Demons landed on bodies. Those on shore, casino boat and those floating had claws clutched deep in their dead flesh. Hungry mouths tore huge pieces. The demons feasted upon the dead.
Herod began to laugh and laugh at the atrocious depravity of it all. It was so delicious to him.
* * * Herod was standing when the vision subsided and he came to. The echo of laughter reverberated throughout the chamber. He was between throne and cross. He had arms raised in victory, could feel his wide smile. His robe was open, penis a diamond. Bloody semen clung in a knot to the material of the hem. Salome was sitting up, looking curiously at him.
Tacitus marched the messenger forward. Herod let his arms drop.
“Who the fuck this little bitch?” the Mayor asked. He returned to the throne. Herod sat and Salome placed her head on his lap. His razor-sharp talons rapped her skull. It raised beads of blood that were absorbed by her hair. The blood painted thin red lines with dripped excess. She winced from the pain, but dared not move.
“This is one of Theodosius’ shorties,” Tacitus replied, “the one at Flavius’ office.”
“Is Flavius here?”
“He brought us the boy and I dismissed him,” he said, “didn’t think you wanted someone like Flavius any deeper.”
“You thought right,” Herod replied, “nigga good where he is.” Herod gazed at the boy. “Why do you need to see me?”
The boy looked at him: “I got a message for Herod.”
Tacitus broke the boy’s nose with a lightening fast right cross. It caved in a loud crunch. Blood and mucous exploded from his face. The boy was going to collapse, but Tacitus would not let him. He held the boy up by his braids.
“This IS Herod, you stupid shit,” Tacitus countered.
“What’s your message, boy?” Herod asked, amused.
“Pilate say he does not get replaced,” the boy stated thickly, no air moving. It was then he awoke.
The boy blinked and looked around, checked out his surroundings. How the hell did he get here? He’s heard of this place but just stories. It looked like a torture chamber, smelled worse. He glanced down at the plastic he stood on. He saw scrum puddle around his wet stocking feet. Half congealed shit all over his feet, made him want to vomit. He started to pitch forward. Tacitus had to hold him up again. The boy dangled from his braids like a drunken puppet.
“Where’s your boss, Theodosius, at?” Herod asked. “Tell me.”
The boy still felt sick. Waves of nausea and pain made thought difficult. The boy did not answer Herod. Tacitus tore the lad’s left ear off, tossed it to the quivering dog. The beast chomped just once, the cartilage wet and crunchy, and swallowed the treat down.
With Pilate’s spell now broken, the boy’s pain and shock intensified. His hand pressed the fresh wound. Sticky blood flooded his nose, cheek and neck. It dripped down his shoulders, back and chest. Great red drops mixed puddles on plastic flooring.
The boy sucked a great lungful of air. He fired a frightened, painful scream. Herod commanded him to stop all that shit, and renewed the spell. Now the boy belonged to him.
“That’s better,” said Herod. “Where the fuck is Theodosius?”
“He dead,” the boy replied, hands at sides, standing at attention. Blood flowed freely from where his ear used to be.
“Tell me how,” demanded Herod.
“Pilate did it,” he replied. “He drank him dry.”
Herod stayed silent a moment, watching the boy bleed.
“Pilate doesn’t know when to quit,” Herod said. He looked at his Second. “That twat needs to be taught a lesson.”
Tacitus nodded.
“An eye for an eye,” she told them, “Old Testament style.”
Herod and Tacitus gazed at each other in surprise. They turned to look at her.
“What’s that?” asked Herod.
“Eye for an eye, reprisal,” Salome said. “Pilate killed one of yours. Even the score and kill one of his.”
Herod nodded, sure where she was going.
“You mean Juan de Bautista, don’t you?” Tacitus asked, Herod smiling now.
“That’s right,” she told him. “Bring Uncle Herod his head.”
Herod chuckled at the vicious cunt. “Yes,” he replied, “bring to me the head of John the Baptist. Impale the bitch on a motherfucking stick.”
