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

by C. F. Waller

  “I left a big paper bag in the trunk,” Rahnee shouts into her phone, drawing me out of my daze. “Earth calling Dom?”

  “Yeah, yeah, a paper bag. You need it?” I mutter, watching a morbidly obese guy in an electric cart try and get across the Walmart crosswalk.

  “Who knows, but you can’t leave it in the car.”

  “Why’s that?” I wonder as the cart seems to run out of juice leaving the guy beached before getting all the way across.

  “It has two thermite grenades and a revolver in it,” she explains. “The thermite looks like a Red Bull can with a nine volt battery on the side with one red button and one green on the top. Don’t push either.”

  “I wasn’t planning on it,” I shudder, realizing the bag has been in the car the entire time.

  “Don’t pull the battery,” she warns. “They go boom if the battery is disconnected.”

  “And if the battery just goes dead?” I inquire, thinking of the worst case scenario.

  “Then, anyone within fifty yards burns to death. Just leave the bag where it is for now. If you ditch the car, take it with you.”

  “Please tell me you used a new battery,” I wince, thinking a hot car trunk would kill a battery fairly quickly.

  “Yeah, yeah, don’t wet yourself,” she mocks me. “You’re fine.”

  “Why on Earth do you need thermite grenades?”

  “Lots of reasons,” she informs me. “Mostly if we found one of their hideouts and didn’t have time to toss it before law enforcement arrived.”

  “Ahhhh, burn the evidence.”

  “It burns really, really hot,” she says. “Nothing left to find.”

  “You said a revolver too?”

  “A restoration project,” she admits. “It’s my hobby.”

  “You have a hobby?”

  “I’m not allowed a hobby?” she chaffs.

  “It had not occurred to me that you did anything else,” I admit.

  “If I told you I was an avid stamp collector would it be more believable?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Just don’t lose my gun, Dom,” she orders.

  “What kind?”

  “Colt Peacemaker,” she boasts. “Made in the eighteen-seventies.”

  “That’s a .45?”

  “Yeah, I got it at an auction,” she explains. “It’s not much to look at now, but it’s got potential.”

  “Does it fire?”

  “Why, considering suicide?” she sighs.

  “I don’t have a gun on me. If it’s functional, then it’s a nice fallback position.”

  “I got yah,” she chuckles. “Sure it fires. The bullets are loose in the trunk somewhere. Smallish cardboard box.”

  “Much appreciated,” I reply, trying to sound trustworthy. I make a mental note to get the gun the next time we stop.

  “My pleasure. You on the road yet?”

  “We are,” I suggest, seeing two skinny middle school aged children trying to push the electric cart out of the crosswalk. The fat guy has opened his bag and is eating cookies.

  “Good, get to Long Beach and stay put. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Okay, but,” I try to get out, and the line goes dead.

  As I idle in front of the Walmart, Dorian and Bee are nowhere to be seen. I pull up to the front doors and sit in a loading area with my car running. In my rearview, I see the man on the electric cart light a cigarette as he waits to be rescued. I gauge the odds he could get out of the cart and walk any distance to be slim to none.

  “You’d have to see this crap to believe it,” I whisper.

  Time passes slowly, even slower once Cart Guy is rescued by a woman in a pickup truck, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Passersby give me dirty looks and frowns as they drift by. One woman actually tells me it’s a no parking area and I nod back at her and do nothing. Without a radio, I pass the time by dialing all my contact numbers again, but no one answers. The entire operation has gone dark, leaving me out here alone.

  “You’re not supposed to park here,” a woman shouts at me, apparently trying to make sure I can hear her with the window up. “You can’t park here.”

  Growing impatient, I nod and smile. When she starts to walk closer, I am happily surprised to see Dorian escorting Bee from the store. I drive past the woman who taps on my window as I pass.

  “I said, you can’t park here buddy,” she crows, after which she yells much worse.

