by Jack Conner
Singer stepped forward, smiling. His canines had grown quite long, and there was something bestial in his face. "May the Lord take your sinning souls—because if He doesn't, the Devil surely will."
That was when something strange happened.
* * *
Byron was beginning to think they wouldn't find Laslo. This didn't disturb him.
Laslo's death would be difficult to arrange, but it was also irrelevant; Byron was perfectly aware that the albino had sent them on this mission just to have a few moments with Danielle. What would be the outcome of those moments? Byron was relatively sure that Jean-Pierre wouldn't kill her and that this lack of action would break the squad apart. If so, what would Byron do?
To be truthful, he knew the answer, as much as he might wish he didn't. He was going to miss Jean-Pierre. He only hoped that in all her anger, Cloire would refrain from killing the albino, or getting him to help her do it. That was one thing he couldn't do; if Cloire asked him to do that, no matter how he felt about her, he would refuse, and that would probably put an end to their relationship, as well. If only he could just hear her say that she loved him, just once, before that happened …
They found Laslo in the chapel, praying. When he heard Byron and the other three enter, he wheeled about and without hesitation began shooting, a wild grin across his face. His dark eyes shone brightly. He was loving all this, thought Byron, and suddenly found that he wouldn't mind killing the bastard, after all.
Zombies sprung up to either side of the chapel's doorway and descended on the death-squad, forcing them back out into the hall. Byron shot one through the head, then another. Several fell, but then the bloodfinders were too close. One wrenched Byron’s gun from his hands. He twisted its head off, but he had no time to leap for the gun. More deaders pressed in tight.
Hand-to-hand combat broke out. After crushing one of the fetid things in his big arms, Byron punched another through the chest, where his hand stuck. Seizing the opportunity, the zombie sent its fingers toward his eyes.
Cloire knocked the thing's head in with the butt of a rifle she'd managed to hang onto, then left him to struggle with getting the corpse off his arm while a third deader jumped on her back and tried to strangle her from behind. Two zombies had pinned Kilian up against a wall while another beat at his face.
Laslo emerged from the chapel. With a few zombies trailing behind, he started off down the hall, Kiernevar the only crew member free to chase after him. The two lunatics disappeared from sight.
Byron shook the thing off his hand and helped Cloire remove the zombie from her back. That done, they liberated a badly-beaten Kilian and dealt with the deaders remaining. They followed the sounds of gunfire and cackling down a series of halls until they reached a staircase, which they ascended to the top floor.
Up ahead, the laughter continued, only now it was Kiernevar who made the sound. He was just disappearing through a small arched doorway when they rounded the last bend. They entered it to find a narrow staircase. Not pausing, they ascended the single flight to the roof. A blast of cold wind raised goose-bumps along Byron's spine as he stepped outside.
At first he couldn't spot Kiernevar or Laslo, only hear their cackling and hooting, but then he saw the bodies of several zombies lying dead and broken on the roof. Kiernevar was chasing the psychotic priest up some scaffolding to the beheaded bell tower. Wind whipped madly around them, fluttering their hair and clothes.
Laslo turned on the brink of the abyss, firing his last bullets into the Lord of the Flies before they collided, struggling on the edge of a well that Byron couldn't see so much as sense. Illuminated against the stars, the two madmen locked their hands about each others' throats. It was amazing to Byron that Kiernevar was still alive, that Laslo's age wasn't enough to slay the young werewolf easily. But for some reason the two lunatics were deadlocked, struggling like two bulls, neither gaining ground, just smiling maniacally at each other even as their fingers sank tighter into each other's throats.
The two lunatics teetered, then went over into the well, both still intent on throttling the other. So focused were they that, even as they plummeted, they didn’t make a sound, not even a chitter, but simply disappeared from the lip of the bell tower as if they'd never existed.
"Shit," said Cloire.
She ran up the scaffolding and peered down into the well. Byron joined her, but could see little.
"Shall we?" he said.
Cloire smiled faintly. "If Kiernevar wants to get himself killed, that's his problem. Let's go back down to the hangar the old-fashioned way.”
