Divine Madness

by Melanie Jackson

  “You know, they always split up in horror movies and someone always gets killed. I really think that you should come with me.”

  “This isn’t a movie,” she said impatiently. “Go. And be quick. I hate this place.”

  I did too, so I stopped arguing and headed for the stairs.

  We die only once—and for such a long time.

  —Molière

  Neither the sun nor death can be looked at with a steady eye.

  —François de la Rochefoucauld

  Talk to your lover about herself, and seldom of your own self. Take for granted that she is a hundred times more interested in the charms of her own person than in the whole gamut of your emotions.

  —“Lesson in Love” from Carte du Tendre by Ninon de Lenclos

  Absence diminishes mediocre passions and increases great ones, as the wind extinguishes candles and fans fires.

  —François de la Rochefoucauld

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I encountered a ghoul in the stairwell.

  Fortunately, this time I smelled the creature before I saw it—or it saw me—and I turned off my flashlight so my eyes could adjust to the dark. I stood in silence, looking up until it appeared, peering down toward me from the top of the stairs and snuffling after our trail.

  Now that danger had actually arrived, I was calm and able to think clearly. Given that Ninon sensed a crypt full of bad guys on the other side of the copper door, and that I wanted them to stay there, there was no choice but to take this one on with a trench spike and pray for a quick, quiet kill. Besides, a single blast from my shotgun might not put it down, and I probably wouldn’t get a second shot before it was on me. Anyway, that would also alert all the other ghouls to our whereabouts. Assuming they didn’t already know. They might not.

  This ghoul had to be a rogue who had been out hunting for lunch in the cactus while we explored the hotel. We’d been wading through water for a lot of our search, and since they seemed to rely on scent and sound rather than sight, it might not be sure of our lingering presence. If I could take this one before it raised the alarm, we stood a good chance of starting our barbecue and getting away before the rest of them knew we were in town.

  Okay, I had to kill it. Alone. And quietly.

  Confronting it headlong while climbing up slimy stairs wasn’t my first choice of attack strategies; I’d be at a terrible disadvantage. Sneaking up behind from another route wasn’t a viable choice, either. I was at the bottom of the only flight of stairs. I considered my options, looking for ways out as I waited unmoving for the giant, snuffling head to withdraw.

  As I mentioned before, I’m not good at waiting, but I had no idea what to do as long as that damn thing sat there like the stopper in the end of a bottle. Ninon had pointed out that we weren’t in a movie, but I was willing to turn to Hollywood for inspiration. I decided to try the old lob-a-stone trick that they used in spy movies where smart American prisoners wanted to distract the evil Nazi guards. Fortunately, the stones in the wall were loose from their extended stay in the water, and I was able to pry one free with only minimal difficulty.

  The throw was an awkward one, so I took my time. I was careful to pitch over its head. Smacking it in the face would be really dumb since it would tell the thing I was there and also piss it off.

  Fetch, Rover! Chase that rock, I thought as I chucked the stone high.

  Wonder of wonders, it worked. I saw the ghoul’s silhouette whip around, and then it disappeared just like it had read the script and knew its part. I climbed quickly and silently, controlling my breathing, being careful not to let my shoes make any sucking sounds as I scrambled through the slime, using the crypt’s wall of dead brothers’ bodies to keep my balance. Oddly, the last bit of the stairway was the worst. I ran out of skeletons and there was nothing to hang on to but slime-covered stones.

  Though I made no noise, the creature sensed me before I made it out the door. The ghoul turned quickly as I jumped—or, more accurately, skidded—into the room. It was fast, but I had momentum and a trench spike on my side.

  Haste makes waste—I’ve found the saying is actually true in combat, at least for me. My first blow missed its heart. I’d have to work on my technique if I lived long enough. I might have screwed up with the spike, but I lashed out with my foot, spinning the thing about and making a fine effort to shove the thing backward down the stairs. I’d do anything to keep it from getting its gorilla arms around me.

