Pilate

by Reverend Steven Rage

  He had to laugh. The vampire girl could assassinate whoever got in the way. It was perfect. Romans were, mostly, too sophisticated to believe in blood drinkers. Especially a young shapely one they regularly fucked.

  The vampire girl could help Theodosius greatly. She could foreshadow his march on Rome.

  The vampire solved so many dilemmas. She fit so perfectly his plans. He decided she fell into his lap as divine providence. She must be a gift from the Son.

  Theodosius took a small contingent of guards, trod down to the river. He went into the water. He immersed himself in it, as mandated by his new and interesting religion. He kissed a cross of burnished wood and thanked the Nazarene for all. He asked for forgiveness of sins. The Emperor especially thanked Him for the vampire girl. Mysterious workings, most assured.

  The Emperor finished the Christian ritual and made his way to the tents and the vampire girl. The thought of her slender budding body stiffened him. Theodosius smiled to himself as he entered the tents. She was awake and waiting for him. She was a good girl. He disrobed.

  The Emperor stood naked. He spun an index finger in a tight circle. The vampire girl rolled over onto hands and knees. She looked over her shoulder at him. Smiling, she arched her back and spread her knees.

  The Roman Senate, he thought, won’t know what hit them.

  The vampire girl grew under the Eastern Emperor’s guidance and tutor. Except for the simple wooden idol kissed as he prayed, she was comfortable and secure as promised. She had her own quarters and fed on slaves at will. The idol made her hands burn, so she averted her gaze whenever near.

  She made ready and sent to Rome. She was a gift to the Senate from Theodosius, the Emperor of the Eastern Empire.

  The Senate, once tasting of her, did thank the Emperor most profusely.

  Theodosius, upon hearing the flowery proclamation, laughed his royal ass off.

  The dead boy at her feet was no slave. He confided this as he grunted and sweated on top of her. He bragged about it. He told her none of the boys were really slaves at all.

  Alaric, outside the city with his armies, was playing the Senate. The boys were soldiers in Alaric’s army. And now they were massed at the Salarian Gate.

  Soon they would rush unsuspecting, drowsy guards and overwhelm them. After the guards are dispatched, the slaves will open the Gate. Alaric and his armies will pour through and sack Rome.

  The vampire girl had to admit, a devil of a good plan. She learned about it much too late to warn Theodosius. Not in time, anyway. It would take days to send a message that far away, even if peace ruled. In a few moments, all will be chaos. There will be no message of warning from her.

  A glut of slave/soldiers clustered together in the darkness. They hid from the guards. They had daggers cleverly concealed. The vampire could hear their plans.

  It was nearly Dark Hour. She heard stirring and hushed movement from outside the walls.

  She turned and disappeared into the dark night.

  The sounds of men fighting, dying at the Gate came from a distance. She scaled the wall, peeked over the top. A soldier stood watch near a group of placidly cropping horses. The guard leaned against the wall, right below the vampire. She was a preying mantis anxious to savor his fluids.

  Her eyes yellowed. The guard’s blood teased her. Fangs fell and talons pierced the wall. She went over, scaled silently downward the outer side. The vampire inched stealthily toward the unwary guard, creeping like a hunting spider.

  The vampire halted inches above the crown of his helmet, eyes yellow and shining. Saliva, pink and slick, dribbled cool from her, splattered the back of his neck. The soldier reached the spittle and wiped some free. He brought it around and peered closely at it. He couldn’t place it, absent suitable light.

  He felt he was being watched. The guard quickly scanned the immediate area. He was at the ready, but saw nothing save his brethren in the distance and horses beside him. Then, to satisfy a strange but insistent urging, he glanced upward. His breath caught at what he saw.

  She smiled at him and his heart almost stopped.

  Her talons split the anterior chest wall and gripped his ribs like handles. She pulled the guard off the ground. His heels hit the wall spasmodically as she fed.

  When finished, she dropped him to the ground. The vampire girl remained inverted on the wall until the fresh blood suffused her core. Then it spread glowing warmth throughout her body.

