Pilate

by Reverend Steven Rage

  Once she left, Immanuel summoned Pilate. “We need to talk, you and I.”

  Pilate nodded and followed the tiny miracle worker to a more secluded section of the yard. It was dark there.

  Pilate, grateful beyond words, was willing to wait patiently for Immanuel to get to it. She peered at him, not speaking right away. Just when it was getting painful under the microscope of her gaze, she spoke.

  “I’m not afraid of you,” is what she said. It stopped him cold.

  “Why not?” asked Pilate, wanting to know. “You should be; everyone else in The Harbor is. Do you not know what I am?”

  She considered him, towering over her in the dark. He thought still he was master.

  “I do know what you are,” she replied. “I also know who you are and were.”

  Pilate thought he didn’t hear correctly, asked her to repeat it.

  “Oh, yes, vampire, I know you.” She had Pilate’s full attention. “You have trod this Earth many times, Prelate. You have always been a part of the human herd. They have fed you and amused you. You have been their king and their slave. You have even been their food. You’ve lived many years and you have lived few. You have seen much, bore witness to the majesty of the ages. You’ve feasted well and you have starved. You lived numerous lives and have died horribly, violently.”

  Pilate backed an unconscious step from her. Immanuel’s words made him feel as though scales – not felt or seen before – were falling from his eyes. The heat boiled off her and Pilate retreated from her power. She made him sore afraid.

  “You remember naught,” she continued, taking a tentative step toward the retreating vampire, “only disorganized memories you feel so intensely, but serve no meaning; a road with no signs.”

  Pilate had his back to the house. He felt dizzy and wanted to run away, but could not.

  “It’s time,” she told him, advancing. Her tiny hand caressed his cold cheek. “It’s time to know the truth, Pilate,” her stare captured him, “until you know all.”

  Pilate closed his eyes. He still felt her touch. It was warm, a thing he’d never known. He couldn’t stop her. Immanuel’s touch bore a hole through the very center of his being. She could’ve done anything to him. He wouldn’t have been able to defend himself against whichever attack she chose to mount. He’s the helpless child, on a flimsy boat, awed by the power and greatness of the ocean. The waves broke over the sides, slopping cold and wet. He didn’t know how to swim, was going to drown, and all she did was touch him.

  Pilate felt her life force swirling around them. He slid down the wall. Immanuel grabbed him up by his filthy shirtfront, stood him straight again. She held him there and gave a command, one word.

  “Remember,” she said. Then she let him fall.

  Pilate slid down the wall and kept on falling. Through the timeless void, until he began to truly see. Eventually, Pilate would know everything. And it shall make him weep.

  1970, anno Domini The cheap motel room was seedy and smelled. The teenage prostitute’s face pressed against soiled, lumpy mattress. Semen stains and a million broken promises littered the small space with despair.

  Her trick didn’t know her name, nor did he care. He grabbed a handful of dyed blonde hair, dark roots straining against scalp. Her neck popped, she let out a yelp. Her trick groaned and shouted a language she did not know. She opened her eyes into the nightstand mirror and saw his sparse reflection in smoky candlelight. Her trick bared his teeth and pounded her vagina with relentless vigor. He rolled her roughly over. He ejaculated thick streams of lukewarm semen onto her stomach and small breasts. A glob landed and she ran fingers through the mess. Her pimp taught her. With a coquettish little whimper, she brought the fingers to her mouth to suckle them.

  When she first saw the blood, she thought he’d ripped up her insides. Like she was too dry and her trick didn’t give a shit. But, other than numb and used, her vagina felt like it always does when you fuck men for a living.

  It felt unreal as her young brain sent signals across nerve-endings, through the smack haze, warning her of mortal danger. It was an ancient fear of being devoured, consumed, and no more.

  Her fingers glistened thick, slow moving, saturated with blood. She gasped, seeing her trick for the first time, his teeth strong and deadly. The ancient fear took hold. How yellow his eyes. Then nothing as the vampire leaned in; tore out her throat. He shoved his face deep into the bloody maw and gorged on her sweet, young life.

  And she was no more.