Tacitus acknowledged and left the room. Herod rose and came down from the throne. He stood before the rigid boy. He placed a hand on the boy’s neck. He began to gently kiss the ragged ear hole, speaking to him. Herod’s voice had a sing-song quality. He thrust the tip in and slowly ran an embedded talon down the boy’s torso. The flesh and muscle split open. His entrails spilled out, hung in ropes to his knees.
“My favorites,” Herod began, honeyed voice soothing and kind, “are the sweetmeats.” Still grinning, he pushed his hand into warm bowels. “The pest of it is the choicest morsels always seem to be in the back.”
The boy shook. Herod dug deep into him, searching. “A-hah,” he found it. Herod plucked and removed the tiny organ, pulled it out. The boy shivered uncontrollably, losing color. Herod brought the tasty to his lips and took a bite. The boy stared at him.
“Oh, yeah,” Herod said, mouth dripping, “you can scream now.”
Flavius buckled his seatbelt, started the car. He looked at his face in the mirror. Wasn’t sure he liked who he saw. He heard the most horrific scream come trickling out Herod’s compound.
Flavius put the car in gear and drove away. The whole way home he thought, there but by the grace of God go I.
Juan de Bautista opened his eyes, heard the earpiercing scream. It was dark where he was kept, a dark and cold hole.
His back was against a damp wall. Juan heard skittering as rodents crawled over him. He could not knock them off his bent and broken appendages. He could not feel his legs. He suspected his back broken. All his teeth were stumps. His jaw would not move.
They beat the holy dog shit out of him. The cops knew gold when they saw it, decided to bypass Theodosius. Instead, they brought Juan and the codebook straight to Herod. Once Juan arrived, the gloves came off. They roughed him up at the old church, took some pictures, but didn’t really get real until he was brought to Herod’s.
Juan heard his own long bones snap into short bones. They worked him over in truly earnest fashion. The codes fell from his broken face like a condemned prayer. Herod laughed aloud when presented with Pilate’s horded loot.
Millions they had, all gone. They killed sweet Mary, knew they were going to kill him. He thought of his cousin Immanuel. Juan remembered her words to him, no so very long ago. She told him whatever he did would come back threefold.
“If suffering is what you peddle,” Immanuel explained, “suffering is what you shall receive, and in full measure.”
Juan understood now: the drugs he sold, the slaves he helped to make. For what, he thought, fistfuls of cash? He felt shame. He thought of Mary and felt shame. He thought of nothing else.
Juan de Bautista lowered his head, wept, thoroughly and completely. Suffering as she said he would. He felt the anguish threefold, in full measure.
CHAPTER 5
I t was earlier that day when the phone rang. Juan picked up and answered. One of their shorties was calling from the spot, and that’s always trouble. “What is it?” Juan asked. Mary looked up from her mixing bowl. Her expression was impossible to ascertain, respirator mask covering most of her pretty face. Juan was very much in love.
“We just got moved by the cops,” the shorty replied.
“Looking for a taste?”
“I thought at first,” he explained. “You know; take your shit, sell it back to you. Not what they had in mind this time.”
“What then?” Juan asked. He went over to Mary, kissed her forehead. She squeezed his wrist, bent her head to his. She loved him, too. “What they want?”
“Shut down Pilate. Take his place,” the boy said. “They had cops and a whole grip of ni
ggas, gave us no choice.”
“Hmm,” Juan replied, thinking. “They give you any reason why?”
“Wouldn’t say why, exactly,” he continued, “they just say Pilate ain’t shit no more. Even went so far as to offer me a job.”
“That right?”
“Yeah, turned ‘em down,” he said, then silence.
“Where are you at right now?” Juan asked.
“Walkin’ home, don’t know what else to do.”
“Yeah, shit,” he said, “why not? I’ll speak to Pilate and let you all know what we do.”
“Pilate gonna be pissed.”
“You’re goddamned right he is,” agreed Juan. “Go home and we’ll call.”
Juan hung up and sighed. He hated giving the boss bad news. He’s not going to be too happy Herod fucking him up the ass like this.
