Eternal Samurai

by B. D. Heywood

  Tatsu’s erection wilted as he hopped around on the cold floor. He pulled on his jock, grabbed his tanto as the flimsy door shuddered beneath another heavy blow.

  “Matte kudasai, hold on, will you?” Blade poised to strike, he yanked the door open and stared dumbfounded at the strange man grinning at him. “Mr. Bana?”

  “Course it’s me boyo, who else would it be? And bye-the-bye, me name’s Murtagh, Bana Murtagh. But Bana’s OK, just drop the Mister crap.” Bana didn’t waste a glance at the knife pointing at his chest, just pushed the tip aside and walked into the shabby, closet-sized room. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, hunched his shoulders in an exaggerated shiver. “Shite, it’s cold enough to freeze a whore’s tit in here.”

  Bana noted those two swords—those amazing, deadly swords—lying on the narrow cot crowded under the window. A pair of worn motorcycle saddlebags leaned against the single wooden chair. In one corner, a rickety card table held a hot plate, dented saucepan, utensils, and not much else. A tattered drape hanging from a metal rod did little to shield the dingy bathroom beyond. The Irishman’s nose curled in an audible sniff. “This is a foin palace you’re livin’ in.”

  Tatsu shrugged as he dropped the short blade onto the cot. He grabbed his wrinkled jeans from the chair and pulled them on. “It works for me.” He hadn’t chosen the boarding house for its creature comforts but because it was dirt-cheap and offered a shed where he could keep his bike out of the perennial rain.

  Bana made a quick assessment of the kid’s near-naked body. A fine layer of muscle there. No wonder he wielded those swords as easily as if they were a set of chopsticks. And fekkin’ hell? Four distinct bite marks right alongside that Adam’s apple. Bana would bet his sainted mother’s silver crucifix those old scars were the legacy of a bloodsucker.

  “What are you doing here?’ Tatsu demanded, the question muffled by the tee half over his head. He tucked it in, before turning to Bana, hands on hips, green eyes suspicious.

  The Irishman had intended to deliver only his thanks. But those wounds on the young man’s throat changed his mind. There was a story here, and Bana’s nose itched with curiosity. Still, all of that would wait. He was hungry.

  “Come on, breakfast’s on me.” Bana yanked open the apartment door and stepped into the hallway.

  Tatsu stilled his protest. Instead, he pulled on his boots, strapped on his swords then shrugged into his jacket. The Irishman was the first friendly person he’d encountered in this hostile city. Best of all, Bana appeared sober. Sober might mean reliable information, especially from a man who kept an arsenal in his apartment.

  They stepped from the lobby into a freezing drizzle. Tatsu hunched his shoulders as cold water ran down his neck and seeped under his collar. Almost in stride, they hiked down the steep hill in the direction of a row of shops. Beside him, Bana grumbled how it was always “bucketing in this fekkin’ town.”

  “Where are we going?” Tatsu shouted over the gear-grinding clanks of the ancient garbage truck gathering refuse for Seattle’s methane plants. Bana did not bother to reply, merely continued his short powerful stride down the street—the set of his shoulders saying he was sure Tatsu would follow. Minutes later, the Irishman ushered them into the warmth of a hole-in-the-wall café filled with the hearty aromas of home cooking. Tatsu’s stomach grumbled and his mouth watered.

  “Place doesn’t look like much but the breakfast here will warm the cockles of a man’s stomach.” Bana mangled the old cliché, hoping to make Tatsu smile. It didn’t work.

  They hunkered down at a table at the rear of the cafe. Tatsu spun his chair around and straddled it to accommodate his swords. Bana unzipped his jacket letting it drop open, the butts of his two guns within easy reach.

  Tatsu wondered if the Irishman didn’t care who knew about his firearms. Or perhaps there was another reason for the man’s casual disregard for the law?

  “What’s yer name, boyo?” Bana peered around for the waiter.

  “Tatsu Cobb.”

  “Well, blow me. Yer only part Oriental. Coulda fooled me,” Bana was not shy about his opinions. “You ain’t got no accent. Where ya from?”

  “Born in Nagasaki. Moved to the Pueblo Sovereign State, Santa Fe actually, when I was eleven.”

  Bana whistled. “Rich turf. Lotsa money, lotsa sunshine, no bloodsuckers. And you left it fer this hellhole? Pretty daft thing to do.”

