Habeas Corpses - The Halflife Trilogy Book III

by Wm. Mark Simmons

  “I’ll need to do a complete lab workup on you both,” she said, sounding far more intrigued than sympathetic. “It’s possible that her own wounds have made her hypersensitive to silver in general. More so than before she was shot.”

  “Doc, I gotta know how long this is going to last!”

  “I’ll have a better idea once I can examine you both in person. Gerald is packing equipment even as we speak.”

  “At least tell me that it’s not permanent!”

  “Chris, I just don’t know. Is Suki there, yet?”

  “What? No. Why would she be h—?”

  “Pagelovitch said you were having security problems. Sounds like an understatement to me.”

  I felt the floor move beneath my feet. No one else seemed to be looking for the exits so I had to assume it was me.

  “Chris, honey; you be all right, you?” Mama Samm seemed to be reaching toward me in slow motion.

  “I—I don’t feel so good,” I said. Blood loss? Stress? Delayed shock? I was light-headed of a sudden.

  “Excuse,” said the Gator-man as he took Mama Samm’s cell phone from my clumsy hand.

  “You come here and sit down,” the fortune-teller said as she patted the divan cushion beside her. “You about the color of dirty silver.”

  Perhaps it was a delayed reaction to the silver buildup in my own tissues. Perhaps I was the one who was poisoned, now. Dimly I heard the old Cajun speaking into the phone.

  “The bullet miss all the organs, Doctor,” he was saying, “but the poison in her system give her some kind of shock. I don’t know if she going to lose the baby or no . . .”

  A moment before, the divan seemed a mile away across the room. Now the cushions were rushing up at my face like an express train running on full throttle.

  We collided as I entered a long, dark tunnel.

  * * *

  The road from Cancun to Chichen Itza was a turnpike. The toll booths were manned by armed soldiers giving the impression that they had emerged from the dense jungle on either side and were posing as civil servants until the tourists moved down the road to the next checkpoint. It was more comforting than menacing: the presence of military vehicles and modern firearms made us feel that civilization had finally gotten a toehold and we might actually reach our destination before the jungle closed in again.

  It was our honeymoon—mine and Jenny’s. Kirsten wasn’t born yet; her fate and Jenny’s were yet to be writ at the intersection of 103 and US 69 outside of Weir, Kansas, some nine years in the future.

  We spent the late morning touring Chichen Viejo, the original city, with the House of the Deer, the Caracol, the Temple of the Reliefs, the Church, Akabdzib, the Nunnery, and the Plaza of the Nuns. Through the growing heat of the day we worked our way into the northern site, Chichen Nuevo, its opulent grandeur reflecting the later Toltec influence.

  As we climbed the steps of the great pyramid, called the Castillo by some, the Temple of Kukulcan by others, Jenny turned to me and began a discourse on the mathematical genius of the Mayans. There were ninety-one steps to each side, she pointed out, making a total of three hundred and sixty-five—if you counted the top platform—equaling the number of days in the year. Halfway up, I felt as though I had already climbed all of them. There was more moisture on my epidermis than could be accounted for by my half-empty water bottle.

  Jenny appeared cool and dry as she described the mathematics that went into its architecture so that, twice a year, at the spring and autumn equinoxes, the shadows would form a large serpent which would wind its way down the northern staircase.

  I interrupted her as she enthused over the fact that this event had been going on for over twelve hundred years. “This is a dream,” I asked, “isn’t it?”

  She stopped and looked at me as if seeing me for the very first time.

  “You don’t want to relive one of the happiest times in our lives?” Her smile was dazzling but her eyes were haunted.

  “There were a lot of happy times, my love. Especially after Kirsten was born.” I looked out over the grand vista that included the Ball Court Complex, the Platform of Venus, and the Plaza of the Columns. “But I assume that I’ve been brought back here for a reason. What am I supposed to see?”

  “Can’t a dream just be a dream?”

  I shook my head. “Not mine. Not anymore.”

  She took my hand. “Come with me.”

