“No, sir. I get it. So what now?”
“This is going to be a political shit storm. The drones are all gone, and the program is finished. The surrounding islands as well as the Florida Coast Guard have been on the alert for resurfacing zombies, but there’ve been none sighted.”
“What about my father?”
“We wait. Someone from OIL is going to come forward and demand that we produce your brother.”
“What then? Carl’s dead and we can’t even find the body. Do we announce his death?”
“Not yet,” said Betancourt. “It would be a tremendous blow to morale and a moral victory for OIL. The last thing we want to do is embolden the enemy.”
“So we just wait?”
“And prepare, Captain.”
“For what, sir?”
“I don’t know, son. I just don’t know.”
***
Monterosso al Mare, Italy
10:23 HRS
Yvette was in the sacristy overseeing the project. Three technicians were poring over the makeshift RGT apparatus. They had been at it through the night and were near completion.
Kafka and Belmont were sitting in the pews of the pirate church. Kafka was admiring the stunning reliefs of skulls, crossbones, and skeletons lounging around holding wreaths and scepters. The whole church was white, brown, and beige with striped columns. It looked Egyptian.
“This is odd décor for a church,” said Kafka.
“It is rumored to have been built by a pirate,” said Belmont. “It’s the perfect location for us. Difficult to get to and right off the water.”
“Those words above the door, what do they mean?”
“Oratorio Mortis et Orationis,” said Belmont. “Those words refer to a secret society that goes back to medieval times that was devoted to liberating souls of loved ones from purgatory, so that they may attain the splendors of heaven.”
“That’s poetic justice, don’t you think,” commented Kafka.
“Yes, you might say our mission is similar, in a more earthly sense of course.”
Yvette came out of the sacristy. “It’s ready.”
Belmont and Kafka stood up and followed her back into the sacristy. Night Stalker was on hand watching lazily as he leaned against a rather large wooden cabinet containing vestments.
“Is it operational?” Belmont asked.
“Only one way to find out,” said Yvette trading looks with Kafka.
“So we need a volunteer,” Kafka hissed. “How about you, Night Crawler?”
Night Stalker huffed at the suggestion. “No thanks.”
Yvette pulled out her handgun and trained it on him. He stood up straight with a look of outrage. “You pull it and you better be prepared to use it, little girl.”
“I have a better idea,” said Kafka. He walked over and grabbed Night Stalker by the back of the neck. Night Stalker tried to shake off Kafka’s grip but was unable. “Why don’t you have a seat? This won’t hurt a bit.”
Night Stalker started to panic. He appealed to Belmont. “Aren’t you going to do anything?”
Belmont put out his hands and shrugged. “Just a test. I don’t see the harm in it.”
Kafka led Night Stalker over like a marionette to the metal chair in front of the RGT apparatus and slammed him down into it.
Yvette nodded to one of the technicians, who switched the machine on. An ancillary monitor lit up and the technician adjusted some dials. When he was finished, he gave the thumbs up.
“Now don’t you move,” said Kafka rather menacingly.
The machine was humming and ready. The technician activated the retinal interface, and images of Night Stalker in Monterosso popped up on the screen. Then there were images of their invasion of Guantanamo Bay. They saw him scale the bungalow in Camp X-Ray and take out the spotter on the roof. Then images of Yvette and Carl in the apartment the night they made contact. Then other operations: assassinations, sabotage.
And there it was…what Kafka was looking for.
The man in the car that drove in through the entrance to the mall in Texas and exploded. The man that would murder his mother. Night Stalker was discussing the attack with the suicide bomber, planning it out. The man was a true believer. Shit, he had to be to be willing to blow himself up for the Cause.
Night Stalker silently slipped his hand into his pocket and pressed the button, sending electricity flooding into Kafka’s helmet. Kafka let go of Night Stalker and stumbled backward clutching his head in pain.
