The Gods of Color

by Gunnar Sinclaire

  That’s when a bang sounded, and the assistant’s nearly dichotomized body sped on her wheeled chair to crash against the wall. George removed the needle and Rick pumped his shotgun.

  There was chaos among the patients.

  “Hey! Hey!” roared Rick over the clamor, as an FCP member slammed the door before anyone could run out. “Listen to me—we’re here to help you!” But the commotion persisted, with patients wringing hands and some falling on knees. “Those bastards were going to poison you!” Rick screamed at the top of his lungs. “We’re here to save you, and to get you the hell out of here. We’ve got trucks outside—we’ll take you to safety. Does everyone understand?”

  The commotion died. Momentarily, an old man stepped forward, nodding.

  “My suspicions were confirmed. Thank you—thank you—we’ll come with you,” he promised vehemently. Then, turning to the patients, he urged with his hands, “We’ll go with them.”

  The elder was successful at mobilizing the crowd. Men, women, and children stood and looked ready for action. And then it was a quick flight down the clinic’s main hall. As they ran by, propaganda holograms sprang up informing them of the splendors and privileges of Americanization. Then it was past the front desk, where a gray slumped with his throat slit, his finger still depressing a red button beneath his station.

  George’s pulse was hammering as they entered the parking lot and began directing the patients into the three trucks. Some managed to squeeze into the cabins, but most sat in the pickup beds amid cornstalks and strands of hay. The Athenian helped two elderly women into the cabin then shut the door—his truck was now full. With a wave he directed the other trucks to go, jumped in, grabbed the wheel, and started the engine. The trucks climbed onto the freeway, and Rick shook his head as the occupants jostled.

  “We should’ve gotten a semi or something. If we have to move evasively we’re screwed.”

  “I know. I just thought of that. But these were all we had, on short notice, you know?” George followed the two trucks ahead of him, the muscles in his forearms rippling as he gripped the wheel.

  “Stay loose, man. This is cake—we’ll be back at Covington’s in twenty and we’ll be drinking a beer in thirty,” Rick said, then looked back and saw a host of concerned faces. Beyond them, there was a glimmer of blue and red lights. “They’re on us,” he noted calmly.

  “What?” demanded George, scrutinizing the rearview for the flicker of sapphire and ruby.

  “The cops—they’re coming up behind us.” He smiled at his shotgun.

  “Well how the fuck are you so relaxed! Holy shit.” The Athenian could see the flashing lights plainly in his mirror now, and the patients were shouting warnings.

  “Because, man,” sighed Rick, “I’ve been to hell on earth. This is nothin’ compared to that. What, at worst we die in a shoot out on some country road. I was gonna have so much fucked up shit done to me it wasn’t funny at that asylum.” He craned out the passenger window, and sat on the doorframe. “This is how the evil white man does it in the flicks when he’s being chased by the good guys.” He laughed to himself, the cold wind already chapping his lips.

  “Watch the diameter of that blast, damn it!” yelled George.

  “Hey, hey there, keep your heads down.” When the patients in the bed had complied, Rick issued a round at the police car following them. Its windshield shattered, the jagged remnants still remaining now white like teeth. In the visible driver’s seat, a gray cop got off a few misaimed rounds before another shotgun blast took off his head. The vehicle glided off the road into the surrounding forest until its voyage met a tree.

  Two more police cars still pursued. An FCP member riding in the pickup bed was exchanging fire with the lead car, and the patients were thrown around due to the sudden hike in velocity and cornering. Rick crawled back into the passenger seat and gnashed his teeth.

  “Wish I had brought a damn pistol or rifle . . . I can’t risk hitting our own.”

  ‘Shit!” George swore, as one of the tires was shot out, and the vehicle swerved. The patients tucked low, and avoided being pitched out of the bed. A second tire ruptured, and the truck rumbled off the street and through some brush and small trees. The two lead trucks slowed momentarily, but after a second of indecision resumed their escape.

  “They’ll be back after they drop off the Jews,” said Rick. “Good thing we covered this in our contingency plans.”

