The Nosferatu Chronicles: The Aztec God

by Susan Hamilton

  *******

  The Secotans waited for the white-skinned demon, a Nihasa, to make his nighttime appearance. Although they outnumbered him more than fifty to one, they had witnessed what his superior strength was capable of and would not dare attack him.

  The Nihasa had first appeared a year earlier, brazenly walking alone into their campsite and meeting their gaze with his cold, grey eyes. He had the look of a white settler, but they had never been known to travel alone. As four young warriors had rushed toward him, he sent them flying with a blow from his bare forearm. Moving so fast that he was a blur, he easily dodged the arrows let loose upon him. The Secotans had frozen with fear when he produced a magical hand device that spoke to them in their own language, telling them that he had been sent by the Master Spirit to defeat the white invaders. They had received this “good” news with ambivalence.

  “Why would the Master Spirit send a white man to defeat his own kind?” one of them had asked the demon.

  “Precisely because they will accept me as one of their own,” he explained smoothly, “and that will lay the groundwork for our ambush.”

  The Nihasa was true to his word. He had approached the fifteen soldiers stationed at Roanoke Island wearing the tattered robe of a Dominican friar and claimed to have been the sole survivor of a shipwreck a decade earlier. As he had feigned a seizure, the Secotans launched a devastating attack. The demon-man had taken the “blood payment” directly from the dying and had told the Secotans that he would help defeat all of their rival tribes as long as he could collect his fill of “invader blood.”

  As soon as the sun had set, the Secotans heard the Nihasa approaching.

  “The white settlers have returned,” he announced.

  “We saw them this morning,” said Etchemin, a Secotan warrior. “You said they would flee upon beholding the bones of the dead soldiers.”

  “They attempted to,” said the Nihasa, “but the crew of the ship that brought them here sailed off without them.”

  “Then we should kill them as we did the soldiers,” said Etchemin.

  “If they are slaughtered inside the fort,” said the Nihasa, “the invaders will come in greater numbers and make war with the Secotans. They must be enticed out and the bodies never found.”

  “How?” asked Etchemin.

  “Invite the Croatans here for peace talks,” he said.

  “Manteo has returned with the invaders and has resumed his status as chief of the Croatans,” said Etchemin. “He will suspect something.”

  “Then don’t ask Manteo,” said the Nihasa curtly. “Surely there are others who have risen to power in his absence. Deal with them.”

  *******

  “Who killed the soldiers?” asked White.

  “The Secotans,” said Manteo. “I have heard it from three different tribes, all giving the same account. They are doing the bidding of a ‘Pale Nihasa’ — an evil night spirit who is their equivalent of the Devil.”

  “Take us to their village,” ordered White. “We shall travel through the night and attack them at first light.”

  White led a dawn attack on the Secotans that went disastrously wrong. They entered the Secotan village too early, while it was still dark, and attacked the sleeping Croatans that had gone ahead to take part in peace talks. Strangely, the Secotans were nowhere to be found. One of the dead was Manteo’s own mother. After that, relations between the colonists and the local tribes steadily deteriorated.

  A few days later, the corpse of colonist George Howe was found in Albemarle Sound, where he had gone alone to search for crabs. His body was riddled with Secotan arrows.

  Supply ships from England never arrived at Roanoke Island, since the colony was originally bound for the Chesapeake area and no one knew of Fernandez’s betrayal. The colonists’ food stores were soon depleted, and the settlers begged White to return to England for more supplies and soldiers.

  Against his better judgment, White relented and set sail. Before he left, he issued instructions: “If you leave the fort, carve a Maltese cross into a tree if you made the decision under duress.”

  *******

  Months later, the colonists were on the brink of starvation. No one had seen Manteo since the night his tribesmen had been mistakenly killed. The colonists assumed he had been overthrown as chief and were surprised when he turned up in the middle of the night at the fort gates. His friendly demeanor was gone. He spoke in a dull monotone and told them they were in great danger, claiming to have information that the Secotans were going to launch an attack the next morning.