  We drifted back down the stairs like ghosts in a dream. “Where are we going?” I asked as we almost—but didn’t quite—touch down on the sacbé leading northwards.

  “To the Well of Souls,” she said. A cloud passed before the sun and I noticed that we were alone, now. The site was deserted; the tourists vanished like ghosts, themselves.

  There were two cenotes, great water-filled sinkholes, on the Chichen Itza site. The Well of Sacrifice lay ahead of us, more than a hundred and ninety feet in diameter with a seventy-some-odd foot drop to the murky waters below. Behind us, the Cenote Xtoloc was smaller in size and lacked the lurid reputation of the larger well: it was the city’s water supply, not the sacrificial pit where young girls were once sacrificed to Chac, Mayan Rain God and Cosmic Monster.

  But Jenny’s hand pulled me to the east and we drifted out of the ruins and into the jungle.

  We floated through a sea of green. Time passed. Dreamtime minutes can be hours. Or hours, minutes. We stopped a short dreamtime later at a rough clearing where lush vegetation and ancient trees limned an opening barely fifty feet across. Any ruins accompanying it were well concealed by the jungle that crowded around the cenote’s perimeter.

  “Why are we here?” I asked slowly, the saliva in my mouth turning to molasses.

  She took my hand and led me to the edge of the great hole and we stepped off into darkness.

  The Ancient Americans believed that the Land of the Dead was accessed through these vertical portages into the earth. While some began their journey through the nine levels of the Mayan Underworld by leaping into the vast watery depths below, steps had been chiseled into the living limestone so that the priests might descend and then return to the sun-drenched lands above.

  We picked our way down a curving staircase of narrow rock plaques, placing our feet carefully as the light dimmed and the stone surfaces became slick with moisture. The cenote opened out beneath the collapsed portion of the ceiling, a great subterranean vault spreading hundreds of feet to the south and the east. A series of fissures and tunnels in the northern and western walls channeled off into deeper, danker darknesses.

  Where the cavern roof remained, scores of red limestone stalactites stabbed downward like rusty sacrificial knives. Here and there, great twisted ropes of wood dropped like an inverted forest from the great trees above: thirsty roots in search of secret waters. A dark lake spread below us. It glowed blue-green at its heart where beams of sunlight penetrated its mysterious surface from the opening above.

  Down and down we went, passing petroglyphs of gods and skulls and monsters, pictographs of ancient sacrifices, and shards of broken pottery that predated Columbus. A path at the bottom led to an outcrop of rock that jutted up and over the water like the first half of a bridge that was never completed. Jenny led me up the slippery stone path until we stood near the lake’s glowing heart.

  “Look,” she said.

  A great crimson stalactite hung just inches above the water, looking like a single bloody fang. At its very tip a single droplet of mineral-charged water trembled, stretched, and finally leapt to its own oblivion in the murky waters.

  “It’s coming for you.”

  I turned to her. “What?”

  “Don’t look at me. Look down. Look deep.”

  I looked down. The opening above throttled the sunlight into a closely focused beam. A few feet beneath the glowing liquid turquoise was a dark, gray-green zone shading to black that had been dark from the dawn of time. “What am I looking for?”

  “Camazotz.”

  I felt a giggle formin
g. “Camelot?”

  “Camazotz,” she said sternly, “also called Zotz or Zotzilaha Chimalman. Bat demon, god of darkness and caves, and tutelary deity of the Tzotzil Maya.”

  “Why am I looking for a Mayan bat-demon in an underground swimming pool when I should be having a pleasant dream about our honeymoon?”

  “Because I am leaving you now to be reborn,” she answered as the water at the edge of the light began to stir. “And he is on his way to find you.”

  Down below, in the bottomless depths of the dark zone, two pinpoints began to glow. Red specks became dots became marbles as the water began to churn. Crimson marbles became great fiery eyes that grew as the thing at the bottom of the lake came closer to the surface. Behind those eyes was a need and hunger beyond human measurement.

  And those lamps of hell were focused on me.

  I woke up screaming.

  Chapter Six

  By the time the arguments were over it was dark outside.

