Protectors of the Veil

by Dawn Matthews

  “I grabbed the cooler and pulled it over to our new position. There was enough beer left for the two of us to become pretty hammered. Again, an hour later this mausoleum lit up. We were drunk as hell, but at least we had weapons. We just had to make sure we didn’t kill each other or ourselves and we might survive this night.

  “We each had a shotgun with extra shells in our pockets. Greg had the flamethrower, and I had the chainsaw. We stopped just outside the doors, and the sounds were not good. Sort of growling, but unlike any animal I’ve ever heard. What was even more disturbing was that there were multiple growls, so there were at least three creatures. I turned the chainsaw on. I took a deep breath, held out my shotgun and said, ‘This is my boomstick!’ before opening the door. After all, I had a chainsaw and a shotgun, so it seemed appropriate.

  “I threw gun strap over my shoulder. I took a deep breath, and pulled the right door open slightly before grabbing the handle on the other door and opening it slightly. I put my shotgun back in my hand and wedged my foot in the opening of the doors. Greg slid his foot underneath mine. I whispered, ‘One, two, three,’ and we flung the doors wide open. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing! There were four zombies, and not the slow kind! I shot the closest one to me in the head. Greg did the same. Two were left. I lifted my chainsaw and just caught the one that was charging me in the head.

  “Greg’s flame thrower had set the last thing on fire, but the fire didn’t stop it right away. My friend Greg was actually killed by a flaming zombie. It grabbed him and bit him on the neck. Blood squirted everywhere. I ran over and chopped off a flaming zombie head. The flaming body dropped to the ground. Now Greg was on fire, but not moving. I set my shotgun down and hurried to close the doors, when I turned around, Greg was starting to move. Shit, this can’t be good.

  “‘Greg?’ I said. I was hoping he was alive and not turned into a zombie. Then he started growling. Shit, I was going to have to kill one of my friends. Well, it wasn’t really Greg anymore, but still. It was on fire and rushed me. I still had the chainsaw going, so I threw my arm up, and got him in the chest. That wouldn’t do. I apologize for the gory details, but I pulled the chainsaw up and split him in half from chest to the top of his head. It looked really weird. It stopped moving, but it didn’t fall. It stood there half together, half split, and on fire. After a few seconds, it finally fell. Panic set in; how the hell was I going to explain the fact that I was surrounded by dead bodies, two that were on fire? Suddenly, I felt this weird spinning sensation. I closed my eyes and when I opened them, I was no longer in the graveyard. I was in front of Lev. He explained who he was and that after everything I had just been through, they would clean everything up, all I had to do was work for them. Let’s face it, I didn’t have much choice there. I asked about the alcohol, and he said alcohol in enough quantities makes your energy vibrate to the frequency of that dimension. He said alcohol belonged to the other side, the enemies of the Ancient Ones. It’s why I don’t drink much anymore.”

  END

  “Shit, I didn’t know about the alcohol thing!” Sam said. “That was a hell of a story, Aiden!”

  “Indeed,” Schroder said. “as we sit in a bar…drinking. Why are they the bad guys again? I mean, what does their war have to do with us?”

  “Everything. They made us,” Sam said. “You notice the human population seems split down the middle? Some are going to the side of the Ancient Ones, some are going to the other side.”

  “Anyone belonging to the other side will die with them,” Aiden said.

  “Worse,” Sam explained, “anyone on their side will be OBLITERATED with them. We live in a world of duality, and the poles of that duality are separating further, becoming more defined. There is no middle ground.”

  “The end of the world?” Shivendra asked.

  “Exactly, only it won’t be an end for all of us. Some of us will continue on once the dimensions become one,” Sam said. “Those that don’t make it will simply disappear.”

  “Revelation,” Schroder said.

  “I don’t know anything about that. I’m not involved in religion. I believe there are many gods,” Sam said. “Atum did say that there were clues all over the world of what is going on. He said all the religions have some truth, truth mixed with lies. I’m sure all major religions have their apocalypse stories. He also said the Ancient Ones influence some fiction writers, so there are clues in fiction as well.