Juan knew, of course, they’d been experiencing a downturn. They’d been short selling for quite a few months now, Pilate only offsetting the drop recently. Their inventory was swelling with unsold product. They even toyed with the idea of lowering the teener price, their most popular size. Most fiends couldn’t get their shit together long enough to save up for an eight-ball, with its small, built-in discount. Fiends never seemed willing to wait to get high in order to save a couple bucks.
Or maybe they should lower the amount of cut used, coming up with a dealer specific tag name for the super-strong dope like: Joker or Thrust or something. Hell, they’d been brainstorming ever since El Cristo started bad-mouthing Plata. They were holding there own, except for purchasing a tad below quota.
For the last three months they purchased fewer grams of Plata from Herod than normal, just trying to balance the books. For Herod to sanction Pilate losing the spot because of that is just crazy. Pilate and his crew were always top earners, spare or flush. It just didn’t make any kind of sense to Juan for Herod to rock the boat over a few lousy grams.
“Oh, well,” Juan said, putting it off long enough. He tramped down to the basement where Pilate slept.
Juan went to the crates, moved them. Behind a fuse box panel plate an intercom. He depressed the button, waited.
“Trouble?” asked Pilate through the hidden speaker.
“Yeah, Boss,” he said, “Big trouble.” He relayed what shorty said.
“I’ll be right up,” the vampire replied.
“G
o home and we’ll call.” The shorty ended his call, shoved the phone into a pocket of his hoodie. “Pilate will come now,” he told the cop. “He gonna come hard.”
“Let the trick come,” bragged Theodosius. “He’ll get what he come for, on the real. Meantime,” he continued, “I’ll have my boys pay his lair a visit, see what we see.”
Pilate’s shorty stood and waited. He felt regret for what he was doing. But what the hell, he thought. Dog eat dog world, you know, and it’s better to get paid then to get dead.
“Where’s this church?” Theodosius asked, shorty told him. “You sure it’s his?”
“Like I say, I followed the girl, Mary, one time. Not too bright, this chick, she never even looked for a tail. I followed her and she led me to the old church. I have a feeling Pilate has other places, but that’s the only one I know of.”
“Alright,” Theodosius said and peeled a few hundreds. “Vanish for a week then come back and run for me.”
“A clocker?” he asked, disappointed. “I’m higher than that, what’s with the demotion, man?” he whined.
“For Pilate, you higher up, sure,” replied Theodosius. “But for me, you ain’t done shit.” He grabbed shorty by his shirtfront. “It’s better than a bullet in the back of your bitch head.”
Shorty put his hands up in surrender. He quickly agreed with the logic as well as his terms of employment.
“Good,” Theodosius said, released the boy. “Now go, and don’t come back for a week.”
The shorty nodded once and ran off. Theodosius watched him go. He was reveling in spirit of industry. He turned, went back to his crew. Rubbed hands together in greedy anticipation.
“This is going to be a night to remember,” he told his crew, they all agreed. He sent four of his biggest and baddest to the old church.
Theodosius and his crew already were accepted as replacements for Pilate. The fiends lined up for dinner. The four cops off to find the vampire’s lair. The fiends kept coming in a steady stream and the sun slid silky toward the horizon.
P ilate released the intercom button and lay back on the bed. He was ravenous, short-tempered because of it. He kept eyes closed a little longer. The brief respite did not make him feel any better. He has to go to the spot before feeding. It’s been three days since he last fed and that brings him right up to the edge.
Pilate dressed quickly, left the vault. He went upstairs to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door. Inside the freezer were a few frozen I.V. packs of consolidated red blood cells. He put one in the microwave and defrosted. The blood normally used between twice-weekly feedings. Now Pilate would use it to stave the need for fresh blood. Packed cells did carry some oxygen, but no significant amount was attached to red blood cells in this form.
Pilate parked himself at a chair by the table. Juan came and sat with him. Pilate remembered the time Juan asked to be turned. He told him the truth. There wasn’t a way to turn human to vampire. Vampires were born, not made.