  We didn’t discuss her pregnancy, much less why she had hidden it from me—we both pretended that the topic hadn’t been broached yet.

  It was decided that Lupé would stay with the Gator-man for a regimen of rest and a profusion of infusions for a few days. My own fainting spell had passed. The dream or nightmare (or vision) had even energized me some.

  At least I knew that I didn’t want to close my eyes again any time soon.

  Staying with Lupé, however, was out of the question.

  The accommodations were such that two was well past “company” and three was something approaching standing room only. I was not only in the way; I couldn’t even sit by the bed and hold her hand.

  Even worse, I thought I saw relief flood Lupé’s eyes as I took my leave.

  As I handed my cell phone to the old Cajun at the front door I noticed a series of ridges that marked the outside of his forearms like serrated rows of calluses. The heartbreak of psoriasis? Or was “Gator-man” something more than a poacher’s nickname? I gave instructions that I was to be called at any time of the day or night if she so much as hiccupped. Then I reluctantly climbed into the station wagon and allowed Mama Samm to drive me home.

  I tried to memorize the route on the way back but it was dark and I was still a little woozy. The smell of blood from the back didn’t help. I was getting hungry again and not for a Quarter Pounder with Cheese.

  Mama Samm kept up a steady stream of questions about my dreams of late, but I was distracted and surly. And I found myself focusing on the way her pulse visibly throbbed along the side of her throat. When the topic turned to who might be inclined to send me a message and say it with hearts instead of flowers, I tuned completely out. I dropped my chin to my chest and half-feigned sleep.

  My mind was a roiling stew of emotions. Questions about Lupé’s recovery, about her feelings for me, about her devotion to her furry heritage. And about her secret pregnancy.

  The woman I was going to marry was carrying my child.

  A son. (What about my brother, Mommy . . . )

  And she had not told me.

  Couldn’t she trust me?

  Could I trust her?

  * * *

  Deirdre and J.D. met us at the garage on the far side of the river and helped me down to the dock and into the boat. I didn’t need that much help but I couldn’t be too careful around deep water, now. It seemed my swimming skills had all gone to hell since inheriting one-half of the supervirus Vampirus horriblis. There was a weighty reason that caused vampires to balk at crossing running water.

  “How are we fixed for food?” I asked as they prepared to cast off.

  “You kiddin’?” The Kid asked. “Didn’t you get a gander at all the bags me and Lupé toted in last night?”

  “What about blood?”

  “Blood?”

  “Yeah, blood, FangBob SquarePants. I had a couple of packets at the back of the fridge. Are they still there?”

  “Were those your packets?” His feigned surprise was all the answer I needed.

  “Yes and yes: my blood bank and my stash for when the Hunger comes back.” I tossed my keys to him. “Make another trip. You know the code for the alarm; I’ll edit the surveillance video tomorrow.”

  He took off with a long look over his shoulder. Some people lose their appetites when they’re sick. Me? It usually means I’m overdue for a meal. Right now I felt about three days overdue. And probably looked it, judging from the look my Chief of Security was now giving me.

  Deirdre wasn’t inclined to wait while J.D. drove to the blood bank. She took me across the river, docked the boat, and followed behind my unsteady stumble up the stairs to the top of the bluff. Once inside the house, I headed for the kitchen while Deirdre picked up the phone and directed Clay—our sole surviving security guy—to take the boat back across the river and wait for Junior.

  I checked the refrigerator and then set a pan of water on the stove. My instincts were good: The Kid had finished off my emergency stash. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem. I could still tolerate solid food and stayed away from hemoglobin for weeks at a time.

  Eventually, though, I always gave in.

  Back in my college days I had tried out a theory that I could train my body to go without sleep by setting my alarm to go off five minutes earlier each morning. As you might suspect, I made do with less but never made do without. Sooner or later I always crashed and burned.

  Trying to reprogram my partially transformed flesh to give up the red stuff was just about as effective as my youthful attempts to give up sleep. Except the crashing and burning was a lot uglier when the Hunger finally overrode the last dregs of my willpower.

