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Red Palm

Page 10

by Ochse, Weston


  Evidently Dickie was getting invited deeper into the Grotto. He’d passed through the cathedral and was waiting in a queue to get through to the quarters of the Monks of the Western Wind where he was scheduled to be assigned as a postulant to see if he was ready for his vows.

  This was an unprecedented move, but it came with a catch. Rook and Black Bishop were going to personally evaluate each of the prospective postulants.

  Sebastian didn’t feel like Barry was up to the force of their will, nor would he be able to use his persona to successfully pretend to be Dickie. He was a driver. What they needed was a blood sorcerer who could also drive, which was why Blane sipped at his Alka-Seltzer and waited for his turn.

  “I don’t like this,” Barry murmured under his breath.

  “It’s an opportunity,” Blane said. “Had they separated Dickie from the others then examined him, I’d be worried. I’m sure this is just pro-forma.”

  Barry eyed Blane. “Were you out drinking last night?”

  Blane frowned. “I was off shift and I got some sleep.”

  “Okay,” Barry said, turning back to his blood created window that was Dickie’s POV. “Right.”

  Blane felt his body vibrating as it fought to stave off the effects of the alcohol. Barry was right, he had drunk last night… too much. But he’d be damned if he’d let the man know about it. Trying to compare what Barry had done as a drunken driver with Blane was ridiculous. Blane was okay. Just a little hung over was all it was.

  “He’s coming up,” Barry noted after about ten minutes. “Just three applicants away. You ready for the change over?”

  Blane downed the rest of his selzer, set the glass aside, then stood. He stretched the muscles in his shoulders and arms and snapped the tightness from his fingers and wrists, creating small popping sounds in the confined re-allocated hotel bedroom.

  Barry looked up. “You ready?

  Blane nodded, stifling a yawn with the back of his left hand. He pulled out a razor and swiped it across the top of his left quadriceps. He slid the knife into its cardboard sheath in his pocket, then gathered the blood in both hands until they were completely covered. He barked a command, then slammed his hand onto the POV view of the wall over the top of Barry’s. He counted to ten as he worked himself into position, mentally jostling Barry aside as he allowed his psyche to find root and make a home inside Dickie Smith’s head.

  The zombie stumbled for a moment. It wasn’t hardly anything, but it was a hitch and as they looked out Dickie’s eyes, they saw Rook and the Black Bishop both glance up momentarily to observe Dickie, before returning to examine the applicant in front of them.

  “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Barry asked.

  “Of course I’m ready,” Blane said, determined not to show any weakness in front of the guy.

  He kept his hand in place and minutely ensured he had control over Dickie’s arms and legs. A shuffle of the feet and twitching of the fingers told him that he had ambulatory control. The trick was to let the zombie’s body work the way it wanted… not to force it. Forcing it would result in the stilted walk of a monster of the same name. At best, someone seeing Dickie would think he was drunk. At worst… well, he didn’t want to think about the worst.

  The line moved forward and he had Dickie move forward as well. While Blane waited, he put a blocking spell in place so that no one could peer around his psyche. The spell was subtle so as not to be noticed and relied on the intrusion of sexual memories to take the viewer off guard.

  Then he waited.

  He became aware of how thirsty he was and how dry his mouth had become. He breathed out and tasted the staleness of the scotch. He frowned. He probably had too much in his system. If he didn’t already smell it, he could probably detect it coming out of his pores. He’d expect such behavior from a rookie. Not from himself. What was it that was making him drink so much lately?

  The answer blared on a screen in his mind, but he ignored it, like he’d been ignoring it for a long time now, after all, it wasn’t a soup question.

  Dickie shuffled forward and was next in line.

  Blane watched as both Rook and the Black Bishop appraised the man in front of him. While the Black Bishop stood imperiously in his black robes and black steel mitre atop his head, Rook wore his white suit with white shirt and tie and leaned over, like a giant gaunt bird, inspecting the applicant with his eyes, his nose and his thoughts.

