by Al Ewing
Djego convulsed on the sand as the sun fried his flesh. The memories seemed so clear. He could feel Maria's fist as it hammered into his jaw, again, again, again, the shame fracturing him with every impact, breaking him like glass. He could feel his soul filling with a black bile, hissing black acid that burnt and seared the walls of himself. The shame. The shame.
His throat burned and he retched. He could feel the bile, the shame, creeping slowly up his gullet. His eyes were wide, looking down at the glittering sand, and every grain seemed to him like a mountain. The sun was a jewel sparkling on blue cloth and in his ears there was a humming sound, as though he was a string that had been plucked - and it was deafening.
A shadow fell across him, hotter on his back than the heat of the sun. A giant shadow.
A giant.
Standing above him. He turned over and saw everything clearly.
His brother stood above him. A giant with his brother's face, looming like God. His brother, big as judgement above him, standing and looking down on him. Always. Always.
Djego closed his eyes and tried to breathe. His heart was pounding in his chest, a hot coal resting against his ribcage. Everything in his ears was still humming. Humming. His eyes were closed but the scene was the same. His brother, his judgement, looming over him, looking down.
Djego understood that this had always been happening. It would always be happening. His brother would always tower over him, always leave him in shadow, always look down. After what had happened he had no right to expect anything else.
After what had happened.
Djego shuddered and retched, more black-bile-memory flooding him, scalding him. He felt something hot on his face. Tears. Or blood. He shook like a child.
The giant's massive hand closed about him and squeezed.
Instantly there came the echo of similar blasts, a tidal wave of fire that seemed to sweep through the town, burning and destroying at random. The courthouse in the north of the town burst like an egg, sending showers of masonry into neighbouring houses, great shards of glass whirling like propellers as they smashed through walls into the cribs of children too young to enjoy the celebration. Then the screaming started.
The crowd scattered, running and trampling in a chaotic mass of bodies, as the crack and clatter of machinegun fire stabbed through the night air and bullets hit the ground around them. The venerable Consuela's head became a fine mist as a high-velocity round pierced her left eyeball, destroying, in an instant, the mind that held so much of the town in the amber of memory. Perhaps she would have died anyway - this was, after all, the third unbelievable event of the evening.
A bullet found Isidoro the schoolteacher, and he fell on his face in the dirt before flapping like a hooked fish, looking down at his right leg in horror. Mid-thigh, the flesh had been torn away and he could see bone and the spurting ends of the femoral artery. Isidoro taught biology among his many other subjects and he knew what that meant. But he did not believe. Even when darkness closed over his vision and he toppled backwards, shuddered and went still, he did not believe.
Who could?
Even Santo did not survive. He tried to run to his Master at the first sound of fire, but one of the bullets clipped a cannon bone, shattering it and sending the animal tumbling to the ground. Another shot slammed into his flank, ricocheted off a rib and exited his breast in a fountain of bloody horsemeat that cascaded over the screaming Hector. The boy's screams joined the cacophony from the agonised horse before a third volley of shots silenced them both. Santo's end was merciful - one of the bullets shattered his skull and he died in an instant.
Hector was not so lucky. For the next ten minutes he stared in mute horror at the seeping mass of offal that had toppled from his torn belly.
Maria's blistering anger fell away into confusion and horror. She looked up at the sky, unable to comprehend what could be doing this. And what she saw terrified her beyond measure.
There were men in the sky.
Men in grey uniforms, carrying great black iron guns, with grey helmets and grey expressions. On their backs were metal wings, flapping slowly in the air, great gusts of steam shooting from them as they clanked and groaned. That isn't holding them up, she thought madly, unable to comprehend. Something else must be. And then one of the men turned his gun on her, and she darted forward blindly.
Everything was happening very slowly now. Her feet, moving through thick molasses, hit Djego, who was still curled up on the ground, sobbing like a little child. Unable to stop herself, she fell forward, landing hard on the ground in her wedding dress. She looked up, winded and spitting dust from her mouth, and then there was a terrible sound and something hit her very, very hard in the side of her throat.
