by Ian McCain
Antonios learns a final important lesson about trust. It is not something that can simply be shared between one another based on the similarity of circumstance. It can’t be requested from another person nor can it be offered. No, it must be earned over time and in mutual sacrifice. To expect otherwise is foolish. He learns this painfully when his favorite child, his boy priest Gideon, leaves in the middle of the night with no trace or indication of where he has gone. The only thing left behind, besides the lingering sting of Gideon’s self-righteous preaching about morality and their existence being an abomination, is a warehouse absent its contents. No more people left inside to feed off of, no more cattle on the Farm. The well-intended priest liberated the food from their pens.
Some are quickly found staggering about near the warehouse in a morphine haze and they are rapidly devoured. Better to be dead than capable of telling tales of their captivity. Others are not able to be found, which forces Antonios to once again consider his situation and whether it will be required to start de novo.
He and the remaining infected work swiftly to remove any evidence of the cages within the warehouse, restoring it to its original purpose in the event that authorities are to come to investigate the claims that people have been held captive. Moreover, the title of the property is firmly in the hands of Lord Baylor’s co-conspirator, a man Antonios has already visited and threatened, and who has agreed to take responsibility for whatever actions might take place at the warehouse location.
Though Antonios has grown tired of Gideon’s inability to accept their truer nature, he respects his willingness to share his thoughts even when faced with the knowledge of what horrors Antonios is capable of. Though Gideon has been made anew in Antonios’ image, he still holds on to his faith, a weight that Antonios has long ago shed when faced with the reality of mankind’s constitution. Antonios likes that he could for the briefest of time call the man his friend. Something he has not had for over two lifetimes.
He knows that they will meet again—that the Dark Gift will grow stronger in Gideon, compel him to feed, and force him to accept that he is now a predator. Eventually his eyes will open. The question is not if Gideon will accept his true nature, the question is when. Regardless of the terms on which they may meet under in the future, Antonios knows that he will not easily forgive this transgression, and certainly can never forget.
Chapter 26
Marie’s eyes are hurting, stinging from spending so much time without blinking. That happens a lot to her when she is on the computer. It’s like her brain stops sending the message to blink. She closes her eyes for a few seconds so that some moisture can return to her corneas.
She has been alternating between staring at the screen for hours and making endless phone calls that never seem to generate results. When she first looked online and found that the insurance company did indeed exist, she was ready to give up on pursuing this angle. It all seemed legitimate. Then she asked for them to send her paperwork so that she could open her own policy and the person on the phone got tripped up, as if they didn’t actually sell insurance. She pressed harder, asking if she could come to their offices, if she could sit with an agent. Finally, frustrated, the woman on the other end said something that made no sense and confirmed for Marie that she was looking in the right place.
--Look, I was just told I needed to confirm his info. They didn’t tell me to do anything else.
A moment later and the phone was dead. She tried calling back and it just rang busy. Not wanting to be stopped by this setback, she plugged into Google Maps the only address she found in the paperwork that was not a PO Box. The address pulled up an abandoned house in upstate New York.
When she told this to Hector, he too got even more intrigued and willing to start digging into things. He said he was going to see if he could find out who owned that property, maybe go down to the county clerk’s office and look into it further. Marie asked him not to go, so instead he just started calling independent insurance agencies asking if they knew about or had heard of Patriot Pines Insurance, to which all of them replied that they hadn’t.
Now time is passing excruciatingly slowly, but although it feels as if they are accomplishing nothing, the truth of the matter is that they have accomplished a great deal. Even though they have learned nothing about the company, they have learned that there is nothing to learn about it. It’s as if the company doesn’t exist for any other reason than to issue checks.
They have been working through the night and into the early afternoon, without food or any sleep, and it is definitely starting to wear on them both. Marie is getting increasingly tired, starting to doze off while looking at the screen.
She starts to nod off again, but catches herself, whipping her head back and locking onto new information. A name buried deep down in a corporate wiki site. She follows a series of companies acting as registered agents for other companies, all either tied back to the same attorney or themselves an unending spiral of circular paperwork. But eventually after weaving through the vast web of meaningless companies, she finds a corporate registration from over forty years ago with a name on it.
Gideon Burns.
--Gideon Burns.
Hector turns toward her with exhausted eyes and a puzzled scowl.
--What? What’s that?
--Not what… Who.
She holds up the life insurance policy.
--Maybe he isn’t behind it, but he is connected to this thing, somehow. Probably old as hell too, looks like he registered one of the first of these companies forty-five years ago. Paradigm Medical Enterprises.
--OK, well, that’s a start. What say we maybe clock out here for a little bit, I can heat up some ramen for us make a sandwich and maybe we can get some sleep?
Marie smiles at his offer, at him. She knows what she has asked him to help with is absolutely insane, yet he is here with her. Sleep-deprived, starving, all for her, all because he believes her and loves her.
--That sounds really nice. Besides, I doubt Mr. Burns is going anywhere at his age.
