The Altonevers

by Frederic Merbe

  A rocket flies from the rooftop of an art deco tower toward the news chopper sudden scrambling in air throwing the camera's view into a spiral and fills living rooms with the news woman screams instead of her hasty report. Seconds after the near hit the view stabilizes.

  “I'd like to end this broadcast by having a moment of silence for jack, the weatherman. He passed away in a tragic accident, a hail of gunfire thi...” Bwink! Vivian turns the television off by remote.

  “Yes, well I invited them to pitch in a bit. And because I just knew you'd be delighted to see them. Besides we’re having a masquerade party this Friday, and well, the more the merrier. Until then keep up the good work. Oh, and be a dear and wheel that television set away will you please. It’s stressing my hair gray” she says and waves Cider to lift a finger.

  “Sure thing Viv.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  Malice masquerade

  A raucous celebration of reveling mad Vaudevillians, the chaotic scene is all the rage of a riot as it rages all around the theatre. A round of applause for Harley and Popper, who're bowing and taking their seats with the others after breaking a sweat dancing to the big brass ensemble. The band plays on, though on a makeshift stage elevated on a small island dead center in the middle of the white clothed dining tables. Daisy is sitting to Harley's right with Vivian to the right of her, and Cider to Popper's left and Anna to the left of him.

  “That was wonderful. The way you moved so well together was so, so effortless. Seamlessly as one,” Anna says still clapping as the duo take their seats.

  “Thank you Carrots,” the duo say over each other trading side glances.

  “What’re you up to tomorrow?” Cider asks.

  “Why you wanna tag along?” Vivian teases.

  “The lotto,” says the flamboyant Popper smoothly. A tall lengthy man, always in a double breasted tailored beige suit, quiet with overly groomed pretty boy with not a hair out of place of his swept chestnut head. With tweezed eyebrows always raised, in a state of surprise that is his stock expression when speaking to people, that today, is obscured behind his lavender mask for the masquerade party. Smirking between powdered cheeks and breathing heavily from his dance floor fun with Harley, his one and only. He has a habit of wrapping rhythm's through his well manicured fingers onto anything within reach, as he is now, on the table.

  “Ha, rigging the game or taking the vault?” Asks Cider.

  “Either way,” Harley says in her raspy toned short way of speaking. A naturally pretty faced, though grungy looking tomboy who doesn't know the purpose of make up or a brush. Preferring to push her chin length blue black hair back behind her ears, though strands always fall in front of her forever solemn gray eyes. She has a habit of nibbling on her fingernails and is often tapping her feet to a beat even when there is none. Carrying an ambivalent glare, and sometimes as salty sneer as though she's perpetually peeved, even when elated, like now. Wearing a lavender mask like her lover, and her favorite lavender tie for the occasion, and is always in black pants suit of a waiter.

  “Well if it's the second, I'll take a piece,” Cider says.

  “The last time we took a lotto we got a million gallons, at least,” Popper says boastfully.

  “What? from the school system?” Cider jokes.

  “Yeah right,” says Daisy laughing.

  “Oh yeah, how'd that happen?” Cider asks. Harley stares unblinkingly at the man she calls her sparrow, slowly leaning closer to his nose as he speaks.

  “Well it was back at the-” Popper says.

  “A million?” Harley barks two feet from Popper's prettied face.

  “Ah...What?” Popper says, looking like his hand is in a cookie jar. Harley says nothing but an insistent glare.

  “Oh oh sweetie no, I was just gloating.”

  “Oh okay, then continue.”

  “So there we were it as snowwwch! damn it!” Harley smacks the mask and foundation from his face, sending his nose almost to his dinner plate.

  “What was that for?” he says rubbing his cheek that's now redder than his lightly powdered blush. Cider laughs first, and the rest of the table joins in stomping inebriated laughter.

  “Four hundred,” Harley says, as she jumps from her chair, jabbing him in the ribs with a salad fork to make him squeal like a greedy pig. Cracking up the audience of friends, but making Anna's rib entree look a little less enticing.

  “I didn't know you loved me for the money,” Popper snickers sitting back in his seat.

  “Liar. You liar, trying to sly your way out it like he does” Harley says wagging her finger in Ciders face.