  She hit the ground. Vampire signs died down. Flushed and full. Inside, Rome erupted with violence and strangled cries. The vampire outside the walls, walking carefully away as the dying city was raped.

  It was time for her to change loyalties.

  She saw Alaric’s tents up ahead, not far. She smoothed her hair. She pinched up her nipples until the hard gems strained her tunic. She tightened fabric to accentuate the curve from waist to hip. She ran a finger between thick downy lips of her vulva. The vampire dabbed wet scent wherever her pulse pounded close to the skin’s surface: behind ears, base of throat, the soft sparse fur under her arms.

  She wondered how many of Alaric’s men she would have to fuck. Did not matter, she wasn’t afraid of them. Theodosius, the Emperor of the Eastern Empire taught her well. He taught her to thrive.

  The tents neared. She was mostly free of blood. She could hear men laughing with triumph. Rome, all knew, would now fall.

  She saw Alaric emerge from the tent, surrounded by his men. The conqueror saw her. The vampire smiled seductively and came to him.

  In Gaul, almost eight centuries later, the vampire finally died. She fed once too often in the same place. She paid for it with her long life.

  Frankish peasants pinned her throat to a mud wall. She bled out around the farming implement impaling her. They curiously watched as she died without struggle. They piled wood and hay around her feet. The blaze set, fire raged. Still there was no struggle.

  The vampire traveled vast distances, crisscrossing the centuries since leaving Rome. She witnessed and experienced many great and horrid things. She killed more humans than anyone could count. She could have lived many more years, could have taught survival as an art form.

  But she tired of it, all of it. She grew weary from the living of life and the taking of it. She tired of it until she despaired. She was finished. What shall be done next, when all has been? There was nothing left for her, save the one.

  She allowed herself to be captured by the Franks. Her suicide was all she had left to do.

  And it was a triumphant one.

  * * * Pilate parked outside the square of Clarkston. About three blocks away at a gas station he owned.

  The vision of ancient Rome had slammed into him with tremendous force. It was IMAX in Pilate’s head: big, loud and sharp. It left him momentarily groggy and confused. It also burned a lot of time.

  Pilate carefully drove around to the back; the station dark and closed for the night.

  The former owner became a hardcore Plata addict. Eventually he signed the business over to Pilate. The man’s daughter managed the place as Pilate’s employee. The young woman’s father died soon after he graduated to the needle.

  Pilate sat in the close dark for a bit. He pondered his sudden reversal. The day before yesterday he had his world by the balls. Now it turned on him. Shit evolved into an all or nothing proposition.

  Now that he calmed, Pilate realized there’s more to it than revenge on Herod. His choices were less clear. Pilate could kill the innocent preacher girl and win back his world. He could save the innocent and lose everything ever coveted, including his own life. Pilate knew if the Pharisees protection of him was ever compromised – well… Herod would have niggas digging for him in every hole. Pilate’s life would be worth squat.

  Final choice, way down on the list, was to say fuck it and run. He could always do that. If he could grab the money, the little bit that’s left. And he could hardly fucking believe that’s what it came down to. Here he was about to risk life and limb to
get money that amounted to less than four percent of his fortune.

  Not much in the way of choices and ain’t none of them easy. But he couldn’t dwell on this shit any longer. There was no more time left to plan. He had to move.

  The phone Pilate was supposed to keep on hand was left purposefully in the car. He’ll need to be silent and deadly now. There were thick stores of oxygen feeding, strengthening the vampire. His muscles were swollen, poised and on the mark.

  Pilate shut the big bay door. He looked out toward Clarkston. His fingertips tingled, talons pressing. The nubs hardened and sharp tips teased soft, pink flesh. The vampire was all set.

  Pilate was a blur as he went deep into Clarkston. Pilate knew running faster than the human eye will still make some residual noise. He prudently kept to the shadows and dark crevices.

  Pilate leaped to the top of a corner house. He soared down the block, jumping from rooftop to rooftop. He nearly flew. Pilate slowed to a stop on the rooftop of an empty, darkened house. He studied the street below behind a second story chimney. The house was directly across the lane. His money waited there. The vampire frowned as he scouted the area.

