by Alan Baxter
He retrieved an old oil lamp from one corner and lit with his rapidly heating Zippo. He lifted the heavy stone lid from the coffin, that would take two or three normal men to move, then went up and gathered the body in his arms again, carried it down the steps. As he gently lowered the body into the coffin he looked at the peaceful, death-sleeping face. He knew, probably better than anybody else, that this was just a shell now, but he could never completely ignore a certain amount of respect for the dead. ‘Sorry about this, Andre,’ he whispered, as he arranged the limbs. ‘All for the greater good, I’m sure you understand.’ He wondered briefly where Andre was now. Watching from Heaven? Was he a Christian, Muslim, Buddhist? Not important. Isiah could certainly find out, but he really didn’t need to know.
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and began to centre himself, mentally catching his breath. After a moment he began to gently probe the brain with his mind, repairing the damage caused by the embolism. Then he turned his attention to the heart, psychically pumping it, trying to push the blood through tight, collapsed veins. As the cold, thick blood began sluggishly moving, Isiah opened the veins before it, refilling arteries. After some time he was satisfied that the flow would be able to be restarted.
Next he forced a little electrical energy into the muscles, stiff from the rigor mortis of somatic death, making the limbs twitch, the face contort briefly, nervous tic. The muscle fibres themselves had contracted but rigor mortis was actually good news. The rigidity of the body would ease as the muscle proteins decomposed, the stiffness dissipating. The stiff muscles told Isiah that the muscle tissue was still intact and he could reverse the contractions, loosen each muscle group gently. He worked the joints as he worked the muscles, ignoring the creak and pop as fluid was forced past bones that had begun to dry.
It seemed like this would work out, as long as there was no extensive brain damage. Only time would tell that. After he had been working on the body for nearly an hour, repairing and preparing, he decided he needed to rest.
He sat crosslegged on the floor in the corner of the mausoleum, closed his eyes. He didn’t sleep, but relaxed for another hour or so, building up his energies again. He gained more energy that way than most people would manage with eight hours straight.
He couldn’t help but think of what was ahead of him now. He had the ability to travel anywhere that anyone believed existed, and often did, but now he had to go to Hell. Not for the first time but he still hated it, feared it. So many people believed in the standard Christian models of Heaven and Hell, they were huge Realms, contorted and twisted by millions of overlapping conceptions, contradictory with the various sects, Jewish, Orthodox, Anglican and dozens more. Satan himself was slightly restricted in what he could do on the mortal plane, his powers somewhat contained. If he had decided to fight Isiah for Samuel on this plane then it would have been a dangerous, nasty fight, though Isiah would probably have won, banished Satan back to Hell. But now Isiah had to go to Satan’s Realm, and there the devil’s powers were undiluted, extensive. And Isiah was going with the purpose of snatching Samuel right out from under his evil, black nose. This was going to be difficult. It would only be Isiah’s consciousness that travelled to Hell, his body remaining on the mortal plane, but it was all a matter of perspective. Any harm that came to him there would be real enough, and Satan had ability enough to destroy him. He was scared.
He sighed expansively, looked at his watch. He was ready to go, everything was prepared, but he could spare an hour or two. He was a remarkable man, but a man all the same. There was very little that he could take solace in, no partners to lean on when he was scared, but he had needs and desires. Usually it was easy enough to ignore them, but at times like this he felt weak, vulnerable. It was centuries ago that he had vowed never to fall in love again, never to open himself to that kind of pain. Nor did he want to watch partners grow old and die while he carried on. But that didn’t mean that he could constantly go without all human contact.
He stood up, hefted the large stone lid back onto the coffin, blew out the lamp. It was a cool night, and the tomb was cold. The body would be fine in there for several hours before it began to warm up, decompose. He pulled the smooth metal gate closed behind him, making sure the secret lock engaged and headed for the stolen car out front.