  What happens if you find Mandy? the unreasonable voice of reason asked as it slipped by his defenses. Do you think she’d want to live after what was done to her? Do you think she’d want to come with you when the Black Bishop could offer her so much more? How do you know she’s not already dead?

  He closed his eyes and fought the questions aside. Alcohol kept them at bay. Exhaustion usually worked as well, at least until now. Working and drinking himself into a stupor was the only way to keep himself from realizing that his entire reason for existing, his entire reason for dedicating his life to the League was—

  It was Dickie’s turn.

  He stepped forward.

  “Name and reason for being,” snapped Rook.

  Dickie stared straight ahead as if he were at the position of attention. “Richard Dean Smith, sir. I’ve come because I want to dedicate myself to something I can see and feel. I’m tired of worshipping a god who’s never there. It’s time to worship someone who I can see, who commands my respect, who has… power.”

  The Black Bishop stared hard at Dickie.

  Blane could feel the feather touch at his Chakras and knew who it was knocking from the astral plane. He felt the lure to open the door and let the Black Bishop in but fought against the urge.

  Meanwhile, Rook had bent at the waist and was peering into Dickie’s eyes.

  “Knock knock,” he whispered. “Who’s there? Rook? Rook who?”

  The feather dusting at his crown chakra grew maddeningly curious all the while Rook kept talking, repeating the same words over and over, confusing Blane-Dickie.

  Curiosity and confusion. Confusion and curiosity.

  “Knock knock.”

  Tickle Tickle

  “Who’s there?”

  Tickle Tickle.

  “Rook?”

  Tickle Tickle

  “Rook who?”

  Dickie broke silence and whispered. “What do I do?”

  “Easy, Dickie,” Blane whispered. “No communication.”

  “But they’re scaring me.”

  They’re scaring me too, Blane thought, but kept it to himself. Instead he said, “Everything is going to be just fine.”

  At that moment the tickling stopped. Blane was aware that Rook was no longer looking into his-Dickie’s eyes. Somehow Blane had become distracted. He felt his crown chakra wide open. As he adjusted his internal gaze, it was as if the Black Bishop had peeled back the roof of his-Dickie’s skull, and was peering in. He saw past the defenses, past the camouflage, and saw what should have been impossible—two entities within a single being.

  Blane found himself staring into the Black Bishop’s astral eye for a long moment, before he felt his entire being begin to vibrate. He began to buck, his back arching impossibly. His right hand began to scratch at his eyes. He tried to swallow his own tongue, so his screams were garbled as he felt the forced intrusion of another who was so much stronger.

  The Black Bishop’s face was replaced by the Rook.

  “You,” the word boomed in his head. Then his face came impossibly close. “I know you,” he said, the words crackling with lightning.

  Dickie whimpered once. “I’m scared, Blane. Please help me.”

  Blane screamed for one long moment, then watched as Rook snuffed out the life that had been Richard Dean Anderson. Blane let go of the wall and fell backwards. He staggered, then fell to the floor. He forced himself back to his feet.

  “What have you done?” Barry asked, his eyes wide, his frown wider.

  “I… I…” What had he done?


  Blane staggered from the room as the severity of the moment shot through him. He pushed past Frezzie and Pippa who were in the hallway. Sebastian called out to him, but he ignored the man’s voice. By the time he was at the stairs, he had an unwelcome audience.

  He hurried up the stairs, falling several times, his feet unable to keep up with his need to escape himself. Finally upstairs, Blane flung himself into his room, slamming the door behind him. He whirled, his face beet red. How could he have let this happen? How could he have so easily been made? He knew the answer to those questions before he asked them, but the sniveling punk inside him that had made him a callow fool felt it necessary to give him an out.

  Maybe the man was lost before it began.

  Maybe it was a lose-lose.

  Maybe there was nothing he could have done.