  “He also wanted me to tell you, Aiden, that there is somewhere else you can go. It actually sounds like a cool gig. It’s called The Black Dawn,” Sam said.

  “Oh I know that, in fact, I’m a member. It’s a Hermetic organization, but how is it connected to the IVA?” Aiden was puzzled.

  “Apparently, it’s an organization of watchers. They watch over his daughter while she is in human form. He said you would just have to be her friend and keep her on the right path. No kills necessary, at least on your end,” Sam said.

  Aiden nodded, “That might not be a bad idea.” He finished what was left of his beer. “I think that might be the last beer I drink for a while.”

  “I don’t know if I can kick alcohol completely,” Sam said, “but I don’t think I’ll ever see it the same way again. I’ll definitely be cutting down my drinking. Hey barkeep, why don’t the Ancient Ones like alcohol, and why do you sell alcohol here if it goes against the Ancient Ones?”

  “I sell it because you always have a choice. Alcohol is a part of Order because fermentation is a process of the cycle of life and death, which is Order. It also aligns your energy with Order. I don’t think you’ve ever actually looked at the menu. You should look, we have alternatives that are in line with the Ancient Ones,” the bartender said. “We have those items listed separately.”

  “Maybe I should try one before I leave,” Sam said.

  “Yeah,” everyone at the bar said in unison.

  “What would you recommend?” Aiden asked.

  “I would recommend a few things. Kava is as good as a cola. It’s hard to get, but I have some. Domiana tea is good, coca leaves tea,” he said. “The thing is, it doesn’t work unless you have enough Chaos. If you belong to Order, it won’t do anything. Some of you are bordering on both sides. Then you might feel a little, but not much.”

  “Okay, I’ll try the kava,” Aiden said.

  The bartender gave the ones that wanted to try kava each a kava cola and a few pieces of kava chocolate. While the chocolate was pretty good, the cola had a hint of dirt taste, though it seemed not everyone could taste it. To some, it just tasted like cola. Others tried the coca leaves or the domiana tea.

  “That was pretty good chocolate. I’m feeling really calm but I’m not slurring my words. I feel like I could hit a target even better than usual,” Sam said.

  “That’s great! That means that you’re aligned with the Ancient Ones.”

  “I have a feeling these effects are just beginning, but I don’t feel bad at all,” Aiden said. As he said it, the effects became stronger. He felt…more powerful.

  “And if you feel no effects?” Schroder asked.

  “You need to work your ass off to get aligned with Chaos, bro,” the bartender said.

  There were several that felt nothing. Sam was safe.

  “Wait, I thought they only hired those that were part of Chaos?” Aiden asked.

  “They do now,” the bartender replied. “It’s getting too close to the end to muck about with those not aligned with us. Not long ago, they took in anyone with the potential to become aligned with Chaos, it was an attempt to save more people. It’s also possible for someone aligned with Chaos to switch sides by making bad decisions.”

  “Well, it’s been educational and it’s been fun, but I have to get back to work. This was therapeutic,” Sam said.

  “Yeah, I have a report to write, but I think it will be easier to write. Hell, if I were drunk, I’d never be able to write a report at all,” Aiden said.

  They said their goodbyes
and headed back to the office. Sam hit the elevator, and “Disintegration” by The Cure started playing. “I fucking love you, elevator!” The elevator seemed to go extra slow, so that Sam could hear the song in its entirety.

  CHAPTER 5: BREED

  When Sam got into her office, Bertha was waiting. “Hey Bertha, how’s it going?” Sam asked.

  “Hi, Sam. I was just given this case, and it seems like it’s more geared towards a vampire than a human. Either that or it’s something for you,” Bertha said. “In any event, take a look and see who you think this should go to.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Sam said.

  “Thank you!” Bertha said.

  Sam sat down at her desk and plugged the case numbers into her computer, which was linked to the same system as the garage. “Hello, Samantha,” the familiar female voice said. “Here is the story on the case file:”

  "YOUR SON BIT ME"

  Oh, the joy of watching our new-born son pop out of Wendy’s womb that night at the hospital. The nurse had to pull him from my grasp. I was a dad. I never thought I’d become a dad. I was forty when I met Wendlyn, same age, at a Halloween party. She was dressed as Jackie Kennedy, sporting a tainted pink wool jacket and Jackie’s signature pill-box hat. How brazen. I’d been the only person who wasn’t turned off by Wendy’s “costume.” In fact, Wendy was asked to leave by the hostess not two minutes after making her entrance.

