Herod is completely insane I can feel all of the unseen
things whipping all around us, their shrieks I can plainly hear. I do not fear the unseen, but with my crazy itchy hands being shredded by the talons that are making no difference whatsoever, I am getting scared at what I"m about to do.
It is becoming quite plain. Immanuel leans into me, bumping me slightly. And with that simple gesture, the burning has gone away. I now realize that this tiny preacher has scared Herod and the Pharisees. She means much more to them than just reversing the downward selling trend of Plata. This is not going to bea simple execution. It"s gone far beyond a business decision to correct an errant bottom line. And it"s making my heart lurch. The Pharisees are going to allow Herod to have his wicked way with her. I remember the chapel parking lot. The police were ordered by Herod himself to damage Immanuel. I see that now. If the lower ranks were ordered to run a train of pigs on the little preacher, then what in holy hell does Herod have in store for her? I wonder. Curiosity and the cat and all, but still… I glance over my shoulder; the cops are right behind us.
“I dare you,” one says
“Oh, yes, pretty -please,” begs another. They all laugh.
I don"t bother checking them anymore.
Our group makes it to the Throne Room with Immanuel"s cuffs still fixed firmly in place, her head lowered. She slumps submissively and with trapped resign. She makes not a sound. Wicked hatred fills the entire vicinity. It settles into the cracks and dark corners like a steamed mist. If the Throne Room is entered, it can not be avoided. It seems to be waiting for us.
We stop at the threshold. The big iron door is closed and it gives to me the impression that it is breathing. I reach out for the long handle to slide the door open, but stop myself.
This is wrong, I think. I tempted once more to turn back and check the cops behind us. I don"t. I know they have their hands on their guns, taking no chances. They"re aching for an excuse to end me. I don"t cherish giving them any. Immanuel remains impassive. I am suddenly filled with the almost overwhelming urge to Superman her out of here. I can"t fly. Maybe I can"t, I know this. I am a villain, the bad guy, but this feels so fucking wrong.
It is now, at this exact moment, while I am on the verge of handing her over to Herod, that I finally stop fixating on revenge. I stop worrying about the business that was stolen from me. I stop using grief as the spark for my vengeance and rage. And I finally stop brooding about my pilfered millions.
Even though it was in my best interests, I can"t refrain from thinking how off beam this shit is. This thing I"m helping to do to Immanuel is immoral and all the way wrong. I cannot rationalize it away.
I remove my hand from the door. I bend down and brush away the hair from Immanuel"s face. She is downtrodden, appears defeated.
“Who are you, little preacher?” I ask her, “Who are you, really?”
Immanuel then raises her head, straightens to her full height. A quick flick and hair falls behind her shoulders and down her back. Her eyes are full and gleaming as they stare into me. A fog forms around the two of us as her power heats the brisk, dank air. She looks right at me, straight and eye to eye.
“Know this, vampire,” Immanuel states, “I am the Son of God.”
Her hand cuffs open and fall to the floor.
Herod"s cops dra w their weapons. The guns clear leather as one and I step between them and Immanuel. My back is fully exposed as I scoop Immanuel up and hugged her tight to me. I cover her and her heat hisses against my cold vampire flesh.
I grit my teeth as the fangs drop. The talons burrow into my arms enveloping her. I fully expect to be buffeted with countless bullets in the back for the tiny Christ, but they never come.
I hold on to her for a bit longer. I am shaking with adrenaline when I finally put her down. I turn back and see Herod"s cops. They still have their guns tightly clenched in white-knuckled fists, fingers depressed on triggers. No gunshots. Thank fuck.
I feel an immense wave of relief, followed abruptly by confusion. Herod"s cops are on their backs on the floor of the passageway. They"re less than ten feet from the Throne Room door and almost posed in their positions. The cops are a triangle of heavy pins, knocked flat by a deaf bowler. It is a silent and deadly strike.
I look from the cops to Immanuel. She graces me with a miniature smile.
“That,” she says, indicating the fallen pins stacked neatly on the floor, “that has not been written.”
