Blue Shadow

by Brad Magnarella

  “Outside, the soldier helped my sister and me into the back of a large truck. We were squeezed in beside other villagers, their eyes covered like ours. As the truck pulled away, I leaned my head back to see better. I knew I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help it. The street was littered with bodies. In an empty lot farther down, there was a huge fire. Soldiers were feeding it with the dead. Every time they heaved another one onto the flames, this awful black smoke would billow up. Right before the truck turned a corner, I saw them throw on my father’s body.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “Your mother…?”

  Sarah bit her lower lip and shook her head. “She didn’t survive the attack either.”

  “Dude,” Rusty said. “I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but that is the gnarliest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  His voice seemed to snap Sarah from the memory. She looked up from the laptop. “I know your stories,” she said, her voice and eyes stiffening. “It’s only fair you know mine.”

  “I’m glad you shared it,” I said.

  Rusty gave me a look that said, Speak for yourself, boss, before disappearing back into the office. As my gaze returned to Sarah, I thought about her medical background—trauma and pathology residencies—and then her military training. When I’d questioned her motivation for joining Centurion, she’d said, To protect the innocent against beings we’re only beginning to understand. She hadn’t been paying lip service. Everything she’d aspired to be went back to the zombie attack. Much like everything for me went back to Billy’s murder. But that’s where our similarities ended. Sarah had been so focused on attaining—and now preserving—her current position that she’d lost sight of what mattered.

  I was searching for something to say, but Sarah spoke first. “We only have a few hours till daylight. What’s our next move?” No hint that she’d just relived the most traumatic experience of her life.

  I cleared my throat. Now wasn’t the time to revisit the debate about consulting Prof Croft. I’d call him later if I had to, and I wouldn’t involve Sarah in the decision. If it meant breaching my agreement with Centurion to save those children’s lives, so be it. Would that nullify Centurion’s obligation to make me human? Would it jeopardize my future with Daniela? Huge questions for Jason Wolfe, but to the Blue Wolf they felt a million miles away.

  “Salvador Guzman, the Evangelical pastor,” I said. “The mayor thinks he’ll be at the marketplace today. I say we get a few hours rest and then talk to him. There has to be a reason the vampires are terrorizing El Rosario and not the surrounding villages. He might know something.”

  “He might even be the magic-user behind it all,” Sarah said.

  I nodded. I’d been thinking the same thing.

  I checked my email before turning in and found a message from Segundo.

  sorry for the delay. contacted my bro through an account he doesn’t check very often, or so he says. anyway, he did a background check on your boy kurt. it came back pretty clean. no priors except for the drug job in texas. no outstandings. he’s been living with the same woman in orlando for the last couple of years. my bro’s going to check an arrests database when he goes back in tomorrow, but sounds like your boy is keeping his nose clean. hope that helps.

  I thanked him in my response, then closed the laptop with a heavy exhale. That did help. Maybe Kurt Hawtin was a reformed man, or maybe he was just doing whatever it took to hold onto his provisional nurse’s license. But the knowledge that he’d been behaving, and was in a long-term relationship, seemed to lessen the likelihood that he was back in Texas because of Dani.

  Which meant I could return my full attention to the mission.

  16

  Sarah and I set out for the marketplace on foot the next morning. Other than a sanitation crew loading what remained of the dog carcasses into a pickup truck, there was little to suggest last night’s attack. The morning was sunny, the sky a brilliant blue, and the streets surprisingly busy. I guessed some of the people had come from surrounding villages for the market day.

  “Do you think we stand out?” Sarah asked as we merged into the foot traffic headed for the plaza. When I looked over, I was surprised to catch one side of her mouth turned up. It was the first time she’d exhibited even the slightest sense of humor. I wondered if opening up about her zombie experience last night had helped lower her defenses.

  “Just a little,” I said.

