Cry Havoc lf-3

by Baxter Clare

  Opening a door, the woman told Frank, "Mother Love said you might come. I'll take you to her."

  Alice in Wonderland, Frank thought, following the girl through a maze of brick walls. She missed Lewis behind her this time, and with a tiny hitch of panic she regretted not telling anyone where she was going. Frank steadied herself. They were getting closer to the drumming. It was slower and not as loud, but Frank was sure it was the same beat she'd heard in her dream. Her mouth went dry and she promised herself as many beers as she wanted when this was over.

  The drumming grew louder and louder. The girl stopped in front of a red door, her hand resting on an old brass handle. She smiled again, calling over the tempo, "Here we are."

  Frank realized she didn't like the girl's smile. It was too bright. Too false. An alarm tripped in Frank's gut. Thunderous drumming overwhelmed it as the girl pushed the door open. Frank had no choice but to follow. Marguerite spoke clearly in her head, you always have a choice.

  Irrationally, Frank snapped back, not this time.

  The room was lit like a scene from hell. Shadows spawned from torches and candles clambered over the walls. Against them, a half-dozen men sat blindfolded, naked to the waist. They pounded on the drums, their skin glistening in the coppery light.

  Frank sensed rather than saw the twins standing on either side of the door. Near the center of the room, the Mother waited to meet Frank's eyes. Frank wouldn't look there, suddenly very afraid of what she would see.

  The drummers increased their tempo. Frank's heartbeat kept time. Behind her, the twins blocked the door. Hot sweat rolled down her ribs. The incessant rhythm made it hard to think, but one thing was obvious. There was no bembe. Frank was the one they'd been waiting for.

  Cold fury rippled through her. Frank raged that she had so profoundly fallen for the set-up. Like a punk-ass civilian, straight off the plane from Podunk, Iowa.

  But that was all part of the plan, warn't it?

  Before she could stop it, another memory swamped her. The certainty that she was meant to be here staggered her. She knew the rhythm the drummers were beating out. Her bones cherished it. The twisting shadows and blinded men, the Mother's foreboding patience and the twins behind her, Azazel and Belial, each detail perfectly fitted Frank's memory. In a different world, this moment had already happened and been preserved. Frank was only revisiting it. It was inevitable that she face the Mother. Always fighting, always the soldier. Forever and ever, amen. Father Merrin confronting his monstrous desert gods. Tripping in the desiccated ruins. Dogs snarling and snapping.

  She felt herself falling. Instinct made her reach for her weapon. The twins lunged for either arm. Her bad hand closed awkwardly on the grip. She lifted the 9mm, but the wasted milliseconds cost her. The twins pinned her, one of them taking the Beretta.

  Lifting Frank with minimal effort, they carried her to the Mother. Frank still hadn't looked at her. Now she concentrated on a line dangling from the ceiling. It looked like a rope, one of those thick ones they used on ships. There was another behind it, looped through a pulley. Only Frank realized they were chains.

  Jesus Christ.

  The chains that had kept Danny Duncan immobilized. Terror reared like a stricken horse, but again Frank reined it in.

  Get mad, she heard her father say. She dredged up the slap of his palms on her face. Get mad and stay mad.

  Frank slammed her eyes into the Mother's, too angry to even be pleased that for an instant the Mother's hubris wavered.

  Words, even if they had been necessary, would have been useless against the crescendo of the drums. The adversaries glared, neither cognizant of defeat. With a crisp nod from their mother, the twins hustled Frank to the waiting chains. One pinioned her while the other knelt to secure her ankles. Frank thought to kick him in the face, break his nose, and try to manhandle the other brother. Even if she did break free she'd still have to deal with the Mother and her six drummers drumming. Her odds were slim to nil and Frank couldn't accept the possibility of failing in front of the Mother.

  The twin jerked the metal tight around her ankle bones. Frank tried to think that the pain was probably a pleasure compared to what was coming. She held the same thought while he chained her wrists, wincing where he touched her fresh scars. The other brother hauled the ankle chain through the pulley. She couldn't hear it, but the vibrations rattled through her ankles. He stopped pulling just as the metal dug into her skin. Then he worked the hand chain until Frank's arms were horizontal behind her back. Muscles and tendons pulled. Frank reflexively stretched onto her toes, trying for some slack but it wasn't enough. She'd only held the position for seconds and already it was excruciating.