The vampires all carried an inherited recessive genome that spelled the end of the lineage unlucky enough to sprout a nosferatu. Vampires couldn’t reproduce, nature’s way of not perpetuating a genetic mistake. Juan was greatly disappointed. He wanted so bad to believe the mythos and legends. Pilate, on the other hand, was quite glad the tales were fiction. The human herd would thin rather quickly if there were squads of vampires out there. Herod was trouble enough.
Pilate put a nasal cannula into his nose, turned the oxygen tank on. Microwave beeped, the blood defrosted. Pilate retrieved the blood and tore open the package. He squeezed the warmish goo, swallowing all 500cc at once.
Pilate concentrated on pulling in supplemental oxygen through his nose. For what is efficient for humans, is woefully inadequate for vampires. The blood he consumed and oxygen he inspired increased deficient oxygen levels twenty percent. If he relaxed, this treatment’s enough to last until the following day. Then the vampire would have to feed. If he found himself under extended duress, oxygen reserve would swiftly evaporate. This would leave Pilate weak and vulnerable.
“I’m going to check it out,” he said. Pilate turned off the tank and removed the nosepiece. “I’ll feed before my return.”
“Okay,” replied Juan. “Do you need us?” “No,” Pilate stated and rose. “I’ll return soon
enough and we’ll discuss what I found when I do. Mary will give me some rows and we’ll figure this shit out together.”
Juan nodded, felt better the return of routine. The trio always discussed business while Mary gave Pilate’s long hair some nice tight cornrows.
Pilate studied Juan’s face, sensed his concern. “I’ll bet it’s the quota,” Juan said. He looked up at Pilate. He suggested, “Maybe we should cash some in, you know, catch us up with Herod. Get him off our ass for a while, give us time to figure this out; negotiate a different price or some of the other shit we talked about.”
Pilate considered dipping, but declined. He was stubborn about Herod’s quota demands. He felt the hit Plata was taking should be shared, not dumped solely at Pilate’s feet.
“Don’t worry,” he replied instead, “I’m sure it’s nothing, some sort of misunderstanding. We’re only, what – thirty grams short for this whole year? I sincerely doubt that we could get moved without notice, without a word over an ounce. What is it we push, forty-five, fifty zees a year? And nigga gets pissed off over one?”
“Doesn’t seem likely,” Juan agreed.
“Anyways as long as it wasn’t approved by Herod, his flunkies will see the light. I’ll bet they’s nothing more than dumb fucking cow
boys playing dress-up. We shouldn’t worry about it too much. Herod would have to be a raving lunatic to bounce me. Look at how much money motherfucker gets from us,” Pilate smiled, “you’d think he’d be happy!”
His partially starved state made sharp fangs poke out of the pink gummed smile. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” he repeated, then left.
Juan followed Pilate to the basement. He watched him leave out the back door. Pilate turned, smiled once at him and disappeared into the dusk. Juan closed the door and locked the main deadbolt. Before he could engage all the rest of the door’s locks and set the alarm, Mary called out.
He trotted upstairs. She stood to the side of a window in the workroom. She was peering out.
“Look at that,” she said and pointed to a parked car.
Juan didn’t recognize it. The front doors opened. Two dark figures emerged and looked cautiously around. They glanced up at the church and seemed to be staring right at them.
“Huh,” Juan said simply, “I wonder what those two want, looking up here and shit.” He watched the men cross the street. They appeared to be approaching the church. “No way,” he muttered, “why they coming here?”
“We hooking someone up?” she asked.
“No,” he replied. “Pilate didn’t say nothing to me about it.”
“Well, they’re coming,” she said, glancing out the window now on all sides.
Juan noticed. “Those two are right under us, what you looking all around for?” he asked.
“Trying to spot the other two,” she said, squinting through the dusk.
“What other two?”
“There were two even bigger ones in the back seat,” she explained, “I called out for you and I guess I didn’t notice until just now they were gone,” still searching, “now where they get to?”
“Oh, shit!” Juan cried, “I didn’t set the alarm!”
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