She couldn't breathe. There was something wet on her dress. It was spoiled. Everything had been spoiled. Somewhere, she could hear Heraclio screaming, but it was far away. Was he crying? Don't cry, my love. I'll sort this out for you. I always do.
The last thing she saw was the insignia on the shoulder of the man who'd shot her. A red cross in a white circle, with broken ends, all the way round. Like four little L-shapes joined up.
Where have I seen that before? Thought Maria.
And that was that.
Heraclio looked up at the flying men and screamed... but that was in the past, wasn't it? Djego felt himself resting on sand, on the giant's palm. He could feel the flesh through the sand. He saw now the truth of it - Heraclio was looking down, not up, always looking down at him, and the opening of his mouth was in hungry anticipation.
Heraclio the giant was feasting.
The mouth of the giant hung wide open, then closed, and between the teeth were the bones of Djego's ankles, snapping, cracking like a chicken-bone, bitten through. Djego screamed. He was going to die. He was going to be eaten bite by bite. Eaten by the giant, the giant judgement, the giant reputation. The reputation he always had to live up to.
When they had been children, Djego had often been pushed over and beaten and his books taken and trampled in the mud. The boys in the village thought he was fat and doughy and pasty, and they kicked him sometimes until he pissed blood. And that was happening now. He was a child again. He was crying again. His brother was coming to rescue him again, wild swinging fists and shouts. Heraclio always came in the end, running and punching and kicking the bullies until finally the attacks stopped. Nobody picked on Heraclio's brother. Nobody. Djego heard his brother's confident shout again from the giant, the wind of it rushing in his hair.
And Djego felt shame again. Black bile. Again, his brother had done what he could not, his handsome brother, his popular brother who fought where Djego could only cower and weep. He had fought so hard. Never harder than that day, that day it had all ended between them. Heraclio had no brother now.
Djego hated him, and the hate brought more self-disgust that cut him open like a knife.
The giant bit deep. One of Djego's legs was torn from the pelvis, crunched and swallowed whole.
He looked up at the giant's eyes and screamed.
Heraclio looked up at the flying men and screamed. "Conchas! Get down here! Get down here and face me!" The sight of his beloved lying on the ground - the look in her eyes, the anger that was there - filled his vision with red mist. He gripped his sword in white knuckles, waving it at the sky-soldiers as they fired down, bullets cascading on the ground all around him. To those not running for any shelter they could find from the storm of men and bullets and death, he seemed a vision of bloody vengeance - righteous and pure.
One of the soldiers took notice.
He had been barking orders to his fellows, but now he handed command to a subordinate and swooped down, landing in the dust of the great square. As the soldier slowly removed his helmet, Heraclio's streaming eyes burned into him, as if seeking to destroy him with a gaze.
The soldier smiled. He was tall and blonde, barely nineteen, with sharp blue eyes that returned Heraclio's burning look with an audacious twinkle of hi
s own. Heraclio was handsome, but this newcomer was beautiful - beautiful in the way that men can be, that dangerous, tempting perfection that comes in statues from Greece, or the rebellious teenagers who break their parents' rules in the kinema-films, the wild ones. An angel's face with a devil's eyes.
He smiled, and the smile promised terrible things.
And then he drew the sword from his scabbard.
Heraclio was not in the mood for niceties. He screamed and lunged, the point of his sword aimed at the heart of his enemy. The soldier, smiling softly, stepped back and swept his sword in a short arc, deflecting Heraclio's wild thrust easily before transforming the fluid motion into a strike. The point of his sword slashed across Heraclio's cheek, leaving a deep cut.
"Is that all you can manage?" purred the angel-face.
Heraclio screamed. His face was contorted in a fury nobody had ever seen there before, and yet his movements were precise now, as though the rage boiling in his belly was giving him focus. Djego, cowering on the ground, looked up at him through his wet eyes, and saw perhaps the greatest display of sword fighting he had ever seen. In Heraclio's white knuckles, the blade flashed and darted like a thing alive, seeking those gaps in the defences of his foe that would allow him to plunge the blade deep into flesh.