  Get mad! Frank screamed into the pain.

  The Mother whirled and bent to one of the drummers. She said something in his ear and his timing changed. The other drummers, all old men, responded intimately. Frank wondered how many times they'd played this pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey game. One of the twins went out the red door. The other watched Frank with his arms folded over his massive chest.

  You fucking stupid magilla, Frank glowered at him. Like I could actually do anything. You got me trussed up like that fucking gimp in Pulp Fiction. I’ma get medieval on yo' ass.

  How long would they keep her like this? The Mother was swigging from a bottle and spraying the contents over her drummers. When she was done with them she sprayed the twin, then chugged and turned to Frank. Frank closed her eyes as the mist blasted her face. She recognized the smell of rum and licked her lips before shaking the rest off her face.

  The Mother walked back to her elaborate altar. She held a gourd up to each corner of the room and sprinkled something from it. Then she took a sip and held it to the lips of each drummer.

  The twin returned with the girl. They were both carrying boxes. The Mother paused to hold the gourd up for them. Frank watched them sip. Then the twin guarding her took a drink. When the Mother approached Frank, her eyes screamed, Don't even fucking try it!

  The Mother smiled.

  "Proud to the end," she purred in a deep voice. "It's pride that makes the angels fall."

  She dipped three fingers into the mix and smeared them against Frank's lips. Frank snapped, biting only air. The Mother started, recoiling her clawed fingers. Anger flashed from the ravening eyes and Frank grinned. The Mother moved away, continuing her ablutions.

  Frank tried to stretch even higher on her toes. But she couldn't relieve the pull of the chain.

  God, it fucking hurt. How long was this fucking dog and pony show gonna take? Longer the better, she thought with a genuine stab of fear, afraid to think what would happen when it was over.

  How did she get into this? And now that she was here, what the fuck was she going to do about it?

  "Pray," she heard Marguerite say. To Mickey Mouse or Joe Dimaggio, just pray. Fine, Frank conceded. She'd pray to Noah. They had that link. The Vulcan mind meld, Johnnie had said. If anyone could get her out of here it would be Noah. She called him in her head, repeating his name in time to the thundering drums.

  Hey, No. Listen up buddy. Hear me calling you? Help me, buddy. Help me. I’m at the Mothers place on Slauson. It's Frank, No. You gotta help me. Noah. Help me. The Mother's place. Slauson. Come on, buddy. I need you bad. Listen to me, No. Stop what you're doing and listen. Yeah, buddy, it's me, Frank. Come on, get your ass over here. I need you, No.

  Returning the gourd to the altar, the Mother started sprinkling designs onto the floor like Marguerite had done. The Mother straightened, breaking into a chant. Frank was momentarily distracted from her pain, amazed at the deep bellow issuing from the Mother, rising over the cacophony of the drums. Frank tried to recognize the language. It was like none she'd ever heard.

  Come on, No. The Mother's place on Slauson. It's Frank. Come get me, No. HQ for Marie Laveau. Come on, No, come on. It's Frank.

  The Mother spoke to the lead drummer and he changed the tempo again. The drums thrummed faster and tighter. Reaching into
one of the boxes, the Mother pulled out a pigeon. She held the bird over her head, braying like she was Mephistopheles. Ripping the bird's head off, she walked around the room sprinkling blood on everyone. The drummers sang responses to her chant. She did the same thing with another pigeon, then repeated the procedure with a rooster. The bodies were dumped into a black kettle in front of the altar.

  Noah! The Mother's place! Slauson! Get your fucking ass over here, buddy. ASAP! Pronto, No. We're killing birds over here!

  The girl who led Frank into the room brought in a lamb covered with a red cloth. Frank understood that the sacrifices were getting larger. Kneeling before the altar, the Mother sang, "Obi aro obi aye obi ofo."

  Frank answered, Obi Wan Kenobi, where are you? Scooby Doo, motherfucker, we got some work to do. Come on, Noah. Mother Love's place. Please don't let me be next on the menu, No.

  She pictured the wet brick building. The street address. She watched the Mother dress the lamb with the sticky stuff in the gourd. The animal didn't protest at all and Frank wondered if they'd drugged it. Christ, she wished they'd have drugged her. Her arms were finally getting numb but her back was wrenching into spasms. She twisted into them as best she could.