  We were both wearing our Centurion suits and tactical vests, sidearms at our belts. And then there was my roughly seven-foot, four-hundred-pound frame, which dwarfed the diminutive people of El Rosario. I’d already caught a lot of fearful glances. Good thing they couldn’t see my face.

  “Next time I’ll put in a requisition for suits in the local color,” Sarah said.

  I chuckled inside my helmet. I liked this side of her.

  We turned a corner and entered the market. In front of the Catholic church, tented stalls were arrayed across the plaza, vendors pedaling everything from fruits and vegetables to traditional crafts to racks of blue jeans and pirated CDs. There were a good number of vacant stalls, though.

  I pointed across the plaza. “I’m guessing that’s our guy?”

  Sarah followed my finger to where a slender man in a black suit and aviator sunglasses stood on the lower steps of a municipal building. He was shouting into a microphone, broadcasting what sounded like the world’s longest run-on sentence through a sound system.

  Sarah listened for a moment, then nodded. “It’s him.”

  I radioed Rusty and Olaf as we rounded the marketplace and gave them Guzman’s position. Yoofi had recovered somewhat from Dabu’s second freak-out, but his god had yet to come out of hiding. He hoped some ritual dancing would change that.

  “Can you understand what Guzman is saying?” I asked Sarah.

  “Basically that the recent events in El Rosario signify the End Times. The town must reject its false idols and repent or else face eternal damnation. The window for salvation is closing.”

  I remembered what Mayor Flores had said about the town mostly ignoring the preacher, but this morning a small group was spread around the base of the steps. They remained back a cautious distance, but they were listening. Two were women in traditional dress. “Looks like he’s got at least a few people thinking conversion,” I said. “I guess zombie dogs have a way of doing that.”

  “Maybe that was the point.”

  “I’m in position,” Olaf radioed.

  “Okay, we’re moving in,” I answered.

  Sarah and I sped our pace. Guzman continued to rage into his microphone, occasionally mopping his forehead with a white handkerchief. He was younger than I’d first thought, his face smooth and lean, his jet black hair combed into an Elvis-like pompadour.

  Sarah and I mounted the steps on either side of him.

  “Necesitamos hablar,” Sarah said when the preacher paused for a breath.

  Guzman ignored her and thrust himself forward into his next burst of fire and brimstone. He spoke as though entranced. Sarah looked at me, then over at the small generator powering his system. I took the cue, walked over, and shut it off. The voice that boomed over the marketplace died along with the motor. That got his attention.

  “How dare you silence an oracle of God!” Guzman cried in accented English.

  Without his system, his voice was high and thin. He stormed toward me, his pompadour bobbing on his head. In warning, I held out what was probably the largest hand he’d ever seen. Guzman slowed, regarded my hand and my considerable height, and then came to a stop several paces back.

  “My partner asked you a question,” I said.

  His mouth twitched. “I have a question for you, sinner. Are you ready for what’s coming? Are you ready for—”

  “You’d be wise to cooperate,” Sarah interrupted, coming up behind him.

  I stole a glance across the plaza. Olaf was on a rooftop, head bowed behind a sniper rifle. He was our overwatch in case Guzman was a magic-user
and tried to cast. The preacher didn’t see Olaf, though. He was watching his small crowd break apart.

  “Esperen!” he called, dropping his microphone to lunge after them. “Vuelven y arrepentirse!”

  “He’s calling for them to come back and repent,” Sarah translated.

  But Guzman’s voice didn’t hold the same authority as it did when amplified, and the locals disappeared into the marketplace.

  “I bet that makes you happy,” he seethed as he returned. “Allowing Satan to claim more souls. Can’t you see what’s happening? Can’t you see what’s coming? The signs are everywhere!”

  “We just want to talk,” Sarah said.

  “Who are you?” He parked his sunglasses atop his hair and stepped closer, eyes flicking between us before narrowing in on my visor. His lips slanted into a hard grin. “Why do you hide?” He raised a slender finger and tapped the opaque visor twice. “Is it that you carry the mark of the beast?”

