A Taste of Blood and Roses

by David Niall Wilson

  There were almost ten of them that morning. One old woman, accompanied by a slender young girl, had actually been there before. She came once, maybe twice a month, sitting in the back pew, listening as I spoke, taking the communion and disappearing back to the streets from whence she appeared. I never wondered where they came from, never spoke to them — except in the darkness of the confessional. It was not my way.

  The others, two women of low esteem and lower morals, hiding from the streets, hiding from masters who made light of life and money from the pain of others. Their eyes held a hunger akin to my own, to that of Lazarus before he was reborn, a false, corrosive hunger.

  They thought it was a hunger of the flesh, that it would be sated by pleasure, by the chemicals that swam through their polluted blood, the leashes with which others controlled their lives. They did not know that the hunger was for life itself, and that it was slowly fading from their grasps as they sat, not listening, in my church, listening to one who saw, and understood.

  The rest were vagabonds, drifters, those without hope or home, biding their time. Most of these listened to me, some with wistful smiles, others with hard, uncaring stares. It was always the same. Only the one young man was different. He looked, and he saw, and he listened with more than his ears. It is sad that it was not I he listened to.

  The sun was setting, and the mass concluded. I retired as always to the rear of the church, taking the slightly circuitous route to the back of the confessional. I did not really expect anyone . . . it was just my custom. The habits of twice a thousand years are hard to break. The hunger roiled about in my gut, pressing outward with tendrils of temptation, reaching out greedily toward the retreating forms of those who filed from the church, gnawing at my own flesh in frustration.

  I controlled it. It is all I have, this control, and it is a hard won prize. I have not the strength to withstand my curse, and yet, on the day of the Sabbath, on the day of my lord, whose coming I pray for in an endless litany of hope and awe, I do not kill. I will not kill. I fast, and I burn, and I do his work. It is all that is left to keep me going.

  The church itself was dark and gloomy, but the interior of the confessional was truly black. It was a cleansing place, a place to retrieve one’s faith, to find answers. The darkness was an aid to concentration, a veil to increase the feeling of isolation necessary for the baring of one’s soul.

  Within those walls, I felt the world stripped away, felt the hunger abate, slightly. I even imagined I could feel the master’s eyes upon me, his thoughts and love.

  This day I shared the darkness. The young man, moving silently through the aisles to the front, had followed me into the back. I was barely seated, arranging my robes about me, when the door to the confessional clicked open and I felt, rather than heard, him slip inside. The door closed behind him, and the darkness returned.

  “Forgive me father,” he breathed through clenched teeth, hiding the natural tones of his voice, “for I am sin.”

  I sat in silence, wondering if I’d heard him correctly, certain that I had. I could sense him there in the void, could feel the beating of his heart, calling out to me in nervous, trip-hammer rhythms that pulsed with my hunger, magnifying my pain.

  “And this is what I am...”

  I turned to face the small window, but I did not pull aside the curtain. I have made a vow. “What sin are you?” I asked, playing the game, waiting.

  “I am temptation, old man,” came the ready answer. “It has been a long time.”

  My heartbeat did not speed. I have no heartbeat. My hunger pulsed, but it did not grow, nor did it diminish. Still, for the first time since being cut from the rope and rising from the dust, I felt fear. His heartbeat became my own, and I heard it echoing in my ears, slamming away, the hot blood rushing through his veins, my senses.

  “You do not remember.”

  His words were not exactly true. The voice, the sensation of terror, they were not new to me. I had sensed them before, once, but it was another set of eyes, another mouth that had brought them to me. I trembled, but remained firm.

  “Tell me of this sin, and I shall set your absolution, my son,” I said, forcing my voice to be steady.

  There was a moment of heavy silence, then the rumbling of low, barely controlled laughter. Maniacal laughter. “You have not changed much, have you, human?” The arrogance and growing aura of evil were unmistakable. “Your friends have gone to dust, your master has left you behind to rot, and your companion seeks other company these days. Is this what you will have to show for eternity?”