  “Oh to be stung by your lover. I spent it all, on other women, Hahaha” Popper laughs, holding his abdomen and a face of pain. Harley throws a punch that he grabs, and pulls her out of her seat, spinning her into his arms as though they're ballroom dancing. She ducks around him, escaping to his back getting on her tippy toes to lock him in an air tight choke hold with her forearm pressing his Adam’s apple.

  “Tap.”

  “No.”

  “Tap, baby.”

  “Noo. Never.”

  “C’mon baby, tap, for me.”

  “Eat it” Popper gargles with reddening face, waving his arms around like a confused Frankenstein.

  “Tap for me, please. C'mon, my sparrow, tap,” Harley whispers in her lover’s ear, with no intention of letting him out of her grip. Popper gargles inaudible noises and throws a leg to her crotch, not to stop her, but for his own humor.

  “Sweet dreams, lover,” Harley says.

  “Eh ahhh,” the blood is bluing in his face “I'll dr ea m o f yo u t on i g ht,” are his last muttering before passing out. They’re always playing their own games, seeming much to Carrots like cartoons chasing each other. Knock out, of her to him is often one of the more obvious of them. Popper kicks his feet and flails his arms, then with a kick and a last throat gurgling moan Harley dumps his limp body to the ground and sits to her plate of surf and turf. Nearly two minutes pass before Popper lifts his head from the ground and returns to his chair glaring at his sparrow.

  “Let's go dancing. After we finish our main course, of course,” Popper says without looking. Daisy is gnashing and tearing at a succulent pink centered shell steak with her hands and teeth like a savage, It’s juice is dripping down her face and forearms.

  “Oh yeah that's right,” she says.

  “What is it Daisy? my darling,” Vivian asks.

  “We found the guy that's been causing all the trouble,” She says while chewing her food with her mouth open.

  “Oh Daisy, close your mouth while you eat will you. The table manners of a wolf you have,” Vivian says.

  “Blah blah blah. So you don't want to know?” daisy says enticingly.

  “Your appetite for fresh flesh is marring your manners. Who is it then, who is it Daisy?” Vivian asks from behind her mask.

  “Some disgruntled illusionist pickpocket turned private eye or something. He’s been feeding the other studios with clues, and the Ribbits, like some kind of shadow leader or something. Anyway he's over by the blue light district.”

  “It couldn't be…” Vivian says glaring a thousand yard stare straight ahead to sight of the brass band strumming sleazy speakeasy sounds backed by a smoothly struck piano. Lost in the sight of the band who’re dressed in white or black, opposite their black or white instruments.

  “Oooooh, look at that,” Daisy says twisting her neck over her shoulder, “he's gorgeous...I'll be right back,” The vivacious girl drops her steak, and licking her fingers goes to a handsomely masked mime. She drags the lucky guy by his belt buckle past the table and up the grand stairs to her room like a caveman drags a clubbed woman to his cave.

  “I have to use the bathroom,” Anna says wiping her face and leaving the table.

  “A sweet heart,” Harley says. as Anna turns the hall.

  “Good going guy, finally got one worth keeping. But can she walk with us,” he asks.
r />   “She does okay,” Cider says, thinking that even though she has killed she doesn’t necessarily have a killer’s instincts.

  The hall is opulently decorated for the night’s event. A Carnival themed masquerade party in the wealth and grandeur of the golden age of film. A jovial celebration for the turning of technicolor tides in their favor. Detailed by the splendor of black, white and silver cloths draping down the walls and hanging from the ceiling, each with the trim of the other. The black of all colors combined, the white of no colors and the silvers of the screen reflecting the otherwise polychrome patched room. To Match Vivian's black evening gown, long elbow length white gloves and almost silver platinum blonde hair. All the realm, the theatre especially is radiating in her sight appeasing resplendence, as she smokes a long cigarette through the mouth slit of her peacock feathered black carnival mask.