  There was no way he could have known about the symbol the old woman had carved into my cheek, but that wasn’t the reason for what I did next. Guzman yelled in pain as I grabbed his hand and twisted hard. In the next moment, I had both of his wrists cuffed behind his back. Sarah drew her sidearm and aimed it at his head, but gave me a questioning look.

  “That smell on the dead cat?” I said. “Preacher man here is wearing the same on his jacket.”

  “Are you sure?”

  As more of the peppery-sweet smell slipped into my helmet, I nodded.

  Guzman was oblivious to our exchange. He seemed to be contracting every muscle as he writhed and bucked against the cuffs. “There’s no time for this!” he shouted. “Release me or face God’s wrath!”

  “The tape,” I said.

  Karen pulled a small roll of duct tape from her vest, tore off a length with her teeth, and covered Guzman’s mouth. I then jerked him back so that my mouth was beside his ear. I didn’t know if he could cast without speaking, but I wasn’t going to take any chances. “Listen to me and listen good,” I growled. “I have special senses. I feel any magic coming off you, and I’ll snap your neck before my partner can put a bullet through your head. Do you understand?”

  His eyes flew wide and he screamed something beneath the tape.

  I gave him a hard shake. “Shut up. Do you understood? Yes or no?”

  His eyes crept up my visor before he gave a slow nod.

  “Keep your sidearm on him,” I told Sarah as I patted him down. My search turned up a pocket Bible, a billfold, and a set of keys. I took Guzman by the upper arm and led him around the market toward the police station. A much larger crowd than the one that had gathered for his sermon watched us pass.

  I called Rusty on the radio. “What’s Yoofi doing?”

  “Besides chanting and stomping around like a drunk?”

  “Tell him to meet us at the police station ASAP.”

  “You got it, boss. Nice take down, by the way.”

  The police chief and Mayor Flores, whom we had clued in to our plans, were waiting at the station when we arrived. When Guzman saw them, he began to protest harder behind the tape sealing his mouth. They led us down a corridor to a windowless room with a table and a few chairs. I sat Guzman down on one side of the table and removed his sunglasses. His eyes seethed as Sarah and I took the chairs opposite him, Sarah still covering him with her sidearm.

  “Is he behind what’s happening?” Mayor Flores asked from beside the closed door.

  “We don’t know yet,” Sarah answered. “But we have reason to believe he was the one who put the dead cat in our compound.”

  Guzman screamed some more behind his tape.

  “We’re just waiting on one more,” I said. Remembering Nicho, I asked, “Did the boy make it home all right?”

  “He did not want to go.”

  “Probably still in some shock,” I said. “Sarah, maybe you should take a look at him.”

  Sarah nodded, but the mayor was shaking her head. “No one knows where he is now.”

  My heart missed a beat. “What do you mean?”

  “This morning he ate breakfast with Juan Pablo and his family, but when it was time for Juan to drive him back, the boy disappeared. They looked everywhere, but they couldn’t find him.”

  Perfect, I thought. Someone else missing.

  “Also, Juan Pablo’s shotgun is gone,” the mayor said.

  I frowned in concern, but there was no way to tell whether the two events were connected. The police chief, who struck me as absentminded, had nearly walked off without his keys last night. He could well have misplaced the shotgun. My main concern was for Nicho’s disappearance. Even if he hadn’t been taken, I still felt responsible for him.

  “Have them keep looking,” I told the mayor. I then radioed Rusty and instructed him to keep watch for a boy fitting Nicho’s description. “Shouldn’t be too hard,” I said. “He’ll be the only kid in El Rosario without an adult attached to him.”

  I had just completed the order when the door opened, and the police chief showed Yoofi inside. Yoofi stared around the room, as though his eyes were adjusting to the dimness, before finding me. “You wanted to see me?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “How’s it going with Dabu?”

