by Roger Keller
Marcello stepped into the trees.
“If you want me to follow you in there,” I said. “You’re going to have to magic up some more booze.”
Marcello turned back and raised his arm. The sleeve of his hand tailored sport coat slid down. A polished chrome flask appeared in his hand.
“I trust you will find this satisfactory,” he said.
I ran my fingers over the worn surface of the flask. The engraving was impossible to make out. It seemed like a bad idea, but I drank anyway.
“Shit. What the fuck is this?” I once tried real moonshine, straight from the copper line. I lost an entire hour and woke up under a tree. Whatever Marcello kept in the flask was stronger, somehow.
Marcello’s lip curled in disgust.
“You drink this, huh?” I said. “Are you sure I’m not supposed to mix this with oil and put it in a chainsaw?”
He held out an open hand and smiled.
“Didn’t say I didn’t want any.” I smelled the corrosive liquid.
Marcello turned and disappeared into the weird crooked trees. I have no clue what kind of trees they were, but I doubt they were native to North America. I took another hit from the flask.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I said to myself. “This is my life now, huh?”
I found Marcello sitting on a broken piece of granite in the middle of what was once a stone circle. The ruined stones were as big as anything in Europe. Thousands of people could have worshiped whatever gods they wanted there.
After what I’d seen at Heather’s exorcism, I could guess what happened to this circle. Marcello leapt onto the surviving upright stones and stepped from top to top, balancing like a gymnast. Nothing grew in the circle. Formerly rich forest earth was now unwholesome gray sand.
“So what happened here?” I said. “I’m guessing they didn’t meet Diana.”
“No. Of course not.” Marcello balanced on one foot and stretched. “They summoned a demon. I warned them. They could have waited and employed my vast experience in their naive endeavor, but they chose to blunder ahead and paid a dreadful price.”
“So you got stuck cleaning up the bodies?” I said. “I’ve been there before.”
“The bodies?” Marcello’s voice echoed through thew forest. “Oh yes, there were bodies and a powerful demon haunting my property when I returned from Asia”
Marcello jumped off the stone and landed gracefully on the gray sand, sending a cloud of sickly dust into the air.
“You did kill the demon, right?” I looked around, scanning the odd trees for any kind of movement.
“There is no way to kill such an abomination. It had to be cast down, back to where it came from. I was unable to accomplish such a feat alone. I was forced to seek help from others. I stood before them, hat in hand, asking for a favor.” Marcello stared at his shaking fist.
“I’ve been there before too,” I said.
“Yes, yes you have.” Marcello glared at me with his coal black eyes.
I raised the flask and nodded at him.
“The being they summoned arrived in this world completely insane,” Marcello said. “The so-called Cult of Diana, was torn to pieces, I suspect. Exactly how they died and how long their deaths lasted for I cannot say. That however, was not the end of them. Their suffering continued on after death. After shattering and defiling my circle, the demon recovered it’s senses. He trapped the souls of his unfortunate victims within their own violated and ruined flesh.”
I took another drink and tried not to gag on the burning liquid.
“The demon needed servants,” Marcello said. “He fused their torn bodies back together and brought them to a state of unliving mobility. They stalked my property, doing their new master’s bidding. Fiore Lombardo, the red haired woman you met last night. She foresaw the disaster. Fiore gathered my servants and those sensible enough to heed my warnings and sealed the house.”
“How many zombies were there?” I said.
“Zombies? I guess one could describe those poor creatures as zombies.” Marcello chuckled bitterly. “There were hundreds. After the demon had been cast down, which went surprisingly well, I organized a hunting party. It took us forever to find them all, those still trapped in an vile state of unlife, and destroy them. I supervised the hunt personally. There were no lightweight assault rifles in those days. We used Winchesters and commercial Mauser rifles. The Mausers were made to kill Englishmen in the Boer War. The Royal Navy saw to it that they were never delivered. I was able to acquire, what were at the time state of the art rifles, for a song.”
Marcello looked back at the ruined circle.
“Soft-point hunting bullets shattered bone and destroyed muscle, crippling the zombies first. You see, shooting them in the head, would not suffice to immobilize them. Each one had to be dismembered and burned to ash. Right here.” Marcello waved his hand at the profaned circle. “The bodies parts, still moving, trying to fight me, were piled high and incinerated.”
I saw it for a second, twisted images broke through my protective alcoholic haze. The Praetorians formed a line and took aim at the advancing horde. I recognized the same rugged, mostly blonde men from the night before. Fiore stood by Marcello’s side, firing a Luger with one hand, like a Nineteenth Century marksman.
I shook my head and smothered the vision with some more of Marcello’s alcohol.
“You should be careful, looking into the past,” Marcello said. “Something might see you and find it’s way back to our time.”
“Then I’ll deal with it,” I said, “won’t I?”
Marcello laughed.
“So, uh, how do you want…” I said dreading what was coming.
“Ah yes.” Gray dust stuck to Marcello’s handmade Italian shoes as he walked across the blasted ground. “You owe me a favor.”