  “I have arranged for you to be given sanctuary on Croatoan Island,” he said. “You will be safe from discovery there.”

  As the colonists quickly packed up their sparse belongings, one of them carved the word “CROATOAN” into a post of the fort. Following Manteo, they could hear the sound of snapping twigs in the forest around them.

  “Manteo,” said Bailey, “are the Croatans coming to escort us?”

  Manteo came to an abrupt halt. “No, your journey ends here.”

  In a blur of motion, Manteo sank his elongated teeth into Bailey’s neck. The remaining colonists panicked and ran in different directions, but it was all for naught. They were surrounded by the Secotans and came face to face with their Nihasa, who collected his due in blood.

  ******

  Three years passed before Governor White was able to return to the colony. Arriving with two ships, the Hopewell and the Moonlight, he was devastated to find the fort deserted. Taking heart from the fact that no Maltese cross had been carved into a tree, he launched a search of Croatoan Island, based on the one-word clue left behind by the colonists.

  While White was away with the search party, the Nihasa made his way toward the Moonlight.

  “Hover!” commanded the Nihasa.

  A stasis pod floated above him as he swam to the ship and easily scaled the anchored rope. Once inside, he made his way to the stowage compartment and quickly entered stasis after checking that the pod’s cloaking device was functional.

  To his deep anguish, White had to abandon the search of Croatoan Island due to foul weather. The captain of his ship reported he was down to his last anchor after having lost three. White returned to England a broken man and never saw the New World again.

  *******

  When Dujot emerged from stasis, he found himself back in the Old World, relieved that he would no longer have to live as a savage. But the time spent in the sweltering jungles of Mesoamerica had been well worth it; he had acquired a stasis pod, which would keep him safe from human discovery. He had watched for three nights as the dying Aztecs had tried fruitlessly to cure Queztalcoatl, who was suffering from the same mysterious ailment. When the shield to the sacred chamber was deactivated, Dujot rushed inside and commanded the nearest pod to hover, but it remained stationary, no longer responding to his verbal commands. Heaving the pod onto his back, he ran out of the chamber into a volley of arrows dipped in animal blood. Using the pod to deflect them, he escaped and was able to use his palmcom to restore the voice recognition program.

  The second pod was too big a prize to leave behind, and he remained hidden in the rainforest for another week before daring to return. When he next saw White City, all of the inhabitants were dead from the effects of hemorrhagic fever. Just outside the shielded entrance to the sacred chamber was Acalan’s body. Knowing that Kwetz and Acalan had redesigned the shield only to accept Aztec DNA, Dujot picked up Acalan’s body and slammed the face against it. A mixture of putrefaction and blood oozed onto it, but nothing happened. Acalan’s last act had been to refine the entrance sequence to accept only healthy blood. After throwing Acalan’s body to the uneven ground, Dujot became enraged when the corpse rolled back, its face frozen in a wide-open, macabre smile, as if it was laughing at him. The remaining pod behind the barrier was forever lost to him.

  He had resigned himself to be content with the one pod he had acquired. Never again would he have to seek dubious
shelter in wine cellars. There was also the possibility that he might detect other Vambir beacon signals and form new alliances.

  Queen Isabella was long dead, along with those who had begun to suspect that “Friar Alonso” was not the holy man he made himself out to be.

  The tales of the evil Mixcoatl had surely died with the inhabitants of White City.

  The Secotan stories of the “Pale Nihasa” were lost to history when the tribe was obliterated by colonists from the Virginia Colony during the last of the Anglo-Powhatan Wars.

  The Vambir that had taken on the personas of “Friar Alonso,” “Mixcoatl,” and the “Pale Nihasa” would assume a new identity and start over. Dujot was determined to find out what had become of his own kind, along with the priceless technology that might still be contained in the lifeboat.

  DIAGNOSIS

  Kozheozersky Monastery, 2012

  “The pictographs and testimonials inside the chamber yielded a wealth of information,” said Emanui.

