations to Huitzilopotchli.”

  “A paradise,” whispered Mictlan.

  “Nothing less, my friend, nothing less.”

  The high priest stood, head bowed reverentially, and walked over to the vampire.

  “You are as my beloved son,” he declared, and placed his hands upon Hommler’s shoulders.

  “All right, damn you—you are as my beloved father. Such a simpleton’s exchange. What does it really mean, anyway?”

  “Shouldn’t you know? After all, your knowledge of Aztec religion far exceeds mine.”

  “Well, someday I’ll look into it and educate you. Let’s get back to the castle. I’m hereby assuming the role of commander in chief. That coward Swan has failed me—and he’ll be punished accordingly. I’m going to begin by turning off his PPS—that should please him.”

  Chapter 45

  In the commandeered estate that Hans and his followers called headquarters, the youth was busy in his room. Winding belts of ammunition slithered along the furniture like anacondas. Littered along the floor and table were an array of hungry firearms, who in their numbers could bolt down the anacondas in a matter of seconds. On the wall, where once was a Monet, there now hung a nineteenth-century painting of Thor. It was rich with golds and ruddy browns, and depicted the storm-god amid a background of lightning. He rode a chariot pulled by goats, and his raised hammer was poised to crush the skull of a frost giant. His hair was blond and tousled, and his face was severe.

  The heavy metal crashing out from four speakers was dour and brooding. The singer’s voice was guttural, the notes discordant, the lyrics indecipherable. Hans had somehow peeled back the dissonance to uncover a core beat, to which he bobbed his head as if in a trance. He fed a last bullet into a replete clip, and smacked it into a handgun.

  “Leibstandarte,” he murmured, and threw the weapon on a table that just months ago had been covered in printed spreadsheets of financial data. But those sheets, like their owners, had been swept from the house. Quickly, he seized another, and crammed its clip to bursting. “Das Reich.” The pistol hit the table, spun, and hit a lamp. Another was in his hand. “Polizei.” And another. “Wiking.”

  He hadn’t detected the lithe figure standing in the doorframe. “Nord.” He denominated, and sent a pistol clattering to the table. “Prinz Eugen . . .” He stopped, as a soft hand touched his shoulder. Had the music been silenced, had his perception been needle-sharp, he wondered if, even then, he would have noticed her before she was upon him.

  A snap of his finger, and the metal died. Turning, his hands reached out, and slid down the sides of the witch’s robed body, past her hips and across legs toned from sylvan hiking. Then his fingers were expanding and stretching through her long red hair, and his hot breath was on her forehead.

  “Alaric told me you’re leaving for the House of Color.” There were tears in her eyes, and her lips trembled.

  “The thunder-god is now strong within me,” Hans reassured her. “Alaric says I have now become an antithesis to Swan. Finally, I’m ready to confront him and exact vengeance for what he did to my family. Alaric says it’s time for what he calls Götterdämmerung.”

  “Sweetheart, I love our people as much as you do. But you know going to that place is suicide. Let’s you and I escape together. We’ll spread the word of the Goddess to our people; we’ll bring them hope and love and strength.”

  “I’m sorry, but even a sorceress can’t domesticate a timber wolf.” He pulled her close and kissed her. For a moment she paused, and her distressed features softened.

  But then she pulled back. “All we have in this world is each other.” Her voice was strained. “My brother’s so drunk all the time he doesn’t know what he’s saying—I lost him to alcohol years ago. You’re all I have. I’m all you have. Why do you have to throw what we have away? You know that once you walk into that place you’ll never walk back out. Just let the Muslims or the Aztecs take care of Swan. Why do you have to be the one to do it?”

  “For the same reason that Hitler in 1940 made the French surrender in the same railroad car they had made the Germans surrender in back in 1918—that’s what Alaric says. It’s the formality of revenge, Morrigan. Can’t you understand that? Besides, Alaric says the Aztecs and Muslims can’t kill Swan anyway—only Swan’s antithesis has that power.”

  “Ha! Those Muslims will tear him to pieces like they tear everything else to pieces.”

  “Not if I get him first.” He grinned wryly.

  “You see—you see! All you want is revenge—at the cost of your own life! One man can’t just break into the House of Color and assassinate the president.”

  “Actually, my lady, the solo mission of vengeance used to be a common theme in U.S. cinema.”

  “Oh, did it now? Well, we all know how realistic the movie world is, don’t we?”

  “Way back in the 1980s, when white guys were still heroes in the movies. The villains would kill his woman, and he’d go on a mission hunting them all down.”

  “Well, I’m your woman now. And they haven’t killed me—I’m right here! It’s insulting that you’d prioritize your desire for vengeance over your love for me!”

  “And what do I know about love?” He turned away and hammered the table with his big fist. “The Muslims took my brothers. The grays took my parents and fiancé—even my unborn child. It seems like everything I love always dies.”

