by Jake Marley
“There are still neighborhoods in Angel Country, full of families trying to keep their lives intact. Of course, they’re doing what they’ve always done and fighting over the same few streets generation after generation.”
Thinking of the Observatory, Thursday couldn’t help but ask, “Why don’t they work together?”
“They never have,” Cortez said, and shook her head. “They might not even know where to start.”
Thursday stumbled in the road, and this time it was Cortez, not Peligra, who righted him.
~~~
The Mission was a cream-colored stucco fortress with shaggy palm trees and a large, dry fountain at the entrance. Tended gardens. A chipped statue of a man and a child out front.
The soldiers crossed themselves as they returned, and most visibly relaxed.
The front lawn was covered in cars, but instead of the rusted hulks chopped and cobbled together to form the caravan, these cars were beautifully painted in greens and purples, each with a gold cross on the hood. The mechanics working on the cars watched the strangers arriving with the soldiers. Unlike the men working in the courtyard behind the aquarium, the mechanics here were silent and grim-faced. They moved between Thursday and the cars as if protecting their work, and the looks they gave him were full of hostility.
“Friendly,” Peligra said.
“They’ve suffered sabotage in the past. A lot of hours and hard-fought knowledge has gone into rebuilding those engines. The few mechanics we managed to recruit from Queen Mary taught us everything they knew, but we haven’t yet had the opportunity to test our great work.”
Thursday said, “You know what happened though, don’t you? The chaos? The death?”
Cortez pursed her lips. “I know you both survived.” She led Peligra and Thursday along a tiled corridor, and into the mission itself.
~~~
Saint de España was a fighter. Thursday saw that immediately. Scarred and ferocious, built like a buffalo. He sprawled on a throne, perched before an ornate wall of golden angels and beatific friars as if he were part of the opulent decorations.
Thursday had seen a little of this posturing before in his travels. The warlords languished, living on the backs of those they felt superior toward, and they demanded power and respect. Sometimes, rarely, it was even deserved. Most often the egos and tempers of the warlords got the better of them, and things ended in bloodshed.
This time, though, Thursday knew he was in no position to face the warlord or to fight for his life. The march to the mission had undone him. His body was a riot of pain.
“My soldiers are all over this land,” the Saint said. His low voice was a rumble. “Cyclists, mostly, but some go on horseback. From the San Gabriel Mountains down to the Pacific Ocean. They’re everywhere. They are my angels, bringing me news, spreading the word, sharing my will for this land. Have you heard the word, Peligra Bruja?”
“You’ve met before?” Thursday asked.
Peligra said nothing, but the Saint only laughed. He touched his own lips, as if imagining himself with scars that matched hers. “Oh, you’re something special, aren’t you? I’ve seen you, Peligra, with my own eyes. This was when my cousin, Balboa, tried to take the beach from Queen Mary. I saw the blood on your hammers. How fast you moved. The Muertas. My soldiers are strong and dedicated, but our numbers were no match for your intensity, or your comfort with death.”
He shifted a little in his chair and pulled an object from beside his hip. He flung it toward Peligra and it sailed like a disc. She caught it, and stared at her own cracked skull mask, blood-flecked and filthy.
“My dear Cortez was there, at the Pacific Highway.” He stared at Peligra, his fingers moving over his lips. Thursday had seen hungry men look at food that way. “She saw what happened to your men. She saw the failure of Queen Mary’s faith in the creatures of the swarm. Cortez lost you when you turned that final corner, and she thought you’d died when she found your broken car and your cracked mask. You’ve never gone anywhere without it.”
He shook his head, filled with mock sorrow.
“My heart broke, and I nearly died when she told me, but then my angels saw you on the Bone Rails and they raced back to me to bring me the joyous news. I told them to greet you in the tunnels, but they were too late. They searched and searched, and when they returned here last night empty handed I made them feel my grief. My sorrow. And this morning my angels came again, waking me. They said you were in Griffith Park, that you surrendered to dear Cortez. Oh, what did you see there? What scared you into my arms? Were you trapped in the Greek Theater where they sacrifice animals and wear the blood and skin for their cabaret? Or perhaps you heard the wandering cellist perform at the Hollywood Bowl? I have tried inviting her here many times, but she is proving herself to be quite resourceful at hiding—not only herself, but that cello. It is an instrument of God, wasted in the hands of a ghost.”