The three loped downstairs through the cold stone corridors to the hangar. They passed the swaying bodies and empty barricades until they heard a strange wet sound and followed it to find a very odd scene indeed. The scattered remains of the zombies, along with Jean-Pierre, Sophia, Loirot and the odd flock (!), were standing around a large pit, or pool, located directly below an opening in the ceiling.
The surface of the gooey substance, though too high to be seen by those below, could be heard to thrash and bubble. Laslo and Kiernevar fought in there—an epic battle between two truly demented immortals. The pool bucked, the corpse-filled sludge (Byron could smell the reek of death) boiled, and the observers looked on with awe.
Finally, the waters stilled. A calm grew over the hangar.
A hand gripped the rim of the pool and a head rose over the edge: Laslo's. He was bloody and beaten, more ashen than ever, his glossy black eyes faded by battle. His expression deathly, he gave a sickly, twitching smile.
There was something wrong, something in his hair. Fingers curled there tightly, gripping the roots.
Kiernevar rose from the putrid water, holding Laslo’s decapitated head in his hand, located the stairs and followed them to the concrete floor. Dripping, bits of flesh and decaying matter plastering him, a manic grin spread across his features.
How was this possible? How could a werewolf so young destroy a chalgid so old? Few assembled were ever to know, but everyone was eager to conjecture about it. Perhaps Kiernevar's innate strength—the quality which had prompted Jean-Pierre to immortalize him in the first place—was simply stronger than Laslo's.
With Laslo's passing, a shudder worked its way through the assembled zombies. No more were they bound by a psychic hold; they were free, although without his blood and powers of resurrection they would probably die within a few days or weeks—unless Singer had absorbed enough of Laslo's blood over the years to make a true chalgid out of him. In that case, he would become their new leader. In any event, several of them began tearing off their monk-robes and a few even spit on them. One said, "Praise Satan," and the others chuckled.
Kiernevar started to toss the head to them, but Ruegger stopped him. With some formality, the vampire approached him and held out his hands. Kiernevar stared at him, then, wonderingly, handed the head over. He watched on intently as Ruegger whispered something to the head, then bent his ear to Laslo’s lips to hear the ragged answer. Ruegger nodded, satisfied, then handed the head back to Kiernevar. Though obviously confused, Kiernevar accepted, and immediately did what he had been about to do.
Like a pack of wolves, the zombies tore the head apart. Their new-found freedom was almost intoxicating to watch.
Cloire would have none of it; Jean-Pierre had released Ruegger and Danielle and that was all she saw. Picking a shotgun from off the ground, she marched over to where the albino, Sophia, Loirot and the odd flock stood. Taking aim at Danielle, Cloire fired. The vampiress crumpled.
Jean-Pierre had the Magnum in his hand instantly and emptied its clip into Cloire before Danielle had been on the ground long enough to settle. Cloire staggered backward. Before she collapsed, she got off another twelve-gauge round, hitting the albino in the chest and sending him to the floor.
Byron helped her up. Jean-Pierre rose, too, and slapped another magazine into his gun.
"You let them live, you bastard!" seethed Cloire, picking up some shells from the ground and reloading
the shotgun. "Kill her now, Jean-Pierre, or I swear I'll do it for you."
Ruegger knelt over Danielle, holding her in his arms. It wouldn't be long now, Byron saw: she was dying, and quickly. All the blood in the world wouldn't be able to save her after another few minutes, and Ruegger certainly didn't have enough to save her. Someone here would have to do it, and fast.
"Don't touch her, Cloire," Jean-Pierre said. "As my last act as your leader, I command you to let her live."
She arched her eyebrows at Kilian. "You with me?"
"Hell," he said, "I'm second-in-command. Are you willing to elect me as your new leader?"
"For now let's just say we're equal partners. Deal?"
"Deal."
"Kiernevar, you ugly bastard, you'll probably have made a name for yourself now, after having killed Laslo. You with us?"
"Kiernevar," he chirped, but there was clarity in his eyes. "After, albino gone?"
"That's right, shit-for-brains."
"Kiernevar is with you.”