  I hoped J.D. wouldn’t take too long.

  There was no point in standing around and watching the water come to a boil. I turned the gas knob on the burner so that the ring of blue flame was more suggestion than actual fact and then limped upstairs to change clothes.

  A quick rinse in the shower was all I had patience for, peeling off the bandages and examining the grayish skin marking bullet wounds that already looked two weeks healed. I toweled off and dressed without rebandaging: what would be the point? A gray pullover and pair of gray Dockers to match my mood. I slipped on a pair of Doc Martens and glanced in the mirror as I headed back toward the stairs. Gude eevning, I am Count GAPula. I vant to suck . . . Ah hell, I just suck and let’s leave it at that.

  I descended the stairs and wandered into the library, my mood still descending as I waited for my food to arrive.

  The heart continued to beat in its low-tech aquarium.

  My email folder contained nothing but ordinary spam.

  I went to the shelves and pulled a dog-eared copy of Popul Vuh, the creation myths of the Quiché Maya. As I pulled the book toward me I noticed that my hands were only slightly trembling. I decided to sit down before I fell down.

  By translation Popul Vuh means “Book of Written Leaves.” I wondered if Walt Whitman cribbed the title for his own magnum opus a couple of millennia after the fact. I had thumbed through it only once since my honeymoon a decade ago—last year, in fact. That was when I had figured out that I desperately needed wisdom on that twilight territory between life and death. Since Amazon.com had yet to list The Afterlife for Dummies, I was reduced to scavenging texts containing theological theorizing or tomes with treatises on cultural myths and legends.

  In either I found little but fable, poetry, and allegory. Maybe that was a good thing: according to most ancient cultures the “afterlife” was a pretty scary place. Modern religion cleaned a lot of this up but left the stink of disinfectant on their generic version of the afterlife. I found little to persuade or reassure me outside of a little sect that called itself the Community of Christ. Since I doubted this Camazotz was a congregant, I flipped through the Popul Vuh looking for a catchier catechism.

  A big chunk of the creation myth of the highland Mayan culture involved the underground realm of Xibalbá, a charming underworld whose name translated as �
��Place of Fear.” There was this whole Akira Kurosawa plotline where hero twins Hun-Hunapú and Vukub-Hunapú were lured to the ninth level of Hell to play Mayan b-ball against a bunch of demons. The game was fixed (big duh!) and the twins were slaughtered by the underworld kings Hun-Camé and Vukub-Camé via a horde of their grotesque subjects.

  Not to worry: everything turned out okay because the twins were avenged by Hun-Hunapú’s sons Hunapú and Xbalanqué.

  The enlightening thing about this little intergenerational revenge fable was that ole Hun didn’t have any sons before he went to Hell and got killed. The boys, it seems, were posthumously conceived on Xquiq, a passing demon princess. Nice to know that sex doesn’t end with death. . . .

  Of course, it’s whom you have the opportunity with that determines whether that’s a good thing—or a very bad thing.

  At least the boys inherited some advantages from their mother. When one of them was decapitated by Camazotz and his head was used as the ball in a hellish ballgame, he obtained a substitute head and the boys went on to take the field against all comers.

  So, maybe all demons aren’t bad, just as all humans aren’t good. Perhaps this Xquiq was the prototypical demoness-with-a-heart-of-gold. She probably didn’t have to be that much of a looker to catch the eye of a young dead hero in love.

  Just consider the competition.

  Each of the nine levels of Xibalbá had its own pantheon of demons and death-gods. There was Ah Puk, the death-god who usually showed up on temple walls in the form of a seated skeleton wielding a sacrificial knife. His one saving grace was that his name was easier to spell than Mictlantecuhtli, the Aztec death-god. Then there was Ixtab, the goddess of suicides, often depicted as a putrefying corpse dangling from a noose. And Kawil, Lord of Blood, who thought knives were for sissies and required those performing his blood offerings to do so by passing a spiked cord through their tongues or genitals. By comparison to these guys, even the bat-demon Camazotz, Lord of Caves and Darkness, was a charmer.