Eternal Samurai

by B. D. Heywood

  For months, Arisada’s feverish mind wandered through evil places filled with unimaginable horrors. When he finally awoke, he no longer belonged to the gentle Buddha Amida. Forever denied reincarnation. Forever denied redemption. The creature’s bite had infected him with an ancient, evil virus, which mutated Arisada’s body into a monster torn from its humanity by the need for human blood.

  And the oath, forced from Arisada’s lips, now bound him to the kyūketsuki Ukita Sadomori.

  Arisada’s heart-rending scream of loss drowned beneath his howl of primal bloodlust.

  .

  Two

  The Seattle Quarantine, 2024

  The first pale hint of dawn kissed a sky gravid with storm clouds. For most people living in the Seattle Quarantine, T the pending light meant safety as the sun’s rays drove the predators into hiding. For Tatsu Kurosaki Cobb, daylight meant the end of another futile night of hunting. Perhaps tomorrow he’d find his quarry. Find and kill.

  He never wanted this—hunting creatures that, until a few months ago, he regarded with compassion. But he’d always known the way of the sword would become his destiny. The Path of the Samurai commanded it.

  Was he insane, coming to this violent city with nothing more than the swords of his ancestors? For what? To kill one monster among hundreds in the name of fukushū, vengeance for the slaughter of his entire family?

  Uncertainty flickered in his mind for a moment then sank beneath the waves of his conviction. He knew in the depths of his tamashii, his soul, his actions were just. Still, he was unable to dismiss a ghost of misgiving. Was he as much of a monster as those he hunted? In his quest to find one, he had already killed many. And with every death, he feared losing his own humanity.

  Then the deep fires of hatred washed away the last remnant of doubt. Wakatta, better hatred than heartbreak.

  A kyūketsuki was no longer a member of the human race. And a kyūketsuki that attacked a human forfeited its right to live. Tatsu could kill them with no repercussion.

  For the last three nights since he arrived, Tatsu had slipped across the bridge that crossed the river between Seattle’s two species. Any human foolish enough to venture into the quarantine courted an ugly death. Tatsu entered anyway. The first night a small pack had jumped him. He had escaped, but not before taking the heads of two predators. Now the survivors had his scent. They would tear him to pieces if they caught him. No matter.

  Tatsu hunched deeper into his beat-up motorcycle jacket, ignored the freezing February rain. By the Gods, if he believed in hell, this place was it. Unlike Japan, his native land bright with prosperity and promise, Seattle offered its citizens only an eroding despair. And the ever-present threat of a cruel death.

  His nostrils flared at the acrid stench that was as indigenous to Seattle as its famous old landmark. The odors of sewage, rotting garbage and the city’s ancient methane plants did not bother him except they masked the presence of the ones he hunted.

  The city wasn’t always like this—grim and desolate. Even in Tatsu’s short time here, he’d seen examples of its elegance and charm that had survived the eruption of the nearby mountain and subsequent massive earthquake. Occurring only a few days apart, the twin disasters had devastated the Pacific Northwest.

  Tatsu always had a strange affinity for this battered city. Perhaps because it was the birthplace of his father William Cobb. Perhaps because it was destroyed during tatsu, the Year of the Dragon. The year Tatsu was born.

  In elementary school in Nagasaki, he had watched the grainy, too-graphic videos of that belching, fire-breathing mountain spewing dust, ash and other terrible things into the sky. The lava tearing down trees and obliterating the green land with molten sludge. And the massive earthquake ripping the ground apart, tumbling tall buildings like toy blocks. Killing thousands. He recalled his naïve, childish clapping when he saw the great Space Needle still rearing proudly above the clouds of dust and smoke.

  For three years, ash had obscured the sun. Day turned into perpetual night. And Seattle became a haven for monsters.

  He snorted. Fucking animals. Once, they were the stuff of myth. Or so everyone believed. Five years before Tatsu was born a pandemic swept the globe, devastating some regions, skipping others entirely. In its wake, the plague left millions dead and turned thousands into an entirely new species—one that preyed on human beings as food.

  Japan had protected herself with ruthless efficiency by euthanizing people as soon as they became infected. But hundreds of kyūketsuki had escaped to the former United States, which for some unknown reason, had been affected the worst by the plague. Half the population had died. The economy crashed, and the country fragmented into a handful of independent city states hostile to any outsiders.