“Well to be fair, this was a relatively minor use of your powers,” I said. “You could have cast out that thing in your sleep. I mean, only one guy got killed.”
“Quite true,” he said. “And while I care nothing for the life of some wealthy, hedonistic mortal, I still have a task in mind for you.”
I kicked a piece of of shattered stone into the dead circle.
“There is a group, The Society of Ancient Wisdom, who are somewhat similar to to one that met their hideous end right here,” he said. “I might have ignored their colossal arrogance, even their thievery, as I have better things to do than serve as some sort of supernatural gendarme.”
“So you want us to kill them,” I said.
“Of course,” he said. “More importantly, you will find a book in their possession. It was stolen from me. You will bring it back to me, undamaged.”
“Wait, these guys actually broke into your fucking house and robbed the place,” I said. “What kind of people did that and survived. How are we going to kill them? And seriously, how did they get in to your house?”
“I was deceived,” he said. Blood dripped from his clenched fist. The drops disappeared into the dust as soon as they hit. “You do not need to know the details.”
“OK,” I said.
“The book.” Marcello continued. “It is likely that the thieves are using the book as some sort of totem, since I doubt any of them can decipher it. My book probably sits on an altar, unopened, being worshiped by fools who know nothing of it’s horrific power. It has been worshiped it the past, you know. A group of rebel monks held it for over two hundred years, until French cannons reduced their stronghold to ruins. In those days that lout Napoleon invaded my native land. One of his vulgar, peasant soldiers bayoneted the last surviving monk as he attempted to flee with the book. If only he knew how to reckon a tenth of the book, he might called up something for the little Corsican dictator. Though I’ve been told he had his own demon, advising and protecting him. The soldier recognized some value in the book and tried to sell it in Paris. I had joined forces with the accursed British crown in those days, and found myself walking down the exact street
as the soldier.”
“What did you do to the soldier?” I asked.
“I think, I did not kill him,” he said.
“What’s the book called?” I said, no longer wanting to know exactly what happened to the French soldier.
“For your purposes, you do not need to know,” Marcello said. “The book was compiled in Byzantium, from scrolls and fragments of earlier writings. It has a reddish leather cover, bronze hinges and a broken lock. It will be unmistakable.”
“So all we have to do is get your book back and we’re cool,” I said.
“That is only part of your task, hunter.” The gray sand shifted around Marcello’s feet. “The Society of Ancient Wisdom, those pampered clowns, must die. Kill them all. Slowly. I want them to suffer. I am sure your vampire will enjoy this part of your mission. Vampires are compulsively thorough. I can imagine Heather, methodically hanging each one of them from their own ceiling, peeling every inch of skin from their thieving bodies, then dancing nude through their dripping blood.”
“Is that how she killed you in your dream?” I said.
Marcello stood speechless, probably for the first time in decades. I looked away into the dense, twisted trees and gave him a moment.
“At any rate,” Marcello said, “I fear you may falter in your task and simply shoot them. They are mortal humans after all. However, rest assured, they are quite wicked and deserving of their fate.”
“This might be a problem,” I said.
“Nonsense,” he said. “You are an exceptional hunter. Even my magic is useless against you. They have no chance.”
“I don’t mean that,” I said. “What you’re talking about would be a fucking massacre. There’ll be no way to cover it up.”
“The powers that be, by which I mean, those who truly rule this world, will understand why the Society was destroyed. There will only be limited news coverage, no true crime documentaries will be funded. Even in this digital age, the massacre as you say, will fade from all but a few memories.” Marcello was way too close now. “All you and your absurdly dangerous monster need worry about is returning my book and punishing the thieves.”
“OK, fine.” I said, having no idea how I was going to pull off a mass murder. “I have a lot of questions. Like how many of them are there.”
“I only know the general location of their temple,” he said. “Which happens to be in part of the city that Lee claims as his territory, which makes you perfect for the task.”
I threw up my hands and followed Marcello out of the wooded area. I looked back at the circle. The ground where Marcello’s blood fell moved and pulsated. Marcello stopped and looked back at me.
“What do you see now?” he said.
“You don’t see that?” I said.
“Oh yes, nothing to worry about,” he said.
“Fine whatever,” I said. “You don’t care, I don’t care.”
Chapter 8
I walked around my car and assessed all the vampire related damage.
“How did she fuck up the bumper?” I said to myself.
I couldn’t wait to get back to my wood paneled apartment and sleep. The events of the last few days were jumbled around my head like puzzle pieces that wouldn’t fit.
“Hunter,” Marcello said from the steps to his insane house. The Praetorians flanked him, like chess pieces with M16s. Miranda poked her head over their shoulders. I waved at her and she vanished.
“Starting out early,” Marcello said. “Excellent.”
“Yeah, I’ll get it done faster that way, all the uh, murders and stuff,” I said.
Marcello had offered to put us up for a while. It was a horrible idea, on almost every level.
“Give this to Heather.” He held out a small pendant on a gaudy, gold chain. “It will protect her from demonic possession.”
“Thanks.” I took the necklace.
“I offer it free of charge,” he said. “You see the idea of a vampire like Heather under some kind of demonic control is quite horrifying.”
