by Kevin Wright
The Gurkha and his two sons stood like statues against the short parapet running around the top of the building. Jethro sharpened his kukri against a large whetstone in the palm of his hand.
“Go downstairs, please,” the Gurkha said to his two sons. “We may have visitors tonight.”
Elliot lit another cigarette and shook out the match. The two sons left.
“Elliot, I know you’ve been in a coma for, what, fifty years?” Peter said. “But, cigarettes are bad for you.”
Elliot smiled faintly. “Perhaps they are bad for the body, Peter,” he said, “but I have found solace in them where no other solace could be found.” The tip of his cigarette flared red.
“Great.” Peter crouched against the parapet, hands deep within his pockets. Next to him was a thermos of coffee and a few cups. In the center of the roof was a blue duffel bag. “So what do we do with him?”
“Nothing,” Elliot answered.
“Nothing?” Peter asked.
“Nothing,” echoed the Gurkha.
“But I — we need information,” Peter said. “He knows the queen vampire.” He felt stupid every time he said ‘queen vampire.’ “I have to find her, to get better. The Padre said—” He took a deep breath and looked down at his right hand. His skin was gray. “What are we doing? Why are we just sitting here?”
“Nothing is what we are doing right now,” Elliot said, “though we could just as easily call it waiting. Or perhaps, biding out time sounds more proactive.”
“Look guys, I know you’re all part of the same secret society or whatever, and I’m not, but I’ve only got four days. Four days at the most! I need answers!” Peter sagged back down in his corner, gripping his right hand in his left. He glanced up at the two of them. “Waiting for what?”
“Waiting for him to tell us what he knows.” The Gurkha hobbled next to Peter. He had a cane now, and his leg was in a makeshift splint. He poured himself a cup of coffee.
“Well, I’m sure that’ll only take fifteen years or so,” Peter said.
The Gurkha’s grin turned to grimace as he sat down.
“You need to have that leg looked at,” Peter said.
“You looked at it.”
“Yeah, and I told you it’s broken.”
“I had known it was broken.”
“Yeah, but you shouldn’t walk, or even be able to walk on it.”
“You splinted it well.” The Gurkha slapped Peter on the back.
“Look, man, I’m just an EMT, a new one. And I’m telling you, you need to have it looked at. Now. By a doctor. You’ll get gangrene or something.”
“In the morning.” The Gurkha took a sip.
“Great.” Peter frowned. “So then, when is he going to tell us what he knows?” He lowered his voice. “Are you going to torture him, or something?”
The Gurkha and Elliot looked at one another for a moment; the Gurkha shrugged.
“The sun will do our work,” the Gurkha said. “He will talk, then.”
“Okay…” Peter leaned back, hugging himself, trying to warm up.
“Drink this, Peter, it will warm you.” The Gurkha handed him a steaming cup of coffee.
Peter took the coffee and looked up at Elliot leaning upon the hilt of his sword. “Elliot, where’d you learn to do the stuff with the sword? I mean, nobody can block bullets, I thought. You were like Luke Skywalker back there.”
“Who?” Elliot glanced at the Gurkha for a second.
The Gurkha shrugged.
“I mean, the Padre carried a sword. I thought he was crazy, and well, he was, but, how do you do it?”
“I simply do, Peter,” said Elliot. “The Japanese warriors of old strived for one thing in their quest for martial prowess. Do you know what it was?”
“No idea.”
“Think about it.”
Well, I can’t go for the obvious ones, strength or speed, or being completely psychotic. Well, maybe steroids? No. Endurance? Finally he said, “Endurance.”
“No,” Elliot shook his head, “though endurance is surely important. It is mushin.”
“Mushin?” Peter turned to the Gurkha, “Don’t you guys serve that downstairs? With a side of pork-fried rice?”
Peter didn’t even laugh at his joke.
“Mushin is action without thought, Peter,” Elliot said. “It’s your body knowing exactly what to do and doing it without conferring with the brain. You have time to think or time to act. But time only for one.”
“So it’s fast reflexes?”
“Fast, appropriate reflexes,” the Gurkha said.
“Michael Jordan has fast reflexes, but he can’t dodge bullets.”
