“But how do we know that he is the vampire?” asked the vizier.
“Look at the silver hair and pale flesh—look close and you can even see the infidel’s fangs chomping.”
Berkant slid goggles over his eyes, and his vision telescoped to the dais and altar. His sultan was right.
Mictlan blinked and wavered. His breath was coming harder now, and he wondered if he bore enough strength in his hand to excise a heart. Islamic soldiers were still shouldering in through the doors in staggering numbers, and far at the end of the center aisle was a man whose ostrich plumed and jewel-encrusted turban signaled a post of highest command.
Meanwhile, the pain in Hommler’s midsection from the plasma gun was amplifying. He thrust his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and a generous squirt of tranquilizer issued from each fang. Some of the fluid oozed down his throat, but he caught the bulk of it and held it beneath his tongue for better absorption. “You’re all coming with me,” mumbled the fiend groggily as the tranquilizer glazed down his throat. “And you had better pray your gods can fend off mine—they’ll be coming for you. Mine are older and meaner.”
The high priest stood behind his head, and looked down at his captive, dagger raised. Framed in blurred vision, Hommler saw the leering face of Mictlan, upside down. As the flint arced toward its target, the vampire tried to roll as he had done to avoid Andrade’s stake in his coffin. But the priests held him fast, and the blade cut a wide berth into Hommler’s diaphragm, just beneath the ribs.
Mehmed wandered down the aisle, entranced, a score of janissaries at his side. He watched the high priest stagger around to the side of the altar and worm his hand into the incision and up into the vampire’s rib box. Mictlan’s fingers squeezed between the lungs until they felt the gelatinous sack around the heart. Hommler wailed and the high priest growled as fingers closed around the prized muscle. Jerking downward with his remaining strength, Mictlan dislodged the heart from its plexus of arteries and veins.
Mehmed was on the dais now, peering over the shoulders of the priests. Berkant was there, too, narrating to a cylindrical camera held by his face. Slowly, gorily, Mictlan retracted the heart from the cavity. As it emerged, palpitating in the brown hand, there was a look of reverence and wonder among the men as if a child had been delivered. They waited, eager for transmission of some esoteric truth. A downward knife stroke and the organ was severed from its strained fetters.
Wavering on unsteady feet, Mictlan thrust the heart high above his head, the beat of his prize still tickling his palm. “Yollotli! Yollotli! Yollotli!” he roared lustily to his congregation, until the god in his hand slowed its drum beat. And suddenly, it stopped. In a maimed stump of a second, the thousands in the chapel heard a draconic explosion beneath their feet. Then they were gone, and five billion televisions snowed white.
Chapter 48
Swan stared into the cracked mirror, heedless of his bloody knuckles. It was the first punch he had thrown in his life, and, in a way, it was thrown at himself. Slowly, his fingers drifted up to his newly sprouted mustache and thin lips. The hair above his top lip was brown and grew in the rectangular rigidity of a Napoleonic infantry formation. More precisely, it was cut to accommodate the contours of a World War I gas mask.
“Scottie—make it stop! Make it stop!” he cried, scrubbing his hands through his brown hair to thwart its insistent part. “Look what he’s done to me! Look! My hair won’t go the way I want it to go—I’m starting to look like . . .” And his face was in his hands, his thin body flexing in sobs.
“Honey, it will be all right,” soothed the vice president, his hand on the back of Swan’s tuxedo.
“Nothing’s all right! Where is It? Where is Divine Color? Only Divine Color can save me from this monstrosity I’m turning into!”
“Well, it’s only three a.m., Terry. I . . . I’m sure It’ll be here by dawn.”
“Go and tell Jackson and his children not to come in here. I can’t let them see me like this! Oh, those poor children—they’d squeal with terror if they could see what I’ve become!”
Smith nodded and left his husband. The bunker was strangely quiet. He passed through the room that just hours ago had witnessed their joyous union. A half-eaten wedding cake coronated the table, and a rainbow array of balloons loitered uncomfortably against the ceiling. Propped near the cake was a giant poster board folded into a card. It was a gift from the children, who had spent their time feverishly working on the gift with their array of crayons and markers.
