The Immortals Trilogy Books 1-3: Tales of Immortality, Resurrection and the Rapture (BOX SET)

by C. F. Waller

  “So, when we are young our DNA endcaps are longer?” I ask. “All the cells have different replication speeds, but over time the ends all get somewhat shorter?”

  “Yes, and what happens when the ends wear off?”

  “The shoelace frays?”

  “Yes, the ends are called Telomeres. At some point the DNA becomes so damaged that it can---.”

  “No longer reproduce,” I interrupt him.

  “Yahtzee,” he says as he slaps the table, sweeping his arm across it, throwing the shoelace onto the floor. “Eventually enough cells die off and are not replaced so the system fails. No more liver cells, no more liver function and so on, and so on.”

  “So, this Beatrix woman and Faust have Telomeres that don’t shorten when they replicate?”

  “Correct,” he nods. “It’s not just system failure either. Sometimes DNA frays and produces a cell that doesn’t do what it is intended to do. That cell replicates and you wind up with a bunch of bad cells.”

  “Cancer,” I mumble?

  “Again, not proven, but we think so. These people don’t age, don’t get sick and for sure don’t get cancer.”

  “Then what explains the guy I ran over with a car?”

  “Parked a car on one of the rough ones huh?”

  “Yeah, care to explain how long DNA end caps turn that guy into the undead?” I press him as this is what I really need to know. “How do I stop the Nasty Ones?

  “We don’t have any data on that. I believe you, but no one’s ever brought us anything like that.”

  My phone vibrates and the screen is flashing a pic I snapped of Rahnee when she wasn’t paying attention. In it she’s looking away and only half of her face is visible in profile. I fixate on the red bow on the end of her braid, letting the phone ring on.

  “Gonna take that?” he asks.

  I nod at Blake and excuse myself, heading out to the sidewalk. Inside, I see Blake has the waitress over to the table and is chatting her up. He seems to be the type of guy who is relentless when he sees something he wants.

  “What do you have?”

  “There isn’t any security footage down in the garage. Everything shut off just before it went down,” she explains.

  “Someone at the hotel involved?”

  “I don’t think so. Some of their gear was fried. If I had to venture a guess, I would say someone exploded a very tiny EMP in the security room and shut down all the cameras.”

  “Seems like a lot of trouble,” I balk dismissively. “Any idea what happened?”

  “Big blood spatter on the ground. Some strange grooves in the pavement,” she explains in a confused tone. “Someone killed something and they also drug a big metal object around.”

  “But was it our girl?”

  “That I can partially answer,” she admits, her voice cheering up. “Like I said, no footage in the garage, but they have cameras in the lobby and restaurant.”

  “Please tell me they ate breakfast,” I declare hopefully.

  “They did and there are three of them now.”

  “Beatrix, Dorian and who?” I ask.

  “Guy named is Arron Wessker,” she replies as if reading it off a notebook. “Decker put his face in the system and he popped right up. Casino employees are all in there. He’s a bartender at the Imperial Palace, or he was.”

  “Was?”

  “I called, he quit two days ago,” she explains and then goes on after a pause for me to take in the information. “But I know where he is.”

  “How?”

  “He’s got a cell phone,” she answers in an almost giddy tone. “Decker has a GPS trace on it now.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, the phone was used to call a guy named Edward Grey yesterday,” she offers and hesitates. “Edward was the other name under Beatrix on the tree.”

  This is a curious development. Earlier today I was lead to believe that Edward Grey was dead. Now it seems the plot thickens.

  “Grey answer?” I quiz her, also wondering why Rahnee has a copy of The Calling Tree.

  “Nope, his phone rings straight to voice mail,” she sighs. “He’s probably dead.”

  “Is your default answer always he’s probably dead?” I chuckle.

  There is silence on the line and after a moment I go on.

  “That’s fine, he’s not the target.”

  “Your guy show up?” she inquires.

  “Yeah, he’s here. Where’s this Arron now?”

  “He’s on Route 163 heading south,” she shares. “Probably going to Laughlin.”