  The drummers chanted, "Firolo, firolo," and Frank sang, Figaro, Figaro, against the daggers down her back and sides. Jesus fucking sweet Jesus the pain. Noah, buddy. Noah, help me for Christ's sake. Look, No. Its me. Frank. The Mothers got me. At Slauson. Come on, hud. Come on. Come through for me, No.

  The Mother walked toward Frank, intent and business-like. She jammed something into Frank's mouth and Frank spat it out. It tasted of coconut and pepper. The Mother picked up the wad and rubbed it into the lamb's forehead. The twin who'd brought the birds in tied the lamb's legs together. He flipped it onto a bed of banana leaves by the altar and nodded at his brother. The twin glowered at Frank. She lunged at him as best she could. He started and she grinned, shouting, "Made you jump, stupid motherfucker."

  The brothers stretched the lamb lengthwise and the drummers wailed on their heads between their legs. The Mother bawled one of her ditties and her six blind mice offered the answering refrain. They did that three times, then she neatly severed the lamb's throat. Its blood spouted into a brightly painted tureen.

  Jesus, Noah, hurry. Please. I’m begging you. Whoever the fuck is out there. Mickey Mouse, Jesus, Buddha. Whoever the fuck, whatever, if anybody's listening, now is the time to do something. Look! Fm begging. Fm not proud here. Look. No pride. Please. Fm asking nice. Pretty please.

  The first twin cut the lamb's head off. The Mother poured salt into the neck, swabbing the wound with a clear, sticky goo. Chanting, her drummers answering, the Mother carried the head to Frank. She lifted it, letting warm blood rain onto Frank's face.

  "Washed in the blood of the lamb," Frank murmured.

  The Mother laughed deeply, like a man. She nodded at the twins and they walked behind Frank. They dropped her arms to her ass.

  She couldn't feel them, but the blood rushing into the surrounding area felt like her veins were infused with acid. She flinched at the pain, cursing these bastards for even getting that much from her.

  The tempo of the drumming was furious, like Hell's own cattle herd stampeding. The Mother put the lamb's head into the pot with the birds. She carefully cleaned her knife. It was long and grooved, a wicked looking instrument. Frank turned away from it. She just hoped it was sharp.

  Oh fucking sweet Jesus, I am so fucked. Oh goddamn. Come on, No, quit dicking around. I need you man, oh please, I need you. Fm running out of time here, No. Running out of time, Boy-o.

  Frank could relate to Father Merrin scrabbling through the dusky ruins, with Pazzuzu's face leering over him as his final confrontation played out to its irrevocable conclusion. But the priest had gone down swinging. In the end, he had his pride. Was that why he fell? Did he choke on his own arrogance?

  The Mother came toward Frank. She held the knife with both hands, as if offering atonement. The blade winked in the burnt light. Bile rose in Frank's throat. The Mother stood before her, the boys behind. She passed the knife to the twin who'd been assisting her.

  "Lucian has been touched by Ogun," she said reverently. "He's allowed to handle the sacrificial instruments."

  "Glad we cleared that up," Frank spat, "I like to know who's gonna slit my fucking throat."

  The Mother's words were audible above the din of the drums, but Frank's were swallowed alive. She stared into the terrible blackness of the Mother's eyes. All things repelled by daylight glinted from those twin hells. In them, jinn and lilim cavorted by smokeless fires, the desert night stirring restlessly beyond them. Hobbled inside the pale, Azazel's goat bleated for mercy. Jackals paced restlessly with the hyenas, awaiting the blooded sacrifice. The moon turned away, but the stars looked on with indifference.

  Soundlessly, the Mother spun the old tale, luring Frank with promises as old as the sands upon which they were made. This wasn't the first time the dark covenant had winked at Frank or cocked a crooked finger at her.

  Frank closed her eyes against the desolate visions. She listened to the Mother's laugh, echoing as if from a black and reeking well.

  Laugh, you cankerous old bitch. Go ahead. We'll see who's standing at the end. Odds were excellent it would be the Mother but Frank refused to believe that. Couldn't believe that. Even as the Mother gave Lucian the nod.