“Michael Jordan does not have Durendal,” the Gurkha said.
“Durendal, huh?” Peter studied the sword. “You name it, Elliot?”
“Hmmm?” Elliot leaned back. “No, I cannot rightly remember how it got that name. There are runes etched upon the blade. Beautifully done. See?” He proffered the blade. “I can’t read them. Perhaps I met someone who could, and he told me. I don’t remember.”
“Why was it at Brudnoy’s?” Peter ran his hand close upon the blade. Strangely, he thought he heard it hum, and the closer his hand got to it, the more it felt as though a magnet were in the palm of his hand repelling him from it.
“Careful, Peter, there is no blade so sharp as that of Durendal,” Elliot said.
Peter withdrew his hand, examining his palm, “Huh? Yeah. So, where’d you get it?”
* * * *
Carmine pulled into the parking lot of the Immortal Jade Palace, put the ambulance in park, and got out. His uniform was rumpled, stained.
“Here’s the portable.” Shotgun held the portable radio out to Carmine. “You okay, man? You look like shit.”
“Thanks.” Carmine strode away. In his arms, he held a package. He banged on the side door of the Immortal Jade Palace and waited. A shadow crept up to the door a few seconds later, and a head appeared at the barred window.
“Upstairs, on the roof,” Jethro said.
He let Carmine in.
* * * *
“I thought it a sign from God, whom I had ceased believing in, in those days.” Elliot studied the sword. “So I took it. And lived.”
“How’d you guys meet?”
“A POW camp in Italy.”
“Pow?” Peter raised an eyebrow.
“Prisoner-of-war. We both had been captured.” Elliot glanced at the Gurkha. “Bahadur at Tobruk, and myself at Kasserine. Africa. Hard fighting, always hard fighting. The Desert Fox in his element. We were taken to Italy. Where we met. Two months later we jumped the line and made our way west, into France.” Elliot lit another cigarette and continued.
“War awakens things in men, Peter. Dormant things that, once awakened, change a man forever. No matter how old he may get, some things he will never forget, though he may try.”
The Gurkha nodded.
“This was World War Two, right?” Peter asked.
“You … you did graduate high school?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Well, didn’t they teach you about the men who died serving their country? The men who sacrificed their lives in Africa? Europe? The Pacific? The women? Pearl Harbor? The mothers and fathers who lost children, across the entire earth? D-Day? All for the freedom of not only the United States but the entire world? Don’t they teach that?”
“Uh, not really.”
“What about history class in school?!”
“I did have history class every year. We always started off with the pilgrims and ended at the industrial revolution. About 1840, or so, I think. About as far as I ever got.”
“What about the Civil war?” Elliot asked.
“The Civil what?”
“By all that is HOLY!” Elliot roared. “Why, countless lives—”
“Chill-out.” Peter raised a hand. “I’m just kidding, I’ve heard of the Civil War.” Then he muttered, “I just don’t know who won.”
>
Elliot scowled. “I should have stayed in my coma. It was less disappointing. You serve your country and expect at the very least, those after you would do well to appreciate it. To learn, to understand, or at least to try anyways, what you went through. What you sacrificed. So that it can be avoided.
“War changes a man, Peter, and perhaps it is simply because something good inside is lost, or killed,” Elliot said. “Now tell me, what it is you require of this abomination?”
Peter glanced down at the blue duffel bag.
* * * *
Huffing and puffing, Carmine finally reached the top. His whole body ached. Cool sweat poured off his forehead. “I have to, Jesus, I have to…”
Muffled voices droned on the other side of the heavy steel door. Carmine reached into his pockets and withdrew the sharp silver knife. Detective Winters’s knife. Carmine glared at it, gleaming in the darkness. Never had he seen something so ugly.
* * * *
“So, you have only days to exterminate this vampiress in order to release you from the curse?” Elliot asked, his hand lightly grasping Durendal’s hilt. He glanced at the Gurkha. He did not look pleased, or hopeful, not even in the least. His hand rested on his kukri.
He said nothing.