It found none. The defence was impregnable. The soldier flashed a mocking grin, the blades clanging as he parried each blow without effort.
Over their heads, the flying men circled like vultures, firing when necessary to herd the crowd into position, then landing and screaming orders at them in a foreign tongue.
The swords flashed and struck. Sweat fell into Heraclio's eyes, and he blinked, the sword jerking, leaving him wide open for the killing strike. But it did not come. In that heartbeat, the handsome young soldier looked straight into Heraclio's eyes. Heraclio blinked again. The pause seemed to stretch on forever, and the implication of it made Heraclio's blood turn to ice in his veins.
The soldier was choosing not to kill him... just yet.
The angelic face smiled again, like a cat. He had seen the realisation strike home, the fear begin to build, and so he lunged forward, sword flashing, pressing the attack, but keeping within Heraclio's skill. He was forcing Heraclio to work harder simply to keep from being skewered.
"Djego!" Heraclio shouted. "Help me!" The sound chilled Djego's heart. He could not move.
The angelic soldier pushed forward a little further, enjoying the fear. This was the moment he especially enjoyed - the moment when his foe realised that there was no hope of survival, that he was outclassed and outmatched. The sight of that knowledge blooming in Heraclio's eyes made his heart sing. Soon, there would come the other moment he savoured - the sweet moment of surrender, when the enemy knew he could no longer fight against his own death. He licked his lips in anticipation as his sword flashed, carving a line across his enemy's chest, then striking his blade through the muscle at the shoulder. Two quick strikes, designed to remove all hope. The end would soon come.
"Herr Oberst!" One of the other soldiers called over. "Wir haben die Verarbeitung beendet."
The angel-faced soldier nodded briskly. "Ich bin dort in einer Sekunde."
And then he moved very quickly, lunging and flicking with the tip of his sword. The blade carved deep into Heraclio's belly, slicing up, opening out the guts, sending a tide of blood and offal and filth spattering onto the ground. Heraclio's eyes went wide, and then he looked down, and he saw - and the look of disgust on his face at his own body, so exposed and revealed for what it was, such a look was sweeter for the soldier than the look of surrender could have been. In its own way, it was perfect.
"Eine vollkommene Totung." murmured the angel face. And then he simply walked away.
Heraclio collapsed into his own offal, giving shuddering gasps punctuated by hacking coughs that sprayed more blood into the dirt.
Djego stumbled to his feet and ran forward to cradle his brother. "Oh God... Dios Mio... Heraclio, you have to keep still..." He tried to remove the red wedding sash, to use it as a bandage, but Heraclio gave a sharp twist, snarling like a dog, blood and spit dripping from his chin as he looked at his own brother with the same hate he'd had for the soldiers. The sash was left hanging in Djego's hand.
"Bastard!"
Djego recoiled as if he'd been slapped around the face, but Heraclio reached to grip his wrist, pulling him back, spitting blood on Djego's chest with every word.
"Corbarde. Spineless coward. You... you cower in the dirt while your brother is cut to shreds... while Maria, my wife, is murdered! Maria, who you make a big scene over, who you say you love - but you didn't love her enough to protect her, did you? A dog would have done that! But not you! You bastardo asqueroso!"
"Heraclio, please - I can get help..."
Heraclio gripped his sword and thrust the handle towards his brother. "It's too late to help, mierda. Go and run away. Run away like the bastard coward you are!"
"I... I won't run..." stammered Djego, taking the sword, horrified at the blood that coated the handle, that coated his hands, that flowed into the sand like a torrent and soaked his suit.
"You will, inmundicia. My brother, the shit. You will run away as you always do... but never far enough. Never far enough."
"Heraclio, please..."