“Jackson? Children?” Smith called as he approached the door to their room. It was shut, and all was quiet. He was about to try the doorknob when a noise arrested his attention. It came from the entrance to the bunker—a double fortified bank-vault style door. As Smith approached, he gasped. The door had been peeled like a sardine can by a bomb, and a jumble of mortar, wood, and tile had supplanted the steel. But there was an audible scuffling, the giving of wood, and curses from somewhere deep in the rubble. Then, moments later, a large man shimmied out on his stomach from one of the gaps. His hair was a tangled, blond mane, and despite the gloom, his eyes were a luminous azure. A small arsenal of firearms was strapped to his body, and a plasma rifle was in his hands. Smith glared in wonder at the man’s tattooed physique. The muscles seemed perpetually flexed, like the caricatured swells of a comic book hero. Perhaps, if the man’s face hadn’t been camouflaged in olive drab paint, he could have traced the connection.
“Freeze!” commanded Smith, with pistol leveled one-handed. His wounded arm was progressing slowly after the martial arts catastrophe, and was still suspended in rigid white wraps.
The titan just smiled, stood up, and dusted himself off. There was something vaguely familiar about the intruder.
“I don’t want to have to kill you, man. Now crawl right back where you came from!” ordered Smith.
Hans fathomed him in electric eyes, and laughed.
“I feel like Beowulf,” he remarked casually. “Having dived into a morass and swum to the bottom to kill a monster.”
“What?” asked Smith, sweat issuing down his forehead.
“I’ve come for Swan. Where is he?”
A bullet banged from Smith’s pistol and ricocheted off the titan’s black vest. In one movement, Hans pointed his rifle and flickered his finger along the semi automatic trigger. The vice president staggered as hot globules of light passed through his body. His pistol hit the ground first, dropped from trembling fingers, then his head was sideways on a pillow of concrete. Hans afforded him one glance, then pressed on. Smith’s last image while conscious was of his killer’s shoulder, the swastika tattoo looking like a pinwheel without a breeze.
Hans paused at a closed door on his left. Then his boot crashed it open, rifle barrel sweeping the room for a target. He stumbled on something at his feet, and caught his balance against the column of a bunk bed. Looking down, he saw that his foot’s impediment was a little, gray boy. The boy’s arms were spread, and his legs were positioned in a semblance of motion like a cherub about to take flight. But his eyes were blank, his tongue partially out, his limbs plastic. By his side was an unmarked vial, ovular green caplets trailing from the open top. Scattered around the room, some still clinging to each other, Hans counted eleven other dead children. A twelfth was noticeably removed from the others. He was in a corner, and the sheen of tears was still on his cold gray cheeks. His hair was wooly, and he clutched a piece of construction paper in his hand. Hans stepped over to him and looked down at the paper. It depicted a mother, father, son, and dog in brown crayon. In the bottom right corner was written a name—Kevin Haynes.
And at the far side of the room, seated among a large, rigid throng of children was Jackson Gibbles himself, eyes wide and staring. The sickness that ailed him in life had not left his eyes in death. So, with two pulses from his rife, the youth blew them out.
Then it was down the main corridor again, and past an empty room on the right containing a cake and balloons.
Farther down, Hans listened behind a door that was slightly ajar. Slowly, he nudged the door open with the tip of his rifle. He heard the crackle of a radio transmitter, and a high, staccato voice.
“Fight them with everything . . . hold to the last, citizens of America. Stand up to the propagators of international Jewish monotheism! For it is a doctrine of racism and lunacy. Abide by the principles that I have taught you and carry on with . . .” He stopped his broadcast and wheeled in his chair. For several moments, it was as if time had stopped.
Swan’s mouth was suddenly dry, and his head bobbed neurotically. Finally, he spoke to the exotic youth with painted face. “Are . . . are you a messenger from Divine Color?”
“You . . . you!” Hans grasped for words to express his disbelief.