  It grunted at the impact of the heel of my boot, but its left hand shot out and grasped my ankle with what felt like an iron claw. The right hand flailed but held fast to another object, even though it might have been able to save itself by grabbing at the iron gate.

  My eyes finally adapted to the brighter light and I understood why it hung on so tight. It had a hand grenade! A bloody great hand grenade, just like in the movies—which I would be sure to tell Ms. This-is-real-life-and-nota-movie. No more sneering. Hollywood had been right about everything—about splitting up being stupid, about the rock trick, and now about the bad guy turning up with bigger guns.

  Our gazes met as the ghoul pinwheeled at the top of the stairs. The thing had evil eyes, yellow eyes that must have come from a goat. I saw also an intelligence there that hadn’t existed in the zombies we’d seen—as Ninon had claimed. If there had ever been any doubt about what I was fighting, it was ended. This was a ghoul, a thinking being.

  However, that consciousness was where any connection between our species ended. This thing wasn’t even remotely human. It had no hair and the skin looked burnt, almost waxen. As with the other ghoul, the underlying bone structure was subtly wrong. For one thing, the legs and arms were too long for the torso.

  Alarmed and repulsed by the feel of the talons crushing my ankle, I dropped to the ground, changing the thing’s center of gravity and pushing it off balance. As the creature fell backward, I kicked out with my other foot, twisting in the air and connecting hard with the thing’s face. The monster fell into the darkness.

  Thank God that ghouls don’t scream. The sound of it landing should alert Ninon to be on guard, but I hoped it wouldn’t be loud enough to alarm anyone else.

  I scrambled quickly to the edge of the stairs and watched its tumbling fall while I nursed my throbbing ankle. Thank goodness I’d been wearing boots or I’d also have to deal with missing tissue. If I kept this up I’d end a walking topographical map in scars of our visit to Mexico. As it was, the leather of my boot was torn clean through.

  The thing grunted as it hit the wall, ricocheting like a pinball back and forth between the stony surfaces. An audible punctuation of each blow forced a small bit of air from its lungs. It reached bottom finally and then let out an enraged hiss that vibrated the air of the stairwell. I loathed that sound. Why the Hell didn’t they scream like normal animals? It had to be lacking vocal chords. Maybe Saint Germain believed that ghouls should be seen and not heard. Probably not a bad policy. Their conversation would likely be limited to demands for food.

  But both silence and resilience are ghoulish features. Like the other ghoul, this one was unhurt by its fall. All I had accomplished by shoving it down the stairs was to piss it off and keep it away from the fuel. If Ninon weren’t down there, I’d dump the gasoline on it and set it on fire.

  But Ninon was down there, and the beast hadn’t rushed back up to get me.

  Ninon—that was a psychological kick to the head. For the first time, fear touched me and I felt my hastily erected scaffolding of courage shimmy beneath me.

  “Bloody Hell.” I trusted my ankle to hold out a while longer and jumped down the stairs after the ghoul, trench spike ready.

  It scrambled away from me as I landed, trying to hide in the dark. That didn’t work. My eyesight is very good in low-light situations. The beast was still clinging to its grenade but hadn’t pulled the pin. Maybe it knew it wouldn’t survive if an explosion went off down there. Maybe there was enough awareness that it didn’t want to die if i
t could avoid it.

  Or maybe its creator was down there and it didn’t dare risk hurting him unless left with no other choice.

  We had a temporary standoff. The ghoul snarled silently at me with its long inhuman teeth. Apparently it wasn’t good with waiting either. With unbelievable speed, the creature bounded halfway across the floor. It was on me a half-second later, nails of its right hand clawing at my face—what is it about my face that attracts them?—and jaws snapping as it tried for a lock on my throat with its filthy teeth.

  I couldn’t land an effective blow with the spike. The ghoul was too close and my swing hampered. Instead I rolled backward, using the thing’s momentum to force it over my head. I pulled my knees into my chest and then let fly with a kick that would do a mule proud. Again I threw the ghoul off, shoving as hard as I could into the soft part of its body as I flung it away.