Heraclio looked up then, and fixed his brother Djego with a terrible stare, a look which would never fade away, looking deep into his brother's eyes.
"No matter how far you run, Djego, my blood will always be with you. My ghost will always be with you. You can run from your home, your family, your responsibilities - you can run from your love - but you can never, never run from me. That is my curse upon you, brother. I will be with you until the day that you die."
Djego opened his mouth to speak, to plead, tears streaming down his face - but it was too late. Heraclio's grip relaxed. He slumped backwards, eyes rolling up into his head. Whatever strength had kept him alive long enough to deliver his terrible curse was gone. All that was left was a corpse at his feet.
Djego lifted his eyes, the sword and the sash in his grip, and he saw what was happening. The soldiers had landed and were herding the people through the square in a great mass, prodding them forward with batons. Old Gilberto was kneeling over the body of his son, looking dumbfounded. Two soldiers marched up to him in their black boots and, almost gently, forced him up and into the march. Then they turned towards Djego, and a terrible realisation ran through him that poured ice into his spine.
He would have to fight. He would have to lift his brother's sword and run towards the soldiers and try to kill them. Most likely, they would shoot. The bullets would punch through his chest, his belly, his face and he would be left dead in the dirt. If he was unlucky, the baby-faced commander would swoop down and use Djego for sword fighting practice as he had used Heraclio. Cut him up like meat and leave his guts hanging out for the vultures.
Djego swallowed and took a step forward, tears streaming down his face, the sword a blur in front of him. He had to fight. It was the only thing left to do. If he didn't fight, then what did that make him?
The soldiers raised their guns with a chuckle, then a laugh - laughing at the man in the dirty black clothes, doughy and pathetic and lank-haired, with his wobbling sword and his streaming crybaby eyes.
The sound was enough to break Djego. He turned and ran, bullets kicking up the dirt at his feet.
He didn't stop running until he reached the desert and his breath gave out, and then he forced himself to keep walking as the town receded in the distance behind him.
The sword and the sash were clutched in his hands, his knuckles were white with the strain and he could no longer see through the tears, but he kept stumbling forward, breath ragged, one foot in front of the other. He was walking in search of death.
He walked for three days.
The teeth of the giant bit through Djego's stomach, severing his spine. Heraclio's perfect teeth. His perfect, handsome face. Crunching
down into his chest. Djego understood then, as every piece of him was bitten away and crushed, how small and pathetic he had been. How meaningless. How futile and ridiculous. It was a pleasure to let go, to let 'Djego' be eaten and swallowed bite by bite, to let his ugly soul fracture and split into infinite pieces. Swallowed into something larger than he was.
He no longer felt pain, but something itched at him, at the back of his skull. The face. The face on the giant. He thought it was Heraclio's, but it had never been. The face on the giant was his own.
He heard laughter from his own throat, deep and rich, booming across the sands, a wonderful, joyous laugh of triumph and confidence. Whose laugh was that? Not Djego. He was dead and gone and he never laughed. But if not Djego... then who?
Who was lying in the sand?
He shuddered, convulsed once more, every muscle rigid. The eyes in his head rolled back. He gripped the sword and the sash tighter, until they seemed to pulse with a life of their own.
And then his heart stopped.
CHAPTER ONE
The Corpse Under The Sheets
Nine Years Later
Alexis woke up next to a corpse. He hardly noticed at first.
He lay there for a moment, blinking in the darkness of the room, feeling the cold mass in the bed next to him and trying to remember what it was. Who it was. Had been. There had been so many of them, it was always difficult for him to remember.
The Officers' Club, perhaps? He vaguely remembered a new waitress. Or some curfew-breaker? There was a tall, handsome youth he seemed to remember with some clarity. Was the lump male or female? He took men to his bed regularly, a healthy amount, experimentation - certainly not the same thing as the degenerates who ended up in the camps. Not the same thing at all. But it led to these frustrating mornings, when he desperately tried even to remember the gender or some distinguishing feature of the cold counterweight that balanced his own body on the mattress.