  Before Tatsu thought of a response, the waiter placed a steaming pot of coffee and two mugs before them. The old man took their order, which Bana delivered rapid-fire as if he knew the menu by heart.

  “How old are you anyway? Seventeen, mebbe eighteen? An’ no bullshit.” Bana rubbed his forefinger down the side of his nose. “I can always tell. Ya might say it’s a supernatural talent o’ mine.”

  “Twenty-four.” Tatsu grimaced, anticipating the inevitable reaction. This time it was delivered somewhere in a string of Irish profanity.

  “No shite? Bugger me. You look like yer still in fekkin’ high school.” Just then, their food arrived putting an end to the Irishman’s questions. Bana ate with noisy gusto, washing down his big bites with great gulps from his mug. But his shrewd gaze never left Tatsu’s face.

  To a hungry Tatsu, the breakfast was absolute perfection, and the food went down fast. He smiled his gratitude, a quick flash of perfect white teeth accompanied by unexpected dimples. “Domo arigatō gozaimasu, but you really didn’t have to do that.”

  “Certainly did, boyo. You saved my arse. Most folks would take off, not even stop to call the coppers. Not that it would do any good, seeing as how they’re strictly day-lighters. Not like in the old days.”

  Mochiron, of course. Bana was around during the old days—before the plague turned the world upside-down thirty years ago.

  “What was it like, back then I mean?” Tatsu’s mother would have thought it an impolite question. But polite would not get him far in this world.

  “Shite, boyo. Wasn’t as good as some like ta think. In fact, this country was on its way to the crapper even before me Mam spat me out. Economic hell, I heard. No jobs, millions, and I mean millions, o’ homeless fightin’ over scraps. This place was worse than many. The American government tried to crack down and Bob’s-yer-Uncle, they got civil war. And that was even before we was hit by the fekkin’ vampire virus.”

  “Do you remember the virus?”

  “Lost half me family to it. Didn’t know what the fuck it was. Told it was like the flu. Couple billion died, thousands turned bloodsucker. Sod me, who knew vamps came from some fekkin’ disease? So-called genius scientists couldn’t figure out how something that was hidden for centuries suddenly woke up. This country was hit worse than any other. Dunno why. Some places did better, ones like the Dominion of Canada and the Greater European Consortium. All old history now, boyo.”

  Bana gave a little snort and got to the point of his breakfast invitation. “You snooped around my apartment the other night, didn’t cha? Noticed a little more than ya bargained fer.” He stared at Tatsu long enough that those honey-colored cheeks flushed.

  “Sumimasen, I aplogize. You have a nice apartment.”

  “Sure do. And I gots the means to keep it.”

  “Mochiron, it appears you do, Bana-san. Several lethal means. Aren’t you afraid of breaking the law?”

  “Not me, I’ve got what you might call special dispensation,” Bana evaded any further details by slurping his coffee with noisy relish.

  “One of those vampires the other night had a gun.”

  “Yeah, lotta good it did him, eh? Stupid git shoulda remembered his best weapons are in his mouth. Along with their super speed and strength. Makes life pretty crappy fer a lot o’ citizens. But enough o’ my blather. Where you learn to use swords like that? Christ on a crutch, you killed three bloodsuckers in seconds.”

  The corners of Tatsu’s mouth turned up in a ghost of a grin. Bana’s conversation sure jumped around. Still, Tatsu sensed a definite purpose behi
nd Bana’s questions, something more than friendly curiosity. Tatsu’s guard crumpled. Was it his dire need for information? Or just to talk with a man, any man, after so many weeks of painful solitude?

  “Ojii-san, er … Grandfather, started training me almost as soon as I could walk. I always thought it was some sort of family tradition, you know, honoring my ancestors, embracing the mysticism of samurai honor.”

  “Pretty efficient way o’ packing ’em on yer back like that. I know that ain’t traditional.”

  “I was taught Miyamoto Musashi’s techniques. He was one of Japan’s greatest samurai in the seventeenth century. We call it the Way of the Two Swords. Basically it means I adapt to whatever works.”

  “So, where’d you get ’em?”

  “They have been in my family for five centuries.”

  Bana gave an admiring whistle. “Packing anything else?”

  “Tanto. Short knife. Pretty handy. Used for many things including committing seppuku.”

