Pilate

by Reverend Steven Rage

  “Like you with us Pharisees, Pilate,” Caiaphas began, ending the wondering, “I too have a master to please.” He gestured for Pilate to sit, he took a chair. “Master demands a sacrifice,” Caiaphais explained.

  “What kind of sacrifice?” Pilate asked.

  “More on that in a moment,” he said and smiled. “Let’s discuss you and your troubles of late,” he continued. “You are having difficulties?”

  Pilate looked at him direct. “Yes,” he agreed, “I’m having a great deal of trouble.”

  Caiaphas reached forward, removed a custommade smoke from a thin titanium case. He offered one to Pilate, who declined. The Pharisee put the cigarette to the rotting, peeling parchment where his lips used to be. Pilate was there with flame to kiss tobacco. If Caiaphas was startled by the unseen vampire movement, Pilate could not tell. The vampire returned to his chair with the same speed.

  There was no comment from Caiaphas, so Pilate jumped right in: “Did Herod have your blessing to grab my spot and shut me down?” Pilate asked, “Or was the crazy fuck acting on his own?”

  “Quite alone, I assure you,” Caiaphas replied, smoking.

  Pilate thought.

  “Where do you stand on this?” he asked. “I need to know what side of the fence you’re on.”

  “Well,” Caiaphas began, “Herod was technically justified sanctioning you due to three missed

  Pilate 133 quotas.” Pilate made to protest, but the Pharisee stifled him with a raised hand, “But we feel he was too wanton in the implementation of said sanction.”

  Pilate was quiet. He knew bullshit when set in front of him. It seems he’s to be spoon fed this rot. Pilate don’t eat shit. It was time to set the record straight. He leaned forward, counting off:

  “Your Herod killed my best nigga,” Pilate retorted, counting fingers as he listed, “stole my product and my money.” Pilate stopped. “Three million dollars in washed cash he stole from me and I’m gonna take it all back,” he told the Pharisee through aching, clenched jaws. “I need you to look the other way.”

  Caiaphas considered Pilate for a time, smoking. “What about Herod?” Caiaphas asked next, shadow of lipless smile showing through his collapsing face, “What do you suggest we do with him when you are finished? Herod isn’t exactly going to be thrilled with this. He could be a big problem for us.”

  “I wouldn’t fret too much about Herod,” Pilate assured, “I don’t think there will be anything left of the motherfucker to worry about.” Pilate leaned back and crossed his legs. “It will be as if he’s never been.”

  “I see,” Caiaphas replied. “I believe you and I can come to an accommodation.” The Pharisee squashed out his cigarette. He leaned in the direction of Pilate, folded hands on knees. “We need to agree on terms.”

  “Will you consent to look the other way?”

  “Better than that, Pilate,” the old man replied, smiling big now. A surprise, he told him: “I will give to you Herod’s throne.”

  Perhaps, thought Pilate, Herod tripped on his dick once too often.

  Pilate asked: “The business, all of it?”

  “Yes, vampire, all yours, answering to none but us,” he said. “But you must do something for us first.”

  Of course, Pilate thought, saw that coming. Gas, grass or ass, nobody rides for free. No matter.

  “Just tell me what you need,” Pilate said.

  “First you tell me something, Pilate,” the Pharisee countered, “What do you know of this little girl, this Immanuel?” The Pharisee stopped, lit another cigarette. Pilate stayed put. “You know, the one they call the Christ?”

  CHAPTER 21

  O vid had Phillip’s remains slung over his thickly muscled shoulder. He walked a couple yards behind Tacitus and Salome, following them. Ovid

  dragged the gutted shorty by the scruff of his collar

  with a free hand. The dimly lit passageway went

  out in front of the trio and their burden. The damp

  of this place got under the skin, the air itself substantial and decrepit.

  Tacitus had the keys to the big heavy door at the

  end. It was quiet and very still.