  He pulled himself off her, feeling the rush. Fear-infused blood pulsed through him. He stood, stretched, readying to leave. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand, caught a glimpse of the bible the Gideons left. The bible was a plain one, cross drawn crudely with a wide marker.

  The vampire’s hands burn. He glanced down at them. They appeared as always, but the sensation persisted. He looked again, saw blood. He rubbed hands vigorously, but the blood would not come off. He went into the bathroom and turned on faucets. The vampire washed his hands soapy and entire. Only then did the blood vanish, letting him feel whole.

  He left the shabby room whistling, flushed, and on top of the world.

  *** Herod had an office in the municipal court building. A nicer part of town, away as it was from the Lake and run-down sections of The Harbor. The elected Mayor rarely saw inside of the building. Herod had his legitimate assistant occupy the office. This assistant did all the work and did it well. His name was Flavius.

  Herod had scooped him from patrolling Harbor streets, groomed him for this position. Herod’s fourth term as Mayor was up in two years. Flavius’ run for the office will be with Herod’s guidance and blessing. Flavius was a good soldier and would soon be Mayor.

  By that time, Herod would no longer need to hide behind the city’s top job. He will move his sphere of influence beyond The Harbor. Herod wanted to join the ranks of the Pharisees, controlling an area of the country, not just the postindustrialized decay of The Harbor. And if they would not let him join their little cliqua, he’d remove them and start his own.

  Although Flavius was Herod’s man, he wasn’t involved in Plata distribution. He knew the dirt, but Flavius would walk a thousand miles to avoid details.

  No one ever sought him out. So, he was taken aback when the blood splattered teenager loudly proclaimed urgent need to see the Mayor. The little fucker stood there, shoeless, in dirty socks, like he ran here in them.

  Flavius heard the boy getting distressed. He came out to see the commotion. The boy turned to Flavius. His pupils were saucers and he stood rigid, at attention.

  “Can I help you, young man?” he asked. The boy stared, not really seeing Flavius.

  “I need to see the Mayor,” he said.

  “What’s this concerning?”

  “Have a message for Herod,” the boy replied.

  “What’s the message?” asked Flavius.

  “Can’t tell you,” the boy said, standing ramrod straight.

  “Why’s that?”

  “The message for Herod, not you,” the boy stated. “The man say tell Herod.”

  “Tell Herod what?”

  “You ain’t him, I can’t say.”

  “I can’t help you,” Flavius replied. He saw a mask of confusion slide down the countenance of the boy.

  “I – I have a message for Herod,” he repeated, back to the beginning.

  Flavius could see this going nowhere fast. He decided on another approach.

  “Why’s it so important you deliver the message only to Herod?”

  “Cause,” the boy explained, “message from Pilate.”

  Flavius’ heart did a double take. That name, uttered by a shoeless boy covered in blood, did not bode well. Flavius wanted to be rid of him.

  Flavius told him to wait. The boy stood at attention and stared at some middle distance. Flavius went to his office and called Herod’s compound.

  “Pilate,” Flavius muttered while the line rang. “Shit.”


  “Bring him here,” Tacitus told him after hearing about the boy.

  “Uh, are you sure that’s a good idea?” Flavius asked, fearful. “I’m really busy and I don’t think I should be involved in any – “

  “Just do it!” he yelled; then dial tone.

  Flavius set phone on cradle, grabbed his coat. This is going to be bad, he thought.

  “Come on,” he told the boy, “I’m taking you to Herod.”

  The boy followed Flavius as he negotiated the municipal court building and on out to the parking lot.

  “What happened?” he asked, the boy safely buckled into the passenger seat. He said nothing, stared straight ahead. “Is that blood all over you?” asked Flavius. “There’s so much, too much for it to be yours. Is it yours?”

  “Got a message for Herod,” was all he would say.

  CHAPTER 4

  H erod’s compound’s a converted steel refinery dating originally to the industrial revolution. It has been deserted forever before the vampire mayor

  took it over from the city, buying the entire complex

  and grounds for a dollar. Unlike Pilate, Herod

  didn’t have any hidden lairs. His crazed ego didn’t

  think he needed them. Herod had cops for his business needs and ex-cops for personal security. The

  compound was a fortress. Herod these days, rarely

  ventured from its safety and comfort.