Night Stalker stood up out of the chair and snatched Yvette’s gun from her hand, turning it on her. Kafka pulled off his helmet. His four red eyes glared with cold-blooded fury as long, black hair fell about his shoulders.
“Leave us,” he commanded rather ominously.
Belmont put his hands up and backed out of the room. Night Stalker pulled Yvette around and backed out of the sacristy and into the church. Kafka followed.
“You took a big risk removing your helmet,” said Night Stalker.
“Oh, please,” said Kafka, “the army thinks I’m dead.”
“One step and the girl gets it,” threatened Night Stalker. “I know you two are sweet on each other.”
“You mercenary shit!” yelled Yvette. “Kill me. You won’t make it out that door.”
“Come on, Night Crawler,” taunted Kafka. “You call yourself a professional? The best? And here you stand shaking in your boots and hiding behind a woman.”
“I can take you any time, you freak,” snapped Night Stalker.
“Where, to the movies?” jeered Kafka. “Prove it. Show me you’re the best.”
“I am the best. Your freak powers won’t help you at all.”
“Good,” said Kafka slyly, “then it should be no problem for you.”
Night Stalker considered it. He threw Yvette to the ground and pointed the gun at Kafka, pulling the trigger.
But he was too slow.
Kafka ran behind pews and dodged between columns in a blur until Night Stalker emptied his clip. Kafka came dancing back out into the open.
“So I never understood your name. Was it to strike fear into the hearts of those who’ve heard of you? To intimidate? Should I be frightened by your name?”
Night Stalker pulled a rather large hunting knife from his boot. The two men circled around each other, sizing each other up.
“You’re not so tough without your drones,” taunted Night Stalker.
“Communicating with them is but one of my talents, Night Crawlie. I can’t wait to show you my others.” Kafka flashed his reptilian eyes and licked his lips.
“You miss your mommy?” goaded Night Stalker. “Don’t worry, you’ll be seeing her real soon.”
“Oh, I see,” said Kafka. “You’re trying to anger me.”
“You’re going to have to kill me face-to-face instead of slipping explosives into my pack when I’m not looking,” said Night Stalker.
“I liked Fiona, but don’t worry. What I have planned for you will be real up close and personal,” snarled Kafka.
“Enough talk,” said Night Stalker.
“My sentiments exactly,” growled Kafka.
They lunged forward at each other and Night Stalker plunged his knife into Kafka’s left blocking forearm. Kafka didn’t pull away. He grabbed Night Stalker by the throat with the other hand and tossed him backward against the pews.
Night Stalker landed on his back across a hard wooden backrest and rolled off onto the hard floor. Kafka cocked his head sideways, examining the knife in his forearm. He reached out and grabbed the handle, wrapping his long fingers around it emphatically.
“Remember, Night Terror, what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.” He pulled out the knife slowly and licked his own blood off the blade. Night Stalker was on his feet, but the throw knocked the wind out of him.
“I’m going to give you a chance to catch your breath,” said Kafka, “and then I’m going to kill you with your own knife.”
Night Sta
lker took a moment to catch his breath. Then he stood up straight and gestured for Kafka to come at him.
“Very good,” said Kafka, smiling wickedly. He ran at Night Stalker with such speed that Night Stalker almost didn’t have time to dodge the lunge. The knife missed the front of his midsection, slicing his black shirt open by his ribs.
He countered with three blows to Kafka’s face, and he dodged as Kafka swiped at him and missed. He came back in and delivered a body blow and dodged again as the knife grazed his right cheek. He backed away and wiped the blood off his face.
“You are pretty fast,” said Kafka with genuine appreciation, apparently unfazed by Night Stalker’s blows. “This will be entertaining.”
“If you consider getting your ass kicked fun,” retorted Night Stalker. He ran to the front of the church and grabbed the tall metal cross sitting in a rack between two metal candleholders for the altar boys.
He jumped back down in the aisle wielding the cross like a staff. Kafka put his hands up defensively and hissed at the sight of the cross. Startled, Night Stalker looked at the crucifix.