  There was a horrible cracking noise as my boot punched a hole in the creature’s gut, knocking some organs loose and tearing gristle. A gush of dark sludge cascaded down my leg. It burned like acid and smelled like the sewers of Hell, but I didn’t pause. I already knew this loss of organs wouldn’t stop the thing. I rolled over and kicked out again, aiming for the head.

  I connected, but did no damage. The thing hissed and headed back for the stairs—and up toward the gasoline. It looked enraged now, and I knew if it got to the top that it would probably drop the grenade down on Ninon and me and then throw the gas cans in after.

  I jumped in pursuit, landing on the creature’s back and striking downward with the spike. Something clattered to the floor and rolled away. I’m sure I hit the heart, but it slowed the creature very little. My weight knocked the air out of its lungs, but the monster apparently didn’t need air to live.

  Very aware that the grenade might have had its pin pulled and I had only seconds left, I jerked the spike out of its chest and aimed for its head. The blow was an awkward one and went in sideways, skipping along the skull without penetrating more than the skin. I was getting ready to try again when Ninon arrived. She came up on the left, quickly and silently. Her spike went in smoothly and was pulled out the same way.

  More sludge gushed out of the ghoul’s body, and I shoved it away from me. It took a moment for the thing to die. We scrambled back as it lashed at us, avoiding its awful jaws and tearing hands while it thrashed on the slimy floor.

  Finally it quieted. Nothing exploded.

  “Is that the only one?” Ninon whispered.

  “I think so. Turn on your flashlight. There’s a grenade down here someplace.”

  “A grenade?” Ninon is the only woman I know who could sound happy at this news.

  I shared her joy when we found it with its pin in place. It would make opening that damn door so much easier. All we had to do was take a quick peek, and if there were too many undead, we’d toss in our little explosive, slam the door, and get the Hell up those stairs.

  “Are you okay?” she asked me, laying her hand on my arm.

  “Better all the time,” I said. I ignored my throbbing ankle and retorn cheek.

  The natives tell of sickness that darkens the soul, causing a thirst for blood of their brothers…Once darkened, there is no method of healing save death itself.

  —From Father Esteban Negron of Bartolome de las Casas

  One certainly has a soul; but how it came to allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can imagine. I only know if once mine gets out, I’ll have a bit of a tussle before I let it get in again to that of any other.

  —Byron

  As long as men believe in absurdities, they will continue to commit atrocities.

  —Voltaire

  Perhaps being old is having lighted rooms inside your head, and people in them, acting. People you know, yet can’t quite name.

  —François de la Rochefoucauld

  To live without loving is not really to live.

  —Molière

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Things went as planned. We opened the copper door, took a look at the piles of napping ghouls, and made use of the grenade. It was a first for me, killing the undead so easily, and I have to admit I enjoyed it.

  We felt the concussion on the stairs, to which we’d run. It was painful enough on the eardrums that we both gasped. We fetched a can of gasoline and went back down to the basement. I didn’t care for the way the plaster was falling and how the ceiling beams groaned. We opened the copper door, now rather bent, and looked inside. It was full of bodies, but bodies that were still moving.

  I’m going to blame our hesitation to enter on architectural instability. We should have gone in to see if we could find Saint Germain, but neither of us could make ourselves wade into the filth of exploded ghouls. Instead we opened a can of gas and tossed it at one of the small fires smoldering on the timbered walls. We waited for the whoosh of ignition and then slammed the door shut again.

  The second bang was smaller, or maybe our ears were too damaged to hear.

  We staggered out and back up into the church, covered in slime and smudged with smoke, heading for the other gas cans on shaky legs. Probably we could leave the church to burn on its own, but we were taking no chances. There was that lab downstairs and it might be put to use again.