Peligra rubbed a thumb over the painted flowers of her mask. The filigree.
The Saint said, “I am a collector of fine things, Peligra Bruja, and your skills are beyond measure. You survive when others die. You act when others hesitate. You defy the odds and defy this dark and painful world and you move forward, like the sharks of legend.”
“Then why are you keeping me from fulfilling Queen Mary’s promise to her brother?”
Saint de España stood and came toward them. Thursday had only seen a handful of men in his life who moved like that, and all of them had been killers. “I have made a promise as well. A sacred promise to God to rebuild the world. To unite the survivors of this terrible life under the banner of our Lord, so together we can travel the Golden Road.
“The queen’s brother is north of here, but he keeps my angels out of the hills. I keep his messengers from infecting the south with heresy and nonsense. We have played at stalemate for long enough, and now that I have you I can fulfill my promise.”
He held out his big hand.
“Show me the device.”
Peligra’s hand tightened on her satchel. The leather bag was worn and scuffed, scarred from rough travel. She shifted it on her hip, tucking it back and away from the Saint.
“It isn’t what you think,” Peligra said.
The Saint’s grin was mirthless. “I am expected to believe that your Queen Mary befriended the swarm, is that it? No, my dear. Not at all. She found something, either on that sunken wreck she had inherited from her brothers or when she was digging for scraps in the ocean. It changed her. Made her powerful. She took the aquarium by force, and she trained your mother and aunts and sisters. She created the Muertas. She created you. That thing in your bag, I need it. “
“This will not help you with your promise,” Peligra said.
“Cortez saw it at work. She saw your caravan, and she saw that when you pulled away the ones behind began to die. You killed your own people so you would survive. The swarm followed, but look! You live! You have not been infected by them. You have not been devoured. This is not luck. This is the work of the relic in your bag.”
Again, the Saint held out his hand.
“I will have it.”
“It offers no power, no protection. Do you think I would have let my familia die if it did?”
“I’ve seen you kill before. You are ruthless. I will never underestimate you, and I will never presume to know your motivations. Now, last time, give it to me.”
Saint de España lunged for the bag, and Peligra’s hammer was in her hand. She pulled back and Cortez wrapped her arms around Peligra’s wrist and wrenched the hammer free. The Saint had the satchel and threw a vicious elbow that rocked Peligra’s head back. Thursday tried to help, but the Saint kicked out and knocked Thursday’s feet from under him. Thursday landed on his broken arm and the pain nearly made him black out.
Cortez flipped Peligra onto the ground, face first, and climbed onto her back, pinned her there, both women breathing hard.
The Saint dropped the leather satchel and held someth
ing remarkable in his hand.
It was pearlescent and smooth, the size of a river rock.
It was swirled with color like the sunset Thursday had seen over the horizon of the Pacific.
It was completely, and without question, alien.
~~~
Peligra fought hard, but Cortez was better rested, and ready. “I’ve watched you for years,” she said into Peligra’s ear. “I’ve studied the Muertas. Trained like them. I could be your sister.”
Cortez had Peligra’s arm behind her back and a knee in Peligra’s spine. Peligra bucked, but Cortez had all of the control, and when the situation tipped in Peligra’s favor, Cortez wrenched Peligra’s arm up again, making the Muerta cry out.
Thursday felt helpless. He had almost forgotten the throbbing pain in his arm on the morning’s march, but landing on it with his full weight made him shiver with agony. Then the Saint stood over Thursday with a long golden knife in his hand. He pressed the point of it against Thursday’s throat.
To Peligra, he said, “I will kill this man if you do not tell me how to work the device.”
Peligra bared her teeth and started to speak, but clenched her jaw tight when Saint de España leaned on the knife. Thursday felt it cut him, and felt the trickle of blood running down onto his chest.