  “Come get me. Let’s get after them before whatever’s after us gets here first.”

  “Copy that,” she replies and the line goes dead.

  Looking back inside I see Aimee sitting in my spot chatting with Blake.

  “He must be a good talker,” I whisper to myself.

  Chapter Twelve

  Arron Wessker

  After watching Dorian toss money around like it grows on trees, I am surprised when he settles on the Pioneer Hotel. The front of the building looks like a whitewashed reproduction of the Alamo. The room costs thirty dollars a night and he gets only one for all three of us. The walls are stucco over concrete block, the curtains a reddish burlap material. Rugged solid wood floors all around, but they look to be intentionally distressed, like blue jeans. A wagon wheel hangs over one bed, while a cattle skull adorns the wall over a second. There is a huge bathroom with a walk-in shower instead of a tub. This looks new and possibly they are in the middle of a renovation. It’s a step up from my apartment back in Vegas, but only because a maid vacuums through this room daily.

  Bee seems to think we should stick together so no one is caught alone. Since its unlikely the three of us are going to fight one of those things off, the plan leaves me confused as to why she is so insistent. Where do they think we are running? When I bring this up Dorian clams up and Bee is adhering to an information given only on a need to know basis. All pleas that I need to know have fallen on deaf ears. I secretly think this is because she has no plan, but only time will tell.

  We grab a bite to eat at the onsite restaurant which is surprisingly good. I wolf down a huge steak, while Bee has an odd salmon dish that smells like cat food to me. Dorian surprises me by ordering only dessert. At first a slice of chocolate cake, then a huge banana split they call a Big Kahuna. Bee directs me to ignore his indulgences, as she calls them. Without more to go on, I wind up watching him eat enough sugar to kill a normal person.

  Once sequestered back in the room, yet another argument breaks out between Dorian and Bee over her decision to drag him into this. She argues that this mess would have landed on his doorstep eventually, but he accuses her of being selfish. Neither of them seems to think we will last more than a few days, the one thing they agree on.

  As they bicker, I manage to excuse myself under the guise of grabbing a soda from the vending machine down the hall. Finally, out of their sight, I head to the casino for a drink and some Blackjack. I make it to the archway opening onto the casino floor before it occurs to me.

  “This is the first place they will look,” I say aloud, drawing an odd look from a passerby.

  Assured that I will be dragged back to the room, I quick step it to the front door and hail a taxi. The driver suggests Harrah’s, located on Laughlin’s version of the Vegas strip. I agree, as I have actually played there before. It’s a quick ride to the front doors, where I pay the driver and head inside.

  A lap around the table games reveals the place hasn’t changed since my last visit. The seats are mostly filled, the bells and buzzers of the slot machines that surround the outer walls drowning out the table chatter. I take a deep breath and smell the musty carpet and cigarette smoke infused clothing. A rush of endorphins course through my limbs giving me the feeling of being home. Instantly overjoyed about my decision to take out three hundred dollars at the Waffle House ATM, I get a seat at a Blackjack table and buy a couple of hundred in ch
ips. It’s only a five-dollar table and the dealer busts the first five hands, putting me up a bit to start.

  Laughlin’s version of Harrah’s feels mostly like a Vegas casino, except the gamblers are a hair retro. It’s not that some of the lesser casinos in Vegas don’t have a more low-income clientele, but this is more of a time warp situation. There is a guy in a cheap suit hitting on the woman next to him. The jacket is mustard yellow and looks like polyester. His hair is a curly man-fro which must be a perm. The dress shirt is open a bit too far to show off either chest hair or the tangle of gold chains around his neck. The target of his advances looks like an off-duty waitress with a fatigued sloped posture and worn off makeup. The way in which she endures his bad jokes is a dead giveaway she’s in the service industry.

