By the time he’d made Indio, the sun had set, and there were groups of folks who had banded together for their own security. He found an RV in a trailer park whose owner hadn’t yet returned. He decided to make it his own for the evening, choosing to explain to them why he’d invaded their privacy rather than trust that he wouldn’t be attacked outside.
He checked his phone. Service was still out. Power was out in the RV too. He cleaned up, then poked around the inside for a while. The RV was owned by a snowbird named Nelson Tucker, previously of Duluth, Minnesota. He was seventy-eight years old. Liked to drink orange juice and vodka, because other than water, those were the only beverages in the RV. Blane helped himself to a screwdriver, found a bag of chips and some beef jerky and sat on the sofa. He sat there eating, listening to the occasional scream or shout for help coming from outside.
At about ten, he decided to do some projection. He needed to know what was going on and this was his only opportunity to do it without putting himself in danger. He found a spot on the floor, removed his shirt, and sat Indian style. He pulled a tiny vial of frankincense out of his pocket and anointed his seven chakras, the woody smell infusing him with a feeling of calm. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his Root Chakra, inhabiting it with all of his being, then moving from it and turning it off. Once he dismissed the chakra, it was as if everything below that ceased to exist. Then he did the same with the Sacral Chakra and the Solar Plexus Chakra, and the others until only the Crown Chakra remained. He felt nothing below this. Not even his own breathing. Then he poured his entire being into the Crown Chakra, filling it, pushing against it. Finally he pushed free, switching the Chakra off.
He felt nothing as he slipped into the astral plane.
He heard nothing as he moved higher and higher, leaving his body behind. He used to look at it as it receded, but after so many times, he stopped doing it. Much like he almost never regarded himself in a mirror. He eventually stopped when he could see all of Indio, Palm Springs and Cathedral City laid out beneath him—glittering diamonds on black felt. Gone were the buildings. Gone were the crashes. Gone were the windmills. Instead all he saw were the living, each glittering diamond representing one living consciousness including mammals, avians, and reptiles.
To say he turned would be the wrong word, since he didn’t exist as a human in the plane, but it was the most suitable word to describe how he moved to adjust his view. Turning towards Interstate 10, he focused in, his view snapping closer. Here and there lights flashed, then shot upwards. He’d never followed where the lights went. To fly—another unsatisfying word—too high would mean to get caught in the gravity—yet another—of what lies beyond. He’d felt its pull often enough, but made sure never to let it grab him. He’d seen the empty shells of monks when he’d first studied in Thailand. One’s body could continue on without a consciousness, but there was nothing there to inhabit it, except the occasional wandering spirit that sometimes took them for rides.
Then he turned again, shifting his gaze south towards the Salton Sea. He flew, moving over the invisible chaos below, until he reached the Bombay Beach hotel where his people were. He counted the lights there and noted almost all were there, which relieved him.
Then he turned yet again, flying west towards Cathedral City. In the physical plane there was a mountain in the way, but that mountain didn’t exist where he was. He flew through it, feeling nothing of the billion tons of mineral and ore that comprised it.
Then he slowed, wary and careful. He searched the sky—yet another imperfect term—for sign of any other travelers. Far off to the west be believed he saw one. He’d go no farther. It could be one of the Harlots or it could even be the Black Bishop himself. He wasn’t looking for a fight. Just information.
He slipped down and down, searching for a particular flavor of light. It took mere minutes to find it, a coyote racing across the desert floor. It was a simple thing he’d done a thousand times; to slip back into the physical plane and enter the mind of the creature, joining with it, taking control not with a strong fist, but with a guiding hand.
The coyote continued running until it reached the edge of the great Cathedral. Blane made it slip between the gates of the complex. He hugged the walls while he observed the people. Supplicants and novitiates wandered wide-eyed, fear carving their features. Monks moved swiftly between buildings, their faces filled with concern. A pair of Harlots limped by. He searched their faces for any recognition, any sign of Mandy. He’d always been sure that even with pieces of a face removed, he could divine his long lost friend. But there was nothing he recognized. With missing lips and ears, they were all barely human.
His coyote sense cranked to eleven and he jumped, just in time to avert being struck by a stick wielded by a young boy.
Blane made the coyote run, first deeper into the grotto, weaving between legs, dodging kicks. He was about ready to reverse direction when he spied an opening. He skidded to a stop. In the center of the circle were two people—beings actually. One was the Black Bishop. Impossibly tall and preternaturally thin, light glinted off the razor’s edge of his metal mitre.
He was speaking to another man, equally tall and equally commanding. These two were so different from the other humans that they could have been another species unto themselves. The other had jet black skin. He wore a white suit with white shoes. His hands were clasped in front of him.
Then the man and the Black Bishop turned towards him. He felt their power. He felt their inquiry. Anger seethed in the Black Bishop’s eyes, but the other was more curious.
I AM ROOK blasted into his mind.