  Damn. Motherfuckers were everywhere, celebrating.

  Mary Magdalene’s tiny house was straight ahead, across the street, near ground zero. As Pilate watched, an automatic rifle ripped the night air. Dogs barked like Jesus was coming. Someone got punched in the face, fell back into a bonfire. A scuffle broke out. A girl sluggishly pulled a train on the hood of an old car. Hard music framed the background noise.

  Big-ass niggas resplendent with prison ink loitered shirtless. Nines and auto-pistols were in plain sight. It seemed the square was celebrating a quincinea in Caligula’s basement, while awaiting marching orders. There was so much hardware concentrated on this block. Pilate’s money waiting for him, but it was through the gauntlet on the other side. Shit.

  It was what it was.

  Irritated, Pilate palmed his gun, shit off safety. Pilate knows there ain’t nothin’ easy in The Harbor but damn if this wasn’t getting ridiculous. He continued to watch the crowd below.

  No mystery why no one came here. But money’s on the line and he didn’t have time for this. Pilate couldn’t stay away from his phone too long. The Pharisees will be calling for him any time now. If he didn’t answer, they would not be amused. It would be yet another bullshit problem to deal with.

  Pilate checked the surrounding area. The bulk of the fun appeared to be consolidated right below him. The far periphery was quiet. He scanned revelers one last time, jumped down to the soft grass below. He pulled the slide on the nine, chambered it. Then Pilate melted into the night.

  The vampire was a blur as he ran.

  S alome left the old woman’s quarters feeling fine. Grandmother was crazy as a street corner preacher, but seemed to like her well enough. Grandmother should not encumber her burgeoning plan.

  Salome shut the plain door. She quickly went to the door from the anteroom to the passageway beyond. She opened that door, glanced behind then ran smack into Tacitus. He looked strangely at her. She stepped back from him and tensed. She’d been caught.

  But, “Why’d you come back?” was all he wanted to know.

  H erod finally stopped convulsing. He struggled to an upright position. His face stung. The crawly things tasted the bubbling pate in the ever-growing blisters there.

  As soon as able, Herod stood, using the wall for balance. Shaky still, but he felt good. No, better than good. Herod felt grand.

  The ice melted as soon as the Diabolous made his exit. Chunks of ice fell from the ceiling. Water formed and left behind icy liquid an inch deep. When it dried, Herod knew he would plainly and forever see Satan’s footprints. He had been kissed, blessed, by the Mighty One and Herod felt grand.

  Herod gently probed the most painful boil. This blistering sore emerged from an eyebrow. The shiny skin was tight and hot with life. Herod used a talon to prick the pulsing knot. The boil exploded with an audible pop, contents racing into his eye.

  The soft white globe swelled in protest. Bugs clung to eyelashes, fighting for purchase. The ones that made it under the eyelid explored the white globe. Herod’s eye was their new home. They chased each other around the arc of the eyeball to see what’s behind it.

  Herod could feel bugs boring into his brain. He wasn’t concerned. Pain was present. It was blinding, but no matter. The devil’s power held Herod together and gave him strength. It made him potent. He smiled.

  Fat grubs found their way into his mouth. He chewed them up and gulped them down on the way out of his bedchamber. He needed to monitor progress in the Throne Room. He was going to make sure all’s organized for his special guests.

  The devil gave to him an idea. It was a grand notion, this. Herod felt it was fitting and almost poetic, really.

  Herod had to hurry.

  T he first fell before anyone in Clarkston heard gunshots. Two shots from the darkness and followed immediately by three more to the right of the first two. Then it was back to the left, five shots. Two more fell.

  By the time three more came in from the right, weapons were in hand. Niggas running flat out, firing at the general direction of the visible muzzle flashes.

  Gunfire lit up the night. Dozens of dogs barked angrily. Old looking young women went to the fallen and wailed for them. The area blew up in chaotic violence.