  On the other side of my seat are two older ladies who are more likely on a senior citizens tour. One wears a Caesars Palace visor and a sweat shirt that reads Grandma’s double down. Her counterpart keeps reaching into a leather fanny pack for Kleenex’s, which she is constantly blowing her nose into. Her white, bordering on blue hair, has been rendered immobile by an iron fisted permanent. The two relics complain incessantly that I don’t hit anything over twelve, convinced I am screwing up all future cards that come their way. I’d argue, but I am not playing my usual system and probably deserve a little verbal abuse. I’m preoccupied keeping an eye out for Dorian. It’s possible I am actually keeping an eye out for the immortal assassin chasing us, but the paranoid feeling is hard to decipher.

  An hour and three drinks into my night an attractive gal takes a seat on the far end, leaving only the two crabby seniors between us. She plays like a rookie, but doesn’t seem to care, buying more chips when she loses. I find myself glancing over and admiring her. She has shoulder length jet black hair and an olive completion. I wouldn’t call her drop dead gorgeous, but she’s a solid eight. She’s wearing dress slacks and a white blouse, the front of which is alluringly low cut. When she catches me looking her way she smiles and glances away. After several of these exchanges the stare lingers and I find myself wishing one of the old ladies would have a heart attack so I could slide over next to her. If the drinks weren’t free I’d send her one, but then notice she’s drinking soda water with a lime.

  As the night wears on, she excuses herself to use the restroom and I ponder following her. It feels a bit stalker-ish, so I begrudgingly stay put. I lose several hands from lack of attention glancing around to see her return. Just before she does, I catch a break and the two relics between us make one last comment about my poor play and leave. Before I can form a plan, she returns, pausing when she sees the two empty seats.

  “I thought they would never leave,” she huffs, moving her chips down to the seat next to mine.

  At this close range the scent of her perfume consumes my senses. It’s not flowery, but at the same time very sweet. The dealer busts and I am so preoccupied I leave my original bet and the winnings from the last hand in the tiny circle. The dealer coughs to get my attention, probably used to this sort of flirtatious gap in game play. I wave him off and let the money ride, turning back to my new friend. She waves off another card and then watches me intently. I have a pair of tens, but decline to split them even though the dealer is showing a four. Play continues and she finally speaks, as it seems I am unable to muster the courage.

  “Not splitting tens into a four,” she questions, head cocked in my direction.

  “Should have,” I admit, surprised she’s offering advice given how she’s been playing.

  The dealer hits his fourteen and busts, making me angry that I didn’t split.

  “I shouldn’t offer advice. I’m dreadful as this game.”

  Nodding, I glance over and see a Star of David pendant hanging off her necklace. Silver and shiny it glints in the glare of the table lights although I’m not sure it was the glint that drew my eyes to the open area of her blouse. When I look up she is watching me.

  “I’m Rahnee,” she says enunciating the name in an odd way.

  “Ronnie?”

  “It’s Rah-nee,” she declares, pausing in the middle.

  “Arron,” I reply, taking a card, then standing on nineteen.

  “Staying here?” she inquires.

  “Nope, you?”

  “I haven’t found a place yet,” she sighs. “Just drove in and couldn’t resist playing awhile before I decide where to stay. Do you have any suggestions?”

  “Here is nice,” I recommend, wondering if her comment meant what it sounded like. “Or the Tropicana is decent.”

  “That where you are staying?”

  “No,” I answer, the faintest feeling she is a working a girl wandering through my mind. “Are you here with friends?”

  “Just me,” she mutters, hitting thirteen and busting with a king. “And you?”

  “Yeah, me and some friends,” I report, covering my lack of private room in case she’s actually propositioning me.

  “They playing here?” she inquires, scanning the room behind me.

  “Nope,” I sigh. “Back in the room asleep.”

  “Not gamblers?”

  “Not even a little bit,” I grin. “Conservative types.”

  “Odd vacation destination for them then.”

  “Odd tends to cover their situation more of the time than not,” I shrug, trying to appear cooler than I actually am.

  Over the next half hour, we talk between hands. The tired looking gal excuses herself, leaving her masher sitting there annoyed. A few hands later he cashes out and disappears into the casino. It’s well after 1 AM and the crowd is thinning out. People come and go at the table, leaving us free to flirt.