  The brass and pearl gates open for a line of nine black cars to roll through the great lawns minute long drive of art deco obelisks and statues of film stars past. The guards are nearly kneeling as they bow opening the first peacock decorated door for the recent arrivals. She's wickedly grinning a sharp smirk under her oblivion black bedroom eyes burning on this day. Her long milk white legs stroll over the red carpeted floor of the long hall, passing the paintings and sculptures. Jet black hair swaying back and forth like a flag, leading twelve red suited Ravens with the bluish complexion of cadaver's marching in lockstep behind her. No one stops them, only looking as though they’re seeing a ghost, and shying their eyes away. The small parade passes the merman fountain in making their way intently to the peacock door of the theatre room. The clicking of her high heels disappears to the rising sound of the band playing to the carousing stage performers turned crooks and criminals of all color and shade.

  “Oh! welcome back. The party has alrea-” POP! Spreads the door keepers gray matter to the wall like a Pollock painting. The shot can't be heard by the Vaudevs on the other side, who're happy as fed hyenas running on tables and swinging from the chandelier. Showing off their vaudeville talents and trying show each other up at their carnival crafts. A free spirited but sometimes highly competitive crowd, though two man acts often erupt in bar brawls, sometimes killing each other to the applause of the rest. The girl slowly wraps her slender fingers around the door knob, and turning it even slower. She gives a glance over her shoulder to the twelve Ravens standing dressed in shades of reds and death behind her. Blankly looking with the eyes of lizard brained birds devoid of soul or sensation. Knowing only the wrathful will of their overlord, under the command of the crimson dressed Captain of the Ravens, the ravenous Rebecca, the Raveness.

  “Aah. It’s so good to be home,” Rebecca says throwing the door open. Letting the boisterous sound out to fill her ears for a second before an abrupt silence spreads like a wave through the entirety of the expansive theatre. Leaving only the sound of the squeaking chandelier as it sways, and the piano player trailing his fingers off the keys.

  “What is all this about?” Vivian asks.

  “I don't know,” Cider answers. They’re unable to see from their table to the opposite side of the room. The muted crowd is aghast, most holding their hands over their open mouths. Opening a path, holding their hats to their chests while bowing their heads as she and her unkindness pass through them.

  “I don't see anything, what is it?” says Harley on her tip toes. The bullet holed head of the soul ravishing Rebecca rises with each step up the stairs to the center stage. Until she is above the crowd, standing prominently on the stage with the black and white clad band and red suited Ravens. Dead middle of the multi-tiered rotunda theatre and in plain view to all.

  “Rebecca, my dove. It is you! Wherever have you been? and for so long?” Vivian shouts in utter glee to see her only daughter. The Baroness stands to her feet, unmasking herself to a collective gasp. Showing all who can see, her blemished face for the first time in months, with vividity fading in spots, and covered in small speckles and blotches of lividity wrinkled skin and crow’s feet reaching out from baggy eyes. The repulsed reaction of the crowd, her own kind, cuts through the heart of the Baroness, nearly bringing her to tears.

  “You look magnificent Viv,” Cider says.

  “Thank you” she sniffles, giving him a warming smile.

  “You look absolutely ravaged by age mother,” says the shark eyed girl as a snidely as a teenager would. Rebecca’s eyes are the black of her mother’s gown, her skin as pale as her white gloves, and her crimson dress is the is reddest thing in the room marveled by her mother’s grace. Vivian about to answer, then remembers what her daughter could be here for, casts a scared look to Cider. Who already has a hand in his coat on the handle of his loaded colt.

  “Sit down will you. Have a drink or a bite to eat,” Vivian says to the Raveness.

  “I'm not here for chit chat or catching up with you, you who have forsaken me, and what I desire” Rebecca says.

  “Then what are you here for dear? and why are you and all your wretched looking rouge friends so well armed?” the Baroness asks about the banana clipped m66 assault rifles of her and each of the twelve man undead death squad at her command. She already knows and is about to spit at the thought of it, then winking to Cider with a nod.

  “Oh. These aren’t my friends. Darling,” Rebecca scowls, “they die at my every whim and will.”

  “And to whose will do you die for?” Vivian asks.

  “The one who sent me to collect this idiot, who doesn’t listen when he’s told,” Rebecca says frustrated and leering right at Cider.

  “Hey! I've been working every day,” he says.

  “Yeah I seen it all over the Internews, so did Alister, he's furious. He wants to see you,” Rebecca says then stressing, “immediately.”

  “Sorry red, no can do,” he shrugs.

  “Why? because of that meek girl of yours? I’m starting to feel again,” Rebecca bellows in laughter at him, “She isn’t like us. Your love for her is, only, vanity.”

