Red Palm

by Ochse, Weston

Bombay Beach Motel. Sebastian’s visage was always startling. At six hundred pounds he was beyond huge. Sprawled as he always was in his metal papasan chair, he looked more like an ancient giant carved from white limestone than an actual person. But now, as he radiated his outrage and anger towards Blane, who stood shamefaced just inside the doorway, he was a mythological force.

  A day had gone by before Blane had finally figured out what he was going to do. “I’m quitting,” he began. “I can’t do any good here.”

  “You’re not quitting,” rumbled Sebastian. His blue eyes blazed from where they were caught in the folds of his face.

  “You don’t understand I—”

  “Don’t you ever pretend you know what I do and don’t understand!” boomed Sebastian.

  Blane flinched at the words. He kept his eyes down, but was aware of Sebastian’s two Meso-American assistants sitting in the far corner, eating ramen from bowls, watching him with amused looks.

  “I’ve failed and I—”

  “You will not speak until I give you leave.” Sebastian, who’d been laying in his normal pose grunted and groaned as he rose to a sitting position. Then he did something Blane had only seen once before, got to his feet.

  The Meso-Americans tossed their lunch to the ground and stood. What they’d do Blane would never know because if Sebastian were to fall, even he couldn’t catch him.

  Sebastian stood unsteadily, a giant, pale, righteous anger-filled golem and worse—disappointed.

  “What it was that you did can never be undone. You killed a man just as surely as if you’d run him over in your car. This was your fault, and the last thing I’m going to do is allow you to run away.”

  Blane glanced into Sebastian’s eyes and was about to say something, but the force of the other’s will was too much, so he dropped his gaze to a place on the ground between them.

  “If I were to let you leave with this on your conscience you’d never allow yourself to put it aside. It would haunt you until your last breath upon this earth. So no, you may not leave.” He let out a great breath, then returned to his chair.

  He waved a hand in the air. “Even were I to let you go, you wouldn’t want to go now.”

  Blane shot a questioning look.

  “Do you remember what I said before? I told you that something is coming. Something I’ve only felt once or twice in my life. It’s like seeing the very tip of a leviathan and knowing that if it ever wakes, it might take everything with it.” The master blood sorcerer shook his head. “Well, the leviathan is about to wake. I can see its dreams fading. I can feel as it prepares to stretch, and when it does, life as we know it will never be the same again.”

  “The chupacabras?” Blane offered.

  “Are nothing compared to the change which will come. They are but a drop in an ocean of weird that is about to fall upon us. As I said, I can protect us here, but that’s the extent of my power.”

  “Is it really going to be that terrible?” Blane asked.

  “Exponentially.” Sebastian sat bolt upright. His eyes bulged. He reached to the ground, fumbling, until he found a knife. He slashed his chest and stomach in a mad swipe, then let the knife slip through his fingers until it clattered to the ground. Then he placed his hands on the wound and began to chant. Blane recognized some of the words of power, but others were lost to him. He felt the electricity of power. The scent and taste of iron came from him from the blood.

  Blane stumbled as the ground began to shake. Not just the ground, but the walls and the ceiling. Salt and dust fell from above him like a fine dusting of snow.

  Sebastian’s eyes had rolled into the back of his head. He was shouting now, words of power slamming into the foundation of the building.

  The shaking increased, sounding like a freight train, rattling everything and everyone, reaching a painful threshold. Blane struggled to remain upright, able at the last second to grab the doorjamb. The word EARTHQUAKE flashed through his mind. He’d never been in one, but this bone-shaking, teeth-clacking, mind-twirling shake-o-rama must be one.

  He tried to shout over the noise, but he couldn’t even hear his voice.

  From somewhere came the sound of something breaking.

  But the shaking refused to let up.

  Then Sebastian collapsed into his chair.

  Three seconds later, the shaking stopped.