  George was already out of the truck and crouching, pistol leveled at the police car that had pulled over about fifty feet away. Another police car, lights blazing, continued its pursuit of the remaining trucks. The patients leapt from the pickup bed, some hurling themselves over the side to the ground as the first shots were fired. Ken and Billy opened up with rifles, while George fired from his knee. Rick discharged several swathes of flame, too, and the two grays never had a chance to fumble out the door before the lead took them. When the fusillade died, the squad car was a smoking ruin.

  “And I was going to suggest we take their car,” the engineer said. “But something tells me it’s not road worthy. Hey, is everyone okay?”

  The patients had already taken cover in the brush.

  “I think we’re all fine.” The elderly man who had spoken for the group at the clinic got shakily to his feet. “Thank you for saving us. How did you discover that they were going to inject us with poison?”

  “An acquaintance of ours is leading a huge army of Aztecs this way.” Rick frowned. “He happened upon several of the clinics and discovered what was occurring. Apparently, they were going to shoot you all up with some kind of poison developed by Hommler called Toten Complex. Trust me, you never would have made it out of there except in a body bag.”

  “I half knew that when I walked through the front door, young man.” He sighed. “I’m Rabbi Ginsburg, by the way.”

  “Oh, I’m Rick. That’s George. And over there are Ken and Billy.”

  “And may I ask who or what you’re affiliated with? Clearly not the police.” He grinned. Other of the patients gathered closer.

  “The Fellowship of Caucasian Peoples—the FCP.” Rick searched his jacket pockets for more shells.

  “Ahh.” The rabbi’s face lost color. “An organization for white nationalists, I presume?”

  “I guess you could call it that. But I don’t really consider myself a nationalist. Shit, I’m just a white guy that wants to be treated fairly and for my family and I to live in a safe environment. Oh, and I also don’t intend to sit back and watch my people become extinct without trying to slow down the process.”

  “Those are reasonable desires,” Ginsburg said sympathetically.

  “I think so. Don’t worry, the other trucks will be back once they drop off your friends. They’ll be here soon. I’m just glad those grays are so firearm challenged, or we’d all be dead right now.”

  “No kidding,” interjected George. “Hey, what the hell is that?”

  A large vehicle, a veritable tank, wended down the road toward the stranded party. It rode on six oversized tires, and a gun battery rotated on its top consisting of what looked to be a bundle of conjoined plasma rifles. At the moment, the weapon was pointed behind the vehicle down the road, but George didn’t wait for the baleful rotation toward himself.

  “Get into the forest!” he screamed to the patients.

  The motley group plunged into the woods. George retreated too, but ceased his flight once he was obscured in the brush—his curiosity had won out.

  “My friends, come back.” A deep, familiar voice echoed into the wilderness from the vehicle. “George . . . Rick . . . I know you’re there, my friends—I saw you run and hide. But do not worry, an ally has come to lend you succor.”

  George turned and found the other three FCP members at his side near the perimeter of the forest. They peered at the wheeled edifice, its convex battering ram, its dormant turret. Suddenly, there was a haunting noise in the distance that froze George’s blood—more sirens
. They would be on them any moment. Rick looked behind into the forest and saw the patients gathered in knots of twos and threes midway into the emerald deep. As he turned back to face the road, he was greeted by the sizzle of condensed plasma burning air. In a blink the crackling lavender burst had left the cannon and impacted the lead police car in a fulmination worthy of July fourth. Another blast succeeded the first, and another squad car heaved off the ground in a loud, dramatic explosion. Then, save for the sound of flames gnawing at leather seats and choking on metal, there was silence.

  George materialized from the brush and approached the tank, hands raised.

  “Hans, is that you, man?” he asked, then froze as what looked to be a cargo door smacked the cement like a dropped jaw. A huge man jogged down the stairs and stepped onto the road. His hair was shoulder length and blond, and he wore jet sunglasses. Most noticeable of all was his tattooed musculature—his chest, his shoulders, his back, his arms—all were volumized, striated quadrants of muscle. The left side of his face was deeply scarred, and hued in peeling pink. He extended his right hand to shake hands, but his arm’s movement never altered the terrain of his upper arm; the bicep seemed permanently flexed.