"I made you," hissed Jean-Pierre, "and I will unmake you."
"Empty threats," said Cloire. Then, to Loirot: "What of it, you bastard? You in?"
Loirot stepped away from the albino. "I'm in, goddamnit."
She faced Byron. Softly, she said, "You with me, lover?"
He hesitated. God, but what would it accomplish if he stayed with Jean-Pierre? He'd only lose Cloire. Really, his decision was inevitable.
"Do you love me?" he asked her.
"Shit," she said. "Is that what it all comes down to?"
"Yes."
"All right then, damnit ... I do."
He nodded. "Will we still work for Vistrot?"
"If he’ll have us."
Byron forced himself to look at Jean-Pierre, who gazed back at him with a strange ... empathy.
"It's okay," the albino said. "I understand. Do what you have to do."
Surprising him, Byron felt tears burn behind his eyes. He straightened. “Okay,” he told Cloire.
"And what about you, Sofe?” Cloire said. “We were friends for a short time, and we can be friends again. Jean-Pierre has nothing for you. Look at him, he's pathetic. Come, just think of all the great times we'll have. All you have to do is—just—say—yes."
Sophia stepped forward, but it was to the side of Jean-Pierre that she went. She grabbed his hand and squeezed it.
"He's not pathetic," she said.
“Fine. We don't need you. Step out of the way, both of you, and let us finish the job. Remember that I'm only sparing you two out of courtesy and that I'll revoke the privilege if you piss me off. Now stand down!"
Jean-Pierre raised the .357 and Sophia brought up her own pistol, a 9mm Beretta. Together, they positioned themselves in front of Ruegger and Danielle, blocking off the death-squad's line of fire. This was an irrevocable action and they both seemed to know it; a glance passed between them, and Byron didn’t miss it.
"Okay, you bastards," said Cloire. "Prepare to die."
Violence would have certainly erupted, but it was at this time that help came from a very unlikely source. Booming laughter broke the tension and the Balaklava emerged from the nearby forest of swaying bodies. They chuckled and clapped their hands, and Jagoda put fingers in his mouth and whistled.
"Very good, very good," called Junger, the bald, tattooed one with the tusks. "You've all put on a marvelous show, very dramatic."
"Very dramatic," concurred Jagoda.
"But now it must end, because little Danielle is dying and that's not part of the plan, though it would be worse if it were Ruegger ... but enough of this. All of you, lower your weapons or we will do it for you."
They lowered their weapons. The Balaklava were much stronger than all present, and not even Cloire wanted to fight them. Jagoda walked past Sophia and the albino to crouch next to Danielle.
Ruegger's eyes burned, but he didn't object as the bearded one sliced open his wrist and put it to Danielle's mouth. At first, she resisted, but she wasn't in every sense of the word conscious; her eyes were open, but Byron doubted she could actually see. The Balaklava's blood touched her tongue and she swallowed reflexively, growing more vital with each sip.
"That should do it," Jagoda said, and started to draw his arm away, but Ruegger grabbed it.
"What did you mean my death would be worse than hers?"
The Bone-Crusher smiled. "I can't give all the secrets away, my boy, or else it would be no fun. Besides, and whether you believe me or not, I don't know. Not completely, anyway—but find Hauswell and you'll get some answers. Trust me."
"That's the last thing I'll ever do.”
Jagoda pulled his arm back. "That’s the thanks I get for saving your woman?"
Ruegger's face was utterly and completely without humor. In fact, it seemed to make Jagoda uncomfortable.
"You will die, Jagoda, and your friend with you—this is a promise, a vow, and I've never been known to break a vow."
"You don't scare me, vampire. I'm more powerful than you could ever be."
"It won't matter," Ruegger whispered, and now he did smile, a tiny, grim smile that only made his bloody face more severe. His eyes were cold and black, and he held Danielle carefully in his arms as if to shield her from the world itself.
"It won't matter," he repeated.
He removed the albino's jacket from her shoulders and tossed it to Jean-Pierre, then lifted Danielle gently and carried her past the zombies, the werewolves, the Balaklava and the ghensiv, through the swaying forest of flesh and through the breach that the death-squad had created on entering. Bloody and naked as infants, they passed through the hole and left the hangar behind.