  “Yes, yes, going well. He liked my dance. He’s still not talking, but he’s around.”

  “Good, take the seat beside Guzman there. If Dabu feels anything like he felt yesterday, tell us immediately.” In order to interrogate the preacher, I needed to pull the tape from his mouth. Yoofi would act as our advanced-warning system if Guzman tried to cast or teleport away.

  “Tell you?” Yoofi said. “If it happens again, I fall down screaming.”

  That would work too, I thought, but didn’t say it. Instead, I drew my sidearm and with the other hand picked away a corner of the tape on Guzman’s face. “You remember what I said earlier? Try to cast and you’re a dead man. In fact, don’t even talk unless one of us asks you a question. Are we clear?”

  I waited for him to nod before ripping the tape off.

  He winced, then cried, “Magic? Casting? What is this blasphemy you accuse me of?”

  “Hey!” I roared, thrusting my pistol’s barrel toward his chest. “What did I just say?”

  This wasn’t my usual MO for interrogations, but I couldn’t take any chances. Guzman looked down at my pistol, then up at my visor. His face screwed up in hatred, but he remained silent.

  “Better,” I said. “Now, let’s cut through the bull. You have strong feelings against El Rosario, right?”

  “Not against El Rosario,” he said. “Against their evil practices.”

  “Have those feelings led to action?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I come to town and I preach. But the words I speak are not my own. They are God’s words.” He narrowed his eyes at me and Sarah. “When He is not interrupted.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I pray for El Rosario.”

  “And how do you do that?”

  “With my heart, my mind, and my voice.”

  As he spoke the word voice, I glanced over at Yoofi. He was sitting with his staff between his knees, sipping brandy. When he saw me watching, he smiled and tipped the flask in salute.

  No signs of distress, apparently.

  “Why are children being taken from El Rosario?” Sarah asked.

  “They are not just being taken,” Guzman replied with a mean grin. “They are being punished for the town’s sins.”

  Mayor Flores charged the table, a torrent of Spanish shooting from her mouth. Sarah intercepted her before she could reach the preacher, and convinced her to let us finish the interrogation. But I was fighting to control my own temper. This son of a bitch was acting like he knew something.

  “Where are they?” I asked.

  “They are beyond the reach of the living.”

  “Where are they?” I repeated.

  “In Hell.”

  The young preacher wasn’t putting us on. I could
tell he believed what he was saying. He believed that the children were being punished for El Rosario’s sins. But despite what seemed a genuine bias against pagan beliefs, there was no question that the scent on his jacket matched what I’d picked up on the dead cat—and Yoofi’s god had sensed magic inside our compound. Could Guzman be rationalizing away his magic as prayers, as acting on God’s will?

  “Did you pray to send them to Hell?” I asked.

  “I never pray for people to be hurt,” he said. “Only to be saved.”

  “Not even if the ends justify the means?” Sarah challenged.

  “Never.”

  “Then what were you doing with a dead cat in our building?” I asked.

  His brow beetled in confusion as his eyes flicked between us. “Dead cat? What are you talking about?”

  I leaned nearer. “You left a dead cat in our building. Why?”

  At that moment, the room shuddered. The door rattled in its frame. I peered around, my senses on high alert. Were we under attack? I turned back to Guzman, my weapon hand tense, but his eyes were roaming the ceiling too.

  “Just a tremor,” Sarah explained as the shuddering died down. “We’re not far from a fault line.”

  Guzman scoffed. “That is no quake. That is the evil moving closer.”

  “Then why don’t you tell us about it?” I challenged. “You can start with the dead cat.”

  “Are you suggesting I’m involved in witchcraft?”

  “Right now I’m only suggesting that you handled a dead cat.”

  He denied the charge with such a powerful Pfft that an aerosol of spit flew from his lips. “You are mistaking me for Chepe. He is the one who handles dead animals and wicked idols.”