  “You spoke of temptation, my son,” I replied, “you have yet to reveal your sin. I cannot pray for you, if you will not confess.”

  “I am no son of yours, man-thing,” the voice hissed from the darkness, scalding and caustic, bubbling over with hatred. “And yet I bring temptation. You are to be offered a second chance.”

  I did not hesitate. “I have been offered a second chance, through the grace and love of our lord and savior, Jesus Christ.”

  The silence boiled with malice. I knew I sat in the confessional, but I felt it falling away, as though the blackness that surrounded me were truly the void it appeared to be. The demon, he who had spoken first with the tongue of Peter, who had lain upon me the curse of traitor in the shadows of the grove on the Mt. of Olives, who I had cast from my brother only to assume the enormous weight of guilt that would have been his own, did not speak now.

  The darkness split with a crack, splintering with the voice of lightning, the force of an atomic explosion. I saw the earth beneath me, spreading from sea to sea, and beyond. I saw the deserts, saw the grand cities and the dusty remains of those once grand. Then this, too, split, peeling aside like the rind on an overripe fruit, and I gasped at the visions that unfolded before me.

  There were men, and women, dancing and singing, frolicking among the tiered balconies and marbled halls of what at first appeared to be a great castle. Then I saw that it grew from the very stone of the mountain beneath, from the bowels of the earth.

  Strange animals cavorted among them, prancing and snorting, all lost in the revelry of some unheard music. The dance, though macabre in some way, was truly beautiful to behold — sinuous and powerful. I watched, and for just a second, I yearned to be a part, to join them. Then one of the women threw her head back, staring at the sky, and I screamed a negation, bringing my hands up to shield my eyes.

  Her face had been a mask of soulless torment. Betrayal and pain are words far too mild to explain what I felt, what emotions those two bright pinpricks of flaming hatred brought to my heart. They were trapped, all of them, marionettes in an endless pageant for the benefit of futility. Dancers in the court of a lord who noticed them not at all.

  “Are they not impressive, man-thing?” the demon asked, speaking now in its own, overpowering voice. “They can all be yours...and more. You have lived long, suffered much. My master would make amends where your own has forsaken you. Among men, you could walk as a king.”

  Turning, I did my best to return the creature’s gaze unfalteringly. Without further discussion, I lowered my head, closed my eyes, and began to pray. It was an old prayer, powerful and sincere, older even than I. I concentrated on the words, shielding my mind with all the feeble power of my will to withstand the onslaught of the demon’s fury. I spoke the words in the Hebrew tongue of my youth, letting my mind wander to the shores of Galilee, to the warmth of campfires at my master’s side, basking in his love and feasting on his knowledge.

  The sounds around me changed, the music and revelry fading, and I heard the truth. Horrible shrieking, wailing, the pounding of great hammers and the grinding of huge machines, an orchestrated fugue to torment. I could smell the acrid smoke, taste the bitter brimstone on my lips.

  Still I prayed. I prayed for those whose eyes I now avoided, prayed for my own lost soul, and I prayed for the demon. It was this, I believe, that won the moment.

  The snap of energy was powerful — deafe
ning. The feeling of otherworld that had ridden my heart since the demon had entered my church was gone. Not fading, not slipping away, merely gone, as though it had never been. I sat alone in the darkness, the thin walls of the confessional rising around me on all sides, and I knew that it was over.

  After all those years, it was almost flattering to believe I had made enough of an impact that Lucifer would turn his boredom on me. More likely he saw in me some pain, some damage he could cause my master through my weakness. It did not matter. Once again, it was no longer myself I had to fear for. The demon was gone, but the boy remained, and my strength was weakening fast.

  I could feel the blood pulsing through his veins weakly, could almost touch the warmth of it, taste the silken softness as it rolled over my tongue and down my throat, reviving once again flesh that should long ago have withered and fallen to dust, releasing me to my promised reward.

  I gripped the wooden bench upon which I sat until both wood and knuckles threatened to crack from the strain, until I felt as though I might rip the entire confessional from the flooring of the church and fling it away. There was a groan from the other side of the curtain, and I sensed the boy rising to his knees on the floor, sensed his fear and confusion.