  Grabbing Frank's shirt, he ran the knife along it. He pulled the cloth apart and bared her chest. Deftly running the blade along her arms he stripped the rest of the shirt free.

  Frank didn't like that one little bit, but it was buying her time.

  For what? she questioned bitterly. For the psychic hotline to kick in? Fuck you, Marguerite, fuck you, Noah. Fuck you all very much. Fuck you Mickey Mouse. Fuck you god, if you're even there. Yeah, Fm choking on my pride, too.

  Lucian yanked her jeans down with her underwear, slitting them loose from the chain. For the first time in her life, Frank wished she wore a bra. One more thing to cut away. One more minute to buy.

  Frank no longer hoped a miraculous intervention would save her. She just wanted to live a few minutes longer. Life had suddenly become intensely sweet and she wasn't ready to give it up. She wanted to cry, but refused to feed the Mother's triumph.

  The Mother returned to her altar, took up the chanting in that unnervingly male voice. Frank was almost senseless with gratitude for the extra moments. The Mother brought a bowl to Frank, rubbing her up and down with an orange oil. Frank avoided those Stygian eyes. She didn't want them to be the last thing she saw.

  She thought about Gail and the tin heart still in her pocket. She was pissed she wasn't going to be able to give it to her, more pissed she hadn't said, "I love you" on the phone. Frank cursed her cowardice and her anger refueled her.

  It ain't over 'til the fat lady sings and I ain't going down easy. All I got left's pride.

  Marguerite had said she was a warrior. Always fighting. Always.

  The Mother lifted her hand and Frank's feet were swept from under her. She tried breaking the fall with her shoulder but had no leverage to turn. She arched her neck, but her skull hit the floor.

  Frank blinked at colored lights arcing across a gray background. The twins pulled steadily on her ankle chain and her face scraped across the concrete. She felt the warmth and wetness of blood, but she wasn't feeling much pain. The numbness was good news. The bad news was that the dullness signaled some degree of concussion; her body had closed down the ancillary pain receptors to combat this latest crisis. She was drowsy and nauseous.

  Just sleep, she told herself. Don't give them the satisfaction of any pain. Frank gagged. Her body's desperate plea for oxygen suddenly sharpened her thoughts. She coughed, gulping in air. If she puked upside down she'd probably suffocate herself.

  Not an option, she managed to think. They can slit my flicking throat but I will not choke on my own puke. Pride, yeah. Puke, no. Fuck you, motherfuckers. Ain't goin' down eas
y. Okay, No. I’m giving you one last chance. Running out of time here. Come on. Come and get me, No. Mickey Mouse. Somebody. Slauson, buddy, La Casa de Love.

  With a last heave, Frank's head dangled over the floor, her ankles supporting all one hundred and sixty three pounds. A moan slipped between her clenched teeth. She couldn't stop it and didn't care.

  The blood backed up into her brain and squeezed behind her eyes. Black dots hovered like malevolent cherubs. She wondered how long before she passed out?

  Motherfuckers, motherfuckers, she droned lazily. Get mad. Stay mad. Running out of mad. Noah. Hear me, buddy?

  Frank saw the reverse order of her world through the fog of concussion and rushing blood. The brothers were beside her and the Mother was behind her. She was singing in a high wail like she had just before she slaughtered the lamb. Frank thought if she went as quickly as that it wouldn't be so bad.

  Helluva picture to hang over the coffee pot. Lieutenant L.A. Franco,

  sold into white slavery. Come on, No, I'm naked. You know you always wanted to see me naked. Now's your chance. Better hurry .

  The pain was dulling again and grayness crept at the edge of her vision. She was fading and knew it.

  "Gotta stay mad," she mumbled indifferently. "Stay mad."

  She was aware enough to see the brothers pivot. Heard their deep voices above the drums. The drumming faltered, the beat breaking down skin by skin. Frank heard another voice. It was familiar but she was too woozy to place it. The Mother was yelling but the drummers jabbering and the boys shouting jumbled all their words up.

  Must be the audience participation part of the show, Frank thought dimly. She mustered enough strength for a weak twist against the chains, still curious about what fresh hell waited her.

  The pain ratcheted through her confusion, and just before the dimness made its final, rushing assault, Frank had a fraction of a second to think, What the fuck is he doing here?