  “Herod never told me,” Salome said when still

  some distance away. “The Brood, he called it.” Salome stopped of a sudden, pulled Tacitus near.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  Tacitus looked at her. She’s the worst kind of

  news. She needed a Herod or her own grandiose ambitions would be unchecked. Of course Tacitus

  wanted Salome in the worst kind of way.

  “It’s not an ‘it’,” he told her, “It’s a ‘them’.” Salome’s full lips parted, a small sound escaped.

  Her face was smooth, with high prominent cheekbones. Her skin was the color of highly creamed

  coffee and her eyes hazel to green, depending on

  mood. In a word, Salome was stunning. Even with

  trails of dried blood dripped from her hairline. A

  crimson web floating down from the skin stretched

  tight around her skull.

  Tacitus wondered how it felt to be inside her, to

  possess her. He wanted to make her do things. “Them?” she asked.

  “Yes, them,” Tacitus replied. “They are the

  remnants of Phillip and Herod’s litter. The Brood

  are siblings of your father and your uncle.” Salome was speechless. Tacitus exhaled

  through his nose. Ovid shuddered, they frightened

  him so.

  Tacitus continued: “Herod and Philip’s mother

  was an old nurse that could not conceive by natural

  means. She was alone and told she could not receive hormone therapy standard at the time. This

  was back in the day when you tried not to become

  pregnant if you didn’t have a father to help raise the

  child.

  “She didn’t care about any of that. She badly

  wanted a child. So badly she gave herself massive

  doses of hormone therapy. She kept giving herself

  hormones until her ovaries spit out eggs like a winning slot machine.

  “While her eggs were dropping by the dozen, she broke into a fertility clinic, stole several batches

  of donor sperm. Then she inseminated herself. “One of the donors had the gene for vampirism.

  The combination of hormones, multiple donors, and

  all the eggs couldn’t conceive the one child she

  wanted. Or even just twins like Philip and Herod.

  No, the combo instead produced a handful of creatures with only base drives to guide them.

  “The Brood hibernate and eat,” Tacitus explained. He started again, “They sleep and eat and

  that’s it. The Brood aren’t self-aware, they don’t

  know of their own existence.”

  Salome caught up, stopped him again.

  “How many are there?” she asked.

  “Don’t know exactly,” he said. “There’s

  enough because Ovid’s never had to carry a body

  out of the compound. Which is one of the reasons

  Herod can have bitches killed without worrying

  about the dead washing up on shore.”

  “Why is that?” she asked, “Doesn’t he still have

  to hide the bones, burn the clothes, the evidence?” Now sober for the longest stretch in memory,

  Salome was beginning to think.

  “You’re not hearing me,” Tacitus said. “I’m

  telling you, the Brood sleeps until it’s time to eat.

  And when they do eat, they get it all.”

  “They get all of what?”

  “Everything,” he answered, “They eat flesh and

  internal organs, as well as bones, teeth, hair, clothing, anything in their pockets.” Tacitus looked at

  her. “What I’m saying is everything. The Brood

  eat every
thing.”

  The trio came to the door, Tacitus produced a

  key. “You’ll see.”

  The door opened. A low-wattage bulb illuminated the interior. It was a small anteroom.

  Straight ahead were two connecting iron doors with

  spinning wheel locks. The security of this place

  was necessary to keep what’s behind the doors, behind the doors.

  Off to the right, solid wall. To the left of them,

  was a plain door. The trio waited with the corpses.

  The plain door opened, an elderly woman emerged. “What did you bring us?” old woman asked as

  she shuffled to Ovid. She pinched Philip and the

  shorty. “Lovely,” she concluded, “Not very fresh,

  mind you, but lovely just the same.” The old

  woman clapped her hands, beamed. “Let’s load the

  feeder!”

  Ovid dropped Philip to the floor, unscrewed the

  double doors. He opened them. A square chute slid

  to the forefront, settled into place.

  “When you close the doors, the chute moves

  backwards and unloads the food,” she explained. Ovid loaded the two corpses into the feeder.

  Tacitus shut the doors and spun locks. The old

  woman went to a view-port, snapped on a light.