The communication was so powerful it caused him to lose hold on the coyote. It shoved him out and back into the astral plane. Both the Rook and the Black Bishop glowed like supernovas in front of him. Blane spun and shot eastward as fast as he could go. He felt rather than saw them give chase and close on him. His only hope was to get to Sebastian. Perhaps the blood sorcerer could help. But there was no way he’d make it. They were too fast and too powerful.
He turned and watched as one of the lights fell away, returning to its body. But one was still with him and by its taint it felt like the being known as Rook.
Blane dove into another coyote, this one racing in his direction. But as soon as he did, he felt his mistake. This creature was suffused with fear. It was being chased. He had the coyote spare a glance, and felt his own fear. Faces like fanged baboons, they ran on four canine legs. The skin was grey, the porcupine spikes that ran down their spines were black. The size of Great Danes, these rough beasts were like nothing he had ever seen.
One began to speed faster than the others and Blane knew then that Rook was inside of it.
He begged the coyote to run faster, but the poor beast was spent. It was only a matter of time before it slowed enough for these dire creatures to catch it. But he ran with it to the end, urging it on, trying to get it to give all it had and then some in the desperate hope that it might get away. Then it slowed and tripped and fell. Right as the chasing beasts began to eat it, Blane pulled the cord.
It was a desperate ploy, one which, if it worked, would leave him with a terrible headache. He flipped into the Astral Plane, then instantaneously flipped back into his body on the Primal Plane. He’d only done it once before and it had left him in pain for days. This time he felt the pain as well, the weight of his soul falling from a thousand feet and slamming into his body.
He opened his eyes, the fear of running and being eaten still consuming him. But now he had worse problems.
The sound of the hammer being pulled back on the pistol in his face was incredibly loud.
“Who are you and what are you doing half-naked in my RV?”
A laugh slipped out as Blane wondered how he could ever really answer that question.
The man’s frown deepened. “What’s so funny?”
Blane was about to respond, but he passed out instead.
Chapter Thirteen
Cathedral
City. The Black Bishop held the man by the throat, glaring into his eyes. He sought the soul of this being who’d attacked him, but there was nothing there. Just the hint of a spark of a thing which used to be someone. He tossed the man aside, the body flying until it hit the rough-hewn side of a grotto wall.
Harlots and monks cowered around him, none willing to speak or move, lest his fury move to them as well.
Then there was the spy. He wondered who that had been and how long he’d been spied upon? Were the attack and the spy connected? It seemed coincidence that he was attacked just as he was giving chase.
He became aware of a slight pain in his chest. He glanced down and saw the knife jammed into him. He reached down and pulled it out, admiring the color of his blood. Did they really think they could hurt me this way? he thought. He switched the knife to his left hand, then mumbling words of power ran two fingers of his right hand along the wound, healing it immediately.
He stalked out of the grotto to where Rook still stood transfixed. A circle of monks shielded him with their bodies. They didn’t really have to. Rook was one of the 88 and the herald for what was about to come. Rook could no more be destroyed by the mere hands of mortals than the Black Bishop could.
Rooks eyes opened. At first they were wide, but then they narrowed. He turned and pushed aside the monks standing in his way.
“Who was that?” he demanded.
The Black Bishop shrugged almost imperceptibly. “A spy. An ant. A fly in the ointment. Nothing more.”
Rook’s eyes flashed to solid white for a few moments, then returned to normal. “I want him. You must find him.”
The Black Bishop stared. He wasn’t used to being commanded by anyone. But he’d known of the 88 and knew of their master and understood the events which were about to transform reality. He’d known this day was coming for what seemed like an eternity and had set everything in place.
“Did you hear me?” Rook asked.
“I heard.”
“And.”
“I comply,” said the Black Bishop. He couldn’t help but notice how the monks regarded him. They’d never seen him answer to anyone before. Then he watched as they turned to Rook, their adoration and commitment shifting to this newcomer.
The Black Bishop simmered as the night moved around him.
Chapter Fourteen
Palm Springs. Jenkies sat at the breakfast table, terrified to eat, drink, speak, or even move. The power had been restored to the neighborhood sometime in the early morning and now her father sat in the other room, glued to the television as it told of the complete disaster that had befallen the world. Her mother sipped coffee, glancing irritatingly at her phone, waiting for service to be restored so she could see how her friends had weathered the event on Facebook and Twitter.
“You’ve got to eat something, Jenkies,” her mother said to her.
Jenkies stared at the toast on the plate in front of her, feeling like a fraud who was about to be called out. How did she ever think she’d be able to take over the other girl’s life? Sure, it was this universe’s version of her, but there were so many things that were different.
“Honey, come in here,” her dad called to her mom—the dead Jenkies’ parents. “You’ve got to see this?”
“Another crash scene? I’ve had my share of them.”
“No, really. It’s an airplane in the middle of Mile High Stadium.”
Jenkies watched as her mother glanced away from her phone, then pushed off the counter and went into the living room.