  Tatsu knew all about that hostility. He’d ridden two-thousand perilous miles from his adopted home in New Mexico to reach this dark city. Too many times he thought he’d never make it. The brutal winter weather, mechanical breakdowns and the scarcity of gasoline made the trip a nightmare. Sneaking his Kawasaki Drifter past guarded border crossings under the cover of winter storms nearly ended his journey twice. But that eighteen-year-old bike with its near-bald tires and oil leaks got him here. Barely. Now, it was in dire need of a major overhaul. Nothing he could do about it; he was broke.

  Tatsu shook his head, sending his choppy brown hair flying. Baka, idiot, pay attention or you’re dead. He picked his way around a collapsed house. His ears tuned out the scrabbling of rats and feral dogs as they fled and focused only on that unique sound signaling a much larger predator. An easy leap over a crumbling wall dropped him six feet into a narrow, debris-strewn street. There he crouched for a few seconds, all senses attuned for the merest hint of danger.

  The neon sign of his destination blinked strobe-like above the bar’s entrance a few yards away. Feeling relatively at ease, he slipped his weapons into the harness on his back. Brandishing a pair of Japanese swords was not the best strategy for making friends.

  The Educated Whore, less than a half-mile from the Quarantine border, was known as gossip central for everything concerning underground Seattle. Tatsu couldn’t trust dumb luck that he’d find the one creature he sought. Someone in this alcoholic dive had the right information. If he could get anyone to consider talking to a bugaisha, an outsider, that is.

  A discordant bell clanked overhead as Tatsu pushed the door open. He heard the intermittent buzz of the fluorescent beer sign flickering above the bar. A second light, hanging by a couple of wires from the cracked ceiling, cast blotches of shadows over most of the room. Still, Tatsu’s preternatural eyesight revealed every detail.

  The seedy pub was an icon to the current decay of the human condition. A scarred wooden bar occupied the entire wall on Tatsu’s left. Once there might have been a mirror behind it, but now the unpainted wall was covered in a blanket of grime interspersed with moldy wallpaper, hanging in tatters. The wood floor was tacky from spilled beer. The skunky reek of stale cigarette smoke, even staler alcohol and human sweat failed to cover the underlying whiff of urine. Or the palpable smell of hostility.

  A few die-hard customers hunched over their tables, sucking down their cheap brew. Conversation halted as a dozen pairs of eyes swiveled to pin the newcomer. Clearly, everyone knew everyone, and outsiders were very low on the welcome list. Especially armed outsiders.

  Kuso, shit, no one looked the least bit friendly. Tatsu relaxed his fighter’s stance into a more friendly posture. He knew what the barman and everyone else saw, or thought they saw. Some would notice the swords on his back and think trouble. Some would see a shaggy-haired Japanese youth wearing a scuffed motorcycle jacket, worn leather chaps and rundown biker boots and label him a drifter.

  And a few, those hate-filled few, would fix only on his slender body with its gliding walk—the unconscious gait of a trueborn samurai—and label him a queer. Not that Tatsu’s preference for men was anyone’s business. He just didn’t care to broadcast it then have to fight his w
ay out of a mob.

  After a too-long stare, the bartender jerked his chin in the direction of a table near the door. This sent a signal to the rest of the crowd. The murmurs from the customers resumed as they turned back to their own concerns.

  Tatsu spun the metal chair around and straddled it to accommodate his swords. His fingers groped in his jacket pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of Canadian Kings. He sighed as he tapped it against his thumb then extracted a cigarette with his lips. Chikusho, only five left. Looks like it’s time to quit. He lit the smoke with a much-scratched steel lighter and inhaled a slow, appreciative drag.

  From the corner of his eye, he watched the waitress approach. A slight hesitation in her step broadcasted her apprehension. Tatsu knew her eyes were riveted on the sword hilts jutting above his leather-clad shoulders. At least his weapons would dispel any idea that he was another no-tip, rent-boy looking for a last trick before the night ended.

  She placed a chipped ashtray in front of Tatsu who acknowledged her with a polite dip of his head. All at once, the woman’s tired countenance lit up with surprise. Her smile took years off her careworn face.