“No more stories and no more lies. Queen Mary used this to control the swarm, as you did. That is the only reason my soldiers have left you alive this long and have not taken your aquarium. You have brought this to me, but you don’t have to die for it. Your friend does not have to die, either.”
They all saw Peligra’s face when she stopped fighting. When she came to her decision, and her resolve finally broke.
“It’s already on,” she said. Her voice was thin, gasping for air, until Cortez relaxed her grip. “You can’t turn it off.”
The Saint’s knife was away in an instant, tucked into a scabbard. He grabbed Thursday by the hair and said, “Thank you, my friend. Today, you may live through this.”
Cortez asked Peligra, “You let your people die in the caravan so you would live?”
Peligra shook her head. “Not on purpose. It’s like you said. I got too far away from them. I should have stayed closer. I might have been able to save them all.”
Saint de España studied the device in his hands. Part of some unfathomable alien culture. Proof of existence beyond this world, brought down from the stars themselves. “Knowledge is only gained through sacrifice,” he said. “Your people died to teach us all. They will be remembered.”
Cortez rolled off and had Peligra’s hammer in her hand. She was ready for a fight, but Peligra staggered back to her feet, defeated.
“Promise me you won’t forget the ones who died for that,” Peligra said. “For me.”
The Saint held up the alien relic. “Never. I keep my promises.”
Peligra nodded solemnly. She glanced quickly over at Thursday, but he saw nothing in her eyes. It was like she was wearing that mask again. The face of Death.
Saint de España said, “Tell me, Peligra Bruja. Tell me how to call the swarm. Tell me how to keep my promises to change the world.”
She spoke softly, but her words vibrated in the Saint’s chamber.
“Start your engines.”
~~~
They started with a single car, rolled to the edge of the lawn and kept far from the soldiers and the Mission. The mechanic behind the wheel was terrified, but he tried to keep a look of bravado on his face as he turned the key.
“Do you have the right fuel?” Peligra asked. “We worked very hard to keep the fuel usable. There were chemicals we needed to add.”
“Our fuel burns,” the Saint said. “I’ve been waiting my entire life for this. These cars are perfect. Classics. The Mustang. The Charger. The Corvette. These are the foundations of an empire, and as holy as any church of God. We spent years finding the right parts. My mechanics have cleaned every inch of those engines, and have cared for them as if they were children. These are the chariots of our new kingdom. I don’t need the overblown caravan your queen created. I need only these three cornerstones to rebuild the world. To inspire. To enlighten. To bring control to the gangs and familias scrounging through the detritus of this dead world.”
The engine roared on the first try, as alive and powerful as if it had only been rolled off the manufacturer’s lot that morning.
Saint de España shivered with pleasure.
They did not have to wait long. The swarm rose in the distance and was so dense in the sky it resembled a flock of birds or a thunderstorm.
“If you are lying to me and I lose my Mustang, I will be very, very upset.”
The mechanic ran back to the mission, leaving the car idling in the field. That’s when Peligra grabbed the Saint’s arm and started marching him toward the green Mustang. He held his ground, only a moment, and then followed her across the lawn.
Thursday and Cortez both took a step toward them, but went no further. Peligra leaned into the Saint and whispered something, and he raised the relic high, aiming it toward the swarm. The object started to glow, bright even in the daylight, and they heard his laughter over the rumble of the Mustang’s engine.
“God be praised,” Cortez said, crossing herself.
They were at the Mustang now, Peligra and the Saint, and the swarm rushed toward them. Thursday felt his heart racing, because he didn’t understand the situation, and couldn’t guess what would happen next. He only knew that whatever that thing was, Peligra had been telling the truth. It offered no power or protection to the one holding it. She had not lied in the mission, and had told the Saint outright that his assumptions of the device were wrong. Thursday had no idea if she could’ve helped her people if their car had stayed behind, or if it had been chained to the rest of the caravan. The only thing he truly knew was that the driver of their car had been infected by the swarm, and that the alien device in the leather satchel had not saved him with its proximity, nor had it kept the swarm from attacking their car after the crash.