  The hostess and her guests saw a woman desperate for attention. (But it’s Halloween!)

  I saw a lady with a dark, imaginative mind. My stupid Dracula getup matched five others, so no points for me in the originality department. Wendy intrigued me. What a sick mind. I had to approach her. I got the chance when I spotted her smoking a cigarette outside the house she’d been forced to vacate. He black curlicue Jackie ‘do’ completed the illusion. And what a body. Sleek and slender, like her counterpart. She ditched her cig on the lawn when I circled to face her.

  “No sense of humor, those people.” I said. How clever. She studied me, a bit taken aback, then said, “Yeah well, I never figured Amy to be so orthodox.”

  “I’m Gil Navarro. I think your costume is cool.”

  She smiled. “How do you know Amy?” “I don’t. I’m friends with her husband. He invited me.”

  " I’m Wendylyn. I love your Drac outfit. So original.”

  I laughed. She laughed.

  ***

  After a brief courtship, I fell in love and she agreed to marry me. After years of sharing a beat-to-shit apartment in Soho with another woman, Wendy decided life as a “free spirit” wasn’t for her. She needed to settle down, as they say, especially with a successful real-estate salesman. Plus, she wanted a child. Legally. I’m your man, I told her. “I only wish I were ten years younger,” she said.

  “Then let’s call the whole thing off,” I countered, joking, really. “You’re forty, so it’s a risk.”

  “No, let’s give it a shot,” she insisted, totally aware of the metaphor in her suggestion. I gave it my best shot and nada. I tried again many times after that. My sperm had gone lazy on me, as if the task of punching through her cervix seemed too daunting.

  We got married anyway. City Hall. No ceremony. I wore a t-shirt that looked like a tux and she dressed as the Bride of Frankenstein, turning heads. She got a kick out of turning heads. Her folks had moved to Florida and never answered her e-mails.

  My parents relocated to Spain, their roots. They were pleased that I finally got married. The hitch of failing to provide them with a grandson or granddaughter bothered me, though. Wendy suggested we try a fertility center. I balked. I insisted on having at it the traditional way. I didn’t like the idea of masturbating into a cup.

  Then the miracle happened. After months of unbridled racking between man and wife, Wendy got pregnant.

  ***

  I hadn’t noticed the changes in Gilbert Junior’s behavior until he turned eight. With each passing year, the changes had been subtle. For reasons Junior couldn’t (or wouldn’t) explain, sunlight made him squirm. He would lower his head and race for the shadows. I’m a cloudy day person myself, so I stopped asking. Wendy, who waited tables for an all-night diner, seemed indifferent to our son’s flip-flop. The house I bought faced a row of homes that cried out “this is suburbia, land of immaculate lawns and shuttered driveways and friendly neighbors.” On weekends, and only after the sun had set, Junior would join the kids on the sleek asphalt street. He blended in nicely with his blue-black hair and overall “American good looks,” whatever the hell that meant. Despite the pall of dusk, the parents allowed their children to romp outdoors. It was summer, after all.

  “Such a handsome boy” our next-door neighbor Nora said as I sat on a lawn chair late one evening.

  Nora Clemente. Fat little Nora, in her size eighteen tent of a dress. “Where’s Wendy?” she asked.

  “She took the bus to work, Nora. Starts midnight, but she preps an hour earlier.” Don’t ask.

  “Oh, yeah, I remember her mentioning she works six days a week now.”

  Nora’s thick North Dakota accent tickled me. She was a widow whose husband’s lack of virility had spawned nothing but heartache for her. The poor guy left her childless. Bad meat in the can. It took great effort for Nora to conceal her bitterness. She grew content, though, to watch the neighborhood children grow. “Junior don’t talk much like he used to,” she added.

  I nodded out of politeness. “Growing pains, Nora.”