  “My God!” exclaimed the Athenian. “I thought you were dead!”

  “Not until the day of Ragnarok will I be felled,” Hans replied in a strange tone.

  “What? Well, hey, where have you been all this time? Why didn’t you come around sooner?”

  “I have been meditating in oak groves sacred to All Father. It is part of my embrace of his son’s archetype.”

  “Hans?” George squinted his eyes at the impenetrable eyewear. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m channeling the spirit of Thor, my friend. Right now I am in a point of transition between the old husk that was Hans Stewart and the divine essence of the son of Odin.”

  George’s eyes widened, and he took a step back. For the first time he noticed the designs ink-needled into the titan’s arms and shoulders. There were rigidly linear Norse runes, parallel lightning bolts, skulls, and swastikas in a mesmerizing tapestry.

  “Oh, fuck,” was all that came from George’s lips.

  Another figure emerged from the truck. He, too, was tall and strongly built, and wore his hair in a primal mane. “And who might you be?” he asked in an English accent.

  “I’m George Drakos, president of the FCP.” George was still eying Hans in disbelief.

  “Well met; I’m Dirk Cromspell, frontman for Mace Knight. Well, admittedly I’m without a band at the moment. But I’m working on that.”

  “What’s wrong with him? Did someone drug him or something—he talks like he’s on some psychotropic high.” George nodded toward Hans then glared at Dirk.

  “You’ll have to talk to Morrigan and Alaric about that, man. Alaric shoots him up with synthol and HGH and Morrigan plies him with her elixirs.”

  “Synthol?” George gasped, then wheeled on Hans. “Why the hell does he have you on that shit—he’s going to turn you into a freak. And what the hell is Morrigan feeding you?”

  “It is my regimen for apotheosis—only in this state will I be a proper host for Thor. I will become an avatar.”

  “My God.” George sighed, still incredulous. “But I thought you were . . . how did you survive?”

  “I saved him.” The Englishman beamed. “He was cornered by these two bastards and I bashed ‘em both with Matilda.” He pointed to the mace hanging from his side. “She’s charged, ya know—fried ‘em up nice.”

  George yanked the sunglasses off Hans, and stared him in the eyes.

  The youth’s irises radiated a peculiar, cerulean neon. With a growl, Hans snatched back his glasses and shoved them over his eyes.

  “What’s wrong with you?” demanded George. “What the hell are they trying to turn you into?”

  “It’s just fucking eye drops, George! They make ‘em glow to intimidate my enemies.” Hans’s affected demeanor was a mask cast to the ground.

  “He’s coming back with us,” the Athenian said firmly to Dirk. “Any more time with you and your crew and I probably won’t even recognize him the next time I see him.”

  “Hey, man,” protested Dirk, “I’m not the one influencing him—that’s all Alaric.”

  “And what if I don’t fucking wanna go back with you guys?” asked Hans, galvanized. “You just want me to be the punk in the audience when you make your speeches. Well I’m tired of listening to other people preach all the time—it’s time I was a leader for once!” The veins were superficial along his temples.

  “And you will be,” assured George. “This was your father’s organization—the leadership belongs to you. Just come back to us and cool down for a few weeks and regain your senses and . . .”

  “He’s not going anywhere, you swarthy Mediterranean dumb-fuck!” The voice boomed from a projection device somewhere in the vehicle. Then, the turret revolved slowly toward George. “It’s your old Halloween pal, Alaric. Kind of convenient the way you were away for the massacre. Even more suspicious was the way you sucked up power after Max and Margaret and Hans were gone. I think you’re in league with the grays—I think you’re a fucking Benedict Arnold.”

  “The hell if I am!” George defended himself, irate to the point of being heedless of peril.

  “The hell if you aren’t!” barked Alaric. “I hear the FCP’s going to hell—I even hear you’re letting queers in now!”

  “What?” George’s eyebrows raised in puzzlement.

  “Yeah, I hear a few of the members are openly admitting they’re queer and you’re letting them retain their membership. Don’t fucking lie to me!”