“Yeah. The Padre said that it might work,” Peter sat down on the parapet, looking out over the city. “He wasn’t sure, though. Seemed to think it was a long shot, a ‘Hail Mary’ he called it.” Peter shrugged. “I don’t know what else to do.”
“Have you questioned anyone else?” Elliot asked. “There must be others in this town who dabble in the occult. Always there are some. Fools, but necessary, on occasion.”
* * * *
The door opened smoothly, not a creak. The green neon sign of the Immortal Jade Palace was the only light in the dark city.
The three of them were talking. The old man, Elliot, the Gurkha, Peter.
Peter’s back was to him.
Carmine crept forward, the silver knife gripped tight within his fist and stuffed in his jacket pocket.
Deep in conversation, Peter didn’t notice. The Gurkha did but said nothing. Anyways, he understood. Hell, he’d encourage it. It would be quick and almost painless.
It was for his own good.
* * * *
“There is Winters,” the Gurkha said. “He knows much. You could ask him.”
“Maybe.” Peter nodded. “Carmine said there was a decent chance he’d kill me, though.”
As Peter continued talking, a black cloud of anger began growing within him. He put a hand to his head. “I, uhrrg…” He shook his head to clear it and continued on, “I met him once that first night. Night I was bit. He knew about my shoulder first off—”
Suddenly Peter whipped round, slinging out the gun.
“Whoa! Hey, easy there, Pete. Fat-guy season don’t start for another week.”
It was Carmine. He looked awful, haggard, sweaty.
“Mushin,” Elliot and the Gurkha said simultaneously. They glanced at Peter.
“Mushin?” Carmine asked. “I’ll have mine with a side of pork fried … rice?” He glanced at the faces of the three before him, “You guys hear it before? Never mind. Hey, easy with the pistol, Pete.”
“Sorry … sorry, Carmine, just, never mind.” Peter relaxed, or at least he tried to as he put the gun back in his pocket. “You okay? You look awful.”
“Shotgun says I look like shit.”
Peter glanced at Elliot and the Gurkha; all three nodded reluctantly.
“Rough shift?” Peter grimaced. His fingers were cramped tight around the butt of the revolver, quivering with the strain of trying to release it. He forced it down.
“You okay?” Carmine eyed Peter’s hand twitching deep in his pocket. “Itchy? Don’t tell me you got bit by a ghoul, and got crabs in the same week?”
“Crabs might’ve been fun getting, at least,” Peter said.
“Kid, you been hanging around me way too long.” Carmine slapped him on the back.
“Yeah, I know,” Peter said, and his arm went limp. He put the gun away without another thought. “No, I’m fine. Are you okay? You do look like shit.”
“Jeeze, kid, don’t hold back, tell me what you really think.” Carmine wiped his sweaty forehead. “Really, though, I’m fine. Just a rough shift. First truck in at an MCI, rough, lot of reports, lot of stupid bullshit, lot of triaging dead guys. SWAT guys. Twenty-seven, last I heard.”
The roof went silent.
“Pete, I don’t think it’d be a good idea for you to go see Winters,” Carmine said. “Hmmm, how do I put this...? He wants to kill you.”
“That’s wicked awesome,” Peter said to himself. “Fucking cops, homeless guys, my God-damned neighbors. Is there anybody in this town who doesn’t want to kill me?”
The three other men upon the rooftop looked around and said absolutely nothing.
* * * *
“It’s time,” Elliot said, looking out on the horizon.
Zzzzzzzzzzzip!
He unzipped the blue duffel bag.
From within its steel-toothed maw, he wrenched the writhing, maggot-fat, slimy, azure baby, Billy Rubin. Duct taped mummy-style, his cries were muffled. Only his eyes, his deep blue eyes, pupils vertically slit, shone between the tape that cocooned his entire body.
The sun was rising. The horizon glowed in anticipation.
They gathered round the prostrate writhing baby-mummy. Peter. Elliot. Carmine. Bahadur, the Gurkha.
“Hold his head.” Elliot knelt.
The Gurkha eased down slowly, laying his crutch aside. He nodded.
Elliot ripped the tape from Billy Rubin’s mouth while the Gurkha held him down.
“AAAAAAAAaarrrrrrrG!”