“Are you sent by the Rainbow Regent?” the president demanded again, slapping his hand against the old radio.
“I . . . I came to this world from Asgard across the rainbow bridge,” the youth said, still entranced.
“The rainbow bridge?” Swan clasped his hands together and the corners of his mouth spiked in a grin. “Oh, blessed emissary from divinity, you are welcome here! I’ve been waiting for you for so long! Come, usher me along to our master.”
“Odin is far off,” Hans whispered. “My father . . . said you’d be here . . . he swore you’d be.”
“Of course the Rainbow Regent knew I was here. The damned Muslims and Aztecs are attacking us—I had to retreat here to protect myself. You must save us—tell the Rainbow Regent to save us before it’s too late!”
“I’m here to save . . . everyone.” The youth’s response was delayed, as if his answer formulated spontaneously and for the first time. “But I’ve been waiting to talk to you for years now. Why did you have to kill all those poor people back then? You tried to exterminate the Jews and enslave the Slavic peoples. Why? In the end all you managed to do was wipe out millions and millions of our people . . . you make me sick.”
“Back then? Your grace, I gave the order to liquidate the Jews in this country just months ago. And I can’t say that I’ve singled out Slavic peoples more than the other hateful Caucasian sub-types. All who are guilty of monotheism, heterosexuality, or nationalism must die. I killed them all to appease the iridescent diversity of our master.”
“Diversity?” There was puzzlement in the youth’s Neptune eyes.
“Yes, diversity. Well, how do you propose to save us?” asked the president. “Can you project rainbows from your hands?”
Hans sneered.
“I propose to do it by killing President Swan. Now, unless you’re just a delusion of my mind, I’d appreciate if you’d direct me to him. I just took out the vice president a second ago—surely Swan’s nearby too.”
“What?” The president’s hand covered his mouth, and he ran out the door.
“Don’t worry, he’s dead,” consoled the youth, jogging after him. “And the other one committed suicide.”
An elegiac howl burst from Swan’s lips as he saw the corpse of his husband.
“Führer—figment of my imagination—whatever you are—tell me where I can find President Swan. Normality can’t be regained until I kill him. This man here was just his underling.”
The president reached down and picked up an object by the corpse.
“Why did Divine Color send you to do something like this?” Swan screamed, tears gushing his face.
“Divine Color? Divine Color is the god of Swan and that lifeless gray creature right there.” He jerked his chin at the body. “I have nothing to do with Divine Color.”
The president choked another whimper, then pointed Smith’s pistol at the youth’s head. And fired.
Hours later, Swan was at his radio again. Blood and cerebral matter colored his tuxedo red, pink, and gray. His hands were palsied, and his head tittered as if he were operating a jack hammer. The microphone glistened with saliva and viscous strands of translucent mucous.
“It’s your fault . . . all of you. It’s your fault!” he indicted into the speaker amid streaking tears. “You didn’t defend the nation like you should have. You failed your country . . . you failed your country and your god!” The cold muzzle of the pistol penetrated Swan’s mouth, and he gagged and withdrew it, his head wringing. “Because of you, Divine Color has bypassed the planet—he doesn’t think we’re worthy to save! And the Jewish monotheists have sent a deceiver to kill me. Well, I’m going to fly to my god of color rather than be caught and executed by my enemies. American filth, you are no better than the Aliens! I hate you! I hate you! I hate . . .” The pistol spat a round through the roof of his mouth and the wrinkled labyrinth of his brain. For a moment his head wavered upright, then crashed into the radio.
Chapter 49
For everyone in the room but Guerrero, it was difficult not to smile. Castle Vayvels had detonated in a fantastic explosion, eradicating the crème of the Turkish army. More importantly, Sultan Mehmed III, the man singularly responsible for Islamic concinnity, was believed to have died in the blast.
But for the President of Aztlan, the news was a whetted knife in his belly. His eyes seemed perpetually teary and unfocused. He knew there was a possibility that Hommler had escaped with his daughter somehow—though that seemed remote. By some inexplicable feeling, he sensed that Marisela was dead.