  Blane realized he’d been screaming and capped it a moment later. His heart was racing. His hands ached from where they’d desperately gripped the wood. The muscles in his legs twitched, overworked from fighting to keep his balance. He let go of the doorjamb by pushing off. He flexed his hands. His legs were a little wobbly. He shook his head and dust came off in a cloud.

  Even though he knew it was an earthquake, his mind still struggled to comprehend what had just happened. “What was that?”

  Sebastian’s eyes snapped open. “The leviathan wakes.”

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Berdoo Canyon. Hide Site.

  CODENAME: TRAVESTY

  Flight Sequence 221114b

  CLASSIFIED TALENT KEYHOLE

  UAV Narration: Sgt Frank Spann

  UAV Mode: Combat Swarm

  …3 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. No substantive activity other than in Cathedral area.

  …2 fly 40 meters, circling black hut. Flock of black birds completely covering roof. Flight experiencing technical difficulty. Returning to Twentynine Palms.

  …1 fly 17 meters, above meeting lodge. Twelve women dressed in black shawls covering their heads and faces walk in single file from Grotto to the Cathedral. Note that Hut does not have the capacity to contain them. Must be an underground facility.

  …2 fly 120 meters, above Drury Gulch. Two golems (already designated as G1 and G3) feed body parts into a wood chipper. Remains of unidentified human covers lower slope of ridge on NW side of gulch. Advise Talent Keyhole to review last twelve hours in order to determine identity of deceased once coms come back online.

  Frank was sick last night after what he'd seen. He'd replayed the golems shoving the human remains into the wood chipper over and over. He couldn't help himself. Try as he might, he couldn't not watch. At first it was like watching television and he was able to remove himself from the moral equation. Nothing more than Seinfeld or CSI with a wood chipper ending. Hell, he’d seen Fargo so this wasn’t anything new. But after a while he was forced to admit that he’d become more than a simple viewer—he’d become a participant. He could have stopped them. Several of the Hunters in his swarm were armed with Hellfire-C missiles. All he had to do was override the Peace Protocol and the golems would have been juiced.

  So why hadn't he?

  Part of him was convinced that there was nothing to be done by the time his UAV was on station, nothing but revenge. Then again, golems weren't capable of murder and disposal by themselves. One or the other, sure, just as long as the task was single-minded and uncomplicated for their undead brains. Another part of him stressed non-participation. He was there to observe and nothing more. I've been doing this for three years and hate myself, he'd said into his audio diary last night. Our target is less than human, but we're told just to watch and report what we see. Does anyone read the reports? Does anyone care? He pressed a button twice a day that should have transmitted the information to a station-keeping satellite directly above him. The information was then relayed to a room in NORAD west of Colorado Springs. Someone surely must read his recon summaries.

  Right?

  They had to be reading them, right?

  The reality was that nothing was getting out

  The reality might be that NORAD no longer existed.

  The urge to smoke hit him, but he did his best to ignore it. That creature had been hanging outside lately. Twice today he'd seen it lurking around.


  Plus he had another ten minutes before the flights were released from orbit. Shadow 4 had experienced cascading malfunctions. He'd just barely managed to shut down all secondary systems and regain control. This was the fifth flight this month that had gone haywire over the small building. He’d love to be able to speak with Shultz later and ask him what he found when he recovered the UAV, but he had zero coms.

  Ten minutes later all eight flights were released from orbit. He was about to send them back, but then changed his mind. He left two armed Hunters, and sent the remainder back for handoff to Twentynine Palms. He might need these last two if the others never returned.

  He had about half an hour to finish his recon summaries, something he didn’t really need to do, but force of habit made him finish them. He stank. He needed a shower. He needed about a dozen beers to wash down the bile in his stomach.

  He opened the door and peered outside, checking to see if he was as alone as the monitors promised. He’d commandeered a Cadillac Escalade when the van had failed to pick him up last time. In the back was all of his stuff from the hotel room, crates of MREs, bottled water, and as much food as it would hold. Now with his own vehicle, he could leave whenever he wanted—something that might be necessary in this strange new world where golems and other creatures existed.