  “I ain’t never seen an Asian with green eyes before. They’re gorgeous.” A slight, sultry tone entered her voice yet Tatsu sensed it was not really a pick-up line.

  “Domo arigatō gozaimasu.” Flustered, Tatsu stammered his thanks in his native tongue.

  “That’s so cute.” Giggling, she fussed with the placement of the ashtray. “What’ll it be, hon? We got a special on Red Vodka. Course, it ain’t real but you’d never know.”

  Mindful of how little cash he had, Tatsu ordered the cheapest homemade stout in the house. Buying a drink might open the way to information. A minute later, the woman brought the bottle and a glass mug. Tatsu dug out some change and handed it to her with an apologetic shrug. “Sumimasen, I’m sorry, I don’t have enough for a tip.”

  “Don’t worry about it, hon. I’m Doris. You need anything more, just holler.” She nodded at the dark brew. “You’re one of the few men I see with the balls to drink that stuff. See that man over there?” She waved in the direction of a customer slouched over a table in the corner. “Always drinkin’ it.”

  To hide his no-tip embarrassment, Tatsu glanced in the direction of her pointing finger. Two tables over, a dark-haired man reeled back in his chair, downing the last of his frothy brew. With a loud belch, the man wiped his wet lips with the back of his hand and levered himself up from the table. He lurched toward them mumbling something about needing the “jacks.”

  “Hey, Bana,” Doris shouted. “You oughta go home before you pass out.”

  “Sod you, Doris,” the man slurred, elbowing past the waitress. Just as he reached Tatsu, the drunk lost his balance and fell. His flailing hand hooked Tatsu’s shoulder and dragged him out of his chair. Both crashed to the filthy floor in a tangle of limbs and furniture. Tatsu gagged as the stench of sweat and beer washed over him.

  The drunk’s head lolled to one side. A thin trail of saliva ran down his unshaven chin as he peered at Tatsu. “’Scuse me.” The man belched again, smacked his lips then grinned as if he’d done something very clever.

  “Damn it,” Doris cried as she grabbed Tatsu under his arm and helped him up. “You okay, kid? Sorry, he knocked over your drink.” She retrieved his fallen glass. “I’ll fetch you another.”

  Tatsu shook his head. “It’s all right.”

  The woman grabbed Tatsu’s sleeve. “Shit, I know you don’t know him, but can you get him outta here? If the owner sees Bana like this, he’ll burn him.”

  “Huh, why me?” A year ago, he would have been happy to lend a hand. Not now. Let the drooling idiot trying to prop himself against the table leg get his own ass home.

  “You look like an honest guy. Bana’s not a bad sort. Just loses it sometimes. He only lives around the block. Here’s his address,” Doris scribbled something on a blank order ticket and shoved it into Tatsu’s hand. She crouched, fumbled through the man’s jacket pocket, removed a couple of crumpled bills and held them up. “’Sides, he’s buyin’ your drinks fer the next two weeks.” She winked. Before another protest left Tatsu’s lips, she dashed away to the other end of the bar yelling out an order.

  He glared down at the semi-conscious man sprawled over the fallen chair. Kuso. Tatsu zipped his jacket, grabbed Bana under the armpits and hauled him to his feet. He hitched the man’s arm over his own shoulders, took a firm grip on the thick wrist and aimed for the exit.

  The freezing rain drenched them within seconds as they stumbled into the street. Tatsu hunched into his collar as cold water ran down his neck. Bana mumbled something, maybe a thank you, maybe a protest. Tatsu was struggling too much with the man’s unwieldy body to care. Then to Tatsu’s alarm, Bana started singing, or rather slurring some sort of Gaelic ditty, off-key no less.

  Sweat broke out on Tatsu’s forehead despite the cold as he lugged the heavy man along the slippery pavement. And with every unsteady step, the weight on Tatsu’s shoulder seemed to increase until it felt like he was hauling a horse—a wet, drunk, singing horse—up a steep, rain-slick hill. Mochiron, of course, Bana’s home had to be at the top.

  Ten cold, wet minutes later, they arrived at Bana’s home. “Ish right up here,” Bana wagged an unsteady finger in the direction of a narrow stairway between two small shops. “Upsie stairsie.” He lurched forward, tripped on the bottom step and sat down with a thump. He did not look the least inclined to move.