  The upper two floors were nothing but mammoth industrial machinery rusting to oblivion. Like

  the grounds outside, the interior was heavily patrolled by security. The main basement held living

  quarters for Herod’s men and his security force. The Mayor’s personal chambers were two levels underground in the sub-basement. Seventeen thousand square feet, split into a dozen rooms and areas. One was Herod’s Throne Room. It was his favorite.

  Herod enjoyed doing very bad things in there. In the Throne Room Herod’s brother, Philip,

  was chained to a cross. The cross secured to a

  soot-blackened brick wall. The vampire was sobbing and begging for his life. Both shoulders dislocated from the weight of his hanging body.

  Breathing ragged, a crown of thorns dug pits in

  temples, scalp, and the tips of his ears. Blood ran

  rivulets into his eyes. A knife stuck in his chest

  wall, lodged between ribs and deep in the right

  lung. The punctured lung collapsed. Excessive air

  pressure seeped out of the torn lung and compressed the heart, crushing it. Electrified clamps

  pinched his testicles.

  Herod kept his brother from feeding for a week.

  The vampire was aching, crazed with hunger.

  Philip hyperventilated through one lung, coughed

  tissue from it. His eyes were wild and insane. A huge bullmastiff sat quivering, licking his

  great chops, hoping for scraps.

  Herod’s brother was dying fast. He’d been

  hanging for three days.

  “No more!” Philip cried. “Herod, please, I

  swear – “

  “One hundred joules,” Herod replied. Ovid, a big,

  albino motherfucker with bright orange cornrows, and

  more tattoos than a circus geek, upped the juice. Philip cracked a tooth when the electricity hit.

  Fangs made a ragged mess of the soft flesh of his

  mouth. Little puffs of smoke curled acrid from his groin. His shoulders rubbed bone on bone as the

  poor fuck thrashed away.

  “Stop,” Herod told Ovid. He stopped the flow.

  Herod looked impassively at Philip from his throne.

  The thing weighed several hundred pounds. The

  solid oak was gilded with gold and platinum curlycues. The back’s six feet tall. Four clawed feet

  gripped gold spheres the size of grapefruit. Placed

  against the inside wall in the very center on a threestepped dais. It afforded a nice view to a kill. Philip hung on the opposite wall, above an

  opaque expanse of plastic sheeting. Blood, urine,

  all manner of foul secretions were present. Fluids

  sat in mini-ponds between plastic folds.

  “Please, Herod,” Philip cried; flesh, blood and

  tooth fragments launching. “I would never stab you

  in the back, you gotta believe me!”

  “Never,” Herod replied, “you sure about that?” “I swear, brother, please!” he cried out. Herod was silent a moment. Ovid stood nearby

  and ready. The dog growled impatiently.

  Philip’s ragged breathing and Salome’s slurping

  ministrations were the only sounds in the cavernous

  Throne Room. Salome’s head bobbing to the

  rhythm of Herod’s fist wrapped around a big chunk

  of her hair. Herod looked from his brother on the

  cross to the young woman sucking his cock. “Salome,” he said and pulled her mouth off him.

  He tugged roughly her hair. Her eyes focused, but

  just a bit. Plata making such sweet love to her, she

  did not want to come back. Salome forgot herself

  and grabbed the hand gripping her hair. Herod responded to her insolence by slapping her pretty face

  hard. She instantly dropped her hand.

  “That’s my good girl,” he told her with an eyerattling shake, got her attention. “Now, you stupid

  little bitch, tell me what your father here has said.” Salome’s head would have fallen, if not held so

  firmly. She blinked and mumbled something, trying to go inside herself. Herod hit his niece again. “Okay, fuck,” she said, “okay.”

  “What did my brother say about me?” he repeated. “Tell it to the both of us.”

  “He said he’s going to place himself upon your

  throne. Use your dead body as his footstool.” “What else?” Herod demanded. His face darkened, spittle spraying. “What else did he say, you

  fucking cur?”