  Blane took two swift strides to the other side of the room. He swept everything off his desk. Books, magazines, pencils, pens and a half empty bottle of scotch shot free, the light brown liquid staining the lighter carpet. He ignored this and punched the wall hard enough to break his hand. He regarded it like an offender and punched the wall again. This time the pain shot through him like a white-hot lance, buckling his knees. He screamed unintelligibly, his balled fists shaking with rage. He staggered to the wall as the well of his soul opened, sobs escaping in great heaves. He let his forehead rest against the plaster, slapping the wall with his non-broken left hand.

  Knocking came at the door. “Blane, open the door.”

  “Fucking loser. Drunken fucking loser,” the words rattling through his sobs.

  The door rattled in its jamb. “Open the door.”

  He pushed himself off the wall and put his back to it. He stared up at the ceiling and shouted until he was empty, “Murderer! Irresponsible… callow… murderer!”

  “Blane! Open! The! Door!” Frezzie demanded.

  The words finally broke through his rage. “Go away.”

  “Blane, you need to—”

  “Get the hell out of here. I don’t want you. I don’t want anyone. I just want to be left the fuck alone.”

  It had just been a standard security check. He should have been able to pass with flying colors. All he had to do was pay attention, keep quiet, and keep cool. But what had he done? He’d thought himself impervious and killed a man through hubris.

  He fell to his knees. Glass crunched beneath them and immediately became wet from the scotch that had soaked the rug. He stared at the dark stain, knowing that his salvation was within in. If he had enough scotch he could forget what he’d done. All he had to do was lean down and lick the carpet, maybe suck at it for a moment and then—

  The very idea that he’d been down this avenue of thought terrified and humiliated him simultaneously. On hands and knees he dog-walked into the bathroom and slammed the door shut.

  He discovered that he was about to be sick and lunged for the toilet. He reached it just in time for it to catch the first of what would be many heavings. When he was done, he curled up in the darkness, his body against the cold tile. He decided that he’d stay that way forever.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Berdoo Canyon. Hide Site.

  CODENAME: TRAVESTY

  Flight Sequence 263332b

  CLASSIFIED TALENT KEYHOLE

  UAV Narration: Sgt Frank Spann

  UAV Mode: Combat Swarm

  …6 fly 100 meters, overview of compound. As was before, single black adobe hut set back 300 meters from nearest buildings. Other buildings include three two story dormitories, a main meeting lodge with dining facility, gymnasium and motor pool. Substantive activity outside Cathedral area. Multiple tents set up to accommodate and feed thousands.

  …4 fly 40 meters, circling black hut. Nothing of note.

  …2 fly 17 meters, above meeting lodge. Man waves arms for fourteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds. Two creatures rise from the earth and tower over man. Don’t attack. Appear to be golems.

  Frank replayed the fourteen and a half minute segment over and over. When he saw it, he thought he might have been imagining things. He’d heard some of the nerds in their roleplaying games talk about such things and game them. He’d played several first person shooters where he’d gleefully mowed down such creatures. He’d even seen them in bad cable sci fi movies. But to see them in real life—to see them in a video feed from a $16.9 million dollar unmanned aerial vehicle was beyond incredible.

  He’d already tasked two UAVs to track the targets he’d designated as G1 and G2 after their supernatural namesake—the golem. His report of the event was waiting in the queue of unsent mails, ones he’d send once coms came back up.

  The situation at the Grotto was ramping up. Thousands upon thousands of displaced persons were being fed and housed by the Monks of the Western Wind. In fact, it looked as if the population of the area had increased by a factor of ten, with many of them looking as if they were in uniforms, working their way through the crowds.

  Military UAVs were meant to find, fix and target individuals, equipment and infrastructure. They weren’t built to listen in on conversations, nor were they meant to ascertain the meanings of social gestures. At least the ones the Army had weren’t meant to do those things. Which left him with only a two dimensional understanding of what was happening in this three dimensional space.

  He felt something significant was going on at the Grotto, but he couldn’t figure out how to report it.

  He leaned back and sighed.

  Does it even matter if I did understand what was going on? he wondered.