  “I thought the Aztecs had no written language,” said Boris.

  “The documents were written by persons of Native heritage who referred to themselves as Travelers,” explained Emanui. “The tribes of their ancestors were broken up by the Conquistadors, and they were for the most part raised in church orphanages.”

  The screen in front of them showed a document written in Spanish and dated 1639.

  “This was the oldest,” said Emanui.

  An English translation appeared at the bottom:

  Night of Venus, 1639

  Ancestors, we Travelers who survived the Spanish pox came at your bidding to offer our fortified blood in the hope of curing Quetzalcoatl.

  Ancestors, we failed.

  The blood of the strongest amongst us was not enough to rid Him of the putrefaction that emanates from his eyes and ears.

  His divine form is all that sustains him in his fight against the contagion.

  The Alpha Priest knew the mysteries of the sleeping machine and devised a way to save his master.

  The son sleeps.

  The mother above him half-sleeps.

  On the night of Venus the mother stirs, therein triggering the machine, therein stirring the son.

  In sadness, we return north to tell our children, and they in kind to theirs, to return on the night of Venus with the strongest who have survived all manner of sicknesses, until the matter is concluded.

  “The female was the Vambir mother depicted with the baby in the first pictographs we came across,” said Kevak.

  “What could it have been like,” wondered J’Vor aloud, “to be running out of rations with no seeds to grow new plants, while at the same time being surrounded by people constantly offering you blood.”

  “Mixcoatl must have been the father and gave in to the blood hunger early on, while the mother, Chimalma, took the baby and attempted to hide in stasis,” said Boris.

  “What happened to this Mixcoatl?” asked J’Vor. “There is no mention of him after the contagion devastated White City.”

  “Perhaps he became infected and died,” said Kevak.

  “He is certainly not among the inhabitants of Newlun,” said Tariq. “We’ll have to wait until the female Vambir is revived to obtain any further information.”

  “The mother’s ‘half-sleep’ the text refers to is semi-stasis,” said Emanui.

  “A Vambir could survive in semi-stasis if blood was administered twice a year during the solstice rituals,” said Kevak, “but once the Aztecs disappeared from the scene and were replaced by Travelers, the time between Venus transit pairings was over a century. This ‘Alpha Priest’ who was taught Vambir technology must have siphoned off power from the stasis pod to keep her in a lengthened semi-stasis. It’s quite extraordinary.”

  “That would certainly explain her fragile condition,” said Boris. “I don’t think she could have survived until the next transit. What’s her status?”

  “Hemo-nectar is being introduced into her system while she’s in proper stasis,” said Emanui. “She’s been stabilized, but it’s going to take months, perhaps years, before she can be restored to a healthy weight. Any attempts to revive her before then will be extremely risky. Her system could not withstand the shock.”

  “What’s to be done with the son?” asked Tariq. “It seems as if this Pocatello woman was on to something with her talk of using her blood to cure Quetzalcoatl.”

  “Is her blood still toxic?” asked J’Vor.

  “No,” said Emanui. “She was successfully treated with anti-venin and is out of danger. She’s demanding either to be released or granted an audience with Quetzalcoatl. We’re keeping him in stasis until we can administer Pocatello’s ‘super-blood.’”

  “Will she agree to it?” asked Boris. “Can we even legally hold her here?”

  “She violated the terms of her release and is wanted by the authorities,” said Emanui. “We could threaten to turn her in if she complains about being held here. Besides, giving Quetzalcoatl her blood was her sacred mission. I’m sure she’ll be happy to comply.”

  “Could her blood actually do what she claims?” asked Tariq.

  “It should,” said J’Vor, “if he contracted ebola from an infected sacrifice victim.”

  “It seems logical,” said Boris.

  Those present pondered the thought of actually using blood to “cure” a Vambir; it was contrary to everything they had experienced.