“Just kidding,” quipped Kafka, and he ran at Night Stalker. Night Stalker side-stepped him, swinging the cross and just missing the side of Kafka’s head. Kafka side kicked him in the solar plexus, sending him flying against the pews again.
Night Stalker never let go of the cross. He pushed back against the pews with his elbows and was on his feet in a heartbeat. He came at Kafka, twirling the metal cross.
Kafka did a split and swung his leg around catching Night Stalker and toppling him over. Night Stalker went down hard on the marble floor, hitting it with a grunt. Kafka kicked the cross out of his hands, and it went sliding down the aisle scraping the marble.
Night Stalker rolled into the pews and scrambled down the row to the other end. Kafka leisurely strolled along the front, following Night Stalker. The reliefs of laughing skeletons looked on in delight from their lofty positions.
“Tell me, Night Gawker, do you think you’re going to purgatory?”
Night Stalker was now running down the side aisle towards the front entrance. Kafka leapt across the pews and collided with Night Stalker, sending him crashing into the church candles.
Night Stalker got up on one knee, but Kafka clapped one heavy hand on his shoulder preventing him from rising. “While you’re down on one knee, why don’t you say a prayer for my mother, you son-of-a-bitch?”
“I thought you don’t get angry,” mocked Night Stalker. “I thought you were a professional.”
Kafka drove the large hunting knife down through the top of Night Stalker’s skull. “I lied.” The impact of the blow sent a shudder of satiety into Kafka’s soul, and he relished the moment.
Night Stalker was grasping wildly at the knife in his head, but his pulse was fading. Kafka twisted the knife and Night Stalker was still.
Kafka dragged him back towards the front of the church and tossed him in front of the altar like a rag doll. The lifeless body lay in a heap like an offering.
“I will say a prayer for you Night Stalker,” said Kafka, “because purgatory is too good for you.” He walked around the altar and entered the sacristy through the side door. He found his helmet lying on the floor and picked it up. He dusted it off and slid it carefully back into place on his head.
He walked back out into the church and around the altar. Night Stalker’s body was still, but Kafka felt another pulse. He knew it was Yvette. She walked over to him and put her hand gently on his shoulder.
He stood there motionless, staring down at Night Stalker’s body. While he could still taste the ecstasy of the kill on his tongue, the significance of avenging his mother left him feeling empty.
“I know how you feel,” said Yvette softly. “After Belmont rescued me from that brothel, he took me in, he trained me in martial arts and weapons…he taught me how to read. I tagged along with him. We traveled everywhere, seeing many towns.
“But as I soaked up everything around me, becoming a worldlier person, something ate away at me. I didn’t feel it consistently, but it was always there in the background, gnawing.
“So I told Belmont that I had unfinished business. He understood. He took me back to my father. It took some tracking to find him, but we found him not far from here on the outskirts of Viareggio. I wanted to tell him that I was all right. I wanted to see my sisters and how they’d grown.
“But when we found him, he had already sold them to a brothel. He cursed them for being lazy and poor thieves. When he told me he sold them to a brothel in town, he spat on the ground.
“I asked him simply to tell me which brothel they were sold to. He laughed bitterly and told me the place. I told him that I would return. He laughed at me, cursing me. My mother stood quietly in the background looking down at her feet.”
“So what did you do?” asked Kafka, breaking the silence.
“Belmont and I found the brothel. When we arrived there, I found out one of my sisters had died. She was brutalized by an overzealous customer. My other sister was there. Belmont and I killed everyone who worked at the house. We took my sister and left the other girls to return back to wherever they came from.”
“What about your father?” asked Kafka.
“My father,” Yvette said to herself. Then she looked Kafka in the eye. “I butchered him in front of my mother and sister. When Belmont and I left, the entire inside of their RV was covered in his blood. It was justice, but it felt empty. It didn’t change anything.”