  “Well, I’m not going to die. When I first saw you, at Samhain, I knew we’d be together someday. And then at Yule, I saw a vision of us, hand-in-hand, walking among the oaks—just like we do now.”

  There was a blue flame in his eyes. “Let’s hope your next vision’s of me strangling Swan.” His fingers scrunched tight. “And if I die in the process, well, you’re pretty—go find yourself some other man to hail your Goddess with you. Go find some other guy to tell about Murray and Gardner and ancient European witch cults.”

  She shrank back, and plunged her face into her hands. Her body jerked with tears, and she slumped against a wall. With a sigh, Hans swept a pile of guns from his bed and onto the floor.

  “Shhhhh,” he whispered, movi
ng near. “I’ll come back to you, my lady. And over the ruins of the House of Color we’ll build a fantastic castle. A beautiful, Grimms fairy tale castle. And every fall we’ll hold a spectacular Renaissance festival, and I’ll escort you down from our highest tower to the festivities, and everyone will marvel at the strong king and his radiant, bewitching queen of white magic.”

  She convulsed with a laugh, and wiped her nose with her wrist. Her eyes were still red and irritated, and she stared at the floor.

  “We’ll have extravagant balls, we’ll have plenty of rare wines.” He diligently worked his advantage, and spoke as regally as he was able. “We’ll be kind protectors of the woodland creatures that dwell nearby, and we’ll rule magnanimously.” He stroked her cheek, and was rewarded with a giggle. “So use some of your witchery to dispel the rain clouds hovering over you today, Morrigan . . .” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the door to his room was ajar. Facilely, he snatched a hand ax lying on his nightstand, and hurled it at the portal. The two watched as it spun through the air, clove wood, and pounded the door shut. “Because a lovely face like yours belongs in the sun.”

  She looked up at him, and this time, her green eyes were feral. With a grin he pulled her down to the bed. She nestled her head in the crook of his delt and chest, and looked up into his eyes. They kissed softly, her hand slowly caressing his scarred cheek.

  Chapter 46

  Jackson Gibbles was trembling. The tremors seemed to originate from his right hand, the hand that gripped a cold, thick revolver. He placed the barrel to his temple, but it strayed to his neck, then his jaw, then the floor. A shockwave rocked the room, and the pistol dropped to the carpet. The bombings and artillery were near, now. A month in this subterranean redoubt and the outside world was finally piercing in. Gibbles’s long, gray fingers puttied his face, and he collapsed into a sofa. Before him, on the floor, the dropped gun was the most powerful force in the universe. It was the only thing that could whisk him from this reality. Or was it? Bullets are so invasive, he thought. They penetrate, they splatter, they paint walls red.

  In the next room, he heard children’s laughter. Oh, little did they know, the poor souls. Little did they know of the rapacious barbarians headed their way—he had to save them. If Divine Color didn’t arrive by morning, he would save them all. Somehow, someway, he’d save them.

  “Come on, Daddy.” A tiny, gray boy poked his head through the half open door. “Uncle Terry’s telling us these cool stories about Divine Color. It’s coming tonight, Daddy—he says It’s coming tonight! I’m so excited—It’s going to save us from the bad guys and take us to paradise!” The little black eyes were full of life, like black holes that had just ingested planets.

  For a moment, Gibbles stared dumbly at the ten-year-old. What was his name? Who was he? Then in a surge he was lucid again, and his brain reported a carnal recognition of the little arms and legs and body.

  “Jaime,” the producer said, eyeing the gun that was equidistant between them, “go back with the other children—I’ll be there in a moment.”

  “But daddy, you’ve gotta hear these stories!” The boy wiped slobber from his purple lips. “Everything’s gonna be okay—Uncle Terry says so. So you don’t have to worry anymore! Wait till you hear how Divine Color’s gonna save us! You can put away your gun, daddy—you won’t need to shoot the bad guys ‘cause Divine Color’s gonna zap them with this rainbow and . . .”

  “All right, son, I’ll come to listen.” He smiled, rose shakily to his feet, and followed the skipping child down a fortified corridor and into a room. Within, Swan was seated in the center of a large group of boys and girls. He was gesticulating mightily, voice theatric, eyes oblivious to the entrance of the propaganda minister.

  “And Divine Color will appear to us as a humongous, swirling sphere!” the president intoned. “It will be all the colors of the rainbow, churning together in harmony. And beams of Color will shoot from It, painting the sky and the forests and the oceans and the cities a beautiful spectrum. And there will be no pain, no suffering, no death—only peace and love for all the world. And we’ll all look alike—so we’ll all be diverse. And we’ll live in peace and perfection for all eternity, arm-in-arm, happily ever-after!”

  “Yay!” cried Jaime, and he clapped along with his brothers and sisters. “Tell it again, Uncle, tell it again!”

  “Oh, I will,” assured Swan. “But first, I have an announcement to make.” He pursed his lips together and revolved his wide eyes.