In the dim light of the old structure where they sat, in its musty defiance of time, Rick and George felt a contagious lift of Revolutionary spirit. Rick had urged they convene here, at the famed Buckman Tavern in Lexington.
“I say our plan should be to tar and feather them all, then throw them into the harbor,” General Sanchez said, the mug of beer untouched by his elbow. “No, seriously though, I’m not sure I like the idea of entrenching ourselves in Boston like this. They can shell us at will from off shore, and they can cut off our supply lines.” The general was still giddy over the turn of events that had led to his reinstatement. For the past year now, the U.S. military had been essentially disbanded. As the highest ranking general in the army, Swan and Hommler both had implored him to Americanize to retain his post. Unlike some of his colleagues, he had refused, and was duly fired.
“It worked for my people in 1942,” Aleksandra offered, while leaning close to George. “Stalingrad was nestled against the same kind of curving waterway. Supplies will get through—watch and see.”
“The past can help inform our decisions in the present, but let’s be careful we don’t apply the past too rigidly to the present or the future. If there’s one thing I’ve learned lately it’s that the world is constantly changing. Just because something worked before doesn’t mean it will work again. Just because someone acted a certain way in the past doesn’t mean he’ll act the same way in the future,” Rick said, then finished his glass of beer.
“I agree, Rick, but you don’t know this man like I do. He bragged on national television he’d have Boston by February 1,” George spoke up. “That gives him four days to get his troops out of Dorchester and to take the city. Trust me, rather than lose face he’ll do anything. This man is a murderer, not a leader. He’ll become impatient and keep ordering frontal assaults. We’ll have all the advantages of being a defender in an urban theater plus the bastard’s own hubris working for us.”
“And we’re sure this Alp Uktar character has assumed full command of all Islamic forces on the continent? Do we really want to believe the news we hear from our enemies?” asked Sanchez.
“From my experiences with them in the past it’s not bullshit. Uktar is known as a man who instills fear in his enemies and gets the job done,” explained the Athenian. “I don’t think he’s ever produced less than stellar results on any of his assignments. But those assignments in the past have all been pogroms, persecutions, round-ups, and genocides. He’s out of his element as a general—I say we stick to your plan. Half our army garrisons Boston and takes the brunt of the Muslim attack. When their forces are bogged down in urban warfare, that’s when the other half of our f
orces will hit them from the back. Trust me—Uktar will take Boston by February first or waste his army trying. And if he takes it, God help every man, woman and child in sight.”
A sensation passed through Rick’s body. For once, it was the feeling of tranquility—Cathy, Blake, and the unborn baby were safe to the west in Nebraska. The Muslims wouldn’t reach them. Unless, that is, the pan-American army were beaten. With a sinking feeling he lapsed into uneasiness.
“Let me get this straight, y’all.” General Rutherford, his hair shorn into a crew-cut for the fist time in a year, drew the group’s attention with his Texas accent. “We’re counting on favorable defensive terrain and the brashness of an enemy general to outweigh the detriment from the naval bombardments. The plan seems sound but do we have to pick a city to draw them into that’s smack dab in range of their navy?” As if to underscore his concerns, a series of incoming shells were heard impacting in the distance.
“I felt the same until I saw the first casualty list, published this morning.” General Curtis, a rangy black man, weighed in. “We have, what, about two million coalition forces garrisoning the city right now? Well, we’ve only lost twenty-seven men to the artillery barrage so far, and it’s been ongoing for the past week. That degree of loss shouldn’t impact our tactical decisions, in my opinion.”
“Let’s not forget about the other two Muslim army groups,” said Rick. “Yes, the primary group, Army Group One, landed near Bangor and suffered about thirty percent casualties in that hell-blast at the castle. Then, thankfully, Guerrero’s army eliminated the balance of that Muslim army. But a very large and very preening Army Group Two has just taken the Capitol. And then there’s Army Group Three down in Florida. Those fuckers seem preoccupied with razing Disney World at the moment. But they’ll be hauling ass north if they get the word.”
The Gods of Color Page 50