“I know how you feel,” said Kafka. “How was Night Stalker allowed to plan the mall bombing?”
“We’re a decentralized organization, Kafka. It’s one of our greatest strengths, makes us impossible to eradicate. I’m not going to lie to you. While Belmont and I weren’t directly involved in that particular attack, we were in countless others. We are killers for our Cause.”
“Care to submit to the RGT so I can verify that you weren’t involved?” threatened Kafka.
“If you wish. I have nothing to hide, but you may not like what you see.”
“You’d be surprised,” said Kafka. “Just yesterday, I strapped C4 and thermite to someone I really cared about without her knowledge and blew her to kingdom come.”
“What about your brother?”
“Everyone who betrayed me will pay,” said Kafka coolly. “Even my brother. I have a feeling our paths will cross again.”
“In fact, Belmont’s counting on it,” said Yvette.
Kafka walked back into the sacristy and eyed the RGT apparatus. Yvette was right behind him. She found him very attractive right now…powerful. Being near him was intoxicating.
“So Belmont is going to be using this on American operatives,” said Kafka.
“Americans, NATO, UN,” answered Yvette.
“That’s a lot of knowledge, a lot of power in the hands of one man.”
Yvette walked around to face him. “OIL is more than one man. It’s a cause. It’s our crusade.”
“I can’t say it’s my cause, Yvette.”
“That is how we all felt in the beginning. It is a new feeling to be liberated, truly free.”
However, she didn’t understand. He was free from his prior two incarnations, but his transformation wasn’t yet complete.
“When the operatives are interrogated with the RGT, we will see everything?”
Yvette nodded. “Mission objectives, planning, placements…”
“Training, tactics,” finished Kafka.
“Yes. We will have the ultimate in intelligence. We will know everything about our enemies.”
Kafka began to step toward Yvette, who slowly retreated with his every step. He reached out for her, but she stayed just out of his grasp, his fingertips grazing her curves.
Never breaking eye contact, she backed into a wooden vestment cabinet, startling herself. He reached out and placed a hand on the cabinet, blocking her exit with his extended arm. She had no desire to run.
“You
never answered my question,” he asked.
“Was I really attracted to you or was it part of the act?”
“Yes.”
She reached up with her hands and touched his helmet. Then she squeezed and lifted it off of his head, tossing it leisurely to the ground.
“We understand each other,” said Kafka. “We are both killers. Cause or not, we show strength through our ability to end lives. Like when you butchered your gypsy father.”
She nodded, gazing into his four reptilian slits.
“The force,” he continued, “the blood, the slow fade of their existence.” He reached down to her blouse and pulled it open, snapping her front buttons off.
She allowed him. He was not her father, nor a whorehouse master. He was her rescue and, although Kafka was physically superior to her in every way, it gave her some ownership. He was her eager pupil, strong, yet vulnerable.
“You would have me in the back of a church?” she teased.
“I would have you in front of the Pope himself,” countered Kafka. He sniffed her neck, sliding the tip of his tongue down the length of it, tasting her mix of fear and lust. He felt her push up against him, her heartbeat thundering against his chest and in his mind.
At that moment, the notion to kill her popped into his head. To murder her, tearing her limb from limb with his bare hands. To spill her blood on the hard tile floor in this holy place.
He looked into the dark hallway to the door that led outside and he saw an extra shadow in the dim light. As it turned sideways, he made out an open mouth with long fangs and claw-like fingernails extending out. He knew what it was.
His doppelgänger had fed him the idea of murdering Yvette where she stood. It wanted it as much as he did, maybe even more. The idea heightened his arousal and he seized her, and they took possession of each other on the sacristy floor.
***
Peter sat hunched over on his bunk with his hands covering his face. His shoulders were shaking and his body was shuddering, but his sobs were silent.
Nolan Kettle entered the barracks and saw his commanding officer. He turned to leave to give Peter his privacy.
I Am Automaton 2: Kafka Rising Page 23