* * *
“So,” Danielle said, glancing at Ruegger from the passenger seat of their car, when she had roused somewhat. “What did you find out from Laslo?”
Ruegger grimaced. “Hauswell’s in Lereba.”
“Morocco?”
“The one and only.”
“We weren’t far from there just a few weeks ago. I guess he wasn’t there then, though. Why is he there?”
“In hiding from the Scouring. Laslo was covering for him.”
“Shit.” Danielle frowned. “So I guess we’re off to Africa.”
“So it seems.”
“Damn. I could really use a break, Rueg.”
“I know, babe. I know.”
Chapter 20
Sophia watched as Cloire and Kilian prepared their crew to leave, though first they salvaged what weapons they could from the corpses. Jean-Pierre and Sophia stood side-by-side, watching and smoking. It amazed her that any sort of peace had been declared, but so it seemed. For all her anger, Cloire made no move against them now that things had been settled. Junger and Jagoda, meanwhile, discussed something with Singer and a few other zombies. Although they were anxious to return to New York, the Balaklava seemed to see artistic possibilities with the hangar and wanted to buy it from the bloodfinders, who were quite willing to make a deal. The bodies that still moved were disposed of, quickly and mercifully.
When the death-squad had gathered all the salvageable guns and was ready to leave, Cloire approached Jean-Pierre and Sophia. "I should shoot you both just for good measure.”
"Then why don't you?" said Sophia.
Cloire raised her shotgun, but Byron, coming up behind her, said, "Time to go."
She blew a kiss at Sophia and the albino. "'Bye, kids, and have a nice walk back to town."
"No," said Byron, "they're coming with us."
"Fuck off. Now isn't the time to discover you've got a pair."
"Goddamnit, Cloire, Jean-Pierre's been with us too long to treat him this way. The least we owe him is a trip back to town. After that, we can declare all debts paid."
She nodded reluctantly. "Okay, you two, shut up and come with us. But, Frenchie, remember what By said—after this, all debts are paid. Don't come looking to me for a handout. Maybe in a few decades you can join us again, but that's it, and even then y
ou won't be our leader. As for you, Sofe ... well, bitch, may you live in interesting times."
She marched back to the exit, Jean-Pierre and Sophia following her at a more reserved pace. Sophia reached out for his hand and he took it.
The drive back to Las Vegas was silent, tense, and seemingly endless. When it was over, the occupants of the van climbed out and made their way up to the penthouse they'd rented. After packing their bags, Jean-Pierre and Sophia decided against making a farewell speech, left quickly and took an elevator down to the Strand, where it was cool and dry. Sophia felt dizzy. Events had been moving too fast.
"What now?" she said.
"I could use a drink.”
“Best plan I’ve heard all day."
They found themselves a bar, sat down at a booth near a window and ordered a few beers. She leaned back, closed her eyes and sighed. Suddenly, she felt very tired, but it was good to be here, alone again with Jean-Pierre.
"Sophia," he said slowly, letting his words sink in, "I'm not known for my impetuous actions, but our relationship seems to be progressing rapidly."
She opened her eyes. He seemed sincere, despite the businesslike nature of his tone.
"It does,” she said, feeling the heat from his hand.
"What I'm proposing ... well, why don’t we stay here, together, for a few days, before we return to New York. See if we can’t make something out of this?”
What in hell is going on? she thought. Love? Really?
She studied his moist green eyes, which reflected the brilliant neon of the Strand, and saw that there were tears there. God, he was so open! And, more than anything else, she could respect this, because it was something she wasn't yet strong enough to be. Accepting his proposal would bring her that much closer.
She removed her hand from his and busied herself by lighting a Black Death.
There was, of course, that other issue between them, that issue which bound them no matter what, an issue which would make any union between them rather unconventional. It was this issue that finally decided her.
Immediately she found herself laughing (Can't wait to tell Mom!) and reached for his hand. "I will, Jean-Pierre. God help me, but I will. You must do one thing for me, though.”