  Like most, she’s not from here, although she is vague about where she calls home. She has a slight accent, which I cannot place, but feels somewhat Middle Eastern. Given the necklace, that would be my guess, but it could be anywhere. She tells me she’s in pharmaceutical sales and is here on business. Several times her hand comes to rest on my leg as she laughs, lingering there longer than would be appropriate for a simple guffaw. When I try and interest her in an actual drink instead of her lime water she declines. She offers no explanation and I don’t press her. She’s plenty forward without alcohol and I begin to work out in my head how to get a hotel room.

  Bee and Dorian have forbidden me from using my debit card as it could be traced. Glancing down at my chips its clear I am up about five hundred dollars, leaving me with just under a grand. While paying cash for a room at a casino can be an issue, as they prefer a card they can charge any room damage on, I decide this is the best option given my circumstances. If I am indeed doomed, then this can be considered my last request. I recall Dorian pointing out my reticence to ask Tiffany on a date and decide not to let past failures haunt me.

  “Any thoughts on where you want to stay yet?” I ask, bumping her shoulder lightly.

  “What about your friends?”

  “Right, my friends,” I nod and roll my eyes sarcastically. “I forgot all about them.”

  “I might stay here,” she whispers, leaning her head close. “If I can afford the room.”

  “Looks like your good,” I whisper nodding at the chips in front of her. “I suppose we could share in a pinch?”

  This draws a stern look from her. I’m in the process of blurting out and apology when she speaks.

  “Twin beds or a king?”

  “Ladies choice,” I reply, unsure if it’s a question or a statement.

  “Which do you prefer?” she volleys the ball back into my court, then leans in, putting her lips close to my ear. “Why don’t you pick and based on what you choose, I will know what you’re planning to do with me.”

  “Do with you?” I mouth quietly, wishing I could take it back immediately after uttering it.

  “Should I have phrased it another way?” she pouts, seeming to not notice my nervousness. “What you’re planning to do to me, maybe?”

  Realizing that she is making this easy, I deci
de to go with it. I have trouble reading women, but she’s basically spray painting her intensions on the wall in front of me. It occurs to me that possibly she has been offering all night.

  “And we could have breakfast with your friends tomorrow maybe?” she tosses in.

  I nod, but then notice her posture stiffen. On the far side of the table a man sits down. He’s sharply dressed in a dark suit, a powder blue shirt and checked grey tie. His skin is darker than hers, but still a caramel tone. Green eyes stare out of his face and straight at Rahnee. She and the new player seem to know each other. They appear to lock eyes across the table ending in a grin from the man. The game pauses while he buys chips.

  “You alright?” I whisper, keeping one eye on the new guy.

  “I was,” she grumbles.

  “Hale shoma chetore,” the man exclaims, collecting his chips and sitting down.

  “Say what?” I mutter.

  “It’s Persian,” Rahnee whispers. “Asked how I was.”

  “Khoob hastam,” he eyes me.

  “And that,” I inquire, feeling it was directed a me.

  “Asked if you were alright,” she explains. “He thinks he’s a comedian.”

  “And you are?” I blurt out, startling the dealer.

  “A friend,” he offers, switching to English while looking at Rahnee. “Iam non optime de te.”

  “So it seems,” she replies, clearly understanding whatever he said.

  We play a half-dozen hands. There isn’t any talk and when I try to whisper something to Rahnee she slowly shakes her head and stares at the table in thought. The odd man runs through his chips quickly, then hops up from the table. He makes a bowing gesture to Rahnee, before walking away. I follow him, turning in my chair, but he crosses behind a bar station and escapes from view.

  “Would you like to go somewhere else?” I beg, less flirty and more desperate at this point. “We can grab a bite or find you a room.”

  “We should stay at the table,” she says calmly. “He won’t try anything in here.”

  “Who?” I demand, but then realize the answer is obvious. “Would you like me to get security on that guy?”