  She smiled in anticipation. They heard bodies drop

  and land with two closely spaced thuds.

  “Come along, my darlings,” she cooed, “Time

  to eat, my precious babies.”

  At first there was nothing. No movement, no

  sound. But then they heard it. It came from the distant darkness. It sounded softly at first, then more

  insistent. A shuffling sound followed by more.

  Sounds of wet, sloppy flesh slapping metal became frantic and noisy. A gaggle of puppies smelling

  kibble and they sounded hungry.

  The three left the Brood’s caretaker behind. Salome was still curious, but Tacitus had enough. The

  old woman cooed and coaxed them to their supper.

  They heard piggish snuffling, mucosal wheezing.

  Bones began snapping. They heard marrow being

  suckled and bones chewed like glass tree ornaments. It was rudely loud, gross, and set jaws on

  edge.

  Salome glanced back at the caretaker as they

  left. She saw the glint in the old woman’s eyes.

  Pride stained her face. She loved these horrific

  creatures the caretaker did; indulging their coarse

  table manners.

  Tacitus shut the door behind them. The three

  worked their way back up the passageway. “She loves them,” Salome stated, “like they’re

  her own.”

  “That’s because they are,” he told her and

  stopped. “Funny she didn’t recognize Philip,

  though.” Salome stared at him.

  “What?”

  “Sorry,” Tacitus apologized, “It was rude not to

  introduce your grandmother.”

  1253, anno Domini He was an assistant to the Inquisitor. Also he was a member of the tribunal for that part of Germany. The tribunal was quartered in a large castle. The castle was drafty, cold and wet. It was gloomy, smoky and dark. In short, it was perfect.

  The call had been sent out, far and wide. All heretics and accusers thereof must be presented to the Inquisitor for decree. In the Holy name of Pope Innocent IV, torture was endorsed for those foolish enough to try hiding the truth of their heresy. Torture slated for the unjust, truly stubborn sinners.

  The Inquisitor’s assistant was especially diligent in this regard. It’s said the assistant enjoyed delivering torture. He had a taste for blood. He preferred the unjust and truly stubborn ones.

  The Inquisitor used the growing infamy of his assistant to strike fear, encourage blind obedience in all who stood before him. In the end, truth tumbled over tongues of the wicked. The assistant never failed to secure a confession.

  The assistant stood quietly, watched the heretic cry out in pain as he was stretched on the rack. The assistant turned the wheel. He heard the human’s body pop and crack. The heretic passed out.

  The vampire left the wheel and fetched a bucket of human waste. He poured it over the heretic’s face. The sinner came to, spitting bucket contents. He gagged and choked on the wastes, tried to spew out the big pieces.

  The assistant went back to the wheel. He was alone with the heretic. He didn’t care about the truth, whatever that was. He didn’t care what was coerced, what was not. Nor was he interested in the motivation of the accusers. The assistant cared only for blood. He experimented with different torture techniques to determine which would produce the highest quality blood.

  Tortured blood almost always tasted better than blood hunted.

  All his life, the vampire followed tragedy like a camp whore. He lived and prospered off misery humans caused themselves. They filled, fed and amused him.

  The assistant had hands on wheel, readying another quarter-turn. He had a change of mind, a better idea. Let’s see how long it takes for the rack to separate head from neck.

  He took pride in his work. He always strove for craftsmanship and ingenuity in torture. He never failed to secure a confession. He knew some admissions were influenced by the pain. That was fine by him. They all confessed in the end.

  The assistant loved the stubborn ones who refused at first to confess. Somehow the fear and pain of those lovelies made them taste all the better. He didn’t know why, but it was so. The longer they lasted questioning and subsequent torture, the richer their blood. The greater the agony was, the tastier the meal.

  The vampire detached rough leather straps from limp unmoving arms. The heretic’s a delightfully intractable sinner, loudly proclaiming innocence. The assistant let the heretic thrash about, carry on. The sinner was sweetening the blood with his insistence.