I glance back and see that they are, all of them, dead. I stare at her and see the hand cuffs gone again. I look at the door that separates us from the Pharisees" desire. I think I see hope in her eyes. A choice now has gotto be made. What"ll it be, nigga? Am I in or am I out? Make my decision and make it now. There are only seconds left.
I made mines.
I reachout for Immanuel"s hand. “Let"s get the hell out of here,” I tell her with a harsh whisper.
Immanuel puts her naked wrists up before my face and the cuffs reappear. They close on their own with a snick-snick and snap into place. She lowers them and regards a nigga with her gaze.
“C"mon,” I repeat in a whisper both harsh and impatient, “what the fuck"s wrong with you, let"s go!”
“We stay,” she states emphatically, “The both of us.”
Immanuel"s words stun me. She really isn"t leaving and I can"t leave her. I can"t believe this is happening. She really isn"t leaving. What possible reason can she have for wanting to stay? I am certain she knows what"s coming. She knows full well that they are going to kill her. Still Immanuel insists on staying. Why?
Our window of opportunity is closing fast.
“We can make it,” I plead. Motionless, she remains. “Why,” he try, “won"t you let me save you?”
“Why won"t you let me,” asks the Christ, “save you?”
Before I can consider that, the door slides open with a pounding metallic bang. There is Herod, himself. He stands in the threshold of the open door.
He bids us welcome.
And now we are too late.
Chapter Thirteen
I
"m still poised and ready to grab Immanuel against her will. I am more than willing to drag her silly ass down the passageway and out of
this place. Sensing this, I suppose, she steps over the threshold and enters Herod"s Throne Room of her own accord. My hand grabs at empty air as Herod turns to me.
Herod looks at me, but I have already recovered. I gaze impassively back at the Herod.
“What in the world happened to my boys?” he asks, smiling.
“I"m not sure,” I respond, honestly, “They were okay a minute ago. You might want to check on them,” I add. “I think they might be sick.”
Herod merely shrugs his shoulders.
“Oh, well,” he shouts, “More for the Brood!”
“More for the what,” I ask.
“Never mind, not important,” Herod assures me. Herod put hands on hips and appraises his former conduit, me. “I hope we can put our unfortunate past behind us, let bygones be bygones.”
I stare hard daggers at Herod. What an unbelievable asshole. Herod has stolen everything I have; my entire existence. And yet, he"s standing here like he has done nothing more to me than quaffing my last beer, or joy-riding my car. It is all I cando to keep from tearing out Herod"s throat right here and now.
Herod"s still smiling at me, the fuck. Behind him, niggas are coming out of the woodwork. I can"t see them all because Herod"s in the way, but I can definitely smell them. The men are alert and tense with wary fear. These niggas all know me, apparently and there is more than a few of them. They know the name of Pilate and I have made them afraid. That makes them very cautious and extremely dangerous.
“I"m only here,” I tell Herod, “following orders.”
“As am I,” concurs Herod; still smiling. I am not buying it. The smile is completely false. It"s both silk sweet and bitter ash. It is nothing more than a chocolate covered rat turd. And
I am more than tired of eating this shit.
“The Pharisees imposed the truce between us, Herod,” I tell him. I know full well I can"t take out Herod with all those guns. I will have to wait for an opportunity to present itself. The Christ is staying right here, that much is clear. “I just wanted you to understand something,” I tell Herod.
“Yes?”
“The Pharisees" truce is the onliest reason your bitch-assstill standing.”
I curiously observe Herod"s reaction to being dissed and threatened in front of his boys on their home court. Herod darkens a moment then the cloud slides right past him. Crazy, he seems to take it all in stride. Herod ho lds out his hand for us to shake.
“Truce, then?” he asks. His smile is big and vampire. Herod"s face is melting and slick with infectious paste, just like Caiaphas Pharisee. He looks like he was sucking face with the Devil, or something. Whatever did happen to the crazy fuck, one thing is true: Herod is obviously beyond my attempts at intimidation.
As I look on, bugs begin mating on the hellish landscape ofHerod"s diseased face. Worms are crawling all over each other to get in and add to Herod"s rippling eyes.It"s pretty fucking sick.