  He glanced at the fog, glowing in the setting red sun on the western horizon. Then he looked around for the creature. Was it there, waiting?

  And it was, squatting a dozen meters out in the desert, its pig eyes on him.

  ‘You haven’t known fear until you’ve seen ten thousand Chinese charging up the side of your hill,’ said his grandfather's voice in his head.

  Oh yeah, gramps? Try a javelina nightmare creature at sunset east of the Black Grotto.

  Frank lit up a smoke and sucked down the nicotine, never once taking his eyes off the beast. He contemplated getting into his van and leaving; maybe get cleaned up, maybe pop a few beers, maybe see what Jenkies was doing.

  A guilty thought came to him as he and the creature competed in a staring contest that might mean life or death for one of them.

  What’s the difference between stalking and true love?

  Nothing.

  He finished the last toke of his cigarette, put it out on the side of the trailer, then dropped it in his butt can. He was about to go back inside when the ground lurched beneath him.

  The creature made an almost human cry and fled.

  Frank tried to grasp the doorjamb but missed, tumbling down the steps and into the dirt. His head hit the ground. Stars made way to galaxies.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Bombay Beach Motel. Someone screamed from down the hall. Another voice joined the first, then another, then another, until six men and one woman screamed, their voices merging into a an insane Wagnerian dirge. Barry ran down the hall past their door, then ran back.

  “What is it?” Blane asked.

  Barry ignored him and spoke to Sebastian. “Carlos. The drivers. All of them. They’ve gone bat shit crazy.”

  “Are you sure?” Blane asked, but Barry was already heading back to the drivers’ rooms.

  Pippa and Frezzie shuffled down the stairs and into the room.

  “Did you feel that?” Pippa asked.

  “Of course they felt it,” Frezzie said. “The whole damn place shook.”

  Nelson Tucker came up behind them. “The TV’s all messed up. There’s only one channel and it’s all about that Black Bishop character. CNN, CBS, NBC. Gone. Can’t even get anything from ESPN.” He turned to Pippa. “How the hell am I going to get breaking news about my Vikings?”

  Blane wondered why Nelson was complaining about the television at such a time, shook his head, then turned to Sebastian. “Is this the change you were talking about?”

  He nodded. “This is far worse than I could have ever anticipated.”

  Suddenly two gunshots rang out from down the hall.

  Blane pushed past those who’d gathered near the door out of the way and ran down the hall. Barry stood in the hall, back to a wall, hand on his left arm to staunch the flow of blood.

  “Carlos shot me,” he said.

  “What did you do?” Blane asked.

  But Barry refused to comment, instead he merely glanced into the room, then shook his head.

  Blane edged to the doorway, then peeked around the corner.

  Carlos sat in his chair, head back, blood dripping from a hole in the side of his head, his arm flopped towards the ground, the barrel of the .45 he’d used to kill himself resting slightly on the carpeted floor.

  The other drivers screamed, giggled, and moaned, sometimes one right after the other. Their eyes were wild as Blane went to first one, then the next and the next. Along with the others, they managed to subdue the drivers, but only by giving them Ambiens, courtesy of Nelson, who was an insomniac.

  Once that was over they moved on to the next piece of drama.

  “This is my fault,” Sebastian said, reclining in his papasan chair as his assistants stitched his cut closed.

  He had everyone’s attention.

  “When the timelines converged, their minds were unprotected.” He made a sour face. “I was so concerned about protecting our physical location that I forgot their psyches were out driving their zombies.”

  “What’d they see that made them lose it?” Pippa asked.

  “Who can know? Imagine a million billion threads of realities and timelines, each operating independently of the others, then suddenly all of those timelines slammed into one. They must have seen scenes from the other realities. They might have seen themselves.”