  I knelt down, reaching for one of the red cans, when a trio of creatures flew at us out of the dark beams overhead, two of them grey fleshy nightmares that were all teeth and tearing claws, the third something more recognizably human. There was no time for the mind to translate the eyes’ revolted warnings into words of alarm, and no time for me to aim my shotgun before they were on top of us. Fortunately, the lead monster blew past and headed for another danger we hadn’t sensed.

  My stomach muscles contracted as I braced myself for a blow. I knew with certain dread that I was being slow—too slow—and I was lucky when the second creature passed me by. Ninon wasn’t as stunned as I. Her body moved seemingly without effort, dropping her flashlight and bringing her gun to bear first on the blond man who had entered the church, and then on the second vampire who deviated from its course and came at her with claws extended. Too close to me to risk the shot, she dropped her rifle and seized its arm. Using the thing’s own momentum, she flung it into the remains of the vestry with skull-crushing force that broke both its withered body and chipped the adobe of the wall. A shower of falling plaster burst like a popping vacuum cleaner bag, but before it settled on the floor Ninon had spun about, picked up her rifle and re-aimed it at the man. Saint Germain.

  The third vampire turned from its attack on Saint Germain and reached out for Ninon. As I had promised, I did not hesitate. I grabbed the creature by its bald head, and also using the hurtling body’s own momentum, I let it reach the end of its tether and then efficiently snapped its neck the way you would crack a whip. I swung about in a small circle and then threw the dead creature into Saint Germain’s path.

  My timing could have been better. The final vampire, a mass of hissing fangs and ripping claws, was dropping down on Saint Germain, and the live and dead vampires collided. The sound of crunching bones was loud as the monsters smashed together, but it was soon replaced with an even more disturbing high-pitched hissing as the live vampire did its best to both rid itself of its dead companion and tear off Saint Germain’s head.

  Ninon stood with the rifle ready, but she did not shoot. It took a long minute but the vampire succeeded in decapitating its victim. Yet not without cost. Saint Germain managed to punch through its body and rip out its heart. Apparently a stake wasn’t needed to kill a vampire, just the removal of its heart. The pair collapsed seconds later, both falling to the floor, one missing its head, the other the seat of its spirit that Saint Germain clutched in his dead hand.

  Ninon and I stood in silence, our attention fixed on Saint Germain’s corpse. Both of us expected it to rise, but it didn’t move.

  I eventually became aware that the leprous skin of the second vampire’s face was clinging to my hand, where it had pee
led off the creature’s skull like a surgeon’s latex glove. I made a sound of disgust, shaking my fingers to be rid of it.

  “Are they vampires?” Ninon asked, glancing nervously at the three bodies and then up at the darkness overhead. Nothing moved, but she wasn’t reassured. She kept the rifle ready.

  “Yes.” I already knew what I would find, but I knelt by Saint Germain and turned the final vampire over. It had an abdominal scar right where its appendix used to be. Ninon came over and knelt beside me.

  “Is it your mother?” Her voice was a whisper.

  “Yes. That’s Mamita.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  And I knew that she was. Mamita had been a vampire, had attached her, but the monster was still my mother, and Ninon—compassionate creature that she is—was sorry for my loss. I think I was too. “She died saving you.”

  “Again.”

  Yes, she’d died saving me, while her friends had tried to kill Ninon. How was I supposed to feel about that?

  “Miguel?” Ninon cleared her throat. She got to her feet, gun again ready. “We might have a problem.”

  “You don’t think this one is Saint Germain either?” I asked, coming to my feet as well. My confused feelings would have to wait.

  “I can’t be sure but…No. I don’t believe it’s him. He doesn’t feel old enough, evil enough. I think he’s another clone.”

  Clones. Great. The evil asshole had a Xerox machine.

  “We burn the town anyway,” I guessed.

  Ninon nodded. “Oh yes. To the ground.”

  Writing is like prostitution. First you do it for love, then for a few close friends, and then for money.

  —Molière

  In the arithmetic of love, one plus one equals everything. Two minus one equals nothing.

  —Ninon de Lenclos

  Grammar knows how to control even kings.

  —Molière