  While Dorian is wearing the same suit jacket and slacks, Bee has undergone a transformation. No longer in Gothic chic, she wears a pale yellow summer dress with a flowered pattern and ballet flats. A far cry from her throat to wrist straight-jacket outfit from the eighteen hundreds. She has an aqua blue sweater, which covers her arms, but is light weight and buttoned all the way up to her throat. The flats, in conjunction with the less restrictive attire, give her a more full figured appearance. It’s much more appealing than the corset and witchy-poo shoes.

  Pulling up, I notice her hair is no longer stacked on the top of her head, but is instead braided in a circle on the back of her head, with the long strands running down the middle past her shoulders. With her neck more visible, I notice an odd scar. It’s low on her neck and would not have been visible in her other clothes.

  Dorian holds the front door for her, picking up the hem of her dress to keep it clear as he shuts it. He slips into the back, carrying her old clothes in a bundle. I am so taken aback by her appearance that I almost forget to ask where her sword is. Once out of the parking lot, I remember her sword.

  “Where are you hiding your pig sticker?” I ask, turning the car onto the highway and gunning the engine.

  “You might complement her on her new clothes,” Dorian jumps in protectively. “Don’t you think she looks pretty?”

  “I do for sure,” I express, turning and smiling at her.

  She looks away in an embarrassed manner. Her normal aggressive bravado is apparently gone with her turn of the century apparel. Behind her, I spot Dorian pointing at her head and mouthing something. I have to peek between him and the road several times to get the gist.

  “I love your hair,” I remark. “It really suits you.”

  “Thank you,” she says, almost under her breath. “You’re very kind.”

  “He’s just being honest dear,” Dorian bellows from the backseat. “We will have to chase suitors away with a broom now.”

  To this she sighs and stares out her window, pressing her forehead on the glass. We cruise along in silence giving me time to decide what Rahnee’s angle is. There are too many unknowns, most important of which is whether Shelly is going to turn up. This thought gives me pause. I am much better off having Rahnee there if in fact Shelly is a no show. Lord help me if that happens.

  Without any other ideas, I decide to try and enjoy the night. There are several amazing restaurants on the Queen Mary, which is permanently docked in Long Beach. A nice room, a hot shower and a good steak. Focus on that and let tomorrow bring what may.

  “What did Rahnee want?” Dorian queries, breaking the silence.

  “She said that she wanted to help us.”

  “Arron with her?” he pokes. “Are they sticking together then?”

  “Yeah, I think they’re going to catch up with us tomorrow.”

  “Excellent, he’s a much better driver than you are,” he offers. “No offense of course, but you drive like a drunken hobo.”

  “None taken,” I sigh, suddenly less upset at the thought of killing him. “None at all.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Arron Wessker

  Rahnee is pacing around the tail of the plane talking on her cell when Decker pokes his head out of the hatch and whistles. He’s one of those people who puts his fingers in his mouth and then makes a noise that could split your eardrums. She gets off her cell quickly and walks past me as I sit on the trunk of the car. I start to ask her something, but she doesn’t let me get any words out.

  “Dorian and Beatrix
are fine,” she informs me. “Not that it matters.”

  “Thanks,” I mumble at her back as she passes.

  Sliding off the trunk with the intention of following her, I see a sun baked Bic lighter pinned between the windshield and the dash in one corner. It’s unreachable by hand, the narrowing down of the glass keeps it beyond my fingertips. I find a pen in the glove box and coax the faded blue torch out from its resting place. Slipping my hand under the front seat, I come back with an unopened pack of Marlboro Lights. When I gave Steph the carton, I removed one pack and tossed them under the seat. This entire adventure has been so crazy I can’t recall when I had my last cigarette. But standing here now, it’s all that I can think about. Leaning on the fender, I tap the pack on my hand, watching the sun set at the end of the narrow runway.

  “That’s a bad habit,” Rhea shouts from the hatch of the plane, before coming down the stairs. “It will kill you.”

  “How would you know?” I holler back.

  “From watching your kind die.”

  I get the pack open as she gets to me and her hand snatches the pack before I can pull it back. Drawing one out with her lips, she pokes it in my direction, hoping for a light. I try, but the lighter seems to be dry, leaving me flicking it over and over to no avail.