At an old abandoned woodyard a mile or so from town he parked the car in a dark corner. He punched the plastic casing underneath the steering column, smashing it, and pulled out the ignition wiring to make it look like it had been hot wired. He did not have to worry about prints in the car, he could change the pattern of loops and whorls on his fingertips at will, and regularly did. He used a pocket knife to bend and scratch at the lock on the driver’s door. Satisfied that the car was convincing enough as the result of nothing more than a joy ride, he strolled from the woodyard and walked back to town.
On a dark, littered street, tall, dirty buildings all around, with broken windows and boarded up doors, a number of young girls hung around under the few streetlamps or in doorways. Some of them were skeletal junkies, diseased no hopers, fuck-a-buck walking corpses. But a lot of them were honest working girls, clean and safe, turned pro for any number of different reasons. Isiah could tell the good from the bad. It had been a long time since he had been with a woman, felt naked flesh pressed against him. It was a basic human need, primal urge, and one that even Isiah did not have the power to ignore for too long. And it had been too long. He approached a pretty brunette, not too young, apparently drug free from his initial scan.
The hooker smiled warmly, stepping into the light, swing of the hips. ‘Hi honey, wanna party?’
Isiah smiled back. ‘I have a difficult task to do. Can you take my mind of it for an hour or so?’
The hooker reached out and gently took Isiah’s hand, her grip soft and warm. ‘Of course,’ she purred. ‘Come with me.’
Carlos was furious. He ground his teeth, slowly counting in his head, attempting to remain calm. He needed to know more. The middle aged nun, officially head nurse of his ward, was visibly trembling. Carlos drew in a deep breath through his teeth, blinked long and slow. He let the breath out with a rush. ‘What do you mean “gone’?’ His voice was dangerously quiet.
The nurse tried a couple of times to speak, trying to overcome her dry mouth. ‘He left an hour or two ago. There is a new site somewhere where many men are working. Father Paleros was asked to go there.’
Carlos stared down at the floor for a second. When he looked up again sharply the nurse jumped. ‘Why?’ he asked.
The nurse shook her head, her eyes wild. ‘I don’t really know. To preach I expect, like a temporary on-site church. Often, when local men are working away from home, they like to have a church nearby.’
Carlos’ stitches had all been removed, the wounds clean and healed well enough. He had asked to see Father Paleros in order to inform him that it was time to leave. Carlos had decided that a little intimidation before he left would be fun, then he could come back with his stuff and destroy the pompous clergyman. This bastard priest was deliberately making Carlos’ life miserable. First he would never leave him alone, as he lay there hurting, sweating. Now that it was finally time to avenge this outrageous presumption, the holy freak had run out before he got to him. He would not let this happen. He would hunt this priest down and destroy him. ‘Where is this site you speak of?’
‘I don’t know, really. He spoke with the administrator for a while, then left. I only know he has gone.’
Carlos’ hand shot out, clamped around the nurses throat. She let out a slightly restricted yelp, her eyes bulging in fear. Carlos leaned in so close that she could smell his breath, his nose almost touching hers. His hand shook, his rage impotent, barely contained. She was useless this one, she knew nothing. Her face began to go red, small, catching coughs in her throat. With a sound of frustration Carlos pushed her backwards, letting her go. She staggered back, her hands going up to her throat. The back of her knees bumped into a be
d and she sat down hard, coughing, her eyes watering. Carlos stared at her for a second longer, then spun on his heel, headed for the administrator’s office.
He winced at the tightly healed wound on his leg, the skin still tender. He would have to be careful with that for a while still. He reached the light wooden door of the administrators office, saw the balding, pudgy pen-pusher through the grimy window. He kicked the door so hard that the glass broke and the door fell at an obtuse angle, one hinge torn from the frame. The administrator jumped violently, sliding back in his chair, his face a mask of shock and fear. His pen dropped from his trembling fingers, clattering onto the desk.