  “He knows about her?” Cider says looking nervous.

  “Yeah, but he doesn't care about that chic of yours. Actually he's happy for you, I think, but I, I am going to blow her head off her shoulder's. Right in front of you,” the ravenous Raveness screams through laughing rage.

  “Now why would you go and do a thing like that Rebecca?”Cider asks eyeing her with hatred.

  “Because I care sweetie. Enough to help you get back on the right track. Maybe you'll take your place next to me as his right hand.”

  “You wouldn't,” he says.

  “Oh I will. I’ll be sure to, and it's because of you. She'll die because of you. You idiot, you should've just listened when you were told. Instead you'll break everyone’s heart for hers. I warned you the first time, now I have to shackle your soul, you could be just another Raven you know. That’s what he’s been saying. Your too hard to control, and to you he is already most lenient. Do you want to be like these ghoulish creeps,” she speaks in spitting rage.

  “You look living at least,” says Vivian.

  “That she does,” seconds Popper with a glare from Harley.

  “Thank you,” Rebecca sneers.

  “Is this what you do now? chase men for their souls and not their hearts, what a foolish girl you are,” Vivian says to her daughter. Most of the band spills off stage like they're abandoning a sinking ship. As an enraged Rebecca’s face reddens, then with a rising primal growl turning into a high pitched scream releasing her savagely wounded heart.

  “It's all an end to a means,” Rebecca says.

  “Ah, you said that wrong,” Cider corrects her, snickering, though pale as a ghost. Shook to his core by the thought of losing Anna. He is, for the first time helpless to his empathy, suffering, in thinking how she’d feel if death took him from her.

  “Cider I'm sorry but I can't have more of them coming into town. Not with so much drama of my own,” Vivian says sorrowfly.

  “I understand, no malice Viv,” he says
to his friend.

  “We'll hold them off. Go and get your girl. She's wonderful for you, I do hope it works for the best,” Vivian says goodbye to her good friend with a nod.

  “Thanks, Viv,” Cider says.

  “Harley, Popper, bring the car around for your friend and his woman will you.”

  “You got it miss V,” Harley says as Popper nods in agreement. Rebecca seeing that no one at her mother’s table is paying any attention to her and feeling like a kid waiting at the grownups table, puts a burst from her m66 into the back of the piano player. Staining the keys and checkered floor the of stage with his blood.

  “Rebecca! You can't kill the piano player,” she berates the her daughter.

  “I already did,” Rebecca says smiling a sharp lipped smile. Then unleashing a burst at their table, that tears through the dinner plates and glasses, casting a smattering of shards and fine china shrapnel with a clatter. The streak of lead passing right through Daisy's empty seat.

  “Headshots! get your headshots!” Cider shouts like a street salesman, then falls back in his chair firing one shot before he hits the ground. The bullet is snatched out of existence by the Raveness' red dress snapping for it like a small solar flare just before it hits her bare shoulder.

  “They grow up so fast,” the Baroness says flipping the stone table to use as a shield, grabbing an assault rifle of her own from the arsenal strapped to its bottom for times like these.

  “HAHAHAHAAA,” Rebecca's hysterical bellow is the last thing heard before the room erupts into the sound of ceaseless gunfire. So much that no single buzzing bullet can be distinguished from any other, sounding to the ear as rushing water when standing next to a massive waterfall. The Ravens are each leaping twenty feet into the air and start raking the crowd with bone slaughtering bursts of lead from their assault rifles. Jumping like lizards in and out of the protective range of Rebecca’s cardinal red dress. All three tiers of the twenty seven hundred seat theater are engulfed in a blitz of flesh ravaging red orange muzzle flames. The lead is flying, making the room resemble the havoc of an imploding hornet’s hive. The Raveness dominates the center stage and draws most of the fire to herself, protecting her unkindness like a bird protects her nest. Death, dismay, terror and the exhilaration of a savage fight fill the Vaudev face’s throughout of the theatre battlefield. Everything of the room aside from the walls and floor are rendered to scrap and bits in the first few minutes of the maelstrom of whizzing bullets. The wooden tables splinter, the glass and dinnerware explode, tearing the blood stained tablecloths and rendering the black, white and silver banners to shreds.