“Careful, Elliot, he is very slippery.” The Gurkha adjusted. “Like trying to hold a fish.”
“Bite my fish stick, monkey-shit!” Billy Rubin screamed, horrid, shrill, uneven.
“Holy shit.” Carmine stepped back. “What is he?”
“Keep the fat one away from me. He looks hungry!” Billy Rubin’s skin was blue, a transparent sickly blue. Veins and arteries crawled and wriggled beneath that skin. His skull, visible, grinned horridly. He lay still a moment, silent, examining his captors, contempt steam-pressed into his tomato sized head.
“So this little-blue-jelly-fuck killed the Padre?” Carmine said.
“I thought the pedophile’d be—”
“Enough!” Elliot said. “The Padre is dead, yes, and for that you will die. The sun rises, and you have a choice to make. Time presses us as well. We need information. Information only you possess. Tell us what you know of the vampire queen.”
“Vampire queen?” He giggled. “You guys’re wasted.”
“If you tell us what we wish to know, your end will be swift,” Elliot said. “I give you my word. If you do not cooperate, you will burn. Think and choose, swiftly now. The sun rises.”
“Look at me, you inbred-fucking-retards,” Billy Rubin said. “You ever seen a more disgusting creature? A more tortured soul? What can you do but release me from my hell? Idiots!” He spat. “Compared to what she’d do to me, you got jack-fucking-shit! Fucking monkey-shit! I ain’t no snitch.”
Elliot leaned closer; his voice softened. “You had no part in choosing your fate, in becoming what you are. I understand this, and I am sorry for you. Fate deals us strange hands. If I could help you I would. Alas, I cannot.
“You’ve perpetrated a great many wrongs to a great many people. Those atrocities have been all you know. Have you ever done good? Have you ever loved, Billy Rubin? This boy here, Peter, bears the same affliction you bear. He has a chance to cure it before it is too late. We are here to help him. Help us help him. You are his only hope. Do something good for this world that has so maltreated you. Perhaps some of you will live within the good Peter may someday perform for others. His chosen profession is one of service, sacrifice, honor. Will you help him, Billy Rubin?”
“Go fuck yo
urself you bitch-queer!” Billy Rubin screamed.
“FuckinglittleblueassholeSmurfmotherfucker!” Peter dove on top of Billy Rubin.
“SMURF? SMURF!” roared Billy Rubin.
“I’ll crush your goddamned skull!” Peter proceeded to slam Billy Rubin’s head against the roof until Elliot and Carmine yanked him off.
They held him back.
“Cool it, kid,” Carmine grunted. “Not yet. We need info.”
All the while, Billy Rubin, azure veins popping from his skull, was spitting and screaming obscenities, “Don’t call me a Smurf! You half-breed piece of ass-licking-dog-shit!”
“God-damn you!” Peter launched back at Billy Rubin.
“Blow me!”
“OOOF!” Carmine intercepted Peter, catching him in mid-air.
“Let me at him!” Peter drew the gun. “I’ll kill you!” He aimed at Billy Rubin; Elliot grasped his arm—
Boom!
“AHHHHH!”
The gun blazed. Had Elliot not wrenched it skyward, it would have killed Billy Rubin. The recoil knocked Peter back, Elliot in tow.
Billy Rubin started jabbering. Elliot restrained Peter, and the sun rose above the horizon and cast its rays upon the emaciated city of Colton Falls.
“I’ll tell you what you want!” Billy Rubin squirmed, his slit pupils constricting in terror. “Just keep it away! Keep it away! Please! Please!”
“Go on, then, talk!” Carmine said. “Pete! BACK!”
“They’re called Socials!” Billy Rubin blubbered, feverishly, his eyes darting back and forth between Carmine, who questioned him, and Peter, who was locked in a full-nelson by Elliot. The gun waved.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
“What are socials?” asked Carmine.
“WhereyoufindPussywillow!” Billy Rubin yanked one arm free of the tape.
The Gurkha struggled to hold him firm with one hand as he wiped slime from the other.
Boom! Boom!
“Who’s Pussywillow?”
“Lil’s friend!”
“Tape is slipping!” the Gurkha warned.
“Who’s Lil?” Carmine asked.