  Chikusho, this just gets better and better. Tatsu hauled the drunk to his feet, tightened his grip around the man’s waist and began the climb. Twice Bana swayed backward and nearly tumbled them both down the stairs. When they reached the apartment door, the man fumbled in his pocket, managed to extract a loaded key ring only to drop it. Tatsu propped Bana against the wall but the man’s knees gave way, and he slid ungracefully to the floor.

  Tatsu looked at the deadbolts punctuating the peeling wood. Kuso, what the hell? Three fucking locks? He tried several keys before finding the right ones. Grunting more with exasperation than effort, Tatsu lifted Bana under the armpits and maneuvered him into a darkened vestibule. Kicked the door shut behind them.

  The loud slam jerked Bana from his stupor. Muttering something about needing another drink, the sotted man staggered up to the bar in the living room. He pulled out a bottle, unscrewed the cap and began gulping from the mouth.

  “Mr. Bana, maybe you shouldn’t drink any more.” Tatsu reached for the bottle.

  “Ish Bana … jush Bana.” The man clutched the bottle to his chest with both hands and leaned forward with a sloppy, wet-mouth grin. He hiccupped once then vomited over Tatsu’s jacket.

  “Shit.” Tatsu jumped back trying to avoid the putrid mess as it landed on his chest.

  “Opps. S’my bad,” Bana’s grin held no real apology. He weaved over to the couch, reaching it just as his brain lost communication with his muscles. With a grunt, he collapsed, dropping the bottle. Its amber contents soaked into the plush carpet. Uncaring, Bana rolled to his side and fell asleep.

  Tatsu yanked off his foul-smelling jacket. He found the bathroom and scrubbed the disgusting mess off with soap and a towel. The stink of vomit didn’t worry him but it would attract predators. At least the old leather was waterproof. He left it to dry over the shower head.

  On the couch, Bana was swimming up out of his alcoholic fog. He swore and squirmed, trying to remove his hip-length leather coat. Tatsu ignored the rank odor of someone who picked up a drink more often than a bar of soap and helped by pulling off one sleeve. Bana flailed his arms with an uncoordinated intensity, gave one heave of his thick body and disentangled himself. With a grunt, he fell backwards onto the couch and passed out again.

  Holding the coat, Tatsu stepped back in surprise at the sight of a pair of automatic guns held snugly in a much-worn shoulder harness. What the hell? Was this guy insane? Possession of a firearm meant an immediate death penalty in any Quarantine.

>   Tatsu placed the jacket on the floor and removed both weapons—the drunk might shoot himself, or worse, him. The guns were beautiful, a match pair of Beretta 93 R-Xs capable of firing several rounds in a single burst. He could tell by the weight that each magazine was full, a round chambered in the slide. At least the safeties were still on. With quick efficiency, he unloaded the guns and laid them on the coffee table.

  As Tatsu folded Bana’s coat over the couch arm, a cell phone dropped to the carpet. He snatched it up half-fearing it had broken. Why the hell bother with a cell phone? Damn things were almost useless in a city so plagued by atmospheric interference that transmission was erratic at best. None of his business, though, if the man wasted his money. Tatsu tucked the instrument back into Bana’s pocket.

  Still wondering about the cell phone and those Berettas, Tatsu capped the fallen bottle and placed it on the bar. He worried about leaving. The unconscious man might vomit and choke. Jigoku, what was he thinking? The puke was already all over his jacket.

  A thin, grey light showed through the thin curtains. Tatsu knew he should leave. But fatigue dogged him. He sure wasn’t looking forward to that two-mile hike home in the freezing rain. A cup of coffee would help. Hell, the man owed him that much.

  Tatsu rummaged among the kitchen cupboards until he found a round silver can. This guy had expensive taste. Real Arabica coffee cost the average worker a week’s pay. Soon, the nutty aroma of the percolating brew filled the compact room.

  Blowing on the hot coffee, he wandered back into the living room and eyed the plush recliner opposite the couch. Maybe he could stay until Bana woke up, maybe ask him a few questions. Maybe not. Good chance when the drunk roused he’d mistake Tatsu for a burglar. A man who packed that kind of firepower seemed like the sort who would shoot first, ask questions of the corpse later.