Ten steps from the Mustang, arm raised in triumph, Saint de España welcomed the swarm with a childlike grin that flashed behind his beard. The device glowed like a star and the muscles in his arms twitched with the effort of holding it. Peligra watched the swarm coming and bowed her head.
The swarm attacked the Mustang like a hailstorm. They punctured every inch of the car’s metal frame, shattered the glass, ate through the tires. Like bullets, they hit the engine, grinding, squealing, devouring the Mustang to get to the rumbling engine under the hood—to get to the electricity that called them down from the heavens.
The Saint shook his head in horror, and pushed the relic toward the car as if he could command the swarm to stop, or to return where they had come from.
Thursday saw Peligra move. She was so fast, so fluid, and had the Saint’s golden knife in her hand. She slid it down low, at his feet, and blood spouted from the Saint’s legs as she cut his Achilles tendons. He screamed, just as the nanoswarm ignited in the Mustang’s gas tank, and the car exploded. The fireball threw them both back and away, pushed across the lawn by the blast. Thursday felt the heat of it roll over him in a wave, and the black smoke that rose into the sky was filled with the killer swarm, searching for the next meal.
“No!” Cortez screamed and raced toward the Saint.
Thursday saw Saint de España crawling away from the fire, his face bleeding from shrapnel and carved into a testament to rage and betrayal. Peligra was crawling, too, smoldering from the blast, from her own cuts, but before Cortez could reach them Peligra dragged herself onto the Saint and pulled his golden knife across his throat. The relic in his hand throbbed a pulsing orange, red, yellow, purple, orange again. It was like a heartbeat. Peligra reached out to it and pulled it from the dying Saint’s hand. She looked up to see Cortez coming, then looked past Cortez and caught Thursday’s eyes.
“Live through this,” he said, knowing there was no way she could hear him.
/> Still, Peligra nodded as if she could, then opened her mouth and bit down hard on the alien relic.
~~~
The alien device, smooth as a stone, glowing like a hot coal, reacted to the bite with a flash of hooked claws that erupted from the surface and attacked the lower half of Peligra’s face. The hooks went into the flesh around her mouth, and Peligra’s eyes flashed the same throbbing glow as the relic. Then she was up, moving faster than any human being Thursday had ever seen. His eyes watered from the smoke, from the explosion, but he couldn’t let himself blink, couldn’t let himself miss even a moment.
Peligra tore through Cortez the way the swarms had torn through the Mustang. Cortez’s body armor did nothing to stop Peligra’s hands from tearing into her. Blood sprayed, Cortez slumped into pieces, and Peligra ran toward the Mission. Thursday stepped back, away, suddenly terrified by the alien furnace raging in Peligra’s eyes. The soldiers around him rushed forward, hoping to overwhelm her with numbers. They were as well-trained and disciplined as any army Thursday had ever seen, but Peligra carved into them and cut them down, bare-handed, bathing the lawn in their blood. Peligra was no longer entirely human, but part of the swarm. Thursday saw the swarm bank down and attack the soldiers, cutting them down, stripping flesh from bone, puncturing holes in the living tissue, racing after Peligra.
It was a slaughter, and by the end only Thursday was left as witness. The mechanics and other soldiers had fled, and the swarm rose into the sky. Peligra, drenched in blood and viscera, stood over him with her fingers hooked into claws. He’d seen her tear limbs from bodies. Seen her kill uncontrollably. He fell back, stumbled, and sat down hard, staring up into those inhuman eyes.
He had faced many nightmares on his long journey, but never one that felt so entirely alien and so entirely profane.
Slowly, deliberately, Peligra reached up and pulled the relic from her mouth, smearing blood on its radiant surface. The alien glow fell from her eyes, and though the hooks did not want to come out, Peligra did not stop pulling it away, even when her skin tore in ragged, awful wounds. The new gouges around her mouth bled freely, and Thursday already knew they would scar.