Carlos walked up to the desk, leaned over it reaching for the administrator. The little man tried to scramble from his chair, too scared to say or do anything but try to get away. Carlos grabbed a handful of sweat soaked shirt, dragged him halfway over the desk. The administrator whimpered, tears brimming in his eyes. His mouth opened and closed like a landed fish, his eyes manic. Carlos leaned close. ‘Where the fuck is Paleros?’ Spittle flew into the administrator’s face as Carlos spoke.
The administrator gulped. ‘We helped you!’ he wailed, his voice high, frightened. ‘We healed you, took you in and healed you!’
Carlos sneered. ‘You think I give a shit? You’re scum, you’re nothing. Healing me was your mistake. If you don’t tell me where Paleros is, that’ll be another mistake. Mistakes like that could kill you.’
The administrator was making little noises like a child that’s been told not to cry. ‘Why do you want to know?’
Carlos growled low in his throat, threw the administrator backwards into his chair. The chair slid back across the wooden floor, the administrator’s head hitting the wall behind him with a solid thunk. He yelped, clutching at the back of his head. Carlos strode around the desk, stood in front of the chair, towering over the little man. He raised one foot, rammed it into the administrator’s belly, winding him, trapping him in his chair against the wall. The little man’s breath rushed out with a rasp. He grabbed at Carlos’ ankle, looking up, desperate, gulping for air.
Carlos leaned on his raised knee, his weight pressing into the administrator’s stomach. ‘Where is he?’ he asked slowly. The administrator gasped, looking frantically around like he was expecting help at any moment. ‘Do you know how easily I can kill you?’ Carlos asked him, his voice quiet and controlled. ‘I don’t even need to move much to rip the life out of you. As a young man I used to gut puppies just to see their entrails slide across the ground, slick and glittering in the sun. I used to love to watch the light of life flicker and blink out.’ Carlos clicked his fingers as he spoke. ‘I was a disturbed child. Your fat gut is really not so different.’
The administrator began to sob slightly, tears running over his cheeks. ‘He went north,’ he gasped, ‘to an archaeological dig.’
Carlos leaned forward a little more, exerting more pressure. ‘I need more information than that, worm.’
The administrator pointed a shaking hand toward an in-tray on his desk. ‘In there. There’s a map that Father Paleros has a copy of. That’s where he’s gone. That’s all I know. It’s the church that sent him, not me. I just passed on what they said.’
‘And what did they say?’
‘Simply to go to this site. I don’t know why. I would imagine they just want him to look after the souls of the men working there.’ The administrator looked up, his eyes slightly defiant. ‘Like he tried to save your soul,’ he said with a quavering voice.
Carlos let out an angry growl. He picked up a gold plated fountain pen from the desk and, in one smooth movement, his arm shot out toward the administrator, the gold nib of the pen glinting briefly in the light.
He got up, took the map from the tray. The administrator gagged, gasping for breath as his fingers scrabbled frantically at the pen protruding from his throat. ‘My soul is quite well, thank you,’ Carlos said as strolled from the office, stuffing the map into his pocket. He heard the administrator collapse onto the floor as he walked past the ruined door. He glanced back briefly. ‘Looks like you need a doctor!’
He stepped outside the office, smiling to himself, That was good! It had been too long since he had felt that buzz, that rush of power. Watching that suit quaking in fear, that’s what he lived for. That was his religion, the worship of pain and death. But shit, he was weak.
He leaned against the wall in the corridor, his breath coming short, coloured spots circling in at the edges of his vision. He felt dizzy, his knees wobbly. He really hadn’t exerted himself much at all, but the effect was telling.
For a few seconds he stayed against the wall, breathing deeply. He could vaguely hear the administrator’s choking noises from down the corridor, growing weaker. As he headed toward the main doors the frightened, middle aged nurse came the other way. She stopped dead when she saw him, visibly paling, her long, black habit swinging around her ankles. Carlos stared at her for a second, his grin deep, malicious. He flicked his tongue at her, licking the air. As she turned her face away, a little noise of horror, he laughed and pushed at the double main doors.