  Her thick eyebrows knitted. “Yeah, but he’s only—what—eight?”

  “That’s correct.”

  She gazed at the boys chasing the girls east and west up the block, Junior being among them. “Ohh, look at your darling boy!” she yawped. “Running around like a Chinese fire drill. Like he can’t figure out which girl to chase!”

  Junior had basically gotten along with his classmates at tiny Weatherbee School, until just recently. I never questioned his persistence in me becoming his personal chauffer. The school was walking distance, but he insisted I drive him there.

  As for classes:

  It didn’t happen all at once. This is what Ms. Ochoa, his teacher, told me.

  Your son spaces out in class.

  He blinks spasmodically the moment the sun brightens the room.

  He gets touchy-feely with the girl seated in front of him. Touches her shoulder and runs a finger across her back and she twitches and yells at him to stop.

  The darkest corner of the cafeteria became Junior’s sanctuary. He would speak to no one, not even the kids he’d once patronized.

  I shared these observations with Wendy, who needed a full minute for them to sink in. She stared at me, her jaws tapered, then muttered something I’ve played back in my head like an insane loop ever since: “This is my punishment.” She said this while gazing over my shoulder, her hands quivering.

  “What do you mean by that?” I asked. No response. She blinked as if she hadn’t heard the question and prepped for work. What kind of mother worked nights? But I had agreed, and only to avoid a rhubarb. Arguing with Wendy drained me. Her graveyard shift meant I had to drive Junior to school and back, then help him with his homework. Lotta good it did. His grades plummeted like Black Tuesday in ‘29.

  “The hell’s wrong with him, Wendy?” I asked after Junior earned his first-ever F. “Earned” because he seemed hell-bent on getting one.

  “It’s a phase, baby. He’ll come around,” Wendy insisted.

  “Well, he’d better,” I said “Because I’m at the end of my rope on this nonsense.

  I’m unable to concentrate on my job thinking about it. I drive him to school, Wendy, and he looks sluggish, like he didn’t get a decent night’s sleep, like he’s been up all goddamn night. I can’t check in on him ‘cause I need the eight hours to rest my fucking brain!”

  “Please lower your voice.”

  “Lower my voice? Miss Ochoa tells me he falls asleep in class! The hell is that all about?”

 
Her eyes blazed at me and she hissed, “What do you want from me? I’m in that diner midnight to dawn, kowtowing to foul-smelling truckers and geezers!”

  There was an easy solution to that. “So quit. I earn enough for the three of us.”

  She squinted. “Quit? No, I couldn’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  She hedged, her palms sliding north and south across her lap. “I–I owe it to Doug.”

  “Owe it to who?”

  “Doug’s my boss. Says I’m the best waitress he’s ever employed,” she said, as if being a prized waitress was the crowning glory.

  I shifted, hand to brow. “Wen, I am asking you to quit.”

  “Doug needs me.” That came out too madcap. This guy Doug, who owned the diner, who inherited my wife’s treasured time, well, he required a visit. I needed to discern, from Doug’s lips, what it was about my wife he found so irretrievable, so unique, that he couldn’t hire someone else.

  I chose a Friday night to drive Wendy to Doug’s Diner. She normally took the bus at her insistence. I’m off weekends, so a lop-off in sleep hours wouldn’t matter.

  She balked at leaving Junior alone, until I called Nora to baby-sit him till I got back. Nora happily agreed. One hour at best, I assured her.

  “Not a problem, Gil. Take all the time you’ll need. He’s a sweetheart, your boy.”

  Wendy was hoping she’d say no. I could tell by her attitude.

  “Junior, you be nice to Aunt Nora till we get back,” I said.

  My son stared up at Nora, looking even grimmer than Wendy. “For how long?” he asked.

  “Less than an hour, sweetie,” Wendy assured him.

  ***

  The drive to Doug’s Diner was forty-minutes if I speeded without stopping. I had to break Wendy’s covert silence ten minutes into the journey. “Truck drivers and geezers,” I began, “This is what you told me. But not enough reason for you to quit.”

  She shifted her head towards me. “I’ve already explained why, Gil.”

  “You in love with the guy?”