  After all, he had no coms.

  So why did he do it?

  He knew the answers. Some would call it habit, but he called it duty. He was serious about his mission. He wanted to save the planet and represent his country. As foolish as that sounded out loud, it was exactly the reason why, although he might be shallow and he might be lazy in other things, he put the mission first.

  Speaking of mission…

  He toggled to his UAV tracking Jenkies. Biometrics had allowed him to assign the UAV and it would follow regardless of where she went. If she went inside, it would wait on station until its biometrics analytics picked her back up.

  He was surprised to see that she’d taken a bus. By the looks of it, the bus appeared to be going to the grotto.

  What do you need in the grotto?

  He followed the slow track of the bus until it finally stopped at the base of a large grassy hill. The hillside was occupied by families sprawled out, eating and drinking, as if this were a social event. Higher up the hill began a network of tents. He had no true notion of what was going on inside the tents, but since people were exiting with food and bottled water, it seemed obvious.

  Awful long way to go to get something to eat.

  Jenkies got out of the bus with another girl. He’d seen this other before. She came off as a little frenetic. They began to head up the hill with the other girl waving her hands as if she were speaking passionately about something.

  He leaned forward and put his chin on his clasped hands and watched. If only he could hear what they were saying.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Black Grotto. Jenkies hadn’t wanted to come, but Brianna was a force of nature and wouldn’t be denied. She’d already made several comments—what’s gotten in to you and you’ve changed. Jenkies was able to brush it off by saying that it was the Blinding that had made her feel and think different. Which was actually the truth. What Brianna really wanted to know was why Jenkies’ desire to cut was waning. Jenkies wanted to know that too. In the last few days she’d only cut herself once. The sensation was different.

  Gone was the singular solace of living in a world of her own pain.

  Gone was the creation of a universe where she was in control.

  Gone was the sweet bliss she felt as she stared at the blood she’d let free from her body like some benevolent god.

  Instead it just hurt.

  Had she grown out of it like some
of her other schoolmates? They’d normally had some mind-blowing cathartic event to stop them, like the suicide of a friend or a loved one.

  Jenkies remembered Anna and the way she’d always sit in the back of the math class, slicing her legs beneath her dress—the fabric black to hide the stains of blood. A normal wouldn’t have known, wouldn’t have realized what was going on, but a cutter knew right away. Jenkies found herself sitting as close to the back as possible just so she could bask in the other’s ecstasy. She’d found herself at odds with the teacher once, who’d come to her desk without her even noticing, so intent was her secret gaze at the other girl. He’d berated her and the class had laughed at her. Not Anna, though. Then one day, she came in wearing a sunny yellow dress with flats, her hair dyed blond, and glasses perched on the tip of her nose. The change had been so complete the teacher had to ask her who she was. This time the class laughed at him. Not her, but Anna did.

  Inexplicable.

  “…and I hear they run things like an old school revival,” Brianna droned on. “I’ve never been to one mind you, but I’ve seen enough on television to know what they’re about. Speaking of television, did you see that weird show they had on after Kimmel? I swear it was some sort of snuff contest. What was it called? One Gun—Three Bullets—Ten Strangers, yeah, that’s the name. My mother came in and saw it and sat down to watch it. She never watches television. Never in her life has she watched a show with me, but this one she did and when the first guy was shot by the older woman in a walker, I swear to you my mom cheered. Ever see anything like that? Jenkies, you listening to me? You there? Knock knock. Anyway, they say the guy running it is hot like that singer on that show…”

  Public transportation was the only thing running since gas had run out at most of the stations. The Mayors of Palm Springs, Cathedral City, and Palm Desert had formed group called the Palms Quorum. They introduced martial law and seized all remaining stores of fuel. With I-10 shut down and no traffic coming or going from Los Angeles, there was little need for fuel anyway. Travelers who’d been caught in the disaster were told they could stay in their hotel rooms until suitable transportation could be provided, but there was no timeline available.

 

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