  “No!” exclaimed Kevak suddenly, breaking the silence. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it before! Travelers made the journey to White City for centuries to offer their blood as a cure for Quetzalcoatl. All of them had contracted and survived plague-like illnesses, but their god remained deathly ill and was forced to return to stasis.”

  Kevak scrolled through the pictographs until he found the one he was looking for.

  “There,” he said, pointing to the screen. “It’s Quetzalcoatl’s coronation. He has human form. When he ingested the contaminated blood, his body tried to fight it by bringing about a reverse metamorphosis — beat a human disease by no longer being human!”

  “But every time he was given blood,” said Tariq, “it stopped the process.”

  “Precisely,” said Kevak. “We should treat him with hemo-nectar while he is in stasis, not Pocatello’s blood.”

  “What do we do with Pocatello?” asked Tariq.

  “Keep her here under guard until we know for sure that the hemo-treatment will work,” answered Kevak.

  *******

  Each day, when Maz was allowed out of her cell for exercise, she would walk to the window at the isolation lab and stare intensely at the med-pod that held the unconscious Quetzalcoatl. Although she could not see him, just knowing he was so near gave her comfort.

  “He’s responding well to the hemo-treatment,” said Boris.

  “How soon until he is revived?” asked Maz. “I have so many questions for him.”

  “Not long,” answered Boris. “We’re hoping to find out more about Mixcoatl from him. Was there any mention of that name in the stories that were passed down to you?”

  “He was evil,” said Maz. “He tried to rule in Quetzalcoatl’s place but was cast out.”

  “He disappears from Aztec history after that,” said Boris.

  “He was evil,” she repeated.

  She looked at the med-pod containing the female.

  Evil. Just like the vain Chimalma.

  She then saw the crucifix around Boris’s neck and quelled the revulsion rising inside her.

  The symbol of the Spanish invaders. I will find a way to free Quetzalcoatl from these traitors.

  RIPPER

  Whitechapel, London, 1888

  “Evenin’ guvna’,” the woman cried out to the lone figure approaching her.

  As Dujot calmly made his way to her, he noticed she was wearing a black coat and skirt. His eyes were drawn to the red rose she had provocatively placed between her breasts. Tipping his hat in a gesture of respect, h
e smiled at her.

  “Want the business?” she asked. “I’ll give ya a four-penny knee trembler, I will.”

  She knew she had won a new customer when he looked around to make sure no one would see him.

  “It’s alright, love,” she said. “Ain’t nobody about this time of night.”

  “What brings you out so late?” he asked.

  “I spent me doss money,” she said. “C’mon, guv, we can go into that alley where it’s nice and private.”

  Before Dujot could reply, the woman grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the alley.

  “What is your name, dear lady?” he asked as he allowed her to lead him.

  “They call me ‘Long Liz,’” she said as she lifted her skirt.

  His face was now only a few inches from hers, but he quickly turned his head away when he caught a whiff of the foul stench of alcohol on her breath. While she groped at the fastenings on his pants, he placed his hands on her neck and began to squeeze.

  “’Ere now!” she protested.

  As the woman struggled to breathe, she clawed at his hair and eyes, but Dujot only tightened his grip. He waited until she was unconscious then removed the razor from his coat pocket and quickly slit her throat. Blood began to flow from her neck, which he greedily lapped up. There would be no bite marks left behind, and the locals would attribute the killing to the crazed serial killer that had butchered two other prostitutes.

  When he was sated, he tore open her jacket and blouse, exposing her midsection.

  I’ll gut this one like the others. That should make for more hysterical headlines.

  As he was about to slice into her abdomen, his ears detected a cart slowly approaching. Without looking behind, he ran ahead into the pitch-black street.

  The driver of the cart paused when he thought he could make out something at the entrance to the alley. Thinking it was a sack of potatoes, the driver dismounted and slowly walked toward it in the darkness. Once he reached it, he had to light a match in order to see what it was. To his horror, the flickering light illuminated the bloodstained corpse of Long Liz.