Stepping into the sweltering heat he realised how much difference the numerous fans in the hospital had made. It was hot and humid outside, the sweat springing up instantly under his shirt. Never mind, he was more than used to this climate. The sticky day was a relief after the dirty yet sterile-seeming mission hospital. The deep greenery all around him was a welcome sight, tall trees, large, broad leaves. Numerous sounds of birds and insects filled the air. Time now to work out exactly where he was so that he could go and gather his stuff. The bastard officials in the hospital had confiscated everything he had on him when he came in. He should have got that fat administrator to tell him where it was. Too late now. Anyway, it had probably been handed over to the army. He was surprised that they hadn’t handed him to the army yet, but they had probably thought he was too weak still to be a threat. Another mistake on their part. He had plenty of what he needed in his various hiding places.
He walked down the dirt road leading from the hospital through the dense vegetation, wondering how far he was from a town. It was late in the day and he could do without being out in the jungle after dark without his equipment.
As he walked down the road he began planning what he would do to the priest when he finally caught up to him. His head was buzzing with his sickening plans when he heard a vehicle approaching ahead of him. He stepped out into the road to be in plain sight as it rounded the bend. Within a second or so a dirty, old jeep bounced around the curved road, a large cloud of tan dust billowing out behind it. The driver, a young man with sandy hair and wraparound shades, braked hard when he saw Carlos, skidded to halt beside him.
‘Jesus, buddy, what the hell are you doing in the middle of the road?’ American.
‘Waiting for you,’ Carlos said quietly in Spanish.
The young man cocked his head to one side, his face creasing into a frown. He spoke then in stilted Spanish. ‘Excuse me, waiting er.. what?’
‘Waiting for you,’ Carlos repeated, and punched the man hard. It was a powerful punch, angling up towards the man’s nose. There was a sickening crunch as his nose broke, blood immediately flooding his face, his sunglasses spinning off. The man cried out in pain, his hands flying up to cup his smashed nose. While he was blinded by blood and pain Carlos reached up and grabbed his collar. With a hard yank, he pulled the man from the jeep, dumping him onto the dusty road. Carlos appeared to be a skinny, wiry man. Not the sort of person that seemed particularly strong, but his tall, thin frame belied his power. He was far stronger and far faster than he looked, his thin features and dark hair giving an aspect of a bird of prey to his surprisingly able physicality.
He jumped into the driver’s seat and gunned the engine. Looking down at the young man, dizzily staggering to his feet, he said, ‘There’s a hospital about a half mile that way. You look like you need it!’ With that he put the jeep in gear and powered the engine
, wheelspinning the jeep to face the other way and speeding off down the road, showering the young man in grit and dust. He laughed as he careened along the bumpy road. It was good to be out in the world again.
It didn’t take him long to reach a small town. It could barely hold the title of town, but it was larger than the usual one goat villages that dotted the landscape in every direction. He pulled the jeep to a skidding halt outside a hotel bar, his mouth already watering at the thought of a cold beer. Once inside the hotel, cold beer in hand, it didn’t take him long to establish where he was. He had been deep in the jungle just south of the Montagua river, only fifty miles or so from the border between Guatemala and Honduras. He was a fair way further north from there now. He looked at the map the administrator had so kindly given him. The dig was a lot further north, right up near the Guatemalan border with Mexico. That was a couple of hundred miles easily, and not all of it would be easy driving. It would take a while to get there. He swallowed the rest of his beer in one gulp, sighing with pleasure at its cold kiss. Waving to the bar for another, paying with money left in his clothes by those honest holy folk, he asked, ‘There a phone around that I can use?’
The barman nodded towards a door at the back. ‘Through there, you’ll need change.’
Carlos nodded toward the money he had just handed over. ‘Then bring me some of that back.’
Feeding in coins he dialled a number that was well embedded in his memory. After a couple of rings it was answered, ‘Yeah?’