  “Ugh, you mean suicide. Don’t understand that concept at all.” Bana scrunched up his nose. “You Japs take this sword crap pretty serious, don’tcha? Seems using a gun is a hell of a lot more practical, if you get my drift.” Tatsu goaded, hoping to hear the Irishman explain those Berettas.

  “Maybe for you. But I’m not breaking the law. And I’d put my swords against any gunman within twenty feet.”

  “Twenty feet. What the fuck’s that mean?”

  “Inside that distance, I can draw my sword and slice a man open before he can pull the trigger.”

  “Not for me to deny it boyo. Not after seein’ ya take out three bloodsuckers faster than shit through a goose.”

  Impatient with Bana’s chatter, Tatsu pushed his empty plate aside. “Who are you? How’d you know where to find me? What do you want from me?”

  “Whoa, slow it down, boyo. Me? I’m jist a simple Irishman, born and raised. As for finding you? Was a diddle. Strangers are always noticed in this neighborhood especially someone packing steel like yours.” The amused crinkle fell from his weathered face. “The way you handled yerself other night, that wasn’t yer first time. Been hearing a lot of shite bout vamps being chopped up by them swords. But you ain’t no hunter.”

  “Perhaps I’m a different kind of hunter.”

  A loud guffaw burst from the Irishman’s mouth. “There ain’t no different kind o’ hunters. You are either into the killing game or you’re not. No middle ground here, boyo. Wannabe hunters always coming here looking to score kills. They’re not encouraged to stay. I’d advise you the same. Move on. Vancouver’s not such a bad place. Canadians are real friendly folks.”

  “I have something I must do.” Tatsu refused to curb the edge in his voice.

  “Yer a stubborn shite. But since I kin tell you ain’t about to take my friendly advice, tell me whatcha really doing here?” Bana grinned, the friendly expression aimed at disarming Tatsu.

  “I, ah … found out something concerning my family.”

  “So, yer here to look up some long lost relatives. Lot of Orientals here. But something tells me you’re not one for family reunions. Right?”

  Tatsu glared into those deep grey eyes that reflected more than idle curiosity. He wanted to trust this man, needed to trust him. Needed a friend. Tatsu crushed his innate reluctance to speak about his life. The story slipped from his taut, reluctant lips.

  It was still hard to accept that two months ago his Uncle Ray had been murdered by a border jumper from Upland Mississippi. Tatsu could not speak of his near-crippling grief as he scattered the remains of his only relative on a slope of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Or the tears that soaked the letter he wrote to Warren, Ray’s former lover now living in New York.

  “I was going through his papers when I found the Nagasaki police report about how my family died. Until I read it, I didn’t remember anything of that night although the file says I was there. There were photos, too.”

  Six photos. Six glossy, full-color gore-filled photographs that ripped open the horror hidden deep in his mind.

  Unbidden, the kaleidoscope of memories tore through him. With an implacable force all its own, his tormented mind relived every second of that night of slaughter. Suddenly, Tatsu was a little boy of ten, a terrified little boy drowning in a sea of blood and terror.

  Nagasaki, Japan, 2009

  “Kachan, mother. Tadaima, I’m home!” Tatsu’s usual greeting bubbled over with a rare excitement as he dashed through the front door of his house. He could barely contain his excitement at the amazing news that would fill his parents with pride. Just this afternoon, Chikamatsu-Sensei, the shinkendo master at the Nagasaki Boys Middle School promised Tatsu would be named captain of the lower-division team next term.

  “Kachan. Otoo-san. Mother, father, I’m home,” he called again in English, knowing it would please his American father.

  He kicked off his shoes in the genkan, the tiny vestibule leading to the living area. Tripping and laughing, he jammed his feet into his slippers. He giggled with delight at the sight of his father’s large, polished business shoes. Tonight everyone was home to celebrate his tenth birthday. Tomorrow morning they were going to visit his Uncle Ray in America. Tatsu felt his happiness would burst from his body and eclipse everyone.

  Odd, there were no food smells even though it was an hour past dinnertime. Perhaps they were having Hiyashi chuka, his favorite cold-noodle dish. He charged into the kitchen. Puzzled, he skidded to a halt just inside the door. Where was kachan or his younger sister Min-chan who always pestered her mother to help with cooking? Tatsu stepped into the dining room expecting to see everyone seated and eating. Saw only five empty places at the low table. He giggled at his stupidity. Mochiron, of course, Tatsu you baka. How could he be such an idiot and forget? Everyone must be upstairs packing for their holiday.