Herod"s hand is dry except for the index and middle fingers. Bone shows there, where it connects to the now permanently unsheathed talons. Waxy boil juice has eaten away the flesh of Herod"s fingertips. I notice, but Herod doesn"t seem to.
“Truce,” I agree, but I will not shake the diseased hand. I will play along, I will protect the Christ. Tomorrow means nothing to me now. Tomorrow is a broken promise. Tomorrow is gone.
Herod shrugs off my decline to shake his hand as a duck shakes off drops of water clung to its back. He"s stepped aside to allow me entrance to his most favorite room. I step into the big room. I stop and peruse the chamber. I have never seen the inside of this room, not until now. I have no idea what"s lurking in the shadows.
The Throne Room has been cleaned recently, I notice. The surface of it is anyway. There"s below the natural lemon scent a deeper, frozen and more solid stink to the great room. The walls of the Throne Room hold on to the stink; feeds on it. Misery, I know from experience, has a stench all its own. It flourishes here.
The stench clashesrudely with Herod"s ostentatious throne. The thing looks like it weighs several hundred pounds. The solid oak is gilded with gold and platinum curlycues. The back"s six feet tall. Four clawed feet grip gold spheres the size of grapefruit. The monster is placed against the inside wall in the very center on a three-stepped dais.
I turn myself slowly around. I note the exact number of cops in the room while doing so. Damn! There"s a grip of cops here.
“What do you need all these niggas for?” I ask Herod, “Y"all havin" a motherfucking Town Meeting, or what?”
Herod chuckles. “No,” he explains. “My men are here to watch this:” Herod points to the wall opposite his grand throne.
The wall Herod indicates is in deep darkness. My eyes yellow deeply and I can discern a distinct shape. It"s something that"s familiar and always avoided. My heart begins to chug.
“LIGHTS!” bawls Herod. Instantly, four spotlights pop to life. They flood the wall with their bright glow. They are in pairs, the lights. There are two pairs and I can now plainly see what the spotlights are glaringly illuminating.
My hands burn as if hot coals are glued to them. I fall swift and weak to my knees when I see the object beneath the lights. The weakness infuses me to the nucleus of my mortal coil.
Immanuel co mes toward me and she kneels beside me.
“Thus it was written,” she tries to explain. I blink and start to rise. My talons are out. My hands are aflame and the fangs exposed.
Herod"s men misinterpret my vampire signs as fight or flight, heavy on the former. The cops begin moving quick toward Immanuel and me. Herod continues doing nothing but pointing at the wall and smiling at his own private Idaho. The police have their guns drawn and are aiming, some triggers depressing, Herod smiling still at the vicious moment the Most Vile ordered begun.
“Stop,” she mutters aloud while gazing deep into my eyes.
All Herod"s cops stop on a dime, frozen motionless in place. Herod himself still moves freely. But, all he does is waggle his bug-encrusted eyebrows, nod and grin like a fool some more. Herod gestures with quick jerks of his head to the wall and the source of my collapse.
I can feel Immanuel approach my weakness and pain. I think that this must be what its like to be human, to be at the mercy of others.
She comes to me. I notice for the first time Immanuel smells just like a newborn baby: innocent, unblemished and without distractions or fault. Then the world gets hold of it and places its sticky rotting hands all over from the Tree, leaving the innocent no more.
She is the Christ. I"m seeing her clearly now and I know. I"m thinking and I know. This is Truth. She is Truth.
Immanuel touches me lightly and gleans my heart, mind and soul. She knows my intent. She indicates the wall that torments me so. She snatches up my cold hands. She leans in and presses her forehead to mine, emitting a tiny quick hiss.
“Wilst thou,” Immanuel asks, “wash thy hands of me a second time?” She pushes back a touch and makes me see her. I try to drown in my suffering, but she will not allow it. She makes me see her. “Wilst thou,” she repeats, “Pontius Pilate?” it. It saps the Holy child corrupt. It is
And then I fall once more. For the last time, I tumble headlong into another vision of my past. My first life as a human I shall revisit.
Meanwhile, a laughing Herod has his men grab hold of me and drag me to the wall. Immanuel says nothing further. Even as Herod"s eyes gleam at her and his robe beco mes undone and drops to the floor.