  “Think they’ll get better?” Nelson asked.

  “Why, worried you don’t have enough Ambien?” Frezzie asked out of the corner of her mouth.

  Blane held up a hand. “So what you’re saying is that once we look outside, things are going to be different?” He stuck his leg out and put his hands on his hips. “How different?”

  Sebastian stared at him for a long ten seconds. Blane knew, because he counted. Finally Sebastian sighed and sat up. Even sitting, he was almost as tall as Blane. “What’s our mission?”

  “Us? Here? You mean the League of the Red Palm’s mission?” Blane asked.

  Sebastian nodded.

  “To infiltrate, learn enough about the Black Bishop, then take him down.”

  “We’re never going to be able to accomplish that now.”

  Blane looked pained. “What do you mean by never?” All ideas of him leaving were now pushed aside. “You have Barry and you have me to drive. We can send others out to recruit. We can still do this, albeit at a much slower rate.”

  Sebastian shook his head without looking up. “It’s not how the realities shook out. We could have easily had a reality in which there was no Black Bishop and no Rook. But it was the presence of this Rook who made it certain that this would be the reality.”

  “So they have more—”

  “Of everything,” finished the Black Bishop. To Frezzie, he asked, “What’s their order of battle?”

  She looked up as she ticked off the numbers, accessing her memory. “Of the Monks of the Western Wind there are seven who are blood sorcerers and eleven, including this seven are capable of astral travel and astral combat. The sisters have zero blood sorcerers, but have twenty-three capable of astral combat. Then we have the Black Bishop, Rook, and several of Rook’s followers who have been showing up in twos and threes for a total of nineteen followers.”

  Sebastian grumbled. “Now there are sixty Monks of the Western Wind, all blood sorcerers, all capable of astral travel and combat. I’ve yet to see about the sisters because they are hidden away in the Grotto.”

  Blane couldn’t help but whistle as everyone else stared in shock. “How did they get so many?” he eventually asked.

  “It’s all based on the current reality,” Sebastian said. “But it gets worse.”

  “Is that possible?” asked Barry, his through and through guns
hot wound bound by a length of gauze.

  “We all know and understand that the source of the magic we wield is our own blood. We are only as powerful as the amount of blood we have. If we use too much, then we die. Well, it seems that Rook’s people in this timeline have recruited over three hundred cutters to provide Rook, the Monks, and the Black Bishop with power.” He glanced at Frezzie. “They’ve broken down into three battalions with one hundred cutters per battalion and thirty Monks assigned to each.”

  “What are they going to do with all that firepower?” Blane asked, suddenly concerned for those around them. “And do they know about us?”

  “I don’t know the answer to the first question and I don’t think so to the second.” Sebastian held up his hand and unfurled a finger the size of a Polish sausage. “The entire area is enclosed by an impenetrable cloud of fog. From the Salton Sea in the south to Morongo Canyon in the north, to somewhere in the middle of Joshua Tree National Forest to the east and Idyllwild-Pine Cove to the west. There is no vehicular traffic other than that used by the Black Bishop. There is no air travel, except for a lone UAV I can see, and nothing comes in or out of the fog.”

  Pippa sank to her knees.

  Frezzie hugged herself.

  Nelson stared down at the ground, the new guy’s thoughts impenetrable.

  Barry was the only one to break the silence. “So what you’re saying is that had I been outside the hotel during the quake, I might not even know that the League exists. I might be one of the cutters in one of the battalions.”

  Sebastian nodded. “Exactly.”

  “So no one even realizes that things changed,” Blane concluded.

  “I’m certain the Black Bishop knows. Rook knows. Probably his followers and a select set of the monks and harlots. But for everyone else, this has always been their reality.”

  Nelson laughed, which made everyone turn towards him.

  “What’s so funny?” Frezzie asked.

  “I still owed a hundred plus grand on my RV,” he said, smiling. “Guess I won’t have to pay it back now.”