  In his excitement, Tatsu failed to notice the eerie quiet of the house. He bounded up the stairs; his long legs—a legacy from his tall, American father—letting him take them two at a time with ease. Tatsu raced down the hall to his room, tossed his school satchel onto his desk, scrambled out of his uniform jacket and dropped it in a careless heap on top of his bed.

  “Onii-kun, guess what?” He ducked his head into his younger brother’s tiny bedroom. Felt a twinge of disappointment not finding his brother reading a book as usual. Rikaru-chan must be in their parent’s bedroom. He banged on the door to his little sister’s room. “Min-chan, may I come in?” Silence. The door remained closed. No matter.

  “Kachan, Otoo-san,” he called for his parents again as he charged along the short, unlit hallway. For a moment, he wondered why he heard no happy chatter coming from his parent’s bedroom. Mochiron, packing is hard work. Rudely, he slid the door open without asking permission but knowing his mother would forgive. She always forgave.

  Tatsu bounded across the threshold. His feet skidded from beneath him. He crashed onto his back slamming his head on the wooden floor. Bright lights danced in his head. Sticky fluid, like honey, coated the tatami beneath his splayed hands. A cloying, sweet smell mixed with the rank stench of sewage flooded his nostrils.

  A moment’s confusion at the sight of a discarded pile of clothes. Otoo-san’s business suit? Why was the suit covered in red paint? He felt an odd disconnect before the horror hit him. The crumpled pile was his Dad! His father’s kind face, pale, slack, the eyes open but unseeing. A hole gaped like a second mouth below the chin. Thick, crimson fluid covered his father’s inert body.

  “Otoo-san wake, up, wake up.” Tatsu cried reaching for the dear hand lying open and unmoving on the floor. The fingers were cold. “Otoo-san, Dad, please look at me.” Tatsu begged not believing his father’s warm, green eyes no longer saw him.

  Tatsu lifted his head, stared blankly at the tangle of bedclothes spilling over the end of the bed. His cry for his mother turned into a shriek of agony as sharp claws dug into his calf with excruciating pain. With a neck-snapping jerk, his world flipped upside down. In t
error, he twisted his body, flailing his arms, kicking with his free leg. One slipper spun in crazy arcs through the air and bounced against the wall. Someone screamed from far, far away. The screams were his.

  The claws around his leg dug deeper, sent excruciating pain up his leg as his attacker shook him. Tatsu’s head flopped back and forth. A sick weakness swept through him. His cries drowned in a flood of bile that gushed out his mouth His eyes filled with tears, blurring the sight of his sister lying on the tatami, a mat that should have been a sea blue but now was insanely red. Her crumpled body looked like one of her dolls with its blank, plastic face.

  The world spun, everything going topsy turvey. “Kachan!” his terrified cry came out as a liquid whimper. He saw his mother on the bed. Thick, red rivulets splattered over her torn neck and exposed breast. Her beautiful brown eyes stared unseeing up at him as he dangled above her too-white face. His little brother, Rikaru, sprawled immobile against her side. One of his small arms draped over her waist in a child’s desperate and futile gesture of protection.

  The room rocked again as Tatsu’s body was whipped from side to side. More pain as his head snapped back and forth. Then the vice around his leg vanished, and he dropped headfirst onto the blood-soaked tatami. He wanted to curl up and bury his head under his arms but he was too stunned to move. He squeezed his eyes so tight that colored lights danced behind eyelids. But he could not shut out the sounds of laughter bubbling thick and wet with a dreadful delight above him.

  Hands on his ankles and neck dragged him flat onto his back. A terrible weight landed on his chest. He heard the sickening crack of his own ribs then he could not breathe. He clawed at the arm pinning him, scratched the hand clutching his chin. Then that hand twisted his head sideways. His neck was going to break!

  “You’re the last of that Kurosaki onezimi. The last vermin to ever carry that name.” The animal growl rolled against the terrified boy’s ear. A hiss of such hatred, Tatsu felt it would destroy his very soul. Agony beyond comprehension pierced his neck. Excruciating pain ripped along every nerve in his body.