Herod, following his nubby-knobby hugerude erection toward the Child of God, is the last bit I cling to as the world unfolds and reveals its true face to me:
CURSED
34, anno Domini
P
ontius Pilate sat with his gloomy head in his good hand and waited for the wine to kick in. His other hand had the three middle fingers
amputated and the nubbins healed nicely. Pilate"s ear cartilage was also removed, but there were no more bugs, thank the gods. On that, he was grateful.
But still, it wasn"t really the pain of physical ailment that troubled Pontius Pilate so. A life- long soldier, he was used to physical pain. This was new and much worse than even witnessing his own fingers melt and drip flesh from the bones while he screamed in agony and terror. No, this was worse. His heart was sick and he felt his soul dying. He poured himself more wine, emptying the jug, and drank it down. The wine did not help, nothing he tried did.
Pilate aged from the stress of this past year. Gossip and stories came to him from dozens of sources. Terrible and miraculous things were happening all around. Pilate tried not to pay credence to them, but some rang true. Quickly, the Prelate found that he was unable to deny them at all.
Pilate saw fantastic things himself, so the supernatural was no longer dismissed. He had witnessed first-hand the dead awaken. He saw the little crook. Barabas still harbored the archer"s arrow erupting from the back of his head.
Barabas appeared one evening in Pilate"s personal quarters, absolutely uninvited. His shock and curiosity soon turned cold to irritation as the thief pestered the Prelate with inane babble for hours on end. Finally, Pilate had to tell the bugger, rather harshly, to fuck off. Barabas finally and thankfully did. Pilate breathed a huge sigh of relief. Being dead sure didn"t make Barabas smarter or any more interesting.
Reports of similar sightings from across Judea came flooding in to Pilate almost daily: the dead arising, spirits becoming manifest, mass suicides and murder. And then there was the Christ. Yes, Pontius Pilate thought of him as the Christ. Not his Christ, but he did recognize that there was more to him than met his eyes. He thought about the Rabbi daily, almost non-stop. Nothing could remove the crucified man from the forefront of his thoughts. Pilate feared he may be going mad.
Pilate reached for the wine jug and remembered it empty. He shouted for servants to bring more. Jesus of Nazareth, he thought. Pilate heaved the empty vessel and it shattered against the wall. He needed more wine, or else he would never be able to sleep.
Pilate drank himself unconscious most nights. He couldn"t shake the carpenter"s face. It was right there whenever he closed his eyes. It haunted him. The eyes accused him. The Nazarene"s eyes knew Pilate had realized the Truth. Pilate had chosen to walk the easy path, the one paved with good intentions which still led to destruction. Pontius Pilate, and no other, allowed the torture and murder of a holy man.
Pilate yelled for wine again.
Pilate sat up bedside and cradled his alcohol
addled head. The heavy jug was placed there on the table before him, beading cool condensate. The servant remained silent beside it.
“Took you long enough,” Pilate scolded and grabbed for the wine. He tipped up the jug and saw him from the corner of his eye, standing impassive beside the table. The dropped jug hit the fur beneath Pilate"s bare feet and spewed contents everywhere.
It was the glorified body of Christ, Jesus of Nazareth. The Messiah was right in this very room.
He stood before a quaking Pilate, his robe pure white and radiant. He raised his hands and showed Pilate the scars in the center of his wrists, beneath the big bone. The nails bit him as he hung from the cross.
“Know that I am He,” said Jesus Christ.
Pilate blubbered and breathed in painful gasps. Jesus stood before him and the Roman was immobile with fear. It clenched his heart like a miser. The manifestations of Pilate"s fear were the only sounds heard. Time seemed to slow for Pilate, almost stop. The moment before the presence of the Risen felt an eternity. All that he saw was brightened and sharpened in detailed clarity.
The moment was meant to be remembered, the curtain drawn back. The Truth bathed in harsh light.
The Christ placed his hands upon Pontius Pilate. He felt the heat acutelyand he couldn"t catch his breath. The radiant light issuing forth from the Christ bothered Pilate"s eyes. He watched in horror as his amputated fingers grew back and then split at the tips.
THE FALL Page 7