  “What is it? What is it?” was the collective demand.

  “Later today, your Uncle Terry and Uncle Scottie are getting married—and you’re all invited!”

  The children were ecstatic. “That’s great!” “I’m so happy for you.” “Ah, wow!” sounded in unison.

  “The ceremony will be at five, then we’ll have a luxurious dinner at seven. Uncle Smith has been wanting this for a long time, and what better a time than now to grant his wish—right on the eve of Divine Color’s descent to our world!”

  “Congratulations, Terry.” Gibbles nodded humbly. “I couldn’t help but to hear that Divine Color’s arrival is imminent; is this true?”

  “Why, of course!” Swan blinked, startled. “I received Its telepathic signal early this morning.” There was a dull thud from high above, and granules of rock and ceiling tile sprinkled the president’s head. “None too soon, either. The Muslims will reach the House of Color by tomorrow afternoon, so my remaining commanders report.”

  “I’ve been praying to see Its iridescent plurality for so long . . . so long now.” The director’s eyes were wet, and his teeth chattered. “I didn’t know how much longer I could hold on . . . I mean, psychologically.”

  “I know, my friend.” Swan smiled at him. “But you needn’t worry any longer. Divine Color is the most powerful force in existence; It wouldn’t let anything evil befall us.”

  “I . . . was so worried about my children,” Gibbles cried openly, his sniffles drawing looks of compassion from the little boys and girls. “I swear I’ll never let those Aztecs or Muslims get them. Never.”

  “There, there, Jackson,” Soothed the president. “They’re here, and Divine Color has blessed them all in Its protective rays. Come now, my friend, look at them all here before you—they’re all safe and sound.”

  Gibbles surveyed the twelve children—six boys and six girls ranging from eight to fourteen. “Come to me, come to me my children.” He wept, sinking down to the floor among them. They wrapped their young, gray arms around him. Little Jaime stroked the producer’s balding head. “I blessed these poor waifs with Americanization,” Gibbles said to the president. “I made them my own—I showed them the pleasures of love and lust. And no Aztec or Muslim will ever lay their Alien hands on them.”

  Some of the children began to cry. Most of the tears were sympathetic, but others generated from the same skepticism exhibited by their adoptive father.

  “What are we going to do, Terry?” cried the producer amid the protective tangle of bodies.

  Swan’s face was stern. “Jackson, I already assured you of the verity of my revelation. Your uncertainty is bordering on heresy.”

  “Well, when . . . when will It get here again?” Gibbles’s fingers were in his mouth.

  “I already told you, tonight.”

  “When tonight?”

  “By midnight! I promise you, Divine Color will arrive to save us by midnight. Now, I want all of you to go dress yourselves in your finest outfits. We all have a wedding ceremony to prepare for.”

  Before Gibbles and his children could rise, Smith paced into the room. In his hand was a personal television orb. From tiny apertures in the black ball, light beams projected upward to form a levitating twelve-by-twelve inch screen. A man’s laughter was booming from slits near the orb’s top.

  “Terry, I finally got hold of him. Will you convince this idiot to send the divisions he stole from us back to Washington?”

  “Yes, Te
rry, convince me.” A ghoulish voice issued from the sphere, as Smith placed the orb on a table facing Swan and the children. It was Hommler, seated on his throne, lips caked a dry claret.

  Swan gulped and stared down the vampire. “Listen to me, Herbert, I’m the commander in chief, and I’m ordering you to redeploy the 82nd, 101st, and 16th back to defend the capitol. You had no authority to entrench them around your castle!”

  “Shut up, you pathetic catamite!” Hommler yelled. “The Sultan himself just made landfall twenty miles from my castle. Apparently he perceives me as some sort of freak-show curiosity—I just received a letter demanding surrender addressed to Vlad ‘Tepes’ Dracula. Those divisions aren’t going anywhere, so why don’t you invoke your rainbow god to come and save you?”

  “I already have!” shouted the president. “It will arrive this evening . . . but don’t expect It to spare you. You’re the antithesis of diversity—you’re a lowly white man, the nadir of evolution! Be prepared to be judged by Its iridescent perfection!”

  Hommler laughed darkly, then within a fold of his robe, gripped a rectangular device. After depressing a combination of buttons with his sharp thumbnail, he looked up. His face bore the fascination of a serpent’s before devouring a mouse.

  “Goodbye, Terry,” Hommler bid. “I want you to die knowing that your god is destined for oblivion. I will efface Its name from the temples you built in Its honor, then grind those temples to bedrock for one of my colossal megaliths to Tiamat.”

  “Never! Prepare to be judged, Herbert Hommler, because Divine Color arrives tonight! If I were you I’d Americanize now and repent for your evils. Repent! Repent! Re . . .”

  A tremor jolted Swan’s cheek, and he froze. It was a titillating, warm sensation, a sensation he hadn’t felt in weeks.