  She braced for another blow. “He claimed his

  powers would dwarf yours,” Salome answered.

  “He promised to make me his queen.”

  Herod stood. “You see?” he shouted and

  stepped down from the throne. Herod knocked Salome out of his way. “You see?” he repeated, spitting saliva as he went. His robe opened, penis

  protruding.

  A straight razor from a robe pocket and Herod began slicing Philip’s torso, abdomen. His brother cried

  out, the pain a mountain. Again, Philip begged.

  Herod’s slashing became more concentrated and severe, mercy not forthcoming. An aerosol of dying

  blood sprayed Herod. He did not seem to notice. As quickly as the tirade began, it ended. He

  surveyed damage. Leaned forward, ran an exploring tongue over the cuts. Herod lapped the bleeding

  wounds.

  “Forgive me,” Philip begged. Herod licked the

  cuts.

  “You know you did this to yourself, Philip,” he

  replied. Herod quit Philip’s leaking knife cuts,

  looked into his wild eyes. “Sorry brother, but I

  gotta say no. There’s no way around it, you’re

  gonna die.” Philip dropped his head in defeat,

  moaning in shameful pain.

  Herod went to his throne. Philip’s adopted

  daughter resumed dancing for him. Her father’s

  agony sound-tracking the event. Herod rubbed her

  bare back.

  “Don’t worry about Salome,” he told his

  brother. “Uncle Herod will take good care of her.” Flavius and the boy were led inside Herod’s

  compound by Tacitus. They breezed through external security. In the sub-basement Tacitus turned to

  Flavius.

  “You can’t go any deeper,” he said.

  “I understand,” Flavius replied. He heard />
  someone begging for mercy. It raised a cold spot at

  the small of his back. His scalp tightened. He

  never felt evil so intimately. It oozed from the very

  bricks, iron and mortar of this bad place. He turned

  to Tacitus and said, “I don’t want to know.” “No you don’t,” Tacitus agreed.

  Flavius nodded. Without another word, he left

  quickly. Ignorance is bliss.

  Salome curled at Herod’s feet, her head pillowed between spread knees. Her face was peaceful as she slept. A smile pinched the corners of her

  mouth. Philip still hung, but if he wasn’t dead, he

  was on the cusp of it.

  Herod pressed against the back of his throne,

  sighed loudly and deep. His mind was spinning.

  He pet Salome’s head, trying to retain order, but to

  no avail. The vision came again. Herod slipped

  headlong into another nightmare landscape:

  * * * Bodies were everywhere and Herod walked amongst them. They were piled twenty, thirty deep. They were spread out on all sides, as far as the eye could see. A casino boat ground its hull where the Lake met The Harbor. Hundreds of the dead and dying were strewn across decks, hanging over railings. Bodies tossed over edges of lifeboats, floating face down everywhere. Most of them torn open, inners ravaged.

  The cold water of the Lake changed suddenly. Herod saw waves become red and clotty. A mist of pink sprung up, hung over the lake of blood. A crisply static hissing sound from where heat of the bloody lake rose to meet cold air. The smell was decay. It was heavy and purulent. It smelled of awful places, things you long to forget.

  Herod stopped at the edge of the shore. He let warm waves of blood run over bare feet, slopping ankles. Clots formed when it touched cold vampire skin. He played with them, squished darkened lumps between toes. His vision penis was two feet long. Thick vessels pounded blood through hardened length. It curved downward and was red, rude and throbbing.

  Herod was naked. His body grew, swelling to become a vengeful god. He shall destroy The Harbor, all in his way. He shall crush all who oppose him and feed at will. All shall lie at his mighty feet.

  Herod felt power growing within him. The chum dripped from his face, framed his smile. He roared. The curtain rent from top to bottom, graves split open. Creatures rose from the depths as the Earth trembled beneath his feet. Demons with long wings and whippish tails flew in from the horizon. They waltzed to the agony of their damnation through warm pink mist. Dozens appeared. They filled the air with their cries. Herod brought them down with his roar.