  Pilate ran hard and away from his last series of gunshots. He found a deep spot beside a quiet shed. He dropped the clip and replaced it with a fresh one. Pilate used up oxygen darting faster than humans can see and shooting several houses apart. He wanted to give the motherfuckers the impression a squad was attacking. He wasn’t overly concerned about the O2 used. The blood was premium and he had plenty left.

  Pilate saw them run past, firing at places from which he had shot. He watched them go by, turned attention to the tiny house across the street.

  Tacitus was getting hard. Salome gently caressed his cock through his pants. She was whispering to him, promising him. They were in a dark recess of the passageway. He believed her with all his might. She smiled in the dark at him.

  “You’ll be ready, Papi?” she asked, “You can do what I need you to do?”

  “Yes,” Tacitus replied. He was big as a house and in pain. He was dying to hose her down, soak her face. “I’ll do anything you want,” he swore.

  “Yes, you will,” she told him as she sank to her knees. “I know you will.”

  H

  e stood there, money slung over his shoulder. He stared at her. She slept on the couch. No one else was with her.

  The metal box in the attic crawl space was right where he left it. When checked, the money there and in good shape. He removed a few thousand, put them in his pocket.

  Pilate went down the stairs to the ground floor and saw her. He wasn’t expecting to see her, but he should have. It made the most sense. She would feel safe here while she recovered.

  He had the urge to nudge her awake, he missed her. He couldn’t do it. What if she did not yet know about her man? How could he tell her Juan’s head wound up on a stick because of him? There’s no way. He decided to let her stay asleep.

  Pilate knelt beside the couch, leaned in to kiss her goodbye. He was careful not to touch her, though. Afraid his chilly skin would rouse her from sleep.

  “Love you, little one,” he whispered and was gone.

  Mary Magdalene felt air displacement, heard security door shut. She opened her remaining eye.

  “And me, you,” she told the empty space.

  Outside, Mary could hear neighbors returning. They were empty handed.

  O vid was repulsed by Herod’s new face. He’d been rolling out fresh plastic sheeting onto otherwise bare floor of the Throne Room when Herod waltzed in.

  Herod strolled in humming, a spring in his step. He seemed unfazed by the changes to his face.

  Herod came to Ovid, ignored his stare. He smiled brightly. Shit jumped about in there. A
plump grub dragged its bulk across the pupil of Herod’s eye. The grub disappeared around the curve, back into the dark side of the socket. The grub left a long snotty string of bloody excrement in its wake.

  Herod stepped up, still smiling happily, and backhanded Ovid across his wide stupid face. Ovid snapped to.

  “Good,” Herod said, pointed the wall, “I want another one of those.” He pointed to the dark ceiling above: “Make sure that thing works and is ready to go.”

  Ovid looked from the wall to the ceiling. He then looked back to Herod and nodded his ‘yes’.

  Herod smiled and felt his shit get hard. He started laughing.

  “It’s all going to be grand,” he shouted, “simply grand!”

  P ilate closed the bay door, back in his car, money in hand. He could leave right now. Leave this place and start over somewhere else. He didn’t have to do the Pharisees bidding. He still had a choice. He didn’t have to take part in this. He still had a choice.

  He coaxed his car to the edge of the street. To the left; escape. To the right was the Christ.

  Pilate stayed a moment, thinking. What’s it gonna be: left or right? The street was empty and Clarkston still noisy.

  Pilate thought of Herod and darkened. He gripped the steering wheel, a growl escaped him. It was Herod then.

  He turned right.

  The phone rang. He told Matthias he’s ready and to call him when she reached her destination. He’s nearby and could rendezvous without delay.

  Pilate was deep in The Harbor. He pulled into the parking lot of a grocery store as another vision hit.

  70, anno Domini The baby’s head crowned. The midwife called for another push. The baby’s father pushed down hard on the mother’s bulbous abdomen. The baby came out easy the rest of the way. The mother was relaxed now. She didn’t cry out because her labors did not hurt her anymore. She was dead.

  The baby was underweight and blue. It was cold and hungry. It had tiny sharp points pushing through soft cyanotic gums. The baby was a golum, an unnatural. He was a blood drinker, this one.