  “Yeah,” George screamed back, “we’ve just had an influx of like twenty thousand members. About five percent of them are going to be gay statistically. So long as they keep it to themselves and don’t shove it in people’s faces, who really cares? They can’t help the way they’re born—so long as they’re willing to stand and fight alongside us and restore democracy in this country, I’m not going to exclude them.”

  “Ah, fuck you. Mr. Stewart would be turning in his grave, you son-of-a-bitch! And now look at you—you’re trying to save a bunch of dirty Heebs!”

  “Stewart was a good man who believed in the Fourteenth Amendment. So long as the gays weren’t homosexualists trying to tear down heterosexuality, I’m sure he would have let them in. And if he had been here he would have given me the order to save these Jews today.”

  “Bull shit! I pegged you for a traitor the moment I saw you. Well, it’s time to dance, Greek!”

  “Don’t!” roared Hans, turning back to face the turret.

  But the agglomeration of rifles had already telegraphed their glow, and George was rolling to his side. The ground upon which he had stood just a second ago was a charred rift. Before the turret could target him again, George was zigzagging for the forest. He vanished into the green world, pursued by another discharge of plasma that was hateful to the leaves and bark.

  “What’s the matter with you?” bellowed Hans at the tank. “You could have killed him!”

  “Just wanted to scare him a little. He has to learn that you don’t fuck with a Visigoth.”

  Rick was frozen amid the underbrush near their truck. As Hans’s eyes settled upon him, and discerned his black shirt and jeans from the grass, he bit his tongue.

  “Hey there, Rick,” the youth walked toward him in a ponderous, uncomfortable gate, “I’m sorry your first metal concert had to turn out the way it did.”

  The engineer got to his knees, then stood up. “That’s okay, Hans—I was enjoying it till all hell broke loose. By the way, I’m very sorry to hear about your mother, father, and fiancé. I’m so sorry for your loss—for our loss.”

  “Thanks, man,” the titan almost whispered, and put a hand on Rick’s shoulder. Then Hans looked past him into the forest. “So you guys are out playing superhero rescuing Jews today?”

  Rick pulled away. “How’d you find out?�
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  “I’ve got my own little operation going, Rick. It’s smaller than the FCP right now, but you get a lot of members going back and forth. It’s hard to keep a secret—they tell me what you guys are up to.”

  “Yeah but we only told like fifteen trustworthy people about this—and they all took part in the operation.”

  “Well, one of them blabbed. Wasn’t malicious, just human nature. It’s not like they ratted you out to the grays or something. Relax; if we hadn’t shown up those grays may have killed you all.”

  “Where’d you get those plasma rifles?” Rick looked enviously at the turret glinting in the sun.

  “Raided a federal arsenal last week in Harrisburg. We got a box of twenty.”

  “Nice.”

  “Yeah. They’re great at ripping through the armor of Tiamat soldiers. But when you’re fighting unarmored opponents their rate of fire’s kind of weak. So where’s all the Jews you rescued?”

  “We gave ‘em the order to run when we saw your tank pulling up . . . didn’t . . . didn’t know what the hell it was,” Rick stuttered, trying not to stare too long at the Nazi tattoos. “They’re probably halfway to McKeesport by now.”

  “Don’t think so.” Hans looked past him again and into the wilderness. There was movement—an elbow jutting behind a tree—a foot extending from a bush.

  “Hey, everyone . . . I want you to come out. It’s safe now,” the titan bellowed into the forest.

  “Why are you asking them to come out?” Rick stepped in front of Hans, eyes unabashedly fixed on the swastika on his left deltoid. “If you intend to kill innocent people you’d better start with me.” The engineer raised his pistol at Hans’s chest.

  There was a carefree laugh from the giant. “Put your gun away, Rick,” he said tiredly. “I just need to talk to them—it’s my turn to give a fucking speech for once.” Then, he yelled into the trees, “Everyone, if you don’t come out now and come with us, more and more grays will come—maybe too many for us to handle. It’s time for us to take you to safety—so c’mon!”