  Staggering from the back of the booth, I ran from him, from my hunger, from the world and the pain, ran to the stairs at the back of the church and into the basement, locking myself away from the sunlight, from mankind and demon spawn alike. I ran into the shadows, where I was welcomed, swallowed whole, and there I stayed until the light had faded once more from the sky and the moon had risen to rule the night.When I awakened again, I could sense that the church was not empty. There was to be no mass ... it was Monday. Seldom did I gather visitors on such a night, even less often did I acknowledge them. I rose, wrapping my vestments tightly about myself, and moved up the stairs, slipping into the lesser shadows of the church and up behind the altar to gaze out among the pews.

  Shadows slithered about at the rear of the church, and the sensation of not being alone vanished. There was a glitter on the final pew, a glimmer of colored moonlight slipping in through the musty stained-glass of the windows. I moved slowly down the aisle, my eyes fixed on that point.

  The dirty crimson carpet faded to dusty, dry ground. The pews rose up to become trees, short, leafy trees ... olive trees. From the shadows ahead, another stepped from the side of the trail upon which I now walked, eyes glittering. A low, rumbling chuckle began in his chest, rising to explode as a cacophony of raucous laughter as I drew near.

  Without a word, he held out his hand. The demon wore the visage of my lost brother, Peter, once again, and the memories flashed through me like lashes of purest pain, ripping at my heart. I held out my own hand, as though mesmerized, and he let his open, trickling its contents into my hand.

  When I saw what he held, I tried to pull away, shook my head from side to side and fought the control of his gaze, the mocking, easy power of his will. I lost. The coins jingled as they fell, clanking against one another and ringing with the pure notes of silver. Thirty coins. Thirty silver coins. The room faded to shadow once more, and I stood alone. My hand clutched tightly about the coins, pressing them so firmly into my flesh that they cut the surface, embedding themselves. There was no pain. I am beyond pain, and silver is my nemesis — this is why. With tears streaming down my face, I moved toward the street, feeling the hunger I’d held in check through the Sabbath gnawing away at my mind, feeling the madness stealing over me once again.

  Somewhere in the darkness, I would feed. When I was sated, I would go, fading once more to the shadows. If whatever poor soul I encountered survived my perverse needs, I would reward him. The price of a life. The coins burned into my flesh, and the night beckoned. In the air above and around me, mocking laughter dogged my footsteps. May God forgive me.

  The Sound of Drums

  Eddie Sanchez stood on the port wing of the bridge and stared into the rolling clouds of fog. He scanned the waves, but it was pointless. He could only see a few yards off the bow of the ship. They were moving very slowly, but even this speed was dangerous.

  On the bridge, Captain Roberts stared at the readings on the satellite navigation system and frowned. He had ordered a course that should have kept them clear of anything dangerous, but the radar scope to his left told a different story. Something was off, and he couldn't afford to take a chance on which system had failed.

  "Helmsman," he called. "Full Stop. Get the First Lieutenant up here. Radar shows a landmass off to the west. There shouldn't be anything there, but I'm not running the ship aground to prove SATNAV is infallible. We're going to sit tight until this fog clears. Get me a depth reading."

  After a few moments pause the Officer of the Deck called out.

  "Only a few fathoms, sir. It's shallow."

  "Drop anchor," Roberts ordered.

  There were murmurs of assent, and after a short bustle of activity, there was a rumbling vibration. The Officer of the deck hung up his phone and turned to the Petty Officer of the Watch.

  "Moored," he said.

  The Petty Officer lifted his microphone and spoke into the ship's 1MC system.

  "Moored. Shift colors."

  The watch slowly disbursed. Roberts stood and stared out into the impenetrable mist. Lieutenant Commander DeMars moved up beside him.

  "Where are we, sir?" DeMars asked. "What in hell happened to the SatNav?"

  "I have no idea," Roberts said. "We'll find out in the morning. For the moment, get down to Radio and see if you can get a message out. Let PACFLEET know we're in one piece – play down the getting lost thing if you can. Tell them we'll make a full report in the morning."