“Yeah it is,” I said.
“By the way,” he said. “I warn you not to attempt to read the book. Also, under no circumstances should you allow Heather to so much as handle the book. In fact, the less she knows about it the better.”
“Sure,” I said. “Anything useful you want to tell me, like an address, or really anything.”
“You will find them easily, they are quite arrogant. They will not be hiding. I would be more concerned with the monster that is sleeping in your car, if I were you.” Marcello put his hand on the trunk lid, then pulled it back like he’d been burned.
“I’m a vampire hunter,” I said. “I can handle her.”
“No, you certainly can not,” Marcello said.
*****
I pulled into a truck stop just as the sun started to disappear. My eyes felt like they were being glued shut. There was no way I was going to make it back to my apartment before I passed out. I shut my eyes for a second, then I went looking for some caffeine.
“Where have you been?” The kid behind the truck stop counter said.
A line of obese truck drivers stretched like a wall, all the way back to the bathrooms. I pushed past them, ignoring the smell of chewing tobacco and un-showered truckers.
“Come on, come on,” the kid said.
I took my place behind one of the registers. The job came back to me and I started scanning junk food and cigarettes. I pocketed money, just like when I was nineteen, without even thinking about it. The kid saw it. His eyes bugged out.
“Hey asshole, I said Marlboro Lights,” an unusually hairy trucker, who may have been the result of an interspecies breeding program with a Sasquatch, shouted at me. “Are you even fucking listening to me?”
I drew my .38.
“Wait, what the fuck?” the Sasquatch Trucker said.
I shot him in the chest, then cocked the hammer and shot him in the head as he fell. Blood pumped out of a neat, round hole in his forehead. Truckers ran, knocking over displays and slipping in the growing pool of blood.
The college kid backed up against the wall. I shot him in the throat. A bullet whizzed by my head. The truckers had armed themselves and regrouped, faster that I thought they could. I shot back at a trucker who was armed with a sawed-off, 12 gauge. I missed.
“Die.” He screamed and pulled both triggers.
I saw the orange flash from both barrels.
*****
“Wake up.” Heather shook my shoulder.
I snapped awake in the passenger seat of my car. Heather sat in the driver’s seat. The speedometer read ninety-five. The fresh blood on her mouth looked black in the instrument panel’s glow.
“What, did you help me kill those guys?” I said.
I checked myself for buckshot holes.
What?” she said.
“At the gas station,” I said. “I went to work behind the counter, then I started shooting the customers.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” she said. “You never even went in. You like, fell asleep with the motor running.”
I opened the revolver. Each chamber held an unfired round.
“These fucked up dreams are really getting old,” I said.
Heather smiled, showing off a mouthful of bloody teeth.
“They’re probably all your fault.” I tossed the .38 in the glove box.
“I’m sure you were having fucked up dreams long before you met me,” she said. “You’re just remembering them more now.”
“Marcello dreamed about you, too,” I said.
“Good, I hope it was a nightmare. Like, I hope he was really fuckin’ scared.” Heather blind-dialed the radio with her index claw.
“So, who did you kill?” I was long past caring if Heather was going to crash into a tree or run into a state trooper.
“He’s not even dead, yet,” she said.
I looked in the backseat expecting to see a twitching body.
“I put him in t
he trunk,” she said. “I needed to recharge. He’s just another asshole, like Ray. Nobody’ll miss him.”
“People missed Ray,” I said.
“No people who mattered, missed him,” she said.
Heather swallowed hard and hissed. She pulled off the highway doing sixty. Everything went completely dark in a way you never see living in the city. Heather didn’t bother pulling over. She coasted to a lazy stop in the middle of the deserted country road.
We stepped out of the car. Heather kicked her door closed and jumped into the air. I looked around then saw her land behind the car. Things I couldn’t see moved through the tall grass. Whatever they were, they were running. A new predator just entered their territory.
Morbid curiosity drove me to see what was in my trunk. Heather saw me looking and tapped the metal. The trunk popped open. Sasquatch Trucker lay motionless inside.
“What the fuck?” I said.
Sasquatch Trucker’s eyes rolled in his huge hairy head. Heather dropped down and dug her fangs into his furry neck.
“Aw come on,” I said. “That’s the sickest thing yet. He has a fuckin’ beard.”
Heathers eyes glowed like the stars overhead.
“Just what are you saying?” she said, scary for just a second, then she laughed. “Fucker.”
We were truly alone. No living thing, with any natural instincts worth a damn, was anywhere within miles of us. The living dead man in the trunk didn’t count. Heather was right, he probably never did.
“I shot this guy in my dream,” I said.
“Are you still talking about that?” She groaned. “Was your dream like, just so real?”
“He looked exactly like this.” I opened the Sasquatch Trucker’s jacket and found an unopened pack of Marlboro Lights.
“You didn’t shoot anybody,” she said.
“Yeah, Marcello said those dreams were some kind of vision of a possible future,” I said.
“So, did that fucker tell you what he wanted,” she said.
I told Heather everything, including the stuff about the book.