  The vampire secured straps tightly to head and chin. He made sure it was tight. The slack was taken out with a couple quick partial turns of the wheel. The vampire made sure the tool he needed next was right behind him, ready to use.

  The heretic panicked. He realized what would happen. The vampire smiled, allowing his true self to emerge. The heretic saw teeth puncture torturer’s lip. Blood drops bubbled out, mixed with saliva, and inched lava slow down his chin. Talons dug in wood of the wheel, splintering as they split the surface. The vampire’s yellow eyes assessed closely the accused.

  “God in Heaven,” the heretic cried when the torturer changed. “By the Cross of Jesus,” the sinner shouted, “I confess! I confess!”

  The heretic’s eyes wide, horror dominate. Fear his mask. The vampire smelled sinner blood ripening beautifully. He was ready to be plucked and savored.

  “I confess!” the heretic repeated.

  “Tell God your sins,” vampire muttered as his hands burn, “In person.”

  Bending slightly for purchase, the vampire spun the wheel. The sinner’s neck split and his head tore free.

  The spine stretched, fractured, but remained intact. The rack rotated feet down; letting gravity pull most of the blood back into the body. The vampire reached behind, grabbed the waiting tool. With a flash of glinting, a sharp blade sliced spine in two. The tool dropped. The vampire had talons sunk in tortured sinner before the blade settled on hardpacked earthen floor.

  The vampire torturer lifted the headless body skyward lightening fast. He quickly dislocated his jaw in a three part: left, right, left downward movements. The human’s ragged neck in the vampire’s cavernous mouth. He snapped his jaw back up once. It locked onto warm flesh with no leaks.

  The heretic held aloft, a giant bowl of mead. The vampire opened his esophagus to empty the man. He sucked hungrily on the severed neck like it was his momma’s swollen breast.

  When finished, the vampire released the empty body. He eased his jaw back into pla
ce. Hands burned fiercely. The assistant rinsed with cool water. He dried them and the burning ceased.

  The vampire sat the floor, stared absently at the heretic’s remains. Vampire signs faded as he relaxed and floated within the surge of power. It’s the blood. The torturer wanted rivers of it. He wanted as much as he could get.

  Especially, the vampire thought, from the fearful.

  Instill the fear and infuse the blood. Increase the fear and make them hold it. Ripen the fruit and drink deeply of it.

  God’s green Earth’s a banquet, the vampire decided. It was bountiful and his cup truly runneth over.

  The vampire stood. He placed the stubborn sinner’s head in a burlap bag. He shall present it as a souvenir to the Inquisitor. It will add nicely to the Papist’s collection of those who have confessed their heresy, but only after being subjected to torture.

  The assistant gave the Inquisitor the head of the obstinate heretic. The vampire no longer required its services. There’s plenty more where that came from.

  * * *

  The hospital’s Intensive Care Unit had enough space and equipment for ten critically ill patients. Four beds were occupied. Pilate sniffed the air, located the one he wanted. The patient smelled delicious. He’s the one.

  Pilate entered the room. The patient unconscious, attached to a wide array of life support equipment and monitoring devices. He had a tube in his nose. A bigger one fed his lungs with pressurized oxygen. The oxygen delivered by a mechanical ventilator. The level on the overhead monitor showed a steady 100%. His blood was completely saturated with oxygen.

  Pilate could smell it. The patient had polycythemia. Long-term emphysema forced the increase of the patient’s red blood cells. This assisted attracting the small amount of oxygen left from his trashed and overstretched lungs. The ventilator filled every bit of increased capacity with oxygen.

  Pilate went to the bedside, made sure he stayed out of camera view. It was bolted like a sentry above the doorway to the patient’s room. The video framed the patient’s torso and head.

  Pilate turned off the heparinized pressure bag to the arterial line. It’s secured to the femoral artery, deep in the apex of the groin. He undid the little cap, peeked at the doorway, opened stopcock. A hot, salty-sweet stream shot from the port like a fountain. Pilate bent swift to it. He supped the stream as fast as it spurted out.