  “Disappointing,” she mutters, putting the cigarette behind one ear and handing me back the pack. “The moment was full of promise, but could not deliver.”

  “Moments can be like that,” I shrug.

  “You have no idea,” she groans.

  She’s still barefoot, her feet already picking up a black tinge from the tarmac, the cuffs of her slacks are dragging. Hair still pulled up in a tight bun, leaving no idea how much there might be. She walks down the runway a bit, hands in her pockets, watching the horizon. Continued flicking on the lighter produces only sparks and I toss it side-armed down the runway, skipping it out of sight.

  “Wheels up in thirty,” Decker barks from the hatch. “Grab anything you want to keep from the car.”

  Rhea turns and beams a smile at Decker, who nods back before disappearing into the plane. Turning the smile off like someone flicked a light switch, she turns back to me. Tilting her head to one side like a puppy, she stares at me.

  “What?”, I say.

  “I don’t know,” she shrugs, walking past me and then around behind me. “What’s your story anyway? There’s something about you that’s not right.”

  “Okay, well thanks for that assessment.”

  “Don’t be so sensitive,” she purrs, flipping the switch back to flirty. “Why are you here anyway? You don’t seem like the adventuresome type?”

  “Dorian hired me to drive him,” I explain, taking out a smoke and putting it in the corner of my mouth. “Two days later, I’m in an episode of the Twilight Zone.”

  “Episode,” she mutters. “Like a movie?”

  “Not exactly, but close enough.”

  “How did you meet Dorian?” she presses, looking me over like I was in the front window of a department store.

  “He just showed up one day offering me a boat load of money to drive him,” I reply defensively, backing up a step to keep her in front of me. “Money can come in pretty handy.”

  “If you say so,” she replies, hoping up on the hood of the car.

  “Any idea where we’re going?” I ask, changing the subject.

  “Decker said they were in California. Ever been?”

  “Sure, a few times,” I answer, still sucking on my unlit smoke. “Where abouts?”

  “He mentioned Long Beach. Is it nice there?”

  “Depends on where in Long Beach,” I reply, recalling my trip there as a youth. “I have only been there once.”

  “I adore the ocean. When we are done I am going swimming.”

  Her childlike demeanor is disarming, but I’m careful to not be lulled by it. We watch the sunset on the hood of the car. Rahnee orders us in the plane and we take off just after dark. I’m expecting her to stay up front with Decker, but Rahnee curls up in the very back row of seats and passes out. Neither one of us has had much sleep, so I get why she’s worn out. I try and get comfy, putting my seat back all the way down, but am quickly distracted by Rhea.

  Sitting in the row ahead of me, she starts pulling pins out of her hair, tossing them randomly on the floor. One such pin ricochets off the seat across the aisle and hits me in the face, another lands in my lap. When she has freed her hair, she stands up in the aisle and bends over at the waist, letting it dangle off her head. Then with a ferocious motion, she drags her hands through it and fluffs it all out. When she stands up, her hair hits the ceiling of the plane. It’s not necessarily an afro, but her hair is so curly it’s close. Pulling a circular band out of her pocket, she pulls it over her hair and down to her neck, before pushing it up in front just past her forehead. The band frames her face nicely, leaving a foot of curly hair down her back and onto her shoulders.

  “How do you get all that packed down into such a tiny bun?” I inquire.

  “You’re still up?” she blurts out, spinning around. “I’ve had a long time to figure that trick out. It’s a pain in the butt, but what can a girl do?”

  “Cut it.”

  This brings an odd grin to her face. Part amused, part confused. She peels off her jacket, leaving just a sheer golden blouse to cover her. The jacket is tossed over my head into the row behind me. She comes to my row, which has two seats on this side. I’m in the aisle, so she crosses her arms and waits for me to scoot over. When I do, she plops down in the seat next to me, pulling her feet up on the seat cushions, arms over her knees.

  “Cutting it is a waste of time,” she whispers, rolling her eyes in sleeping Rahnee’s direction. “It grows back in a few hours.”