Jenkies breathed a sigh of relief. She forced herself to be calm. If she was going to make this work, she had to keep calm. Her gaze danced to the window looking out at the neighbor’s house. If she was going to make this work, she also had to figure out something to do with the body. She’d hidden it where she’d stayed, beneath the Calhoun’s house. If she didn’t figure out something to do with it soon, it would start to stink. How could Jenkies possibly explain herself if the Calhouns found it?
She watched as a dog meandered between the houses. She stood and went to the window. Her heart dropped out of her chest as she watched the animal sniff at the entrance to the crawl space. When it began to scratch at the screen covering the access, she almost fainted.
Chapter Fifteen
Bombay Beach Motel. Nelson had turned out to be a very agreeable man once Blane explained to him the situation. Somehow the unvarnished truth was easier to believe than any excuse that might seem plausible. Once Blane had finished, Nelson, who was a slight paunchy man with white hair on the sides of his otherwise bald and liver-spotted head, had put the gun away and poured himself a screwdriver.
“That’s one hell of a tale, son,” he’d said.
“Mind if I make myself one of those?” Blane asked.
And after that they’d drunk themselves silly, finishing the entire handle of Costco-brand vodka. Blane had learned that Nelson was a Shriner who hated wearing the fez, but loved riding around in the little clown cars during parades. And in exchange, Blane had told him how he’d spent his entire life seeking the girl who’d given her life for him.
When he awoke the next morning, everything was a blur except for one question which rang over and over in his mind as Nelson drove the RV, picking his way through the streets to the Bombay Beach Hotel.
What do you think you’re going to do with her if you find her?
Even now in the hangover light of a new day, Blane didn’t have an answer to that. Was he going to thank her? Was he going to save her? It occurred to him that if she was still alive that she was most likely a disfigured harlot, committed to the Black Bishop like a cult member might be committed to their cult leader. He took the thought to its obvious conclusion and was even more lost. If he did manage to find her and if he did manage to save her and if he did manage to deprogram her, then how would she reconcile her mutilations? How would she live with herself?
A voice whispered through his mind like an ill wind—why not leave good enough alone?
He rubbed his face with his right hand hard enough that if there’d been an answer, it would have been forced out. But there was no answer other than he felt that someone needed to pay because without someone paying for her sacrifice and kidnapping, it meant that everything he’d ever done was worthless.
When they pulled into the hotel, Frezzie met them, throwing herself into Blane’s arms with enthusiasm.
“We didn’t know what happened to you!” she grinned, then covered her nose and disengaged. “What’d you do, French kiss a wino last night?”
“Something like that. Let me introduce you to Nelson Tucker. I told him we’d help him out with a place to stay. Do we have power?”
She nodded. “Generator only.”
Blane noticed several vehicles missing in the parking lot. “Everyone make it back?”
“Andy is still unaccounted for. The others are out getting supplies. Everyone’s in full prepper mode, stealing, taking, removing anything they can get.”
“What’s Sebastian say?”
Her smile fell. “That’s just it. He hasn’t said anything.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, Blane. We’re just so glad you’re here.”
He glanced at Nelson. “Thanks for the ride,” he said to Nelson, then jogged up the stairs and inside.
Pippa met him at the door.
He nodded and hurried downstairs where Sebastian’s 500 pound bulk lay sprawled on his metal-mesh papasan chair. His eyes were closed. His two Meso-American assistants gave him fearful looks as they continued to wipe him down with wet cloths.
Pippa joined him. Worry clouded her eyes as she bit absently at her thumbnail. “Can you wake him?”
“I’m not sure if I should.”
“What was he doing when we lost him?”
She said something in Spanish to his assistants. One responded.
“He was projecting.” She flicked a worried glance Blane’s way, then resumed biting her thumbnail. “Think
he’s out there?”
“He’s definitely out there.”
One of the zombie drivers named Carlos strode down the hall, fuming. “I had to burn my zombie because of you.”
Blane turned to him. “What are you talking about?”
“When you made that ham-handed reconnaissance of the Grotto and those two saw you I was there driving Ramone Valenzuela.”
Blane’s eyes narrowed as he took in the other man’s unreasonable anger. “Listen, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Carlos pointed a finger and jabbed it in the air towards Blane’s chest. “They chased you—the Black Bishop and the one called Rook.”
Now Blane was getting mad. “Yeah, so?”
“I had to sacrifice Ramone. I had him stab the Black Bishop so he’d stop following you.”
Blane stared for a moment as he took in the meaning, then his face fell. “I barely made it as it was. This Rook was impossibly fast. Almost as fast as the Black Bishop.”
“What were you thinking? You know you need to coordinate any interaction with the Grotto and its residents.”
Blane shook his head. “You’re right. I wasn’t thinking. The blindness happened. I was on I-10. You should see it.” Then he shook his head. “No, don’t see it. There’s so much death.”
“It happened everywhere. The whole world,” Pippa said. “It’s all over the HAM radio nets.”
“The world?” Blane stared towards the ceiling as he imagined pilots in airplanes and workers atop high buildings suddenly blinded. “Gods.” Images of planes crashing flashed through his mind. Finally he lowered his eyes to Carlos. “How much time did he have left in his agreement?”
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