  "Yes sir," DeMars said. He turned and left the bridge.

  A few moments later, Roberts followed. His underway stateroom was just off the bridge and down a short passageway. He entered and closed the door, cutting himself off from the crew, the fog, and the night.

  * * *

  The dawn brought only a slight relief in the mist. It wisped and billowed over the waves like smoke. In the distance, visible only occasionally, a dark mass rose from the waves. It was too large to be another ship.

  Roberts convened a meeting in the Ward Room with the Navigator, Scott "Scotty" Berke, his First Lieutenant John Danenhower, and Commander Jim Staley, the Operations Officer. Charts were spread across the table, and Roberts watched as the others pored over them, waiting for someone to figure out what in hell had happened.

  "Scotty," he said, staring at McLelland. "You're my Navigator, so I know you won't think I'm being rude if I ask you just where the hell my ship is anchored."

  "I'm not certain, sir," Scott replied. "If we can get the fog to clear, we can take a manual fix. None of the systems agree. It isn't like we can pin down one faulty system – they all read differently. I've never seen a mass failure like this before."

  There was a knock on the door, and a head popped in.

  "What is it Chief?" Roberts asked.

  Radioman Chief "Red" Casper stepped into the room.

  "We have a distress call," he said. "It's coming from the island."

  "What kind of distress call?" Roberts asked.

  "Well, sir," Chief Casper said. "that's the thing. It's very weak…and it's on an old frequency. If I hadn't been monitoring all available channels trying to figure out where in hell we were, I'd have missed it. You remember those old SCR-288 hand-crank radios?"

  "From World War II?" Roberts asked. "I haven't seen one of those damned things in twenty years."

  "Well, you may bet your chance," Casper said. "Some of them were set up so that when you cranked the handle, they sent out an SOS signal automatically. That's what we have here. No message, but the radio won't work unless someone cranks it. I got the signal about an hour ago. It's stopped now, but…"

  "Christ," Roberts said. He turned to Lieutenant Johnson. "Can we get the helo up in this mist?"

  "I don't know, sir, but I can get in to shore wit
h the motor whale boats."

  "Let's do it then," he said. "Get your crew ready. I'll go, and we'll need Doc and a full security team."

  "You want me to assemble an away team?" Staley was grinning, and Roberts bit back his answering smile.

  "Make it so," he said.

  They all laughed, and dispersed. As Chief Casper started to step into the hall, Roberts stopped him with a hand on his arm.

  "Any luck reaching the battle group?" he asked.

  "Not yet sir. My guess is we're so far off course they're out of range of HF. Everything that uses the satellite seems to be off line. We'll keep trying."

  "Let me know if you get through," he said.

  "Will do, sir."

  "And Red?"

  "Yes, sir?"

  "If you get another signal from that old radio, give me a call on that too."

  The Chief nodded and ducked out into the hall. Roberts crossed to the huge chrome coffee urn and poured a cup. It was fresh – at least one thing had gone right. He stepped out of the Wardroom and headed for his stateroom. If he was going on a landing party, he was going to need to change clothes, and get a .45 out of the armory. It was shaping up to be one hell of a day, and he hadn't even begun to think how he was going to explain this when they finally got through the battle group.

  Across the waves from the ship, the mist blew aside, just for a moment, revealing a sandy beach. Beyond that, palm trees lined the edge of deep forest, and rising from the center, wreathed in white mist, the cone of a single mountain rose. Then the mists obscured the shore again. In radio, the S.O.S. came back on line, broadcasting it's endless, one-way message to the world.

  * * *

  The waves were choppy, and the two motor whaleboats slapped up and down, cutting across them neatly. Lieutenant Johnson had his two most experienced coxswains along, as well as a security team in each boat. Captain Roberts rode in the left hand boat, Red and Johnson rode the second. The mist rose around them and before they'd gone the length of two football fields, the ship was nothing more than a dark mass at their backs, visible only when the wind shifted.