  “Your hair grows back overnight?”

  “Everything about me stays the same,” she explains, talking softly into my ear. “On the up side, I never have to shave my legs.”

  “And can eat all you want.”

  “True, plenty of other upsides and yet I am stuck with this hair,” she scowls, grabbing it with both hands and pretending to pull it out.

  “It’s pretty,” I blurt out before thinking about it. “I mean, it suits you.”

  “Thanks,” she grins and then tucks her forearm under my arm on the rest, whispering in my ear. “Figure out what you wanted to ask me yet?”

  “Still working on that,” I reply, unsure what she’s getting at. “Where do you live? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “Nowhere as fun as this,” she shrugs, waving a hand around the plane. “Sadly, I lead a rather singular existence for the time being.”

  “Why?” I bristle. “Even if you don’t like us mortals you could...”

  “It’s not that I don’t like you,” she interrupts and then looks embarrassed. “Not you per se, but all mortals. It’s just dangerous.”

  “How so?”

  “The world got too small.”

  “And by small, you mean?”

  “Think about it. If I was living in a big city and I got hit by a car or caught in a fire, I’d be found out. Once exposed, I’d wind up under glass.”

  “Under glass?”

  “Let’s say that when we get to Long Beach I walk out into traffic and let a truck run me over,” she whispers, looking over the seat back in a paranoid gesture. “Then I hop up and dust myself off. How many street cameras or cell phone videos would go viral?”

  “Instant pop star,” I chuckle.

  “Not even close,” she says a little too loud. “I’d wind up in a lab somewhere. If you don’t believe me look at the people we’re with. The only reason you’re here is that Flynn sent these people to round up the minor immortals to study them.”

  “Hard to argue that,” I reply. “Flynn is who?”

  “Rahnee’s boss. Don’t sweat him. I’ll deal with that little piglet when we’re done here.”

  “So you live with others like you?” I ask, changing the su
bject.

  “Yeah, although there are only three of us now. Lots of empty beds at my place,” she sighs, rolling her eyes.

  “How many?”

  “Was twelve,” she admits, almost sadly. “But think about this. I’ve admitted to being at least two thousand years old. Emphasis on admitted to. If you had to hang out with the same people that long, try and imagine the boredom.”

  “You’ve been living with them all this time?”

  “Heavens no,” she sighs, and then lowers her voice. “For thousands of years we just lived wherever we wanted. Hundreds of years would pass between seeing any of the others. Then times changed. Guns, radios and planes made the world a very small and dangerous place. I’ve lived at the Estate since,” she tells me, then hesitates, putting a finger to her lips. “Say seventeen-fifty, give or take a few years.”

  “The Estate?”

  “Nice safe place,” she rolls her eyes. “It’s very private, but the same boring people day after day.”

  “You were married though?” I ask, recalling Shelly’s words.

  “That term has a different meaning to us,” she groans. “He and I are somewhat different from the others,” she explains and then pauses to watch me. “He was sort of in charge by default.”

  “And you as well?”

  “Once he was gone,” she replies and then winks at me. “Even before that, we hadn’t talked in a long time. We had a difference of opinion.”

  “A long time is how long for you?”

  “Say, since they finished Hadrian’s Wall.”

  “English built?”

  “Roman built, but it was in England,” she says giving me a mocking thumbs up.

  “Okay, so now you’re in charge?”

  “I am,” she beams, seeming to like that categorization.

  “And your leadership style is?”

  “Old Testament,” she declares, patting me on the leg.

  “Old what?”

  “Testament,” she repeats, standing in the aisle. “Gotta use the little girl’s room.”

  With that she disappears into the forward restroom. It’s not lost on me that no matter how long you live, there are some things that everyone has to do. When the toilet flushes Rahnee wakes up and staggers down the aisle holding her head. Rhea pops out of the restroom and they do a little dance trying to figure out which way to step around each other. After Rahnee enters the cockpit, I can hear Decker talking, but then the cockpit door swings shut.