***
They finish their food and groggily make their way into the bedroom together. It’s clear that it’s not going to be a romantic afternoon, but just holding each other is enough for the both of them. Marie drifts off to sleep replaying the interaction with the young version of her father. It morphs into a fantasy memory, a childhood with a present father and mother. Even as she sleeps she smiles lightly at the thought.
Both of them fall into a state of slumber in but a few moments, feet intertwined with one another’s, Marie’s arm draped over Hector’s shoulder. Her breath falls hotly on his back as he backs into her leaving hardly a space between them. Though their intimacy is new, there is a strange comfort and familiarity.
Marie awakens to Hector stirring from his sleep, but has trouble opening her own eyes through the exhaustion and eye makeup from the previous night that she never managed to remove. When she does open them her heart virtually stops. She tries to scream but a hand clamps over her mouth, allowing only muffled sounds to be exhaled out her nose.
Hector is limp and lifeless at first. Her panic subsides slightly when she sees the slight up-and-down movement of breathing. She struggles to move, but her efforts are impossibly difficult. The hands holding her down are strong. She manages to turn her head just enough to let out a muffled shout, and quickly the hand returns to her face. Finally a small needle sticks into the meat of the back of her arm. Within seconds she starts to drop off into blackness. She tries desperately to hold on to her senses but finds herself in the cold black of a dreamless slumber.
Chapter 27
Ernie’s wounds have completely healed, and the hunger is manageable. Because he drank the blood instead of shooting it he knows he will likely need more again soon, but it’s still enough to at least keep him alive. It isn’t every day you get to see more of yourself on the outside than on the inside. As usual the Virus has worked its magic and restored what could otherwise nev
er have been fixed. No longer does he feel the hot breath of the Rage ready to tear into him. He has shaken himself free from the bliss, and is now just trying to position all the moving pieces of this odd puzzle so that it makes sense.
There are other infected in the city. They have a scent very similar to his own. He’s started to believe that there is a reason to this beyond just simple coincidence. The others in the city are obviously aware of Gideon and the Organization and yet he isn’t certain that Gideon is aware of them. It’s a lot even for Ernie’s mind to put together. He has whole sections that he understands, or at least is starting to, but the bigger answers are just around the corner.
The blond man introduces himself as Gareth. He is about six feet tall, athletic build with closely cropped hair on the sides and choppy cut on top and a well-groomed blond beard. He looks like some high-art interpretation of a soldier, lean and rugged yet fashionable. What strikes Ernie is that his eyes are this haunting sapphire blue. It’s the kind of color that only seems possible in a dream.
He seems genial enough and lets Ernie rest briefly to regain his senses while the last of the bliss drips out of him. Then Gareth leads him back out toward the street.
Ernie can tell that he doesn’t have much choice in the matter, and though he is capable of enduring any injury and his mind is able to distance himself from the pain, he is just too fucking exhausted to want to fight another person, especially Hipster G.I. Joe.
Ernie protests that he can’t take any more sunlight today, but to his surprise there is a black sedan waiting for them in the rain. Its darkly tinted windows provide more than adequate shade from the overcast sun and create a sort of ominous sense about what is coming. Even in all his beloved books or films, when the hero gets put into a waiting vehicle with some anonymous third party, it always paints a scary picture for what’s coming up next. Although things for his storybook heroes always work out, Ernie is aware of one very striking difference: he is far from a hero, and in most regards barely even a decent human being… so yeah, he is a little freaked at the situation.
Ernie can tell that they are heading downtown, likely toward Transitions to see some other person Ernie has somehow pissed off. He concludes that it’s the main location for the Others, perhaps a combination of Farm and housing for the infected. They are probably gonna want to throw me on that floor in lockdown, keep me captive, kill me. Damn!
When they get more than three blocks past Hell’s Kitchen he realizes that something else is going on because they haven’t turned toward the Transitions building. They continue south further and further.
--So, we ain’t going to Transitions, eh?
Gareth’s blue eyes betray him as he shakes his head. Ernie can tell that Gareth did not expect him to know about Transitions.
--It’s a clever name though—what you guys did. Transitions. A bit on the nose, but still clever. You, eh, you mind?
Ernie withdraws his smashed-up pack of cigarettes. The pack and most of the cigarettes themselves are stained red from his own blood and God only knows what other fluids. Ernie tosses the cig into his mouth and starts to light up. He takes a long drag from the cigarette when the window on his side of the car is rolled down, sending in a flood of painful light. The rain is starting to let up, leaving only humid steam rising up from the ground and scattered rays of intense sunlight drilling into the side of Ernie’s face as the sun starts to make its descent toward the horizon line.
--Shit, OK. I get it.
Ernie chucks the smoke out the window as it rolls back up. He’s traded a few years on his visage for one drag from a smashed up cigarette.
--Maybe I should take up dippin’ is what you’re saying?
Ernie smiles but gets no reaction from Gareth.
--You should meet my buddy Claude, you guys would hit it off.
Ernie folds his arms and tries to figure out what exactly could be going on.
When the car turns onto Nineteenth Street, everything starts to click. Like the last twist on the focus on a manual camera lens, changing a well-framed image from cloudy impression to crystal-clear photo. He knows where he is going and he knows how he became infected. It is a relief that his brain has finally gotten back out ahead. That it has taken well over a year is disappointing, but it is still an accomplishment and perhaps even more so a relief.
His thoughts are further confirmed when the car pulls over to stop near the entrance to “Our Lady of the Resurrection.” Gareth grabs an umbrella and steps out of the cab in front of Ernie. He opens the umbrella and upon Ernie’s exit from the car offers it as further shade from the light sprinkling of rain and the bright blades of amber-red sunlight cutting through the clouds.
Both men walk through the entrance of the building. Its marble hall and open spaces tiled with cold hard stone allow each step to echo through the entirety of the empty space.
They make their way toward the office on the far side of the church vestibule and walk inside. The church, the office, the whole area is familiar to Ernie because he has been here before. A little over a year ago just before he was infected he had snuck into this very office and stolen wine from the back of a display cabinet. Wine which was quite clearly not wine at all.
Inside the room a man is seated at a desk in minimalist religious attire. Dark suit, collar, rosary, he is looking at paperwork and is intent on finishing up a series of signatures before stopping to address Ernie. The stench of Virus pumping off of him is unreal, the viscid plumes of Virus erupting from him like dry ice in the summer sun. Ernie can smell himself in this man, the essence of his Virus, like rediscovering a smell from childhood that instantly transports you back to the moment the scent first entered your nose. This man is similarly affected by the smell of Ernie.
The name plate on the desk reads “Vicar Anton Parese.”
Anton leans toward Ernie from behind his desk and sniffs at the air, then proceeds with a bizarre accent, an amalgam of several languages.
--So, it would appear that you are one of mine?
Ernie forces a puzzled look on his face, though he understands completely what Anton is saying. Ernie studies the man’s face, his features. The man looks old and weathered, but with his keen vision Ernie can see that the man is wearing makeup and prosthetics. Were this a film set and were he in front of eyes less discerning Ernie imagines that the prosthetics would be thoroughly convincing.
--Ernie, my name is Antonios.
Ernie gives a half-hearted and uninspired wave, then proceeds to take out his mangled pack of cigarettes.
--Mind?
Antonios slides out from behind his desk and pulls the bloodied cigarette from Ernie’s mouth, tossing it into the garbage bin next to his desk with pinpoint accuracy. Then in one motion extends an ornate gold cigarette box with gourmet cigarettes wrapped in a dark brown wrapper. Ernie obliges himself and takes one. Antonios lights it for him as Ernie settles back into his chair.
--I found this brand and recipe nearly seventy years ago. The wrappers are soaked in brandy and give off a sweet sting on the tongue.
--Still taste like shit though, no?
--Yes. Yes, they do.
Antonios sits back down, returning the cigarette case to his desk without removing one for himself. Considering their placement and that the case was nearly full these cigarettes are not for Antonios’ use.
--I imagine you understand a great deal more than you are letting on. You do, after all, have my blood in you. So we can refrain from pretense.
Ernie nods. Antonios removes some of the prosthetics and loosens his collar and unbuttons the top button of his shirt. He rolls back his sleeves and shifts his physical appearance from the elderly man to one more reflective of the youthful Ernie. Ernie lets out a brief laugh, still finding the humor that they all look like college kids when in fact most of them should have been dead for twenty or thirty years at least. Still, even with his awareness of all this, he finds it hard to take any of them seriously. They just look like some young inex
perienced punks pretending to be worldly old souls. He half wishes that Antonios had left the prosthetics on.
Antonios leans back in his chair, signaling to Ernie to speak. Ernie obliges.
--Last year… The wine?
--Yes, the wine. Ernie, you put a temporary wrinkle on some plans, but we were able to take them in stride.
Ernie nods.
--My bad. Just thought I was stealing some hooch, not upsetting the master plans of an ancient vampire.
He smiles, trying to ensure that Antonios realizes he is making a joke.
--Tell me, Ernie. How is Gideon? I have not spoken with him in so long. Is he still a pious, principled man?
--Pious? I don’t know anything about that. He doesn’t seem to be.
--Good.
Antonios nods and then snaps his fingers for Gareth, who leaves the room briefly, returning a few moments later with two ornate brass goblets and a decanter full of thick red fluid. Ernie can smell the blood immediately.
--Does he speak of me?
--Not that I have ever heard.
Ernie is getting a bit uncomfortable. The smell of blood is so enticing to him and the Virus is so stirred by the opportunity to be fed again.
--You must be parched. Your fight with this black child, it could not have been easy.
Antonios pours out a glass of blood and walks over to Ernie. He indicates as if he is going to give it to Ernie before putting it to his own lips and drinking. Ernie can see that Antonios has complete control over how his body reacts. He doesn’t even show that there is a shift in him when sipping. Ernie’s face on the other hand would be painted in bliss if he was to do that. This Antonios character is either very old, or is some sort of self-control guru. Ernie knows that he is doing this as a way to show Ernie that he is the one in control of the situation, both figuratively and literally. The subtleties of the message are not lost on him.